I Want To Always Be Like The Guy Who Joined In On The Joke. How Delightful All Around.

The New Republic

Trump Wants Snitches to Report on DEI. There’s Just One Problem.

Donald Trump wants people to expose diversity, equity, and inclusion efforts in the federal government. The idea is already flopping.

The threat was loud and clear: Report your so-called “DEI” employees or else. What exactly “DEIA or similar ideologies” means is up in the air, but the message was out there. And so was the email address of the DEIA snitching hotline. Fake emails quickly started to roll in. ‘I don’t care, fuck these McCarthyite bastards,” one BlueSky user said, with an screenshot attached of an email to the hotline where he ironically reported Donald Trump and JD Vance for being “put in their positions solely because of their race and/or gender despite the fact that they are wholly unqualified for their jobs and, in some cases, have criminal records.” “Anyone have a script to fire off a billion e-mails an hour??” another user asked in the replies. “Anyone can email anything of any size even if it crashes the site,” one X user noted. The scope and effectiveness of this latest phase of Trump’s anti-DEI crusade remains to be seen.

The Boy That Sits Alone In The Front Row Always Wears A Black Sweater

Original story Words: 3,230 Genre: Romance, Drama, Slice of life Warning(s): Self-harm

Even when it was in the middle of summer, he would always wear his black sweater. No matter how hot it gets.

One time, the air conditioner broke down. It wasn't fixed until the next two weeks. And since our class is on the second floor, there wasn't a lot of wind coming through the window. It was like being stuck in a giant oven for two hours, yet he still wore the sweater.

I can understand why he had to suck up and bear with it on the first day it happened. Of course, all of us had to, with whatever outfit we put on that day.

We had two more courses that took place in that room. Each lasted for two hours. So, a total of six hours per week in the furnace.

I still don't understand why they didn't just schedule those classes in a different room.

The second day, knowing that I was going into the oven for another two hours, I knew I had to wear something that would keep me from being baked alive. But we had another class in a different room before that, so I decided to wear a thin shirt with a tank top underneath. Then I unbuttoned it and left it that way for the next class.

Everyone else was wearing less outfit compared to the day before, but he still wore the thick black sweater from yesterday.

Did he forget?

Did he assume the air conditioner would be fixed in one day?

I didn't think much about it, but then he wore it again in the next class.

And kept wearing it until the air conditioner was fixed.

Because of this, I sometimes glance around the room during class to see what he was wearing. Just out of curiosity. And after I got my confirmation that he was, in fact, wearing a black sweater, I didn't pay attention to him any longer.

But then I noticed during that time that whenever I looked for him, my eyes would always land in the same spot for every class.

He would always sit in the front row. And he would always sit in the corner. Didn't matter which corner. If I didn't see him on the right, then he must be on the left.

At first I thought, 'Wow, he must be a real nerd to sit in front everyday and listen to the lecture.' Until I glanced at him one day and he was playing candy crush on his phone.

Oh. He wasn't paying attention.

In fact, he was playing a different kind of game at random times during class. Was he not afraid to get caught?

Then I noticed that the professors never called on him. They never turn to look at his direction at all. As if he had no presence.

So, maybe his seating choice was a strategy?

I concluded that he was the type of person who didn't care about college that much but only enough to never skip class and get a passing grade. However, I was proven wrong.

In one of our classes, we had a pop quiz. The professor stated that it was a pre-test for the next chapter, so it was fine even if we flunked it. And I thought, 'There was no way in hell that guy could get a passing grade!'

He got a perfect mark. Everyone else barely got half of the questions correct.

How is that fair?

Another thing is that he never talked to anyone. The seat beside him would be empty, or someone would sit there but they were obviously not his friend. Because he didn't interact with them at all.

What is this? The guy with no friends who plays games everyday is secretly a genius? And what's with wearing the same black sweater everyday? Is that part of his mysterious persona?

Does he have multiple black sweaters? Or does he use the same disgusting sweater everyday? Hopefully he washes them over the weekend.

He's a peculiar human. But is he interesting enough for me to befriend and get to know him? Nope.

He was the type of person that if you didn't put in any kind effort to get close to him, you might never interact with him at all. He seems to purposely not be acknowledged by anyone and stay invisible.

Strangely, despite observing him these past few weeks, I don't think I can accurately describe his face. I don't think I can even accurately imagine what he looks like.

The only time I managed to see his face was when I walked into the classroom. That is, if he had arrived earlier than me. Most of the time, he did. But even then, he would be looking down on his phone or looking away from my angle.

It wasn't until halfway through the semester that I got to talk to him.

I had a different class that day before the one with him in it, and I sat in the front row because I had to do a presentation. My phone was running low, so I charged it in the corner and left it there. After that class, I grabbed my things to move to the third row because I didn't want to stay in the front, but I forgot my charger in the socket.

I only realized it in the middle of the next class because my phone was running low again.

Fortunately, the black sweater guy was sitting exactly where I sat, and I was directly two rows behind him.

The row between us was empty so I had to call out to him.

"Hey!"

I had to whisper, of course, so as not to bother the lecture.

Ah, what was his name again?

"Psst! Hey!"

The guy turned to his side to see that there was no one sitting beside him, then he looked back confused.

"Yes! I'm calling you! I left my charger under your seat. Grab it for me, yeah?"

He didn't answer me.

He just silently unplugged the charger and handed it over.

Since we were two rows away, he had to get up and stretch his arm out.

That was the first time I managed to get a good look at his face. And I caught sight of his wrist when the sleeve of his black sweater was pulled back a bit.

Thin faded lines came to view.

I saw something that I shouldn't have. But he didn't notice what I saw.

"Thanks," I said as he turned away and sat back down.

I knew that he always crossed my mind every once in a while, but that was the first time I couldn't think of anything other than him for the rest of the class.

Should I say something?

I had to do something, but what can I do? Tell him to get help? Would he do it if I told him to? Should I help him? What rights do I have? He obviously didn't want anyone to get close.

Should I just pretend I never saw anything?

Maybe everything is all right now. Maybe he wore the black sweater to cover up his past and hoped no one would ever bring it up.

Besides, someone with good grades wouldn't do that to themselves.

Someone with a smart head wouldn't throw away their future, right?

I can understand if it was someone who struggled to get through college.

If it was someone who had to make their own notes and spent hours and hours reading and absorbing them far before the day of the test.

If it was someone who, even after all that, might still not get a passing grade.

Or someone who, after all that, got an average grade. But it was like a miracle that it brought tears to their eyes and they celebrated.

But that's not me. Because I never put in that much effort.

I've tried that before and got disappointed.

What's the point in wasting your time to study when you know you're going to fail anyway?

I feel so miserable every time I get my results back that I have to surround myself with other people. If they do worse, it makes me feel a little bit better.

And I might be failing one of my courses.

The one where he keeps getting perfect marks. Actually, he gets perfect marks in all the courses I have with him.

He comes into class just enough before being considered late, plays on his phone the whole time, leaves early, and aced every test.

Must be hard to live with such a great mind.

Finals week was around the corner and I considered giving up.

I didn't get a passing grade for midterm. And I didn't have enough marks on my assignments to cover that. If I didn't get at least an A on the last project, I have to retake the class.

So, I did what every college student does when they got desperate to pass the course.

"Can you do my final project for me?"

I managed to talk to him after one of our classes where he didn't rush out of the room the moment our professor concluded the lecture.

"You always get perfect grades, right? Do my project and I'll pay you. It doesn't have to be good, just enough to get an A."

He frowned with an annoyed expression.

"No."

"Kidding! I meant to ask for help with my project. I'm serious about paying, though. Help me out?"

"No."

"What? What do you mean 'No'?"

He walked past me without responding.

"Ah, wait! If I don't get an A, I have to retake this class and I can't afford that. Please?"

He kept walking.

"I really was joking about asking you to do my project. I just need some pointers. Tips! Or... if you have any notes?"

I continued to follow him and pester him about the project. I didn't have any other reason I could use to talk to him.

He didn't completely brush me off or pick up his pace. He just kind of ignored me.

"Please? I'm desperate. And If you do have any kind of notes, I'll buy them. But I might ask you a lot of questions, though, because I might be too dumb to understand it. Or if you're already working on your project, can I see them? Just for a reference! I swear I won't copy them. I will even send you my own project before submission so you can make sure of that. Anything is fine! Really!"

"I don't care."

"Ouch. I'm not really asking you to care, though. Just help me out this once! I'll owe you anything. And did I mention that I'll pay?"

Unexpectedly, he stopped and threw a tired look at me.

"You said you can't afford to retake the class, but you'll pay me to help you?"

Busted.

"Well, I kind of hope we can agree on the best price for the both of us!"

"Aren't you just lazy?"

"No? Well, a little. No, but I will do my project on my own. I just need a little help."

"Stop following me."

Pretty funny that he only said that after we got off of campus grounds. But I ignored his wishes just as he ignored mine. He didn't complain that I was still obviously behind him.

"But have you started working on the project? You know it's worth like 30%, right? I imagined someone like you must have started working on it the moment it was announced, you know?"

"Someone like me?"

He didn't even turn to look my way as he said that. He sounded tired.

"I don't know, you always get perfect marks, even on quizzes that didn't matter. You always get the best score. You know some of them won't affect our grades, right? And you always sit in front for some reason. Are lectures that interesting? That's an opinion I can never understand."

"No."

"Sorry?"

"I haven't started. Also, I don't listen to the lectures. I play games in class."

Yeah, I know.

"Really? Then how do you keep getting top marks? Oh! Did you cheat? Have you been cheating on tests the whole time? Am I asking the wrong guy to ask for help?"

He paused for a bit.

"Yes."

Was that... a joke?

I guess he just said that to make me stop asking for help.

I laughed at him.

"You're a terrible liar."

"Ask anyone else for help."

"Nooo! All my friends are dumb! I mean, I'm dumber, but they're still too dumb to help me get an A!"

"It has to be an A?"

"I got 33 on midterm!"

"...and your other-"

"Everything else adds up to 36. I did the math already and I need at least an 85 to pass. That is at least an A."

"Heh."

He just chuckled! This motherf*cker. He's the type to laugh at others' misery, huh? I guess I'm not one to talk.

There's a student housing right across our campus. I thought we were walking there, but we went past it. I guess now I know why I never saw this guy around whenever I visit my friends in the dorms. He probably never hung around after class.

Instead, we stopped at a tall apartment building. It looked more like a place for businessmen rather than college students. It looked expensive.

"Wow, you live here? This place looks nice! Oh, it's like 5 minutes from the subway, too!"

"Why are you still here?"

"You're helping me with my project!"

"I never agreed to that."

"Why am I here then?"

He gave a long sigh and walked into the apartment. Honestly, I'm surprised he didn't put in more effort in kicking me out.

The inside of the building was even more luxurious than what I imagined. Apparently he lived on the 18th floor. He must have a great view of the city. No wonder he always went straight home after class. I would too. With an apartment this cool, I wouldn't mind staying in everyday either.

We stopped in front of the door to his apartment.

Again, I'm surprised he let me into the elevator.

"Warning. It's messy."

"Got it."

At least he has some manners. Classic. Everyone always says their room is messy, but it's never as bad as they say.

The moment he opened the door, a foul stench of garbage attacked my nose.

He went inside like it was nothing and turned on the lights.

"Make yourself at home."

There were water bottles everywhere. A garbage can beside the kitchen sink was filled to the brim and surrounded by random plastic bags that were also filled with trash. The air was stuffy. Some furniture was piled with dust.

I didn't hesitate to make a disgusted face.

"You mean make myself at a waste disposal site"

"You can always leave."

This time, I gave a long sigh.

The smell was so pungent that it was speaking in my head, 'Hey, it's not worth it. At least you tried. Go home.'

Wouldn't he get any complaints from this?

How does he live with this? Wait. How does he not smell on campus?

Oh my god. Does he not wash the black sweater after all?

"How come I never notice that you smell?"

"I shower."

"But wouldn't this smell stick?" I waved around my finger to point at his whole apartment.

He just shrugged.

"If it works, it works. No one ever said I smell."

"That's because you don't have friends."

Oops. That slipped out.

He didn't look offended, though. He just stared at me with the same annoyed look.

"So, now I'll say it. You smell."

"You're not my friend."

"Well, as someone who is not your friend, I declare that you smell."

"Leave," He said, closing the door.

"Wait! Wait- Alright, I'm sorry. I'll help you clean, and you'll help me with my project."

"No," He said, closing the door again.

"Okay! I'll clean! And you'll help me with my project!"

"No-"

"Just let me clean! Then we'll talk."

We stood there silently. Him, still holding the door to close it, and me, still pushing the door to keep it open.

After a few seconds, he let go of the door without a word and lay down on his bed. He pulled out his phone to play the same games he would play in class.

Alright, it was time to get to work.

I started with throwing out all the trash with plastic bags into the garbage room. It wasn't even that far, only about five rooms away, just at the end of the hall. Then I had to stuff all the scattered garbage into more plastic bags.

"Where do you keep extra plastic bags? Oh gross, do you just stop getting them once you've run out? Why do I keep seeing Chinese take outs and different kinds of instant ramen cups? Do you not eat anything else?"

He didn't answer any of my questions, so I kept yapping and babbling anyway.

It was a hassle to get rid of the plastic bottles. Some of them were far deep under the bed or the sofa. He didn't even offer to help me move the furniture around to get the ridiculously hidden trash that has been there for who knows how long.

I opened the window to get some air circulation, but because there was so much trash to pick up, I ended up drenched in sweat anyway. It was a good workout session. And after all the trash was gone, I realized the apartment was way bigger than it seemed when I first walked in.

Tired, I dropped myself onto the sofa. It was still a bit dusty, but I was already dirty anyway, so it didn't matter.

He finally got up from his bed and looked around. He didn't seem to be impressed, much less appreciative.

"You're done?"

I answered slightly out of breath, "No... This apartment is pretty big. How much is rent?"

"I don't rent it."

"You bought this place?"

"My parents did."

Son of a b*tch. He's smart and rich? Also, he's not bad looking. If he wasn't disgusting and a loner, he might have gotten himself a girlfriend by now.

"By the way, I couldn't find any vacuum or a broom. I don't think I've seen a mop either."

He didn't respond.

"You don't have them do you? Ugh. Fine. I guess that's it for the day. I'm going home."

I got up from the sofa and walked towards the door.

He didn't stop me. But when I reached for the door handle, he called out.

"I thought you needed my help with the project?"

"Yeah, I'm too tired by now. Nothing you say will get stuck in my head for more than 2 minutes. Let's talk about it next time."

"Next time?"

"Well, I have to get a broom or something to get rid of all that dust! Maybe a mop, too."

I walked out of his apartment and closed the door.

I didn't see his face, but when he asked about 'next time', I thought I heard his voice differently. As if he had said it in a slightly hopeful tone.

Perhaps I imagined it.

Click here for part 2 ^^

Why have children if you hate children?

Demons are real and they write for the new york times.

Genius.

:-)

I've only ever seen this in screenshots before..n

me holding a gun to a mushroom: tell me the name of god you fungal piece of shit

mushroom: can you feel your heart burning? can you feel the struggle within? the fear within me is beyond anything your soul can make. you cannot kill me in a way that matters

me cocking the gun, tears streaming down my face: I’M NOT FUCKING SCARED OF YOU

That's so cool

FISH DELOUSING LASER????

The Depths of Ultra, part 1

This is the first 5ish pages to a short story I wrote in undergrad. I want to be an author, I am a writer, but I work doing other things to make ends meet. This specific story is my best and most polished work, but its too long to be submitted to any competition and too short to be a book. I have no idea what I am doing. -Enjoy ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“ -and you’ll never be!” his father growled. Eorling cringed away from the disappointment in his father’s eyes. The burning stare followed him as he ran away through an endless corridor that stretched out to the horizon and up to the sky. Behind him, his father’s scolding rant followed him, growing louder and louder until  the nightmarish specter was upon him.

Eorling flinched and groaned as someone banged away in the hallway with a pair of wooden clackers. He rolled over, peering at the wall between him and his door, as if he would suddenly become clairvoyant. He pulled himself out of bed, and the clackers sounded again. This time, whoever was wielding them called aloud.

“Up! Up, you shiftless, lazy, long-eared louts! We’re digging today! Ankirat burn your slow bones! Get out here now!”

The voice belonged to one Foreman Ozglow. Experienced and effective, he was one of the most favored foremen in all of Ultra. The stout dwarf commanded respect and not a little awe, with an armored beard and arms covered in the scars of many battles. He could also bang clackers together loud enough to wake the dead.

Eorling hastily stuffed himself into his work clothes: a thick linen shirt and canvas overalls. He stomped his feet into sturdy, steel capped boots with thick soles and wax-sealed walls that kept out the water and damp. The hat he fit onto his head was also capped with steel, and the padding inside was brand new. Overall it was a snug, comfortable outfit that was built for hard work. Dressed, Eorling drained the dregs of last night's beer that he had left, tugged his beard, wiped his mustache, and was off.

The rest of the crew was out in the hallway, stretching and scratching themselves. The Foreman was counting heads and was already geared up. A spark of excitement flared in Eorling. Today’s the start of my shift. After putting in a full forty-eight hour shift, he would be a professional miner with all of the glory that came with it. He would also finally be considered an adult. Eorling hoped it would be enough to get the respect he so desperately desired from his father. Eorling’s father was a bitter dwarf. After a smithing accident took his arm, he had become rough and callous and often directed his misery at his only son. Eorling had battled for decades to earn his old man’s appreciation, but nothing seemed to work. Maybe, Eorling thought, this will turn the tide. A nice haul of loot and a good shift of work. He can’t ignore that.

The others were all there: Rikin, the foreman’s second, who had spent more time in the dark of the depths of Tera than in Ankirat’s daylight; Azik, who always carried his pick and shovel across his shoulders and bragged about his way with the lasses at the tavern; Krozlin, the only female dwarf on the crew, who was more than a match for any of them; and Eorling, the greenbeard. Foreman Ozglow turned, nodded as he counted Eorling, then spoke again.

“Right, lads! I’ve got a treat for the lot of you, and, if you don’t appreciate it, then you can sod off! Heading to Kron three. Gear up there.”

The rest turned to hustle that way. Eorling did too, but Ozglow stopped him with an outstretched hand. The foreman’s deep amber eyes studied him seriously. Previous apprehensions about his father’s lack of acceptance crept back into Eorling’s mind.

“Watch yourself down there, lad. I ain’t keeping firm eyes on you, and neither are the others.”

“Yes, foreman,” Eorling replied.

Ozglow’s stare was unblinking. “I mean it lad. You want to be a man? Act like one. Get moving.”

The hand was raised, and Eorling carried on. He trundled along through a maze of gray, stone tunnels, navigating in the dim light by reading the tunnel names at each intersection. The flickering lantern lights would not give enough light for humans or elves or immortals, but for the superior eyesight of the dwarves it was more than enough. After a short jog, he puffed his way up to a large, mostly empty room. Other than its entryway, it had three more portals, set into angled walls at one end. All three of these arches were numbered on their keystone, with the title for this section of the mine carved above them: “Kron.” 

The rest of his crew were pulling equipment from a set of battered old footlockers, and joking amongst themselves. Rikin did not speak much, and when he did, it was in a low, soft tone. Azik was loud and boisterous, always looking to get a snide jab in, whereas Krozlin was simply untouchable by the insults, always giving back as good as she got. Azik found no purchase today and turned to Eorling.

“Greenbeard! Glad you finally caught up.” With an easy smirk, the dwarf leaned back against a wall.  “I was worried I’d have to do all the mining my own damn self!”

Krozlin snorted and retorted with her North-Laker accent. “Oh give off, you blow-beard. You couldn’t work a stout into a froth with those arms of yours.”

Azik waved a hand as if he was swatting her words away. “I told you I’m not talking to you anymore, lass. No use in it.”

“Because you cannae stand a lady.”

Eorling kept his head down as he began to untangle a harness from one of the lockers. He knew joining in was a sure way to become the butt of the joke, and he had no want to embarrass himself on his first shift. Azik and Krozlin kept going.

“I love my ladies! And they love me! You’re just a curmudgeon what doesn’t know when to stop!”

“Hah!” She laughed, pausing in the act of pulling her harness up to her hips. “ Those skinny flits at the tavern, ladies? I’ve found human lads firmer than em! Those are sickly girls, and you should keep your hands off of em!”

Rikin made himself heard. “No, he should feed them. I agree, some of the younger ones have begun looking too thin for their own good.”

“Hear that Azik? Right from one who ought to know!”

Eorling continued getting his gear on. A shovel, a pickaxe, a small hammer and chisel, his harness and some protective plates, a cap spindle to hold a candle for light, a mine mug with a hinged lid on it, metal edging for his boots, and a few brass beard-studs to keep his facial hair firmly fixed in its braided pattern. This kept it from getting frizzy in the damp of the depths. He sat to dig out his gloves, as the rest of the crew were sitting by now.

Azik turned to him. “Well, what about you? You’re young, and you don’t look too thin, but your arms could do with a good double shift.”

“Ah,” he stuttered, “m-maybe, yeah.” Eorling had never known he was embarrassed about his lack of a love life. Until now.

“So shy! Kroz, you might like this lad, he’s all meek!”

Eorling felt a blush rising as the miner lady laughed. “Maybe! But no, I’m going steady still.”

“What, with that clerk lass–”

Ozglow marched into the room, hands full with rolled parchment and the specialized equipment of a foreman, such as a compass and loupe, pens and ink, and a set of acidic vials designed to detect metal purity. Each dwarf stopped talking and stood. Allowing your foreman or superior to stand alone was a grievous offense. He stayed silent and pulled to a stop, distracted by a few extra candle sticks that were refusing to sink into his pocket. He jiggled them a bit, and they finally fell into place. Then he turned to face his miners.

“You’re all suited and ready. Good. The last crew will be up soon, so hop to it! I need three barrels of beer, a box of rations–the ones with the good jerky, mind you–a box of flints and steels, a dozen torch points, some of that Drunder Good Bread, and three lengths of chain.”

He turned to each of them “Azik, you go get the beer–and none of that Sonder Suds swill. Krozlin, you get the jerky and the bread. Rikin you get the odds and ends, and Eorling,” he said as he turned to the new miner, “get the chains. They are two lefts and a right. Well? What in Judge’s hammers are you all standing about for? Go! Get me my equipment, you slow bones!”

Krozlin cackled a laugh and they each hustled off to their duties. Eorling saw that they did not need directions to get their materials, and felt slightly ashamed that he did. He followed the direction, leaving and turning left out of the door, then left again at the nearest intersection, and finally a right. The endless grays of the dusty tunnels could be confusing, but Eorling made sure not to stray from his given path. This led him into an alley full of heavy equipment, including the chains he needed. Each chain length was standardized, being twenty feet long.

The chains were an odd part of dwarven society. Some of them had existed for a long time, helping works for thousands of years. Though it was not difficult for the dwarves to make more, there was a certain love for old chains. Each chain had a history, a lineage. Each one was a chain to the works of their ancestors, both literally and metaphorically,  and some of the lengths here were thousands of years old. In the King’s Peak, there were a set of chains that were over ten thousand years old. They had aided in great constructions and even the killing of great foes, and were venerated by all dwarves.

Eorling selected three that seemed young enough for him to move. Touching or handling older chains was inappropriate for him. He slung one over each shoulder and swayed with their weight. They were heavy, and as he grabbed for the third, he pitched wildy off balance. With a clank-filled crash, he crumpled back against the wall, smothered by the chains. Eorling struggled to stand or wriggle out of the chains; he simply could not muster the strength.

Thankfully, he did not need to call out for help, which might’ve shamed him eternally. A soft voice spoke from the mouth of the alley.

“Hands full then, greenbeard?”

These are brilliant

'Boeing’s aircraft is considered the most prominent private aircraft in the world, used by governments and dignitaries.'

Going after Boeing (which they should) would probably be considered political suicide, because of how hard untangling the US government from Boeing would be.

First sentence borrowed from https://monarchairgroup.com/private-jet-manufacturers/