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Vous n’êtes pas les bienvenus ici !!

Je ne rigole pas, je ne veux pas de vous ici. Si vous soutenez au moins l’une de ces propositions, vous êtes à mes yeux un connard intolérant, sexiste et raciste qui ne sait sans aucun doute pas faire la différence entre religion et terrorisme.

Dégagez d’ici !

"Si vous frappez votre femme, pas grand-chose, bon, deux trois beignes, admettons qu'elle se prenne une ITT [Incapacité Totale de Travail] de six jours, ben vous pourrez aménager votre peine pour ne jamais faire vos deux ou trois mois de prison. Vous aurez sans doute une interdiction de la contacter, mais bon, achetez-vous une peluche pour vous défouler avant le procès."

Sciences Po Paris - Un enseignant d’un TD de Droit en Master 1. Via notre déléguée, certaines d'entre nous nous sommes plaintes du comportement sexiste de ce professeur. Au cours suivant, il nous a crié dessus en reprochant aux filles de la classe de “manquer d'humour” et de mettre à mal sa réputation pour rien.

What message did Beatrice fail to deliver to Lemony?

Lemony Snicket’s break-up with Beatrice Baudelaire is intrinsically wrought to another problem: his incapacity to communicate with her, along with his pressing need to impart her with an important message. He is, indeed, forbidden by Jacques to attempt any sort of contact with Beatrice. Lemony, however, braves this interdiction no less than three times:

  • Beatrice aks Lemony in her famous 200-pages break-up letter whether he read a coded sonnet she sent him one night. In his response, he admits he never got this message and aks her whether she thinks her co-star is a traitor. Because he had to flee the country, Lemony never got a response to either answer and it is possible his letter was never even delivered.
  • Lemony tries to communicate important communication in her congratulation letter prior to Violet’s birth, but the telegram gets cut before he can dive into this sensitive topic.
  • Lemony endeavours to inform Beatrice of something regarding Olaf at the Duchess of Winnipeg’s ball.

The question is doubly folded: what did Beatrice fail to say to Lemony before he left the country, and what did Lemony fail to tell Beatrice before she died? Are these two problems related? More on that after the cut.

NOTE TO READERS: The following essay assumes Bertrand Baudelaire was Beatrice’s co-star. We recommand you read the theory related the co-star before diving into this one.

Keep reading

Everything old is new again.

Faced with the threat-rich electronic warfare environment of Southeast Asia in the 2060’s, defense budgets (both state and nonstate) faced of spiral of threat and expenditure from which there seemed no good escape. Intelligent mines, satellite assisted armored infantry, and a proliferation of automated weapon systems threatened to make what had been a border incident overflow into a wider settling of grudges between neighbors. The use of nonhuman systems threatened to remove accountability from the actors and invite further destabilization.

With this in mind, WESTSOC and some of the PMCs with larger research budgets came up with an elegant solution: The return of ballistic, direct-fire artillery to counter ground forces. Gun laying would be optical, with unaugmented crews and minimal electronic equipment. This would make them largely immune to the jamming and hacking by specialized systems that made the modern battlefield so uncertain. For border interdiction, the future lay in the past.

Based on a Chinese airmobile SPG, the Type 27 utilized a 128mm gun that could also fire a squeeze-bore sub caliber round when fitted with an adapter. While inaccurate, and even dangerous, to fire on the move, it proved an effective deterrent against light armor and armored infantry elements in multiple engagements. The example seen here is also fitted with a laser based CIWS for use against light drones and guided counter battery artillery.

marked-point  asked:

was there a reason the 104 had such a high crash rate?

Tiny-ass wings, which gave piss-poor low level performance and high take-off and landing speeds, a single engine in the era where turbojets weren’t entirely reliable, and in the case of most international users, a misguided belief that the damn thing could be used as a low-level strike/interdiction jet, which combined with the first point meant it was a nightmare to fly in such conditions. 

Plus, Zero-Zero ejections seats weren’t available at the time, so any failure on take-off, landing, or low-level regimes, basically where the plane usually went wrong, immediately meant yet another dead pilot. 


The AC-130H Spectre and the AC-130U Spooky primary missions are close air support, air interdiction and armed reconnaissance.
Grinding Gears and Familiar Faces

The wind being kicked across Krassus Landing had no natural source.  It’s typical inhabitants and onlookers wore faces ranging from annoyance to curiosity to surprise at the small fleet of howling machines before them.  Gyrocopters.  A bakers dozen at that, hovering over the terrace where flight traffic had been interdicted for fifteen minutes while heavy crates in strong harnesses were tethered to the bottom of the flying machines.  Weapons.  Ammunition.  Supplies for a continued war, paid for out of pocket by one Geargrind Exports.

Unknown to most of the crowd, it wasn’t the namesake Goblin, loudly issuing orders that could still only barely be heard over the thunder of blades and engines, whose purse had lightened so considerably, nor was he the one who had arranged for the pickup itself.  Behind even the rest of the crowd, a tall redheaded Sin’dorei stood, clad in the Horde variation of Windrunner pattern mail, a heavy over-and-under repeating rifle slung under one arm.

On the one hand, amusement played tiredly across her features at the sight of would-be relic hunters and self-important “heroes” dismay and outrage at the momentary delay at her hands.  On the other, she was nearly too tired to mentally indulge in such a childish notion, knowing exactly why and what prompted this delivery.

And just how many had already died before the munitions and weapons had even left the Landing.

For all it’s pomp, it was a humanitarian gesture in it’s own right, to Alliance and Horde soldiers alike at a particularly hard pressed position.  Many of them were mercenaries.  Some were trusted comrades.  Others she didn’t, and never would, meet.  It hardly mattered.

Fel emerald hues scanned the crowd on instinct, not expecting to see anything, or anyone, of interest.  And with one exception, she wasn’t disappointed.  That one exception, however, was enough to arrest her attention.  The face, the garb, and the bearing were all familiar, and a moments surprise took the Huntress unawares at the odd sense of relief that followed.

For a few moments, Halcyona Silversun lingered in her little nook, debating her initial reaction at what should have merely been a familiar face.  Their past interactions had ranged from cordial to…  Not so much.  And a small mental debate ran it’s course in her head before the slightest rattle of chain mail accompanied the first few steps on her way towards Kaevia Sun’rael.

Whether among those with business now delayed, or simply brought out by curiosity at the almost overwhelming roar of the vehicles being loaded by nearly four dozen Goblins hardly mattered as far as the Huntress was concerned.  A dozen or so possible greetings, ranging from surly to overly pleasant, came to mind.

In the end, as she all but appeared to the smaller woman’s right, the former mercenary settled on simplicity, her own thoughts displayed plain and clear, “Glad you made it through that mess.  It’s been awhile.”


Bientôt sur mes 18 ans et pourtant j'ai l'impression que je vais avoir 12 ans. J'aurais toujours les mêmes interdictions. Je poserai toujours 20 fois les mêmes questions sans que personne me répond. Je me sentirais toujours trop petite pour comprendre. Je serais toujours trop petite pour faire 10 mètres en dehors de chez moi. On me diras toujours “Tu n'as pas le même âge que ton frère”. Quand j'aurai la majorité, rien ne va changer. Je peux continuer à faire le maximum pour gagner leurs confiances, je serais toujours traiter comme à mes 12 ans. J'ai jamais pris le bus toute seule. J'ai jamais pris un train toute seule. Je ne suis jamais allée avec mes amies faire les boutiques sans la surveillance d'un adulte. J'ai jamais pu dormir chez une amie qui habite à 2 minutes de chez nous. Je ne dis pas que je suis la pauvre malheureuse. Je dis juste que jamais j'arriverai à vivre seule. Jamais j'arriverai à me débrouiller. Parce que j'ai jamais eu aucune expérience seule en dehors de cette maison. Quand j'étais petite je rêvais de ce jour où je serai majeur. Aujourd'hui avoir 18 ans ne signifie plus rien pour moi. Ça ne m'apporte aucune joie.
—  #JM

victoriane  asked:

I was inspired by your previously asked questions to ask this. Describe your feelings towards Emiel Regis and Geralt. Bitterness? Admiration? Anger? psst I love your posts, you are a very talented writer xx

    Precarious was the look if ever one were to hold reluctantly in consideration. Clearly contemplating what he should even acknowledge . Aside from revealing too much that a puzzle could be assembled from a different species’ perspective.  A twitch at the corner of those lips where a smirk weakly established. Strained jaw construed an interdiction among the simplicity of the act in itself.

    “ Regis.. “ the name corresponded with a shift of his emotional tide.  A certain affiliation toward the subject that may have exploited his deep culpability for his kindred brother.  “ A great deal of things, for he is admirable for many reasons best left untold. “  The flight of his tone depicted a deeper attachment to the male in question.  Yet he was quick to barricade the confidentiality with a even sharper tongue at the latter of his suggestive.

   “.. the Witcher ? “  bore an undertone of his disinterest as fair off toward his frustration as he could muster.  Though not all far restrained in comparison to when they last met. A tut between teeth, pinned through a tight lipped snarl that only crinkled his nose ; half annoyed upon recollection.  “ He’s a meddlesome fool, who at times means well.  In the end,  I doubt morality truly matters to him as he proclaims “ his own silence cut him there, where a incoherent list may have been muttered prior to his stabilizing glare that only hazed past the individual.  Guilt had redefined his memory, if not extracting it with pain.  The White Wolf, in truth was only a pebble in his existence.

[  I would say he is definitely a draw between anger and bitterness toward Geralt. xD  And thank you so much !  That truly means a lot to me.  I’ve been so slow here lately ..But I’m glad everyone has been so patient with me.  <3 ]

Boatswain’s Mate Seaman John Wheeless paints the starboard anchor of the aircraft carrier USS John C. Stennis.

Boatswain’s Mate, the oldest rate in the Navy, has a rich history of honored traditions. BM’s are the leaders and backbone of every ship’s crew. A Boatswain’s Mate maintains the exterior surfaces of ships, deck handling machinery and equipment, handle cargo and operate small boats during a number of evolutions including Anti-Terrorism Operations and Maritime Interdiction boardings of suspect ships.


“You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here,
I believe that much unseen is also here.
Here the profound lesson of reception, nor preference nor denial,
The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas’d, the illiterate person, are not denied;
The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar’s tramp, the drunkard’s stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,
The escaped youth, the rich person’s carriage, the fop, the eloping couple,
The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town,
They pass, I also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted,
None but are accepted, none but shall be dear to me.”

Irony tyrannizes us. The reason why our pervasive cultural irony is at once so powerful and so unsatisfying is that an ironist is impossible to pin down. All irony is a variation on a sort of existential poker-face. All U.S. irony is based on an implicit ‘I don’t really mean what I say.’ So what does irony as a cultural norm mean to say? That it’s impossible to mean what you say? That maybe it’s too bad it’s impossible, but wake up and smell the coffee already? Most likely, I think, today’s irony ends up saying: 'How very banal to ask what I mean.’ Anyone with the heretical gall to ask an ironist what he actually stands for ends up looking like a hysteric or a prig. And herein lies the oppressiveness of institutionalized irony, the too-successful rebel: the ability to interdict the question without attending to its content is tyranny. It is the new junta, using the very tool that exposed the enemy to insulate itself.
—  Taken from “E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction” (1993) by David Foster Wallace.
And we are standing now,   my country and I,   hair in the wind,
            my hand puny in its enormous fist and now the strength
            is not in us but above us,
            in a voice that drills the night and the hearing like
            the penetrance of an apocalyptic wasp.
            And the voice complains that for centuries Europe
            has force-fed us with lies and bloated us with pestilence,
for it is not true that the work of man is done
that we have no business being on earth
that we parasite the world
that it is enough for us to heel to the world whereas the work
             of man has only begun
and man still must overcome all the interdictions wedged in
             the recesses of his fervor
and no race has a monopoly on beauty,   on intelligence,   on strength
and there is room for everyone at the convocation of conquest
and we know now that the sun turns around our earth lighting
             the parcel designated by our will alone and that every star falls
             from sky to earth at our omnipotent command.
—  Aimé Césaire, Cahier d'un retour au pays natal [Notebook of a Return to the Native Land], 1939.
Il fut un temps ou le mot “badassitude” n'existait pas : on disait avoir du culot. Quand j'étais petite, j'admirais beaucoup une amie de mes parents ; elle était ouvrière dans une usine de saucissons, en Haute-Loire ; que des femmes, sauf les chefaillons : des mecs. Interdiction de bavarder, d'aller pisser et tout un tas d'autres interdictions aussi stupides qu'humiliantes. A cette époque, elle était enceinte ; pour les personnes qui ne savent pas ce que ça fait : dès le début de la grossesse, ça appuie sur le vessie, et on a tout le temps envie de pisser, même pour 3 gouttes, il faut qu'on y aille. Joëlle a demandé à aller aux toilettes, son chef a refusé ; elle s'est levée, s'est plantée devant lui… et s'est pissée dessus, devant toute l'usine. Eclat de rire général, fuite piteuse du chefaillon et modification du règlement interne ! C'était il y a 30 ans, je suis toujours aussi impressionnée !

Couple o’ Harriers pouring the coals on a frigid scene.

EIELSON AIR FORCE BASE, Alaska (Oct. 6, 2024) - U.S. Marine Corps AV-8B Harrier ground attack aircraft assigned to Marine Fighter Attack Squadron 311, Marine Corps Air Station Yuma, Ariz., take off for a sortie at Eielson Air Force Base during RED FLAG-Alaska (RF-A) 15-1. RF-A is a series of Pacific Air Forces commander-directed field training exercises for U.S. and partner nation forces, providing combined offensive counter-air, interdiction, close air support and large force employment training in a simulated combat environment. (U.S. Air Force photo by Senior Airman Peter Reft) 141006-F-YW474-207