smh look at these Canadians who desperately want to be Canadians just because they live in Canada. Who do you think you are?
Tags:
#our home and cherished land #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #this should probably have some warning tag but I am not sure what
If you can’t buy bagged milk in your state don’t even come into my ask box
Tags:
#come to the Canadian side we have square store-brand Thin Mints #(fuck bagged milk though tbh) #((it rots *much* faster)) #our home and cherished land #home of the brave #in which Brin has a food poisoning phobia #food
Ah di teacha And ah spice Every man grab a gyal And every gyal grab a man
Compulsory sexuality right out the gate? Oh, well. I guess this is Dancehall, after all.
Man to man, gyal to gyal – dat’s wrong
A WILD HOMOPHOBIA APPEARS
Seriously, this has nothing to do with the focus of the song. This song isn’t about gays at all. Kartel just felt the need to throw that in there. Why? The world may never know…
To quote @loki-zen: “I really like cake, here’s a song about cake, let me describe the cake, also by the way FUCK THE FRENCH AM I RIGHT so anyway, this cake…”
SCORN DEM
…And, with that line alone, this song becomes my Problematic Fave. It is a work of art.
All when ah night Yuh pussy feel like sun hot
Spice’s Vagina: Approximately 5,500C at the surface.
When yuh come inna mi ramping shop Mek sure yuh know how fi wuk And nah chat yah ah chat
Ah, right, because singing a song about your sexual prowess is totally showing instead of telling.
Hey, mi cocky longa dan mi knife
Kartel, wah di bloodclat mi jus ask you fi do? Didn’t the song just say not to make ridiculous boasts? YOU HAD ONE JOB
Tell mi wah yuh like Yuh wah mi drive or yuh wah fi ride it like a bike
Figure 1.1: Spice And Kartel Having Sex
Well, yuh haffi ram it hard Di cocky nuh fi lie Damage it fi spite
…Well this just got surprisingly kinky. Not sure if it’s SSC, but I’ll let it pass.
Not becah mi pussy tight Suppose mi put it pon di left Can yuh tek it pon di right Mi nipple dem a ripe
Figure 1.2: Spice’s Breasts
Sen it up inna mi tribe What? titty appetite Every nipple get a bite Mi man haffi go see it Mi and him haffi go fight
Oh, great. Just when I thought this couldn’t get better: She has a boyfriend/husband who doesn’t know they’re fucking and is going to be pissed when he sees the hickies on her breasts. Spice & Kartel: Perfect Role-Models.
Cah me haffi wine pon di cocky like dis Kartel spin mi like a satellite dish
…I don’t think you’re supposed to do that to your satellite dishes…
Deal wid yuh breast like mi crushin Irish
Wait, what? Kartel, I get it, we all know that you’re a wannabe Englishman – but what the fuck do you have against the Irish?
Spice I neva love a pussy like dis You ah my mista You ah my miss Kill me wid di cocky Kill me wid di tightness
You two clearly enjoy having a bit too much murder in your sex lives. Maybe you and @inquisitivefeminist would get along after all?
And when you ah come Whispa someting like dis: “I can’t stop fuckin you”
… … …
Is this really the most romantic pillow talk you could come up with? You aren’t even singing it in a vaguely romantic manner!
Hey, cocky nuh play Me will bruk yuh back
Kartel Confirms: Cocks don’t break backs, people with cocks break backs, and people with granite cocks break their backs lifting Moloch to the sky.
When yuh come inna mi ramping shop Me will quint it up two time and pop yuh cock When yuh come inna mi ramping shop Me will mek yuh run out a mi house Inna half ah frock
The Walk of Shame: A Perk of Fucking Kartel.
When yuh come inna mi ramping shop A gyal eva ride pon it and gi yuh heart attack When yuh come inna mi ramping shop
Figure 1.3: Spice’s Vagina
Spice ah you mi love Yuh know how fi do yuh stuff Yuh pussy buff Plus it squeeze like handcuff
Let’s be real: I have seen a lot, but I’m not even sure what kink they’re going for here.
I’m only sure of one thing, really: Kartel could write a pretty interesting Fifty Shades of Grey fan fic.
Kartel ah you mi love See it deh, mi cock it up Fuh yuh ramp ruff Til mi belly cramp up
Stomach Cramps: So Sexeh
Sshhh di climax begun Bear sweat a run Hold mi tight spice Mi feel like mi ah cum
“So, I know that I’m climaxing right now. Ialso feel like I’m coming, but I’m not so sure. How can you tell?”
Mi nah let yuh go So don’t let me done Me two phone a ring and me nah ansa none
In case you’re not sure why she explicitly mentions two phones, it’s the third world equivalent of a rap brag. She is so filthy rich that she can afford not just one but two cellular phones. Two of them! Mobile phones! Bow before her fat stacks, pleb.
And, like, this is a legitimately impressive brag for the target audience. As someone who can see this from both the third world (”Wow, that’s amazing!”) and first world (”…Is that it?”) perspectives, lines like this give me a weird sense of vertigo.
Cah me haffi wine pon di cocky like dis Kartel spin me like a satellite dish Deal wid yuh breast like mi crushing Irish Spice I neva love a pussy like dis You ah my mista You ah my miss Kill me wid di cocky Kill me wid di tightness And when you a come Whispa someting like dis I can’t stop fuckin you
In all seriousness, all of these lines sound more ridiculous on the second run through.
Hey, cocky nuh play Me will bruk yuh back When yuh come inna mi ramping shop Me will quint it up two time and pop yuh cock When yuh come inna mi ramping shop Me will mek yuh run out a mi house Inna half ah frock When yuh come inna mi ramping shop A gyal eva ride pon it and gi yuh heart attack When yuh come inna mi ramping shop
There are so many ways that this is hella dysfunctional, but I’m just gonna leave that there.
Ah di teacha And ah spice Every man grab a gyal And every gyal grab a man Man to man, gyal to gyal – dats wrong SCORN DEM
Fuck the French! SCORN THEM
All when a night Yuh pussy feel like sun hot When yuh come inna mi ramping shop Mek sure yuh know how fi wuk And nah chat yah ah chat
Ooh, maybe he’ll listen to this advice on the second run through?
Cocky nuh play Mi will bruk yuh back
Ha. Ha. Ha.
When yuh come inna mi ramping shop Mi will quint it up two time and pop yuh cock When yuh come inna mi ramping shop Mi will mek yuh run out a mi house Inna half ah frock When yuh come inna mi ramping shop A gyal eva ride pon it and gi yuh heart attack When yuh come inna mi ramping shop
Thank you, Kartel, for clearly and persuasively presenting all the reasons why I don’t want to visit your “ramping shop”. >lesbianism increases
This is a fairly old post, but I still think about this bit a lot:
>>In case you’re not sure why she explicitly mentions two phones, it’s the third world equivalent of a rap brag. She is so filthy rich that she can afford not just one but *two* cellular phones. Two of them! *Mobile* phones! Bow before her fat stacks, pleb.
And, like, this is a legitimately impressive brag for the target audience. As someone who can see this from both the third world (”Wow, that’s amazing!”) and first world (”…Is that it?”) perspectives, lines like this give me a weird sense of vertigo.<<
I thought about this a lot last summer, when I was routinely running a mobile hotspot on one phone and playing Pokemon Go on a second, and I think about it a lot now that I’m routinely using two smartphones both of which *I personally* own (the hotspot one was borrowed from Mom).
Because the thing is, I use multiple phones *because I’m poor*. Richer people can afford a single device good enough to do everything they want it to do, rather than having to network multiple inadequate phones into one functioning system. (the first phone was too low-spec to run Pokemon Go itself, and the second had no cell plan of any kind, let alone data) Richer people don’t care that owning a second device, if used properly, grants an additional ~$0.50 – $1/day income stream, because $1/day is immaterial to them.
And yes, I understand that at the level of poverty the song assumes, the alternative to multiple inadequate phones is a *single* inadequate phone, and just not doing the things it can’t do. (or *zero* phones, though I gather that’s increasingly less common these days) But I still think it’s interesting that “has a single mobile device” can indicate either “poor” or “rich” depending on context. (And I suspect even richer people wrap around another time and start using multiple mobile devices again: at least, *somebody* has to be buying Kindles or they wouldn’t make them. God knows what the *very* rich people are up to.)
#music #nsfw text #death mention #reply via reblog #Brin owns *two* 2010’s computers now #is the blue I see the same as the blue you see #(close enough) #adventures in human capitalism #this post brought to you by helping a semi-homeless friend research cheap high-data-limit plans to stick into their old hand-me-down iPhone #because they’re not putting down enough roots in any location to get home Internet set up #so mobile data and the occasional public Wi-Fi is all they have #(they too have been learning the joys of mobile hotspots) #the relationship between financial position and phone usage can be very complicated indeed #homophobia
There are a bunch of people for whom bubble baths, scented candles, and chocolate is self-care.
There are a bunch of people for whom early-morning yoga, vegetable smoothies, and aggressively minimalist redecorating is self-care.
There are a bunch of people for whom playing with kids is self-care, and a bunch of people for whom dressing up and going to a fancy restaurant where no kids are allowed is self-care, and a bunch of people for whom sleeping in late is self-care and a bunch of people for whom getting up early is self-care.
Lately I’ve been moving from ‘yeah, humans are vast and varied’ to a sense that there’s a similar underlying thing in all of these cases.
I think something tends to be more restorative – to be an activity that leaves you more energized than you started it, more okay than when you started it – the more of these criteria it meets:
– restorative things are often things you associate with being prioritized, valued and valuable. This is why some people find chores restorative – it hits ‘valued and valuable’f or them – while other people find them draining – their association with doing chores is being incapable or not-good-enough or ordered-around,
– restorative things are usually things that don’t draw on the resources you feel constrained on – if you’re tired from being on your feet all day, running sure won’t do it, and if you’re lonely and isolated then bubble baths probably won’t help. Dong stuff that causes you anxiety won’t often be restorative.
– restorative things tend to fit into your understanding of what a good life for you looks like. early-morning yoga works for people who find it empowering to think of themselves as someone who does early-morning yoga. prayer and attending religious services tends to work for people who are like ‘my best self attends religious services’ and not so well for people ho are like ‘ugh I’m supposed to do that’ or ‘doing that just reminds me how much I disagree with my community about what my best self looks like’
– restorative things are pleasant in their own right. It’s astonishing how often this one gets passed-over. If you do not enjoy something – if the experience of doing it isn’t a good experience – then it’s really unlikely to be restorative. Making yourself do yoga when you find every minute awful will not be restorative. It might sometimes be valuable but it won’t be restorative. (Things that are unpleasant to start, but pleasant and rewarding once you’re doing them, can be restorative).
I think there are a couple takeaways from this framework. One is hopefully to make it easier to identify things that’ll be restorative for you. The second is that people attach a lot of moral valence to which activities other people find restorative – accusing people of being consumerist or selfish or lazy or privileged – and I’m hoping that there might be less of it if people are aware that the things that work for them won’t work for everyone. (Related to that,of course privilege plays a role in which things you experience as making you valued and valuable, and which things you conceive of as being part of your good life. So it’s a terrible idea to try to impose one version of ‘self-care’, like employers signing employees up for exercise programs in the name of self-care; people of a different class background get particularly screwed by this.)
homer drops his forehead against the table. he’s been awake for so long, a million years at least, and now that the alcohol isn’t blurring time in his brain every second ticks by like knuckles rapping against his skull. Ray Ban had brought him a glass of water, clearly sympathetic to the desperate way that homer wants to be really, genuinely, permanently dead.
“let this be a lesson to you in the dangers of alcohol consumption,” Donut Mouth tells him, sounding almost amused. homer thinks he’s coming around, though. he’s stopped trying to get homer to cut to the chase, and he’d even patted homer’s shoulder when he tried gulping the water down and had to spit it out when the cold of it hurt his teeth.
homer groans, long and low. “i’m dying, man. listen – can i just – a nap. a quick one. under the table. i’ll pick up again right after, i swear to god.”
“if you’re gonna be a man at night, you gotta be a man in the morning,” Ray Ban counsels, and homer lifts his head to scowl at him, or at least in the direction of him.
“don’t come for me with mine own words,” he grumbles. “jesus. okay. where was i?” he scrubs at his forehead, trying to massage the headache back and away, and takes another sip of water, slower this time. god, his whole mouth tastes like he’s been eating cigarettes, tangy and cottony and awful. he’s never drinking again. he’s gonna quit life. he’s gonna become a hermit. people will wonder if he was even ever really there, or just a mass hallucination.
Donut Mouth pats his arm with gentle condescension. “your ex-roommates had just moved in with the alpha sigs.”
“oh, right,” homer remembers. he holds the water glass against his temple and sighs into the sweetness of its cold. “okay. so that went wrong, like, almost immediately.”
–
it wasn’t quite accurate to say that the whole thing went wrong immediately; actually, bree moved in with AC and PK and, to the surprise of everybody, the arrangement worked brilliantly. bree had always liked PK, ever since they took a class together on art therapy. she was going into special education, and they’d done a joint project on using photography to help nonverbal kids with self-expression. he was also, she happened to know, a sweetly proficient guitar player, though the only songs he had memorized were “wonderwall” and the entirety of taylor swift’s “1989.”
“once you’ve mastered the greats, there’s really no reason to keep learning,” AC said supportively, when bree giggled about this fact. “also, i’m just gonna say it, she’s a bisexual icon.”
PK sighed, shaking his head. “taylor swift is straight, dude,” he said, in the voice of someone who has said it many, many times before.
“taylor swift is, or was, at the very least, in a romantic friendship with karlie klaus,” AC returned. “and you should honor the bisexual spirit that built this fuckin house.” AC puffed out his chest, and then relaxed. “not literally, because this house was built in like … the middle ages, probably by some repressed pilgrim who believed sex was a kind of witchcraft, or whatever.”
bree nodded thoughtfully. “no, yeah, the house is a metaphor for your relationship, i got it,” she said.
two loud slams came from the wall behind bree’s head. “taylor swift and karlie klaus were in love,” chrys shouted through the wall. “this. is. undeniable.”
“man, these walls are thin,” bree said. “that’s got to be awkward, um … intimately speaking.”
AC shrugged. “sock on the door means knock no more,” he recited, raising a finger.
“also, aggy spends a lot of nights at nessa’s,” PK added. “and geni is taking an astronomy class that keeps her out until like, three or four in the morning doing, idk, star bullshit. so.”
bree nodded. she folded her feet underneath her, sitting cross-legged and leaning back against the wall. they’d pushed the two beds together, using a large sheet and one blanket, and she could already see that separating the beds would be a nightmare for the rooms, like, vibe.
“hmm,” she mused, looking around. “well … i mean, i could sleep on the floor.”
PK frowned at her. “absolutely the fuck not, babe,” he said. “we’ll split up the beds. it won’t be that hard.”
“oooooor,” AC wheedled, grinning.
PK shot him a glare. “don’t,” he warned, elbowing him sharply in the ribs.
“he wants you to sleep with us,” PK cut in, before AC could say anything else. “he’s really attached to this fuckin bed frame.”
“i built it myself!” AC cried, preening. “i fuckin … magic mike’d that shit.”
PK shared a glance with bree and gave his head a minute, but fond, shake. he reached out to tweak AC’s ear. “it’s a square, bud. anyone can assemble a square. it’s honestly not that different from buying it from IKEA.”
“fuck you! i’m a master carpenter!”
bree reached out and patted AC’s bicep. “it’s really nice,” she complimented, sincerely. bree believed in the power of positive reinforcement. “you did a really good job.”
AC beamed.
PK pinched the bridge of his nose, but when he met bree’s eyes, he was smiling. bree felt, suddenly, out of nowhere, a swell of affection for the both of them – for the very stupid muscle tee AC was wearing, which said DON’T BRO ME IF YOU DON’T KNOW ME; for the high heels discarded in the corner, next to the acoustic guitar with an COEXIST sticker from 2005 on it; and especially for the way PK was looking at AC out of the corner of his eyes, warm and wrinkled.
“aw, you big dummies,” she said, without quite meaning to. she reached into her bag and pulled out her ream of star stickers, which she always carried with her, just in case. she stuck gold stars on both of their foreheads and said, “no sex stuff while i’m in bed with you, but yeah. i think we can probably make this work.”
*
helen stood in the driveway with one hand on her hips and one hand shading her eyes, squinting up at the roof of the alpha delta chi house. dité was stretched out in her bikini on a plastic chaise. there was a winding wooden staircase leading from helen and dité’s shared window up to the roof. it had a railing.
“look what paris had built,” dité called down, without stirring or removing her sunglasses. “you ruining your life is the best thing that ever happened to me.”
helen sighed. she’d mentioned to paris yesterday that the roof was hard to get up to, but that it got the best sun. she’d said it in passing. it was just whining, she hadn’t expected him to like, do anything about it.
“i have to dump him,” she said, aloud but mostly to herself.
“uhhhh, j’excuse?” dité called down, sitting up. “the fuck you do, what are you smoking? this is the fucking best. he’s like a magic genie. i’ve been begging nas to build us a ramp for years, and all you gotta do is think about it and your boy comes through.”
sappho took a long, bubbly sip of her iced coffee. “maybe you’re a witch,” she mused. “maybe you’ve been influencing people with your magic powers all this time and didn’t even know it.”
“shut up, saph,” helen muttered. “nessa is going to kill me. she’s going to come home and see this extremely illegal addition to the house and she’s going to have me jumped.”
at that moment, athena’s head popped out of the window. “BITCHES, I MADE FROSÉ,” she announced, and began climbing the steps. she flexed her arms, a clear pitcher with pink slush in it in each hand. her baseball cap, backwards on her head, had the logo of the interim lacrosse team on it; helen knew because ares was on the team, too. athena was the only girl, though she fit right in with her knee-length board shorts and glaring white socks pulled halfway up her calves.
“how does she always look like she just walked off the set of bill and ted’s excellent adventure?” sappho marveled, delighted. “like, it’s still so hot out, what is even the point of tying a flannel around your waist?”
“the hashtag aesthetic, mama!” athena called down cheerfully. “are you assholes gonna stand down there marveling at the gunshow all afternoon or are you gonna come up to our cool new tanning bed and get blasted on frosé? it’s strong. i put a lot of booze in it.” she leaned over and sniffed one of the pitchers, winced, and withdrew. “like maybe … too much booze in it.”
“no such thing, my beautiful christina-ricci-in-now-and-then daydream,” sappho assured her, kicking up the porch steps, ponytail swinging. helen hesitated just long enough for dité to notice, and by the time helen got up to the roof she had finally removing her sunglasses so she could glare down up at helen’s face.
“girl, what,” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “like, for real. we got a sweet new set of stairs. paris revs your engine, for god knows what reason. none of us have to pretend to be interested in how many reps manny can do at the gym. don’t look a gift apple in the stem, babe.”
manny had been leaving longer and progressively more depressing voicemails on her phone. helen honestly was starting to feel bad. like, manny had been her boyfriend for a long time. it felt kind of dumb that it would end this way.
on the other hand, he was really embarrassing, and he’d filled up priam’s car with popcorn for no goddamn reason, and she didn’t love that he was acting like if he just out-pranked the trojans, she’d come running back to him like some … war prize, or whatever. helen was her own woman, okay. she has her own source of income, which she doesn’t even have to work that hard at because everyone loves buying weed from a hot girl, and she’s got like, literally hundreds of thousands of followers on social media. she’s verifiedon twitter. like, what, manny successfully filling some future hamptons-house-owning asshole’s car with popcorn is going to make her lose her mind?
come on.
anyway, this is how it’s been, lately; she feels bad and then gets annoyed and then bones paris and then feels bad again.
it’s exhausting. helen is not built for this kind of emotional complexity; she’s not sappho, for god’s sake.
“i can literally do like forty more reps than him,” athena said, drinking directly from the pitcher. sappho lifted her personalized plastic martini glass and cheersed athena with it. “i’m not even bragging, i’m just saying, like, i’ve been working out with jax and phoenix because we want to do american ninja warrior together, and jax said that manny hasn’t been to the gym literally since y’all broke up.”
sappho gasped, clutching her chest. “holy shit, i can’t believe you literally murdered manny’s whole personality, helen mellon,” she said. something twisted in helen’s stomach that she didn’t care for.
“shut up, saph,” she said again. “or i’ll take my branch out promise back.”
sappho gasped, scandalized, and athena let out a loud whoop before chugging the rest of the pitcher of frosé.
“chug, chug, chug,” sappho chanted.
dité reached out and patted helen’s arm. “just enjoy yourself, it’s all going to be fine,” she soothed. “and if it isn’t, who cares? we’re graduating. what, were you gonna marry manny atreus?”
“no,” helen said, making a face. “i mean. probably not.”
“so then chill,” dité advised. “have a little fun. it’s senior year, babe. if it’s not epic, what was the point?”
helen sighed. she reached out a hand and snapped her fingers until athena, laughing, put a red solo cup with frosé in it.
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