"send in a clown", come to think of it, sort of implies that one keeps a heap of clowns around and can just peel one off and throw it at a problem.
This is true. They sing: "Send in the clowns".
"Send in a clown" or weirder still "send in The Clown" has a much more ominous tone to it, though. Like it is a threat.
As someone that has been beaten badly I can securely say it fucks up the way that your brain distributes attention and behavior pretty much permanently and for the worse.
Keep that in mind when you beat someone up you are likely neurologically creating another member of the GOP.
And since the last mile for FedEx and Amazon are delivered by small companies owned by local rich guys and they share everything with their local cop friends for free.
fascism has arrived, and it requires a subscription.
Each congressperson represents too many people.
We need to add seats to the House of Representatives.
Looks like someone needs to reread their book of Mormon.
Is that what happens to architecture when fully submerged in salt water ?
The hospitality sector is excluded from this regulation ....
[wait for it]
... because the five-day work week was abolished there in 2023.
From the construction industry to the tourism sector, Greek employers cannot find the staff they need. The government's solution: longer working hours. A new law enables employers to implement a six-day work week
"While the 40-hour work week is still officially in place, employers are permitted to require staff to work up to two unpaid hours per day for a limited period in return for more free time."
SpaceX has Gwynne Shotwell who actually is the reason to find SpaceX interesting. She is so powerful that she can overcome Musk's perpetually increasingly unstable drag coefficient.
With the Madison and Monroe Doctrines the United States treats its neighbors like colonies except Canada with burned the mutherfucking White House down ... and Congress.
And national socialism is at it core the idea that one doesn't need to go halfway around the world to treat a population like they are a colony of savages.
So minus the public health care and free university education the US is already there.
Let me guess that they have to use the new TRUMP student loan scheme company to pay for the degree.
Linked-in has a vested interested in making its users feel overvalued.
THE BALLAD OF STEVEN SLATER
Ain't we all had a day When we just had enough Ain't it true each one of us Has been battered, worn, and rough Ain't you never felt irate And won'tcha get irater Well, my friends, we have a hero now I speak of Steven Slater
It ain't that easy to ride the skies Laboring for JetBlue A man's got to keep widened eyes For terrorists or shampoo And worser still are the passengers They turn a kind man to a hater Won't nobody stand up to this? One man: Steven Slater
There was a particular day And a particular customer Who grew abusive to Steven when he instructed her She was endangering herself And he didn't care to debate her And all at once she struck his head She struck at Steven Slater
Some will say he made a scene Or it was a crime But Steven he had had enough And if he has to, he'll do time Perhaps it's great to keep your cool But sometimes it is greater To bid one final fuck you too As did Steven Slater
He cursed her on the intercom So that everyone could hear And he then bid his adieu And he grabbed himself a beer And threw open the JetBlue door With an escape slide and its inflater And he slid down, drinking, shouting fuck you Our hero, Steven Slater
The police they went after him They caught him in his bed He was supposed to finish work but he was In flagrante delicto instead A hero and a lover now, not a Circumnavigater Say what you will, but tip your hat To a man who had enough A man named Steven Slater.
nickleback
Some people who have trained themselves to have their emotional catharsis through sophisticated art
get annoyed at untrained people having an emotional catharsis through unsophisticated art.
Count Eberhard’s Hawthorn
Count Eberhard the Beard From Wurttemberg’s domain On a pious journey fared To the shores of Palestine.
One day as he was riding A woodland path in spring From a hawthorn bush He took a little cutting.
In his iron helmet He placed the hawthorn spray; He carried it off to war Over the flowing sea.
And when he was back home He set it in the earth, And soon the leaves and buds Into life were stirred.
The count, faithful and true, Each year came to the sprig; He was filled with joy To see it grow so big.
The count shrank with age, The sprig became a tree. Beneath it the old man sat In deepest reverie.
Its high-arching limbs, Its whisper in his ear Remind him of the past And of the distant shore.
The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
The Yellow Bittern
Yellow bittern, there you are now, Skin and bone on the frozen shore. It wasn’t hunger but thirst for a mouthful That left you foundered and me heartsore. What odds is it now about Troy’s destruction With you on the flagstones upside down, Who never injured or hurt a creature And preferred bog water to any wine?
Bittern, bittern, your end was awful, Your perished skull there on the road, You that would call me every morning With your gargler’s song as you guzzled mud. And that’s what’s ahead of your brother Cathal (You know what they say about me and the stuff) But they’ve got it wrong and the truth is simple: A drop would have saved that croaker’s life.
I am saddened, bittern, and brokenhearted To find you in scrags in the rushy tufts, And the big rats scampering down the rat paths To wake your carcass and have their fun. If you could have got word to me in time, bird, That you were in trouble and craved a sup, I’d have struck the fetters of those lough waters And wet your thrapple with the blow I struck.
Your common birds do not concern me, The blackbird, say, or the thrush or crane, But the yellow bittern, my heartsome namesake With my looks and locks, he’s the one I mourn. Constantly he was drinking, drinking, And by all accounts I’ve a name for it too, But every drop I get I’ll sink it For fear I might get my end from drouth.
The woman I love says to give it up now Or else I’ll go to an early grave, But I say no and keep resisting For taking drink’s what prolongs your days. You saw for yourself a while ago What happened to the bird when its throat went dry; So my friends and neighbours, let it flow: You’ll be stood no rounds in eternity.
Summer Night
The sounds Of the Harlem night Drop one by one into stillness. The last player-piano is closed. The last victrola ceases with the "Jazz Boy Blues." The last crying baby sleeps And the night becomes Still as a whispering heartbeat. I toss Without rest in the darkness, Weary as the tired night, My soul Empty as the silence, Empty with a vague, Aching emptiness, Desiring, Needing someone, Something.
I toss without rest In the darkness Until the new dawn, Wan and pale, Descends like a white mist Into the court-yard.
Soledad A Cuban Portrait
The shadows Of too many nights of love Have fallen beneath your eyes. Your eyes, So full of pain and passion, So full of lies. So full of pain and passion, Soledad, So deeply scarred, So still with silent cries.
'Of Children in Swaddling Clothes
O cities of the sea, I behold in you your citizens, women as well as men tightly bound with stout bonds around their arms and Iegs by folk who will not understand your language; and you will only be able to give vent to your griefs and sense of loss of liberty by making tearful complaints, and sighs, and lamentations one to another; for those who bind you will not understand your language nor will you understand them.'
To whom it may concern, I am requesting and applying for a waiver to enable me to go to the United States of America. Back in 2009 while trying to leave the U.S. after helping an expat return to the States, I was pulled over at Port Huron, Michigan for an exit search that violated the border patrol's own stated protocols.
Having led a sheltered life, I failed to think about the power dynamics at work in authoritarian systems and the extent to which the U.S. has criminalized the expectation of reasonable communication between civilians and the authorities who keep them in check. I therefore approached one of the officers to ask what was going on. I had no intention of provoking hostilities. I neither raised my voice nor used incendiary language. But of course the very act of asking questions is considered provocative in such situations.
I was ultimately convicted under Michigan statue MCL 750.81d1 for - as the prosecuting attorney convincingly argued in her closing statement - failing to immediately get on the ground after having been punched in the face.
Fortunately, the judge in that case chose to ignore the prosecution's request for jail time and released me with a small fine, remarking that I was the kind of guy he'd "like to have a beer with." I like to regard this small endorsement as evidence that my rehabilitation was already under way.
Enclosed with my application are reference letters from accomplished professionals in a number of disciplines: law, finance, journalism, science, engineering, literature, even from one of the jurors at my trial who stood at my side during my sentencing in a show of support and whose family was subsequently subjected to ongoing police harassment for reasons that I'm certain are completely unrelated.
I also include a CV including the degrees I've earned, the awards I've won, the books, articles, and scientific papers I've written, the twenty languages into which my work has been translated, the courses in which my work is taught, and the impact my work has had in fields ranging from philosophy to computer science to video games. These documents speak to who I am now, and while unlikely to confer the sort of credibility you'd attach to a border guard with 13 weeks of training under their belt, perhaps they'll give you hope that I may yet become a productive member of society.
I have learned and grown a great deal since that unfortunate altercation at the Blue Water Bridge. I understand now that the brave members of the border patrol daily risk their lives to protect your citizenry from people like, well, me. Right up to and including that member of the Port Huron detachment who, just days after my arrest, was himself arrested for possession of child pornography.
I should have realized it was a mistake to approach the guards on an equal footing as fellow human beings. As a former biologist, I should have known the only appropriate response would be that practiced by subordinate members of other primate species: avoidance of eye contact, servile posture, and reflexive, unquestioned obedience to all commands no matter how perplexing.
Realizing my error, I have chosen to follow the lead of that great American Harry Whittington who, after being shot in the face by then Vice President Dick Cheney, actually held a press conference to apologize to Cheney for the incident.
In that spirit, I would like to express my sincere remorse that I have cause to reenter the U.S. especially at a time when so many of your own countrymen appear to be going the other way. Perhaps you've heard that Immigration Canada's website crashed on the night of your recent election.
If you grant me the requested waiver, however, I can promise that I will not stay a moment longer than is absolutely fucking necessary.
Patent-pending design by Hopkins undergrads could be available in stores within two years
Any fool can get into an ocean . . .
Any fool can get into an ocean But it takes a Goddess To get out of one. What’s true of oceans is true, of course, Of labyrinths and poems. When you start swimming Through riptide of rhythms and the metaphor’s seaweed You need to be a good swimmer or a born Goddess To get back out of them Look at the sea otters bobbing wildly Out in the middle of the poem They look so eager and peaceful playing out there where the water hardly moves You might get out through all the waves and rocks Into the middle of the poem to touch them But when you’ve tried the blessed water long Enough to want to start backward That’s when the fun starts Unless you’re a poet or an otter or something supernatural You’ll drown, dear. You’ll drown Any Greek can get you into a labyrinth But it takes a hero to get out of one What’s true of labyrinths is true of course Of love and memory. When you start remembering.
Win Rozario’s brother and parents have also called on officers Matthew Cianfrocco and Salvatore Alongi to be fired and charged with murder.
Eunomia
These things my spirit bids me teach the men of Athens: that Dysnomia brings countless evils for the city, but Eunomia brings order and makes everything proper, by enfolding the unjust in fetters, smoothing those things that are rough, stopping greed, sentencing hybris to obscurity making the flowers of mischief to whither,
and straightening crooked judgments. It calms the deeds of arrogance and stops the bilious anger of harsh strife. Under its control, all things are proper and prudence reigns human affairs
This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.  They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had  And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn  By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern  And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.  It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can,  And don’t have any kids yourself.