burger flipping

At age 23, Tina Fey was working at a YMCA.

At age 23, Oprah was fired from her first reporting job. 

At age 24, Stephen King was working as a janitor and living in a trailer. 

At age 27, Vincent Van Gogh failed as a missionary and decided to go to art school.  

At age 28, J.K. Rowling was a suicidal single parent living on welfare.

At age 28, Wayne Coyne ( from The Flaming Lips) was a fry cook.

At age 30, Harrison Ford was a carpenter. 

At age 30, Martha Stewart was a stockbroker. 

At age 37, Ang Lee was a stay-at-home-dad working odd jobs.

Julia Child released her first cookbook at age 39, and got her own cooking show at age 51.

Vera Wang failed to make the Olympic figure skating team, didn’t get the Editor-in-Chief position at Vogue, and designed her first dress at age 40.

Stan Lee didn’t release his first big comic book until he was 40.

Alan Rickman gave up his graphic design career and landed his first movie role at age 42.

Samuel L. Jackson didn’t get his first major movie role until he was 46.

Morgan Freeman landed his first major movie role at age 52.

Kathryn Bigelow won the Academy Award for Best Director when she made The Hurt Locker at age 57.

Grandma Moses didn’t begin her painting career until age 76.

Louise Bourgeois didn’t become a famous artist until she was 78.

Whatever your dream is, it is not too late to achieve it. You aren’t a failure because you haven’t found fame and fortune by the age of 21. Hell, it’s okay if you don’t even know what your dream is yet. Even if you’re flipping burgers, waiting tables or answering phones today, you never know where you’ll end up tomorrow.

Never tell yourself you’re too old to make it. 

Never tell yourself you missed your chance. 

Never tell yourself that you aren’t good enough. 

You can do it. Whatever it is. 

When my dad was a teenager, he accidentally started working for a restaurant that was a front for the local mafia. He flipped burgers for a semester and then, when he wanted to leave, one of the members pulled a gun on him and said he couldn’t.
“Oh, fuck off,” said the guy’s superior. “Really, man? He just flips burgers, and he’s not even good at it. Let him go, dumbass.”

and that was my dad’s brush with organized crime

“You want people who flip burgers to make more money than soldiers who fight for our freedom? What’s wrong with you?”

Really? I can do that too.

You want CEOs to make more money than soldiers who fight for our freedom? What’s wrong with you?

You want the cowards who create the wars to make more money than the soldiers themselves? What’s wrong with you?

You’re conveniently ignoring the homeless veterans who need a way to escape poverty? What’s wrong with you?

Everyone criticizes the poor for wanting to live, but no one criticizes the rich for wanting everything.

Stop with the “who would flip burgers” argument when we talk about giving everyone a basic income, equal access to education, and equal access to the means of production.

1) some people enjoy cooking, this would actually allow them schooling and the means to be the best cooks possible if thats their passion

2) robots can replace the vast majority of jobs most people do not want to do, and with free education and a basic income and means of production, we could replace even more jobs people hate.

The Red Sponge: Spongebob’s Role in Enforcing an Oppressive, Capitalistic Society

Every millennial who grew up watching “Spongebob Squarepants” has come to the same horrifying conclusion: you have turned into Squidward. No matter how buoyant, how cheerful, how optimistic you were as a child, there comes a point where you begin to identify with Squidward more than any other character in the show.

You could explain this phenomenon with the disillusionment and cynicism of growing up, or the burdens of being a teenager in a post-John Hughes society. There is, however, an even simpler answer. Spongebob is an allegory for Karl Marx’s The Communist Manifesto. The show revolves around Spongebob, the hardworking proletariat, accepting a low-level fry cook job and enduring Mr. Krabs’ exploitation with a grin on his face.

The face of compliance

It’s not hard to draw the parallels between Mr. Krabs and the bourgeoisie. He’s a cheapskate who underpays and overworks his employees for his own personal gain. Mr. Krabs famously ripped off his own arms (claws?) to retrieve a dime that fell down the drain. He took his workers on a boating trip to retrieve his millionth dollar from the jaws of a giant clam. He has zero regard for his employees’ safety and almost routinely puts them in danger for his own benefit.  Mr. Krabs’ daughter, Pearl is an extension of the bourgeoisie archetype. She’s vain, self-centered, and largely unaware of others’ misfortune. She lives in a bubble, obsessed with clothes, makeup, and celebrities — because she has the leisure for such frivolities.

Remember when Pearl gentrified The Krusty Krab

Speaking of living in a bubble, Sandy is not exempt from analysis. Sandy is quite literally shielded away from the rest of the world. She represents the intellectual elite, using her privilege and higher education to jeopardize working class jobs and further the industrial revolution. Her endeavors into space mirror the Cold War-era “Space Race,” capitalism versus communism. Her voyage ends on the moon, just like the U.S.’s did. On top of her scientific record, Sandy is independent and self-sufficient, exemplifying capitalistic ideals of individualism.

If Sandy is the intellectual elite, then Patrick Star is just the opposite. Patrick represents the bourgeois caricature of the working class that capitalists want you to buy into. He is ignorant, undereducated, and lazy. He lives under a rock, likely because he can’t afford anything else — although he doesn’t seem to mind. Patrick appears to deserve his poverty because he does nothing but sleep, yet he also seems at peace with his lot. This idea of the happy, unproductive bum simultaneously vilifies and justifies the proletariat. “See, they’re poor because they just don’t work hard enough! In fact, they like being poor!” Patrick Star is arguably one of the most offensive cartoon depictions of this generation.

Blatant vilification of blue-collar workers

Spongebob, on the other hand, represents the ideal proletariat. Spongebob is hardworking, humble, and endlessly optimistic. He’s a lot like us before we realized the inherent evils of a capitalistic society. Day in and day out, Spongebob gleefully works a minimum-wage job flipping burgers with no hope of promotion. He’s a cog in Mr. Krabs’ greasy machine, but he doesn’t even realize it. He just continues to skip to work every day, chanting “I’m ready!”. Ready for what, Spongebob? Ready for the bourgeoisie Kool-aid he’s been absorbing through his poriferous sponge body.

Spongebob is the ideal worker, and as children, we aspired to be just like him. The very first episode of Spongebob showed him getting his first job as fry cook. According to the show, the very best achievement you could receive is being gainfully employed. Not only employed, but tirelessly productive and efficient to maximize your manager’s profits. Spongebob famously served busloads of anchovies at a never-before-seen pace. It wasn’t enough that Spongebob could perform his job well; he had to go above and beyond his duty in order to seem valuable. These are the principles we instilled in the youth of today. What went wrong?

Back, finally, to Squidward. Squidward isn’t like Spongebob or Patrick. He isn’t satisfied in his low-level employment. What Squidward seeks is artistic satisfaction and world renown. He covets the success of his employer without achieving the work ethic necessary for someone of his class to ascend. Squidward has realized that the cards have been stacked against him at every turn, and resigns himself bitterly to the clutches of capitalism. If Squidward were less jaded, he could be the catalyst to prompt full-scale class warfare, perhaps ending in a communist utopia. Unfortunately, Squidward’s defeatist personality and egoism prevents him from implementing social change.

Mfw I realized I will never dismantle oppressive power structures that infiltrate our economic landscape

That is why we are all Squidward. We’ve uncovered the limits of capitalism and realized that hard work may not always pay off. We’ve begun to notice the oppressive economic and social structure that infiltrates our everyday life. We yearn for something higher, but feel that change is out of our reach. We become bitter, combative, self-deprecative, and cynical. There’s a reason Squidward is the unhappiest character on “Spongebob.” Not only for faults of his own, but for his own rotten luck. The show subliminally punishes Squidward for his views, hoping to prod viewers back towards Spongebob’s blithe, unfounded optimism.

Their efforts were to no avail. Millions of millennials are finding themselves disillusioned, realizing all along that Squidward was the reasonable one. He had a right to protest Mr. Krabs’ vile working conditions, and his sarcasm was merely a coping mechanism for the injustices placed against him. Squidward is the dissatisfied proletariat, and we identify with him more than ever. The difference is, we have the energy and collective power to succeed where he could not. Together, we can rise up and defeat the bourgeoisie, establishing an egalitarian society that does not prey on the lower classes. In the words of Spongebob, “I’m ready.” Are you?

I think my biggest “huh” moment with respect to gender roles is when it was pointed out to me that your typical “geek” is just as hypermasculine as your typical “jock” when you look at it from the right angle.

As male geeks, a great deal of our identity is built on the notion that male geeks are, in some sense, gender-nonconformant, insofar as we’re unwilling or unable to live up to certain physical ideals about what a man “should” be. Indeed, many of us take pride in how putatively unmanly we are.

Viewed from an historical perspective, however, the virtues of the ideal geek are essentially those of the ideal aristocrat: a cultured polymath with expertise in a vast array of subjects; rarefied or eccentric taste in food, clothing, music, etc.; identity politics that revolve around one’s hobbies or pastimes; open disdain for physical labour and those who perform it; a sense of natural entitlement to positions of authority (“you should be flipping my burgers!”); and so forth.

And the thing about that aristocratic ideal? It’s intensely masculine. It may seem more welcoming to women on the surface, but - as recent events will readily illustrate - this is a facade: we pretend to be egalitarian because it suits our refined self-image, but that affectation falls away in a heartbeat when challenged.

Basically, the whole “geeks versus jocks” thing that gets drilled into us by media and the educational system isn’t about degrees of masculinity at all. It’s just two different flavours of the same toxic bullshit: the ideal geek is the alpha-male-as-philosopher-king, as opposed to the ideal jock’s alpha-male-as-warrior-king. It’s still a big dick-measuring contest - we’re just using different rulers.

anonymous asked:

Why should we want to give people free college tuition and free this, and free that? That does nothing but make those who actually earn a college education less competitive in the job market because it'll become oversaturated with people who don't deserve degrees, having them. At the end of the day, there need to be people flipping burgers & tending to the garbage -- and no, they shouldn't make $15 an hour either.

Let me get this straight, we should not insure that we have an educated workforce because you are afraid of competition. Also, we need people to flip burgers and pick up garbage, but we should not pay them enough to live. 

There is one thing you are right about, minimum wage workers should not be making $15 an hour, they should be making more. We have made huge gains in productivity in this country on the backs of middle class and lower class workers. These gains in productivity means that a current minimum wage worker has to be doing more fiscally productive work throughout their shift than they had to 45+ years ago.

So why is it, that when adjusted for inflation, we are paying minimum wage workers less than their counterparts 45+ years ago made. They are doing more work and creating more in profits then their past counterparts, why do they deserve less? 

If the minimum wage had just kept pace with inflation since 1968 we would have a minimum wage of $10.90 right now.

If the minimum wage had kept place with productivity since 1968 we would have a minimum wage of $21.72

These facts lead me to some interesting questions you might want to consider. 

If the wealthy have been taking almost $14 per hour of work from each minimum wage worker, how much do you think they take from you?

If the minimum wage was $21.72 an hour, how much more do you think you would be compensated now if your boss knew you could go get a job flipping burgers for over $45,000 a year?

See when you argue that others people’s wages should be kept below a living wage, or below productivity increases all you are doing is arguing for a lower wage for yourself. 

Those minimum wage jobs act as competition for workers time. If they are paying enough to lure away good prospects from other jobs, the compensation for those other jobs must be raised if other companies want to retain the talent they have or to acquire new talent.  

As a consumer, options are good for you. The more options you have for work, the higher your wages are going to be. The more options you have in product choice, the lower you will pay for a good. 

These are simple economic truths. 

But if you want to still argue that all of our wages should be kept down because minimum wage workers don’t “deserve” $15 an hour, by all means, go ahead.

-Tony 

Why is there not a Subway for pasta?

Think about it
At first you pick your pasta - penne, fusilli etc

Then you pick what you want in it - chicken, chorizo, pepperoni etc and any extra - peppers, olives, mushrooms, sweet corn etc

Then you pick your sauce - tomato, tomato and herb, chilli and tomato etc

And then, cheese - Parmesan, mozzarella, cheddar etc

And finally - do you want it baked or not?

And you get a drink and either a side of salad or garlic bread.

Like WHY is this not a thing?

Kitchen Favours

Jughead x Reader
No one asked for this, but I’ve had this idea in my head for ages so thought it was finally time to let it out into the world.
Prompt: Y/N and Jughead work at Pop’s together. Cheryl winds up Y/N which leads to a heated moment between Jughead and Y/N.
Warnings: Strong smut themes 

Originally posted by bettytail

“You know you don’t have to stay with me” you smile, setting down the waitress pad on the kitchen counter next to you. You lean your hip on the counter as you stare at Jughead, an apron still tied around his waist. Since the Drive-In closes Pop’s offered Jughead a job here, just a couple of nights a week, the odd weekend. He spend half of his life here anyway, Pop’s just thought he might as well make some money at the same time. 

You had been working at Pop’s for around a year now. You were the one who trained Jughead, not that the place was complicated at all. He’d even started to cook some of the food, helping out the chefs from time to time, like tonight, he was covering for the Thursday night chef.
“And what would you do if you got a order in?” he asks, raising his eyes in a cocky manner towards you, setting down a spatula on the counter next to you.
“I’m sure I can manage to flip a burger and cook a few fries” you smirk back, laughing at his confidence. When Jughead joined it was the first time you had ever spoken to each other. Sure, you had seen him around school, hanging with Archie Andrews and Betty Copper, but the two of you had never needed to speak to each other, or even acknowledge each others existence until a couple of weeks ago. Since then the two of you had create a little friendship based on flirty jokes which the both of you knew meant absolutely nothing.
“Are you calling my job easy?” He smirks back, taking a step closer to me. He stops at the counter, leaning himself against it as he looks down at me.
“I’m saying you shouldn’t underestimate me” I say with a wink, making him smirk even more. His head so close to mine as a piece of dark hair falls into his eyes, shading his already dark eyes.

“Anyway” I sigh, breaking away from the eye contact that neither of us seemed to break. “I was just thinking of you getting home. Won’t Archie and his dad be worried about you? Seeing as you were so careless not to tell them where you were” you tease him. He sighs as he takes a step back from the counter which he was still leaning against.
“Trust me, I think they’ll be fine. Fred is working late and Archie has Veronica round, so don’t think they’ll want disturbing for a while now” he rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner.

It’s at that moment you hear the bell on the door ring, indicating you finally had customers. You walk out to see Cheryl and her minions sat in the booth closest to the kitchen you had just walked out of. You roll your eyes discretely at the sight of them, hoping they hadn’t seen. Placing a fake smile on your face you walk over.
“Hi” you smile politely, pulling out the pen you had balanced behind your ear.
“Look who it is girls” Cheryl gives an unfriendly smirk in your direction as the other two girls look over and start giggling. You look confused for a moment before choosing to ignore them. You tried to ignore the rumours and crap Cheryl often spread around so often. They usually were false, malicious attempts to hurt someone for no reason other then her boredom.
“What can I get you?”
“Tell me, Y/N” Cheryl says, folding her arms as an evil smile spreads across her face like a disease. “What was he like?”
“What was who like?” you ask, drawn into her comments just like she wanted.
“Moose?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh come on Y/N. Everyone knows he took your virginity last night. He’s telling anyone and everyone” she smirks, the other girls laughing.
“That’s… that’s a lie” you stutter.
“Right” they laugh like a pack of hyenas, you their new prey.
“Excuse me” you take a sharp intake of breath before walking back into the kitchen. Throwing your waitress pad back down on the counter as hard as possible, feeling more angry then anything.

“Wow. Y/N what’s wrong?” Jughead asks, his eyes wide from shock at your act.
“Just get rid of them please” you say through gritted teeth, pointing out the door to the restaurant.
“One second” he say, touching your arm gently as he walks out the door to the booth. You hear a mumbling sound before the bell rings on the door and the door slams shut behind them. Jughead cautiously walks back into the kitchen where you were still stood.

“Do you want to tell me what that was all about?” He asks confused, trying not to push too hard as your anger was clear.
“No.” you sigh, breathing deeply. Completely in shock of the moment. Why would they say that? Why would they think you and Moose even slept together in the first place? Unless… Unless Moose said it himself?
“That asshole!” you say to yourself through gritted teeth. You turn to faced Jughead who is still staring at you confused. “Moose is spreading a rumour that he took my virginity”
“Your a virgin?” Jughead jokes, giving a confused look.
“Now is not the time Jug”“
"Sorry. Sorry” he apologises honestly, holding up his hands as if to surrender. “Why would he do that?” he asks, finally walking forward so he was leaning on the counter in front of you. It was only a small kitchen so as the two of us stand there out feet practically touch.
“The idiot asked me out the other day. After everyone found out he was at Sweet-water with Kevin I guess he wanted to make people think that he wasn’t gay. I said no. He’s not my type anyway. The asshole must have got worried about his ego and made up some story about us going out. Which of course involved him taking my virginity” you sigh, tipping your head back too look at the bright lights on the ceiling.
“I’m sorry Y/N” he sighs, reaching over to hold you arm to console you.
“I can’t believe this. No way in a million years would I give my virginity to a jock, last of all Moose” you say with a small laugh, trying to calm yourself down, a little part of your blood still boiling as you think of all the shit you will have to deal with tomorrow.
“I can’t believe your still a virgin” he laughs.
“Ugh.” you groan, feeling the need to explode.
“I really can’t. Y/N your amazing. Anyone would be lucky to have yo-”

“No one seems to get me though Jug. Whenever you tell people it’ll be your first time they always tell you they’ll go slow with you. That your first time is special.” you blurt, taking a step forward due to this sudden wave of anger. “Well how can it be special if it’s just some awkward fumble on a guys couch or in the back of their car. Where’s the heat in that? People think they’re being so romantic in ‘I’ll take it slow with you’ but its not! I want the heat. I want the passion. That’s romantic. No one seem’s to get that.”

Jughead just stand there staring at you, looking you up and down as if tying to take in everything your saying.
“Even if my first time if with some stranger. Or it’s just a pointless one night stand. As long as it is not this typical teen fantasy of first times, I’ll be happy. I just want that fire, you know?” you look at him. His eyes suddenly darker then usual.
“Got it” he smirks, suddenly stepping closer to you, placing his arms under your legs and pushing you onto the kitchen counter behind you. Your head gently knocks the cupboard above the counter as suddenly his lips attach to yours. The breath is knocked out of you as you take in what is happening. His lips work desperately on yours, sucking on your lower lip as his hand cups the back of your neck, the other still placed on your leg, holding you tightly. You moan into the kiss, glad there were no customers tonight to hear the two of you.
His lips start to roam down your face to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake.
“Jughead…” you say breathlessly, part of you wanting to ask what was happening, the other part wanting to see what happened next.
You let out a loud moan as he begins to suck on a spot on your neck, sure to leave a mark later. Your hands roam to his head, pushing your hands through his already messy hair, pulling him closer so he smirks against your skin. Your legs wrap around his waist, bringing him in. Your hands pull on his hair as you roll your hips against his, making him moan just as loud.
Quickly his lips press against yours again as his hands roam down to the bottom of your black work t-shirt, pulling desperately on it. You pull your lips away from his and lift your arms as he pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it away on the floor, his lips immediately attaching back on your neck as he roams lower, biting lightly on your shoulder. Your hands finger the bottom of his shirt as you lift it up over his head.
His lips begin to roam lower then your shoulder, biting and sucking on parts of your skin. Your head falls back on the cupboard counter as his hand begins to roam up the inside of your thigh. You moan again as he bites a sensitive spot, his hand sliding further up your thigh. You hear him smirk against your skin as you moan, cocky with how he was giving you everything you craved.
“Shut it Jones” you say breathlessly as one hand slides down his back, the other going to his hair as you pull his head up to meet your, your lips crashing together again in a rush. Finally Jughead’s hand slips to the waistband of your jeans…

“Jughead. Y/N. I’m back” Pop’s shouts as he enters the diner.

people who clean toilets deserve to make a living.

people who flip burgers deserve to make a living.

people who wait tables deserve to make a living.

people who drive cabs deserve to make a living.

people who sweet streets deserve to make a living.

people who lay bricks deserve to make a living.

people who pick fruits and vegetables deserve to make a living.

people who deliver packages deserve to make a living.

people who pick up garbage deserve to make a living.

the idea that minimum-wage jobs are supposed to be “temporary jobs” or “stepping stones” on your way to a “real living” is false. many people will hold these jobs their entire lives. many people will never be able to do anything else. they are all NECESSARY jobs, jobs that need to be done. just because a job is “low skill” does not mean that the person who performs the job deserves to be paid a pittance.

we deserve more than scraps.

“So what are you?”

The question which plagued my childhood in suburban Kansas; the ponderance of which led me towards years of agonizing identity searching; the answer to which I still hesitate to deliver.

“So what are you?”

It is an innocent question; one I know I am not alone in hearing the echoes of. But what do I say? “I’m mixed” is the short answer, but it always leads to the question of “With what” so do I say “My mom is white and my dad is brown” but brown isn’t usually specific enough so do I say “my mom is white and my dad’s Pakistani” but that doesn’t flow right because white is a race and Pakistani is a nationality so do I say “my mom’s American and my dad’s Pakistani” but that isn’t true because my dad was born in Canada and he’s lived here his whole life and American sure as hell doesn’t mean white I mean my dad IS American so do I say “My mom’s a white American and my Dad’s Pakistani American” but that just sounds like I’m trying too hard so that’s out of the question and so do I just drop it and leave it at “none of your business” but that’s rude and it’s really such a simple question so what in the hell do I freaking say?

“So what are you?”

It’s a good question, really… why don’t you tell me? I am the alienation that I feel when my mom’s family talks about how dangerous those Muslim immigrants are over dinner and I am the strange sinking feeling in my stomach which occurs when my cousins tell me that whatever I’ve just done is haraam. I am the frustration which clouds me when people around me doubt that I am what the hell I say I am. I am the product of the millisecond long stares of confusion people give me when I tell them the pale as china blonde lady I’m with is my mother and the looks of disgust I get when I, the young, doll eyed light skinned girl, go out to dinner late at night with a big burly middle aged brown man, aka my father. I am the three and a half years it took me to decide what to call the pigmentation of my skin.

I am the sadness which clouds me when one of my Aunties asserts how lucky I am to be so fair skinned. I am the anger I feel each and every time I think about the people who called my full and plump Desi lips fat as a kid and now use copious amounts of lip liner to accentuate their tiny mouths on Snapchat. I am the hours of hoping and praying during and after shootings that it wasn’t a Muslim. I am the incredible lengths I go to, the precise and complex knowledge I feel I must have of my roots in order to truly claim my heritage. I am neither and I am both and I hate it.

“So what are you?”

I can’t stand here and tell you that it is all bad. That would be I lie, for I am also the cool, smooth feeling of the bronze crucifix which sits on one side of my bedroom wall and the sentiment of the words “Allah most merciful” written in beautiful Arabic script on the other. I am my large French hazel eyes and my thick and wavy South Asian hair, my favorite of my features.

I am the pride I feel as I trace my thumb over the intricate embroidery on one of my anarkalis and the anticipation I feel for Christmas as I help line my grandmother’s fireplace with garland. I am the rhythmic clanking of my bangles as I dance to bhangra music at a cousin’s wedding and the clicking of tongues by a sizzling grill as my grandpa flips our burgers during a Sunday night barbeque. I am the flavorful and savory taste of pulao my father makes and the creamy texture of mashed potatoes on Thanksgiving. I am the Maybelline mascara I coat my eyelashes with and the kajal I used to line the edges of my eyes. I am the flavorant meeting of two cultures melting in an incredible country in which such a thing is even possible.

“So what are you?”

God, but what am I thinking? I’m Jackie. I am the impending messiness that is my bedroom. I am my inability to fall the hell asleep before eleven o’clock at night. I am my love for all things fashion and glamour. I am my obnoxiously large collection of makeup. I am my hideous shedding of tears each and every time Spock dies in the Wrath of Khan.

I am my intense love for horror movies and my struggle to move in the dark for two days after watching them. I am my passion for music and Michael J. Fox and Kanye West and my unrequited love for Zayn Malik. I am my collection of records and of 32 scarves which I never wear, my brown riding boots, my belting of Christmas carols in the middle of July, my irrational hatred of algebra, my inability to sleep without my phone being on its charger, the Toll House cookie dough I eat straight from the bag and the four Beatles posters I have hanging in my room.

I am the scent of Aussie conditioner and my clumsy, spacy nature; my obsession with the Kennedys, my adamant love for Diet Dr Pepper, losing myself in my daydreams, my extreme extroversion and procrastination of literally everything, my weakness for Reese’s peanut butter cups, my A to Z knowledge about Mick Jagger, my ever changing mind. I am my dreams and I am my fears and and I am my tenacity and I am my mistakes and my courage and my insecurities and my abilities and my hope … I am so much and yet I am so little. I am me. I am unapologetically and beautifully me.

“So what are you?”

I am Jacqueline Renee and I am what I am and no answer that I give you to this question will make what I am any different.

telegraph.co.uk
Burger-flipping robot replaces humans on first day at work
A burger-flipping robot has just completed its first day on the job at a restaurant in California, replacing humans at the grill.

Flippy has mastered the art of cooking the perfect burger and has just started work at CaliBurger, a fast-food chain.

The robotic kitchen assistant, which its makers say can be installed in just five minutes, is the brainchild of Miso Robotics.

“Much like self-driving vehicles, our system continuously learns from its experiences to improve over time,” said David Zito, chief executive officer of Miso Robotics.

More Flippy robots will be introduced at CaliBurgers next year, with the aim of installing them in 50 of their restaurants worldwide by the end of 2019.

CaliBurger say the benefits include making “food faster, safer and with fewer errors”.

I respect the opinion of my elders, but just an open query about the charges brought against my generation:

For not working hard enough: where is the evidence. When we were younger you told us you started from a small job and climbed your way to the top. When we are flipping burgers it’s because we didn’t apply ourselves. When you did it, it was shouldering the future by suffering in the present. When we ask for the money to buy bread, it is shameful. When others went on strike in the name of labor conditions, it was heroic. When we ask for more, we never deserve it. So how did you get here? Did you never sit up and demand the world give you what was rightfully yours? How hard working is hard enough?

We are illerate, use slang instead of language, shun poetry: did I just imagine the “rad” bloom of the 70’s? Is it because you can’t catch our tongues in your hands? Is it because our poetry is now published beyond books, beyond the control of one voice, beyond you? That our language doesn’t need your approval to evolve? When you drew political pictures of us asking how to turn a book on, you laughed at our ignorance. When the tables turned, when we were shown to be the most literate and well-read generation on record, you scratched the mirror. You said it was our lazy nature. A body rotting. Because we read trash, or we read into things, or we write loudly and it bothers you. Why does it bother you?

School is too easy: What was it like going to school without being worried about a shooting? Did you ever cower like we have, like I did, like our friends, crying muffled in your hands because you love your parents and now have no time to tell them? What was it like, dear, in a world where my standardized testing scores would have broken your curve and I didn’t even get perfect. What part is the easy part. Is it the highest recorded level of anxiety? Is it the rising teenage suicide rates? Is it the eating disorders, body dismorphia, self harm, self destruction? Tell me, have you seen - there’s a show called “Are you Smarter Than A 5th Grader.” It’s very funny. In it, bright young kids show adults that what we’re learning didn’t even exist in common knowledge while they were in school. Tell me. If you were up against our 5th grade curriculum, who would win? No, I’m sure you’re fine. You learned it all in high school.

We want too many free things: What was it like to want for nothing? What was it like to have a certainty that hard work leads to a bright future. What was it like imagining being rich instead of imagining just being rich enough to eat good food. What was it like, not being worried that a broken leg would cost you an entire apartment? Do you know they hate us so much they would rather see us die than bring down the price of an EpiPen. And since I know you love the idea of us abusing the system, tell me, where do I go to expose the lie about my life-threatening allergy? How do I fake it, because I’d like to opt out of it, and while I’m at it my mental illness, and while I’m at it can you take my chronic pain please. And since I know that the answer is to go to school and get a degree so I can be worthy of not dying, just another question: are you aware fifty thousand dollars a year is equivalent to a house. I could buy a house instead of going to college. Since you’re good at this, while we’re talking, I have two siblings. Which of the three of us gets the money? Go on. Look at us. Choose. Who goes hungry?

We’re entitled: yes, please, give me a deed, give me land, give me better than winning the lottery. What I’m entitled to is life, liberty and the pursuit of profit, am I not? So where are any of the above? Where did the jobs go? Why do you jail people for small crimes but free the criminals? And my life? This life? I end where my body begins, I am cut off from the nation’s decisions about what I can put in or take out of me. And me? I’m safe because I’m white-passing. Don’t the bodies pile up? Aren’t we entitled to justice? Aren’t we entitled to an answer? A response from the government? More than just speeches about how riots won’t solve things? Aren’t we entitled to a fair trial? To freedom of speech? Was it not our common fathers who fought for these things?

We’re lazy: Where? Who has the money? I’ve been working since I was 12, am I just an anomaly? Or do you just ignore those who don’t fit your story? All those student-run engineering projects that are changing history. All those protests. The art world, shifting. All these adults who demand more - do they count as lazy or as entitled? What were you doing at our age? Did it really look all that different?

We don’t listen to real music, don’t like real art, are loud, are too busy partying: We changed and you didn’t keep up. Is that’s what’s so startling?

We are sucked up into the Internet, wouldn’t drop the phone if the apocalypse was happening: my phone has my family on the other end of it. Do you not save pictures from a burning building? Do you really care so little for others you’d stick to the old ways entirely instead of texting? Oh sure, yes, a letter is pretty, I love them. But just asking for a friend: What do I do in an emergency with only a pencil. And I don’t mean to downsize the problem because I mean it’s not like you took Polaroids of your friends at sunset - right? - and it’s definitely wrong of us to want memories of a really nice night, but, just curious, did you post that opinion on the Internet? Was seeing others on the Web what made you upset? Maybe - this is just a crazy idea that popped up into my head - you should go take a walk, go outside, disconnect.

We do everything different: Yes. Because we were raised on the cusp of the next great Renaissance. We are in somewhere new, a galaxy of expansion that doesn’t rely on you. That knows more than you do. That doesn’t function the way you expect it to. How rose-colored is the past to you? The place where you erase AIDS and drug abuse in an effort to tell us we are a terrible youth. Where you don’t talk about the marches that happened around you. How painted do you picture it, simply because you had to physically look in a book to learn something new? How do you turn your eyes to a world where war sits on our necks, our earth melts, our populations swell, our people starve, and we are powerless in it all - and say, “It’s your fault.”

It’s our fault. The housing market, somehow related to our obsessive need for safe spaces, I’m sure, because our dreams no longer lie in yards but rather something big enough for at least a bed, and hopefully with tasteful curtains, and you have no idea what a safe space is. The certain failure of the two-party political system, maybe somehow due to our political correctness - we are, after all, rude enough to never open doors for old ladies or just let you be racist - how we controlled the media, how our desires drove this. Our request for trigger warnings and correct pronouns is a burden, and I see that now, because our special snowflake syndrome really does hurt you as a person; while your ongoing use of torture in corrective therapy is only a problem if you’re actually looking. You’re so right about so many things. When you beat us to correct us, it’s your child and it’s your right; when it’s our bodies we ask to have rights over - well, what did we expect? It’s our fault. The crushing debt, the companies that own our government, the privatization of prisons, the unrightful searches, the human trafficking and abuse of sex workers, the gun violence, the pharmaceutical industries which control our doctor’s choices, the climate change you only just started to admit is happening, the extinction of species worldwide - we are responsible for both pollution and poaching, the lead in our water, the death in our streets. So what do you get from it? From dismissing us? From quitting on us before the race begins? From forgetting who exactly raised us kids?

Now, I was told that the problem is that we too often point to bigotry. That we hide behind pointing out your sexist comments instead of realizing the truth your words wrought. I was told we are so focused on our victories, of a world that rallied for marriage equality, for gender expression, for the safety of survivors, for a healing nation - we call out instead of calling on. So I’m calling on you, Generation X kids. Here’s your free one. No bigotry spoken of. So speak. Explain what exactly you mean.

I get it. We asked for a country. The land is borrowed from your children, they tell me.

Now why are you so afraid when we show up and start collecting?

Straight White Boy Problem #341

Don’t fall in love with people like me. I will flawlessly execute thousands of hair flips while you sit there amazed even though you don’t know if i have swag or class. I will buy clothes for you. Lots of clothes. Mostly nike apparel so we can run together in tandem. You don’t like running? ok well then we can grill out nightly. Not even a polar vortex can stop us as I don my basketball shorts for the onslaught of winter. You tell me put on some sweatpants as I flip a burger. I refuse. I get minor frostbite and i have to go to the emergency room. You are crying. “If only you wore sweatpants” you say. You give me a kiss. I look into your eyes. “Can’t play basketball in sweatpants babe” I die. You cry for days. “if only he listened to me!” you say. Bruh, I’m a ghost. I can hear you perfectly. Don’t fall in love with me.

This Is War (Part 2 of Runaway Ballerina)

Pairing: Dean x sister!reader, Sam x sister!reader, Castiel x sister!reader 

Warnings: Fluff, fluff and fluff

Summary: Chaos and war within the bunker between siblings.

Part 1

For those of who wanted a part 2 here you go!!! Hope you guys don’t mind that I tagged you in Part 2.  @sandlee44 @supdarling @queenpammy13 @evyiione @radstudenttravelerblr @straightasdeanwinchester @violinmyhead @xfanqirlinq @cozyjaws @meeshw777 @sassyspn67 @winchesters-favorite-girl @i-is-small-winchester @dauntless-dean @moose-and-sqruille-lover @galifreyanotaku @skeletoresinthebasement @babygoatsaf

Originally posted by green-circles

It’s late at night around 3:15 am and Cas is sitting in the bunker library reading some lure on witches to try and help Y/N get back to normal. He suddenly hears a chair next to him scrape the wood floors. He slowly looks to his right to see a tiny Y/N sitting on her calves with her dark brown hair all over the place with one of Dean t-shirts as pajamas, her eyes red and puffy.

“What’s wrong? Why are you not sleeping?” He ask.

“I has a bad dream. I don’t wanna sleep no more.”

“Why don’t you go to Sam or Dean’s room?”

“I don’t wanna wake them up, I usually went to my daddy’s bed bu-but he’s not here.” She says looking down. Cas face softens hearing this from her. “Castill” she says. Cas chuckles hearing her butcher his name. “Castiel.” He corrects. “Case.. cast…Castie.” She says frowning and Cas sits there smiling. “Can you take me for a drive?” She ask. “A drive?”

“When I can’t sleep my daddy takes me on a ride.”

“Well I don’t have a car.”

“We can take baby.”

“I don’t think Dean would like it if I took his car that he considers as an infant.”

“Well, Dean told me you’re baby in a trench coat and that you have wings like a fairy. So can you fly me someplace?” Cas frowns at this remembering the day at the diner. “I’m don’t think that’s a good idea Y/N.”

“Please Castie!” She begs. “I don’t wanna see anymore monsters in my dreams.” She whimpers. He looks down at her pouty face and sighs. “Only for a few minutes.” He gives in. She gasp reaching up for him. He picks her up and zaps them to a field. Cas sets her on his lap and they both look up at the stars. “How many stars do you think there are?” Cas ask pointing up.

Keep reading

Can you imagine the changes to the workforce and how we treated workers if no one HAD to work to survive?

Like often I see these complaints about a universal basic income that are like “well then no one would work!” and I think there are lots of people motivated to have more money even when they have enough to get by, but I also I think, that’s kind of true, if regular employment looked and functioned the way it does now.

But with UBI if both employers and society wanted people in certain jobs those jobs would have to offer more than just “you need us to survive”. They’d have to offer satisfaction and community and purpose.

Imagine the changes places like WalMart and McDonalds would have to make to how they run their enterprise if they had to woo and entice their employees into wanting to be there. Imagine the end of “the customer is always right”, both because employers know their workers won’t put up with and because consumers are forced to have a respect for workers choosing to do this with their time to make the community function when they don’t have to.

Imagine the progress to automation and technology now that we don’t have to worry about unemployment as a result. So instead of a store having 40 employees, they have 10 and automated self check out and price scanners and store apps you can pay on, and automated self-driving bots to keep inventory and restock at night. (And that’s when you don’t just order online, shopping in-store is now inherently a Boutique experience).

But those ten remaining employees are So Valued by the company, and so carefully educated and trained and respected as experts in what they do. People go “you could do that when you grow up, help people shop and find what they need and know what products are best for them.” And it wouldn’t be an insult like “you’ll wind up flipping burgers”, but instead a respected option “you can help people have warm fresh food in one of the oldest and most prestigious international groups in the world, and look at their travel programs and free clubs and classes” (McDonalds wins the Fast Food Mario Kart Tournament every year, their team is best in the nation and if you want a good esports program you work at McDonalds).

Evidence shows people would still work. Evidence shows people want to improve their situations and want to have structure in their lives. Evidence shows the only populations who take advantage of a UBI to not work are students who choose to focus more on their studies and new mothers, who choose to spend more time with their kids.

But it would increase the bargaining power and social power of the average employee by so much. They’d have the option to walk away. And employers would know it and consumers would know it and employees would know it. So if we wanted it to keep working, employers would have to start catering to their employees wellbeing and health and happiness as well as their wallet.

And it would be so good.