A man drinking canned iced tea in a parking lot was accosted by a plainclothes beverage cop who demanded to inspect his drink. He was placed in handcuffs and arrested. Even though the man was innocent and was only drinking tea, prosecutors are still trying to set him up with probation and community service.
One man, Christopher Lamont Beatty, was holding a canned beverage, while his friend, Tino Brown, was recording video using his cell phone. That’s when the two were interrupted by a man who was interested in the man’s choice of refreshments.
A man in plainclothes, claiming to be “the police”, insisted that he turn over his beverage for an inspection. Beatty refused the stranger’s requests, but pointed out that it was only an AriZona-brand drink, “Half-and-Half” iced tea and pink lemonade — not alcohol.
Brown and Beatty pointed out that they didn’t know the identity of the nosy man and that Beatty had committed no crime. Still, the man demanded to examine his beverage and would not take no for an answer.
The stranger then claimed that Mr. Beatty was under arrest. He became grabby and ended up putting Beatty in a choke-hold as he took him down to the ground.
The bully, who turned out to be Alcohol & Beverage Control Law Enforcer Rick Libero, forced Mr. Beatty face-down onto the concrete and placed him in handcuffs.
The government requests that Beatty “submit to a year of probation, do 24 hours of community service, have a mental health assessment, and submit to drug testing and warrantless searches,” reported the Fayetteville Observer.
“It would get it dismissed at the end, but I would still have to take responsibility for my actions, and I felt like I did nothing wrong,” Beatty said
Black in AmeriKKKa.
cops are emotional pricks that cover it up with masculinity.
Jesus fucking Christ.Tell me again how Zimmerman couldn’t possibly have targeted a minor minding his own business carrying skittles and iced tea, and how itmust have all been Trayvon’s fault?
When I was a kid I used to go to snowmobile watercross events every summer with my friend's family. People would try to hydroplane across a lake with a snowmobile. When I was really young, hardly any of them made it, by the time that I was a teen 90% made it.
Years ago there was a hoax video showing people running across water. Their claim was that if you picked up enough speed in advance, you could pull a Jesus for a dozen steps or so. It turned out to be viral marketing and I'm glad I can't remember what the product or company was.
These guys in Iceland, however, are the real deal. They pick up enough speed in advance to make it across the surface of the water. However, they're not on foot; they're driving jeeps, off-road buggies, motorcycles and snowmobiles. Take a look at these maniacs:
It's true that the water's not super deep, but when you do it wrong you will sink, as we saw.
The Formula Off-Road Hydroplaning Competition is held in Hella, Iceland. Being an American east-coaster, I'd say it looks like "a lot of" fun. My west-coast counterparts might choose a different expression to put between the quotes.
And it's all for a good cause: These Icelandic Formula Off-Road events, as they're known, are fundraisers for Icelandic rescue teams. I think it's safe to say that if you get stuck out in the hinterlands, these are the guys you want coming for you.
i want there to be an angel that descends from the heavens only when someone is being stupid
and the angel just gently places their hand over the person’s mouth
and whispers in a voice filled with heavenly beauty and love
LOOK IT UP
NEW FAVORITE ANGEL
The sculptures by Gustav Vigeland at Vigelandsparken (Vigeland Park) in Oslo, Norway have been one of the highlights of our trip! There are over 200 sculptures in bronze, granite and wrought iron in the park.
Hide and Seek
I don’t think people realise how easy it is to feel ugly when you’re South East Asian.
I know so many popular East Asian bloggers, who always get so many notes because of how elegant and refined and. Pale. They are. Those are standards most of us can never achieve. I’ve never seen a selfie set of a southeast Asian girl break 1k: but I’ve seen plenty, and I mean plenty of pale East Asians break 3k easy.
I know East Asian bloggers who go on about racism against East Asians and act like it’s universal. I know some who will talk about East Asian racism but never breathe a word about racism against southeast Asians.
I know East Asian bloggers who literally don’t follow any South East Asians. The ones who say that it doesn’t matter because “we’re all East Asian!” Technically. Or those who act like we’re a different breed and a different species.
I wonder if most East Asians know that their beauty standards get passed down to our countries. I wonder if they know how it hurts a lot of us.
So I’m giving a shoutout to every southeast Asian girl. Every one of you,if us, deserves to feel pretty.
I’m talking about the Indonesian gals with broad noses. The Malay girls who wear Tudung and are mocked. Chinese Singaporeans who are still not “Chinese enough” for mainlanders. Filipino girls who feel guilty about their curly or frizzy hair. Indian Singaporeans who are feel like they need to be pale to be worth something ( you don’t). Thai girls who are told their country is only good for farming rice. Myanmar girls who get asked mockingly if they’re domestic workers. Even if you are, there is no shame in that. Every Cambodian girl who felt bad about having thick lips. I know I left a lot of people out, and I’m sorry. But if you’re reading this and haven’t seen yourself here - you are just as worthy and my spirit and strength and good wishes are with you
You are all beautiful. Every single one of you. We are all beautiful. It’s hard to see it and it’s hard to feel it sometimes but we are. You are. Every one of you. Pride to our people!
I have never seen a proper positivity post for southeast Asian girls by a southeast Asian girl so could you please reblog this? I want any southeast Asian girl seeing this to know I love them
some days you eat salads and go to the gym, some days you eat cupcakes & refuse to put on pants. it’s called balance.
Mikki Willis, who hails from Ojai, California, says he’s been sharing videos of himself with his son, Azai, on social media for the past three years.
I’M NOT CRYING YOU’RE CRYING
In first grade, a boy named John— a notorious troublemaker—systematically chased every girl in our class during recess trying to kiss her on the lips. Most gave in eventually. It was easier to give in than keep running. When it was my turn, I turned and faced him, grabbed his glasses off his weasel face, and stomped on them on the hard blacktop. He ran to the principal’s office and cried.
In fifth grade, I was asked to be a boy’s girlfriend over email. It was the first email I ever received. He actually told me he wanted to send me an email, so I went home and made an AOL account. We went to a carnival and he won me a Garfield stuffed animal, and then he gave me a 3 Doors Down CD. A few days later, he broke up with me, and asked for Garfield and the CD back. I said no.
In sixth grade, a girl in my year gave head to an eighth grader in the back of the school bus while playing Truth or Dare.
In the summer after sixth grade, I kissed a boy for the first time at sleep away camp. He was my summer love. During the end-of-the-summer dining hall announcements, where kids usually announced lost sweatshirts and Walkmen, an older girl stepped up to the microphone, tossed her hair behind her shoulders, and proudly stated, “I lost something very precious to me last night. My virginity. If anyone finds it, please let me know.” The dining hall erupted into laughter and cheers. She was barred from ever coming back to the camp again, and wasn’t allowed to say goodbye to anyone.
In seventh grade, I told my brother I decided when I was older wanted a Hummer. What I really meant was I wanted a Jeep, but I didn’t know a lot about cars. My mother overheard and screamed at me for “wanting a Hummer.”
In the summer after freshman year of high school, I went to sleepaway field hockey camp with many of my close friends. One of them, named Megan, I had been friends with since kindergarten. One night when I was showering, she ripped open the curtain and snapped a photo of me on her disposable camera. I screamed. She laughed. We both laughed when I got out of the shower a few minutes later. After camp was over, her father took the camera to the convenience store to get it developed. When he gave the finished photos back to her, he said, “Your friend [Anonymous] has grown up.”
Sophomore year of high school, one of my best friends Hilary had a party in her basement while her mom was away. We invited some of the guys in our grade and someone’s older brother bought us a handle of vodka. One of the boys who came sat next to me in Spanish class. His name was Thomas. I remember playing a simple game, where we passed the bottle of vodka around in a circle and drank. I remember being happily tipsy and having fun, to suddenly being very drunk. Thomas and I started chanting numbers in Spanish, and he leaned towards me and kissed me. We kissed in the middle of the party, with all of our friends cheering. Then we went into Hilary’s bedroom.
Hilary’s bedroom was in the basement, on the ground floor, with a large window next to her bed. When someone went outside to smoke a cigarette, they realized it was a front row seat to what was happening in the bedroom. It was dark outside, and the light on was in the bedroom. They called everyone outside to watch. I don’t remember getting undressed, but apparently we were both completely naked in Hilary’s bed. A friend of mine told me later she tried to open the door and stop what was happening, but Thomas must have locked it. They said they pounded on the door. I don’t remember hearing them pounding. I don’t remember seeing everyone’s faces outside the window. I remember Thomas holding my head down, and shoving his penis into my mouth. I remember trying to resist, pulling back, but he held his hands firmly on my head, pushing my face up and down. That’s all that I remember.
The next day, my friends and I went out to dinner at one of our favorite local restaurants. I couldn’t eat anything, and it wasn’t because I was hung over. Every time I tried to put food in my mouth, I felt like I was choking. Anytime a flash of the night before appeared in my mind, I felt like vomiting. My friends sat with me in silence. Then they told me a girl named Lindsey, who had briefly dated Thomas freshman year, had stood outside and watched the entire time. Even after everyone else stopped watching. My friends said they didn’t watch.
On Monday, Thomas and I sat next to each other in Spanish. We didn’t speak. We didn’t make eye contact. I went to the girls bathroom and threw up. I hear Lindsey and Thomas live together, now, ten years later.
Junior year of high school, my teacher for Honors Spanish was named Señor Gonzales. Señor Gonzales had all of the girls sit in the front row. Señor Gonzales called on any girl who was wearing a skirt to write on the chalkboard. Señor Gonzales asked a friend of mine, who had broken her finger playing an after school sport, if she broke her finger because “she liked it rough.” Señor Gonzales was a tenured teacher.
Senior year of high school, I got my first real boyfriend. His name was Colin. He was on the lacrosse team with Thomas. He told me that sophomore year, Thomas told everyone on the team what happened that night at Hilary’s. Everyone cheered. Colin said that, even then, he had a crush on me. Even then, he wanted to punch Thomas.
Colin and I lost our virginities to each other. Colin said if I got pregnant, he would make me have the baby. He didn’t believe in abortion. Colin said if I got pregnant, he would make me have a C-section. Colin said that if I didn’t have a C-section, my vagina would be too loose for him to ever enjoy having sex with me again. Colin said that he wouldn’t let our child breastfeed. He said his mother gave him formula, and that he turned out just fine. I didn’t get pregnant.
Junior year of college, I lived in Denmark for the spring semester and studied at the University of Copenhagen. Copenhagen is one of the safest cities in the world. Guns are illegal there. Pepper spray is illegal there. One night, my friends and I went to a concert at a crowded club in a part of the city I didn’t know very well. I brought a tiny purse with money, my apartment key, and my international cell phone. For some reason it made sense at the time to put my purse inside my friend’s purse. Maybe I didn’t feel like carrying it. We were both drinking. My friend left the concert to go home with her boyfriend. One by one, everyone I was there with left the concert, until I was suddenly alone and I realized I didn’t have my purse, or any money for a cab ride home.
I started walking in the direction that felt right. I walked for a long time. I had no idea where I was, and didn’t recognize the area. It was almost 4 am. I was on a residential street when a cab pulled up next to me. I asked the driver if he could drive me to an intersection down the street from my apartment.
I don’t have any money, I said.
I really need your help, I said.
I will do it for free, he said.
Sit in the front, he said.
I sat in the front. We drove in silence for some time, until he pulled over on the side of a dark street.
I don’t want to do it for free anymore, he said.
He locked the car doors and reached across the center console and slipped his hand up my skirt. He grabbed my vagina. Hard. I pushed his hand away and unlocked the door. I ran down the street and realized he had taken me a block away from the intersection I wanted. I walked to my apartment and threw rocks at my roommate’s window until she let me inside. She yelled at me for waking her up. I escaped. Nothing happened. I was fine.
The summer after I graduated college I helped Hilary find an internship. She was an art major and wanted something for her resume besides waitressing. We found a posting on Craigslist to be a studio assistant for a painter in the Bronx. It was listed as an unpaid internship. The toll for the George Washington Bridge was twelve dollars, plus gas, but she got the internship anyway. She wanted the experience.
The artist was a 38-year-old Canadian painter named Bradley. Hilary was 22.There was another intern there, an art student from Manhattan named Stella. Bradley needed assistants to help him make bubble wrap paintings. Stella and Hilary would take a syringe and fill the tiny bubbles with different color paints until it formed a mosaic. Bradley always had Hilary stay after Stella left to clean the paintbrushes and syringes. He told Hilary she was beautiful. More beautiful than his wife, who he only married for citizenship. He told Hilary they had a loveless marriage. He told Hilary he wanted to have her beautiful children. They began an affair. He told Hilary has wife knew and didn’t care. He told Hilary he was going to leave his wife soon.
Everyday Hilary drove to the Bronx, cleaned Bradley’s paintbrushes, and had sex on the studio floor. Everyday she went home with no money, and everyday she paid the toll at the George Washington Bridge. She needed the internship for her resume, she said. It was too late to find a new job, she said.
I could go on. I could tell you a lot more. About the whistles on the sidewalk, the kids who sat at the bottom of the stairs in high school to look up our skirts, my friend who was a prostitute in South Carolina, the men who’ve cornered me in parking lots and bars calling me a tease, the unwanted grabbing on the subway, the many times my father has called me fat, the time I traveled to the Philippines and discovered Western men pay preteen locals to spend the week in their hotel, the messages on OKCupid asking to “fart in my mouth.” About how I wasn’t sure if I had been raped because I was drunk and kissed Thomas back. How he raped my mouth and not my vagina, so that must not be rape. How easy it was for me to escape the dark street in Copenhagen, and how that made it not matter since “it could’ve been worse.”
Men have no idea what it takes to be a woman. To grin and bear it and persevere. The constant state of war, navigating the relentless obstacle course of testosterone and misogyny, where they think we are property to be owned and plowed. But we’re not. We are people, just like them. Equals, in fact, or at least that’s the core of what feminism is still trying to achieve. The job is not over. We’ve made great progress. There are female CEOs, though not very many. There are females writing for the New York Times and winning Pulitzer prizes, though not very many. There are female politicians, though not very many. But these advances are only on paper. The job won’t be over until equality permeates the air we breathe, the streets we walk and the homes we live in.
I think back to how easy it was for me, in first grade, to feel fearless and strong in my conviction to stomp on John’s glasses. I felt right in reacting how I did, because John’s behavior was wrong. But his was an elementary learning of the wide boundaries his gender would go on to afford him. For me, it would never again be so easy.
- Anonymous, age 25
Don’t scroll down, read this. All of it.
Too much of this resonated with me
(in which members of the lgbtq community speak out about why they’re not open about their sexuality with their families.)
Shari Heck, 2014.
The notions that LGBT people MUST be out or else they don’t respect themselves, or they’re harboring internalized homophobia, or they’re not being TRUE to themselves are SO harmful and SO problematic because there are people like this in situations where the choice between staying in the closet and coming out is often the choice between safety and very real danger.
Michel Foucault | On Popular Justice: A Discussion with Maoists (1971)
Folks need to really interrogate their notions of justice with this in mind.