Whenever I see a movie featuring a snarling, drooling alien invading Earth I imagine all the ones who got left behind. The cooks, the janitors, the garbagealiens. All snarling and doing their menial jobs
Ted Bundy: Dropped out of law school several times, never held a job for very long, was rejected by most of the law schools to which he applied due to mediocre LSAT scores and unimpressive (B average) grades, signed his own death warrant by rejecting a guilty plea.
Jeffrey Dahmer: No friends, no boyfriends, barely made it through high school and flunked out of college after a semester, was discharged from the army before completing his tour of duty due to alcoholism, held menial jobs his entire life, was eventually fired from his menial jobs, lived in a shithole apartment in a bad area of Milwaukee, was evicted from said shithole apartment, was a severe alcoholic, was at one point homeless and sleeping on the beach in Florida shortly after his army discharge, lived with his grandmother for years.
Richard Ramirez: No jobs his entire adult life? Addicted to cocaine, held no steady place of residence, no close friends, no girlfriends, had awful teeth, only experienced sex with women he violently coerced into the act, smelled terrible
Ed Kemper: No close friends or girlfriends, only experienced sexual intercourse with corpses, lived with his mother, held only menial jobs.
Please fire me. I am a cleaner and today a woman pointed me out to her child and said ‘that’s why you have to do well in school - so you don’t end up like her’. I go to one of the top ten universities in the UK and I’m only cleaning to fund my studies.
pairing: jimin x reader word count: 5k genre: fluff a/n: this was supposed to be a warm up!! i don’t know what happened!!
You’d be a goddamn liar if you said you didn’t know Park Jimin. Everybody knows Park Jimin, and if they don’t, everybody knows of Park Jimin.
Park Jimin walks around campus like he owns the entire university, hands casually thrown into the pockets of his expensive black pants, sunglasses balancing on top of his intentionally disheveled black hair, silver earrings and studs and rods decorating his earlobes, leather jacket not worn, but strewn over his shoulders, complementing that delicate silver chain around his neck perfectly. Or perhaps, he isn’t wearing a fully black ensemble that likely costs more than your tuition. Maybe he’s a bit more laid back, with an outrageously vibrant sweater, the Gucci logo stamped all over it, blue jeans, ripped at the knee like he had worn right through them. He’s got circular frames surrounding his eyes even though he doesn’t need glasses, a beanie or beret sitting happily on his head if he didn’t have time to put his usual amount of product in his hair, Rolex watch peeking out from the oversized sleeves of his sweater. Park Jimin knows how to wear everything and anything with confidence, flair, so he is hardly difficult to miss.
“I like punk rock. I like girls with weird eyes. I like drugs. I like passion. I like things that are built well. I like innocence. I like and am grateful for the blue collar worker whose existence allow artists to not have to work at menial jobs. I like killing gluttony. I like playing my cards wrong. I like various styles of music. I like making fun of musicians whom I feel plagiarize or offend music as art by exploiting their embarrassingly pathetic versions of their work. I like to write poetry. I like to ignore others poetry. I like vinyl. I like to impeach God. I like to abort Christ. I like to knowing that women are the only future of rock and roll. I love to sleep. I like nature and animals. I like to swim. I like to be with my friends. I like to be myself. I like to feel guilty for being a white, American male.” - Kurt Cobain
I like punk rock. I like girls with weird eyes. I like drugs. I like passion. I like things that are built well. I like innocence. I like and am grateful for the blue collar worker whose existence allows artists to not have to work at menial jobs. I like killing gluttony. I like playing my cards wrong. I like various styles of music. I like making fun of musicians whom I feel plagiarize or offend music as art by exploiting their embarrassingly pathetic versions of their work. I like to write poetry. I like to ignore others’ poetry. I like vinyl. I like nature and animals. I like to be by myself. I like to feel guilty for being a white, American male. ~ Kurt Cobain
Once she finishes her apprenticeship, she’ll be able to open her own shop. Silvers will come from all around to pay her for handkerchiefs and flags and clothing. Gisa will achieve what few Reds do and live well. She’ll provide for our parents and give me and my brothers menial jobs to get us out of the war. Gisa is going to save us one day, with nothing more than needle and thread.
Summary: When its over, its meant to be over; it should be finished, and you should move on. But when paths continue to cross, and the fires reignite, you’re going to need to prepare yourself to perish in the flames, because you’ll never make it out unscathed.
Ignoring Jisu’s cries of your name, you burrow further into
the comfort of your duvet, cementing your eyes closed with a wrinkled forehead
and proceeding to attempt to stay in the land of sleep and nothingness.
‘Y/N?! Do you know
what the time is? You’re going to be late for work!’
‘Leave me here.
I’m calling in sick.’ You grumble, groaning when you realize you’d accidentally
opened your eyes and now you could see the morning light attempting to filter through the rumpled covers of your bed, the
looming memories of the night before prodding at the back of your mind and
causing you to cradle your head in your arms. Although seconds later you have your covers
pulled rather violently from your body to reveal your best friend stood over
you with a scowl.
On this day in 1921, the Greek singer Sotiria Bellou was
born. Today, she is remembered as one of the greatest performers of the
traditional rebetiko style to ever live and as one of the few celebrities of
her time to live openly as a lesbian.
Although she was forced into marriage by her family in 1938, the marriage ended after Sotiria threw sulfuric acid onto her husband and spent several months in prison. After escaping her abusive husband and moving to Athens, she lived as an out lesbian (x).
The oldest of five siblings, Sotiria was born on August 22,
1921 in Halia on the island Euboia. Her grandfather was an Orthodox priest and
her family was one of great wealth and prestige. She was first exposed to music
in the form of Byzantine hymns heard in her grandfather’s church and she began
singing at the young age of 3. As a child, Sotiria made homemade guitars out of
wood and wire, but after much internal discord between her family – her conservative
mother disapproving of artistic careers – it was decided that Sotiria could
began studying music seriously.
Sitting in the center of a crowd with her guitar, Sotiria performs live with her band in 1948 (x).
Sotiria moved to Athens to pursue music in 1940, but in the
madness of World War II, she lost touch with her family and without their
financial assistance she was forced to take on menial jobs. For a while, she
worked as a waitress in a rebetiko club in the Exarheia neighborhood of
downtown Athens and one night after losing a bet with a customer, she was force
to sing a song. Wowed by her obvious talent, an agent named Kimonas Kapetanakis
signed her on the spot and introduced her to the powerful music producer Tsitsanis,
with whom she recorded the first of her many 78 rpm gramophone records. Sotiria
would go on to become one of the most sought-after nightclub acts in Greece and
performed in some of the most popular clubs of the time such as the Rosiniol,
Tzimis o Hontros, Hydra, Triana, and Falirikon.
Sotiria Bellou’s performance of “O Bohoris” in the traditional Rebetiko style.
Although she was a celebrity, Sotiria was also a hugely
controversial figure. It was well-known that she had joined the Greek
resistance against the Nazi occupation of World War II, had supported the leftist
Greek People’s Liberation Army during the Dekemvriana (Greek Civil War), and
made no effort to conceal her many lesbian love affairs. In December of 1948,
Sotiria was performing at a club called Tzimis O Hontros when a group of
extreme right-wing men entered the club and demanded that she perform a nationalist
anthem. When Sotiria refused, the men dragged her out of the club and beat her
severely. The inability of anyone else in the club to intervene on her behalf
haunted her the rest of her life. Although the Greek government and many public
figures were reluctant to acknowledge her fame or her artistic contributions
during Sotiria’s lifetime, after her death on August 27, 1997, her discography
slowly but surely came to be a staple of 20th century Greek art and
|| Deadbeat Morty - This Morty is in his early thirties, he never met nor had a Rick’s influence, and his mom and dad split while he was in high school, so he didn’t have much for a father figure… He has average Morty intelligence, so eventually he just fell through the cracks, gave up, and dropped out . He never had the motivation to get his GED and now works a menial job at a factory where he works long hours and gets paid barely enough to pay his rent and buy a few bottles to get him through the week… poor kid.
A/N: I wasn’t actually planning on writing anything for today’s ‘sunrise’ prompt but then I had this one idea and I just had to
Gruvia drabble, based on that one scene in The Lion King (¬‿¬) y̶o̶u̶ ̶a̶l̶r̶e̶a̶d̶y̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶
the ticking of their alarm clock and Juvia’s soft snores, the only other thing
Gray heard was the rain falling softly onto the pavement, the sound as low and
familiar as the pitter patter of small footsteps.
he turned to lie on his back, one arm on his stomach whilst the other hung
slightly off the bed as he let sleep drag him in once more—
when the door burst open and a little boy rushed in, fully dressed from head to
toe, eyes bright, and a toothy smile wide on his face, Gray realised that the
sound he had been hearing really had been footsteps, after all.
Frowning, Silver ran to Gray’s side, taking his father’s dangling hand in his
and tugging on it, hard. “Come on, dad! We gotta go! Wake up!”
idly in his sleep, Gray rolled over onto his side, arm draped over Juvia as he
mumbled something about wanting five more minutes.
him, Juvia stirred with a hum, her fingers moving to brush dark locks of hair
away from Gray’s face before stroking his cheek tenderly. “Gray-sama…” she
your son is awake…”
arm tightened around her waist as he drew her closer to him. “Before sunrise,
he’s your son,” he replied hazily,
resting his chin on top of her head as Juvia laughed into his chest.
Silver shuffled across the room to the other side of the bed wearily, as though
he had weights tied to his small shoes, before jumping up to slouch beside his
parents, brow furrowed and lip jutted out in a pout.
old man’s still sleeping,” Gray said.
gave him a pointed stare. “No, you’re not! Your eyes are open!”
gets past Silver-kun.” Juvia laughed, straightening up to pull him into her
lap. Tilting her head to the side, she kissed his cheek fondly. “And just where
is Silver-kun off to so early in the morning?”
scowl on his face was one to rival his father’s as Silver folded his arms,
shooting an accusing glare at Gray. “Yesterday, dad said we could go on a job
Silver-kun has already grown into such a big boy!”
Silver protested, squirming in Juvia’s arms as she pulled on his cheek and
peppered his face with kisses whilst gushing about how fast the years had flown
watched them, propping his elbow up on the pillow and resting his cheek on his
hand, smiling to himself.
last five years had passed by so quickly, like rain through his fingertips. Now,
their eldest, Silver, was beginning to go out on smaller, menial jobs with him and
would soon learn magic, and their daughter, who they had already named Skye,
would be joining them in a matter of time too.
eyes met Silver’s. “Yeah, son?”
blue eyes of his always had their way with him.
gave him a lopsided smile, stretching his arms high up above his head, shaking
off the remnants of sleep. “Okay, okay. I’m up.”
Silver’s face lit up as he jumped onto Gray, circling his little arms around
his neck and burying his face into the crook of his shoulder.
Gray started, flashing Juvia a mischievous smirk, “We’ll go after another five
minutes in bed.”
with that, he dragged the three of them down again with a laugh.
the sunlight streamed in through the curtains, casting a soft glow around Juvia
and Silver, tints of gold in their hair and specks of dust in the air, he
couldn’t help but feel warm—grateful for his small family.
Post-scarcity economy is inevitable, but current system in the future will deny post-scarcity to most. Decentralize *all* forms of power and authority. Power to the people does not need the state, the corporation, or the rich as middleman. Scarcity today only exists because centralized power demands it. Government wouldn’t need to redistribute wealth if employers redistributed wealth correctly in the first place. Free open source software as a model for running all business projects? Owning the means of production means having stakes (shares?) in the business, not just salary. Human working menial job is a waste of brain power. All should benefit and prosper from increased efficiency and automation. Time invested should hold more value than money. Decentralized infrastructure requires individual free time to work. Rethink freedom as devoting yourself to multiple projects instead of the 40 hour work week. Rethink national security as decentralized infrastructure. A greenhouse on every block. Solar panels on every roof. An HOA that buys you in to local ecology/infrastructure. Fully automated luxury eco-communism.
I like punk rock. I like girls with weird eyes. I like drugs. I like passion. I like things that are built well. I like innocence. I like and am grateful for the blue collar worker whose existence allows artists to not have to work at menial jobs. I like killing gluttony. I like playing my cards wrong. I like various styles of music. I like making fun of musicians whom I feel plagiarize or offend music as art by exploiting their embarrassingly pathetic versions of their work. I like to write poetry. I like to ignore others’ poetry. I like vinyl. I like nature and animals. I like to be by myself. I like to feel guilty for being a white, American Male.
“I mean, I understand how it works. The master makes the pupil do all the menial jobs, and then it turns out that really the pupil is learning things of great value… and I don’t think I’m learning anything, really, except that people are pretty messy and inconsiderate.” “Not a bad lesson, all the same,” said Lu-Tze.
Confronting Anti-Black Racism in The Arab World (Important Read)
In response to an essay I wrote recently regarding the “essential
blackness” of the Palestinian struggle, I received this reaction, among
others: “What about Arab anti-black racism? Or the Arab slave trade?”
The Arab slave trade is a fact of history and anti-black
racism is a fact of current reality, a shameful thing that must be confronted
in Arab societies. Though I claim no expertise on the subject, I think that
applying notions of racism as it exists in the US will preclude a real
understanding of the subject in the Arab world.
I spent much of much of my youth in the Arab world and I do
not recall having a race consciousness until I came to the United States at the
age of 13. My knowledge of Arab anti-black racism comes predominantly from Arab
Americans. Like other immigrant communities, they adopt the prevailing racist
sentiments of the power structure in the US, which decidedly holds
African-Americans in contempt.
This attitude is also becoming more prevalent in Arab
countries for various reasons, but mostly because Arab governments,
particularly those that import foreign labour from Africa and Southeast Asia,
have failed to implement or enforce anti-discrimination and anti-exploitation
In many Arab nations, including Kuwait where I was born, workers
are lured into menial jobs where their passports are confiscated upon arrival
and they are forced into humiliating and often inhuman working conditions. They
have little to no protection under the law and are particularly vulnerable to
exploitation, including extraordinarily long working hours, withholding of
salaries, sexual, mental, and physical abuse, and denial of travel.
The recent case of Alem Dechesa brought to light the horrors
faced by migrant workers in Lebanon. Dechesa, a domestic worker from Ethiopia,
committed suicide after suffering terrible mental and physical abuse at the
hands of her Lebanese employers, whose savage beating of her in front of the
Ethiopian Consulate went viral last year.
An extension to Arab anti-black racism is an aspiration to
all that our former - and current - colonisers possess. Individuals aspire to
what is powerful and rich, and the images of that power and wealth have light
skin, straight hair, small noses, ruddy cheeks and tall, skinny bodies. That
image rejects melanin-rich skin, coiled hair, broad or pointy noses, short
stature, broad hips and big legs. So we, too, reject these features, despising
them in others and in ourselves as symbols of inferiority, laziness, and
poverty. That’s why the anglicising industries of skin bleaching and hair
straightening are so profitable.
And yet, when Palestine went to the UN for recognition of
statehood, the vast majority of nations who voted yes were southern nations.
The same is true when Palestine asked for admission to UNESCO. In fact, when
the US cut off funding to UNESCO in response to its members’ democratic vote to
admit Palestine, it was the African nation of Gabon that immediately stepped up
with a $2m donation to UNESCO to help offset the loss of income.
It was not Saudi Arabia, or Kuwait, or Qatar, or Lebanon, or
Sweden, or France. It was Gabon. How many Palestinians know that, much less
expressed gratitude for it?
So concerned are Palestinians with what the European Union
and the United States think of us. So engrossed are we in grovelling for their
favour and handouts as they support a system of Jewish supremacy pushing our
ancient society into extinction. We dance like clowns any time a European
leader spares us a thought. Have we no sense of history? No sense of pride? No
comprehension of who is truly standing with us and who is sabotaging us?
In a world order that peddles notions of entire continents
or regions as irreducible monoliths, the conversation among Arabs becomes a
dichotomous “Arab” versus “African”, ignoring millennia of
shared histories ranging from extensive trade and commerce, to the horrors of
the Arab slave trade, to the solidarity of African-Arab anti-colonial unity, to
the current state of ignorance that does not know history and cannot connect
the dots when it comes to national liberation struggles.
Arab slave trade
When I was researching the subject of the Arab slave trade,
I came upon a veritable treasure of a website established by The African
Holocaust Society, or Mafaa [Swahili for “holocaust”], a non-profit
organisation of scholars, artists, filmmakers, academics, and activists
dedicated to reclaiming the narratives of African histories, cultures, and
identities. Included in this great body of scholarly works is a comprehensive
section on the Arab slave trade, as well as the Jewish slave trade,
African-Arab relations over the centuries, and more, by Owen Alik Shahadah, an
activist, scholar and filmmaker.
Reading this part of our shared history, we can see how a
large proportion of Arabs, including those among us who harbour anti-black
racism, are the sons and daughters of African women, who were kidnapped from
Eastern African nations as sex slaves.
Unlike the European slave trade, the Arab slave trade was
not an important feature of Arab economies and it predominantly targeted women,
who became members of harems and whose children were full heirs to their
father’s names, legacies and fortunes, without regard to their physical
features. The enslaved were not bought and sold as chattel the way we
understand the slave trade here, but were captured in warfare, or kidnapped
outright and hauled across the Sahara.
Race was not a defining line and enslaved peoples were not
locked into a single fate, but had opportunity for upward mobility though
various means, including bearing children or conversion to Islam. No-one knows
the true numbers of how many African women were enslaved by Arabs, but one need
only look at ourselves to see the shadows of these African mothers who gave
birth to us and lost their African identities.
But while African scholars at the Mafaa Society make
important distinctions between the Arab and European slave trades, enslavement
of human beings is a horror of incomprehensible proportions by any standard,
and that’s what it was in the Arab world as it was - or is - anywhere. There
are some who argue that the Arab slave traders were themselves
indistinguishable from those whom they enslaved because the word
“Arab” had cultural relevance, not racial.
This argument goes hand-in-hand with the discredited excuse
that Africans themselves were involved in the slave trade, with warring tribes
capturing and selling each other. But no matter how you look at it, the slave
trade was a one-way street, with Africans always the enslaved victims. I know
of no African tribe that kidnapped Europeans and put them in bondage for
generations; nor do I know of an African tribe that captured Arab women for
centuries and made them sex slaves.
I think humanity has truly never known a holocaust of
greater magnitude, savagery, or longevity than that perpetrated against the
peoples of Africa. This Mafaa has never been fully acknowledged and certainly
never atoned for - not that the wounds or enduring legacies of turning human
beings into chattel for centuries can ever be fully comprehended or atoned for.
But one must try, because just as we inherit privilege from our ancestors, so
do we inherit their sins and the responsibility for those sins.
The late Colonel Muammar Gaddafi understood this and he used
his power and wealth to try to redeem our shared history. He was the first Arab
leader to apologise on behalf of Arab peoples to our African brothers and
sisters for the Arab slave trade and the Arab role in the European slave trade.
He funnelled money into the African Union and used Libya’s
wealth to empower the African continent and promote pan-Africanism. He was a
force of reconciliation, socialism, and empowerment for both African and Arab
peoples. Gaddafi’s actions threatened to renew African-Arab reconciliation and
alliances similar to that which occurred at the height of the Non-Aligned
Movement during the presidencies of Jamal Abdel Nasser of Egypt and Kwame
Nkrumah of Ghana.
Thus, NATO’s urgency to prevent “massacres” and
“slaughter” in Libya was manufactured and sold wholesale. The fear of
African-Arab solidarity can be seen in the way the US-backed Libyan insurgency
spread rumours that “black African” mercenaries were committing
atrocities against Libyans. Gaddafi became an even bigger threat when an
agreement was reached with the great anti-imperialist force in South America,
Hugo Chavez, to mediate a solution to the uprising in Libya.
Now both of these champions of their people are gone, and
the so-called Libyan revolutionaries are executing “black Africans”
throughout the country. Gone, too, is NATO’s worry about slaughter in Libya,
and another high-functioning Arab nation lies in ruin, waste and civil strife -
primed for rampant corporate looting.
I wrote previously that the Palestinian struggle against the
erasure of our existence, history and identity was spiritually and politically
black in nature. So, too, are other struggles, like that of migrant workers
throughout many Arab nations. These are our comrades. They are the wretched,
exploited, robbed, and/or, at last, liberated.
I refer to Black as a political term, not necessarily a
racial or ethnic descriptor. In the words of Owen Alik Shehadah: “Black
People is a construction which articulates a recent social-political reality of
people of colour (pigmented people). Black is not a racial family, an ethnic
group or a super-ethnic group. Political Blackness is thus not an identity but
moreover a social-political consequence of a world which after colonialism and
slavery existed in those colour terms. The word "Black” has no
historical or cultural association, it was a name born when Africans were
broken down into transferable labour units and transported as chattel to the
But that word has been reclaimed, redefined, and injected
with all the power, love, defiance, and beauty that is Africa. For the rest of
us, and without appropriating the word, "black” is a phenomenon of
resistance, steadfastness - what we Palestinians call sumud - and the beauty of
culture that is reborn out of bondage and oppression.
Right to look the other way
Finally, solidarity from Africans is not equivalent to that
which comes from our European comrades, whose governments are responsible for
the ongoing erasure of Palestine. African peoples have every reason to look the
other way. Ethiopians have every reason to say: “You deserve what you get
for the centuries of enslavement and neo-enslavement industry by your Arab
neighbours.” African Americans have every reason to say: “Why should
I show solidarity with Arabs who come here to treat us like white people do,
and sometimes worse?”
Malcolm X once said: “If I was that [anti-American],
I’d have a right to be that - after what America has done to us. This
government should feel lucky that our people aren’t anti-American.”
We can substitute the word “Arab” for
“American” in that sentence and it would be a valid statement. And
yet, Africa is right there with us. African American intellectuals are the
greatest champions of our struggle in the United States. The impact of
solidarity from four particular individuals - Desmond Tutu, Alice Walker,
Angela Davis and Cynthia McKinney - can never be overestimated.
Last month, the former South African ambassador to Israel
refused a “certificate” from Israel confirming the planting of trees
in his name. In his letter, he called Israel a racist, apartheid state and said
the gift was an “offence to my dignity and integrity”. He added:
“I was not a party to, and never will be, to the planting of ‘18 trees’,
in my 'honour’, on expropriated and stolen land.”
I would like my countrymen to think long and hard about this
until they truly comprehend the humbling beauty of this solidarity from people
who have every reason to be anti-Arab. I wish my countrymen could look through
my eyes. They would see that black is profoundly beautiful. They would see that
Africa runs through our veins, too. Our enslaved African foremothers deserve to
be honoured and loved by their Arab children. And it is for us to redeem their
pain with the recognition and atonement long owed.
Arriving at this understanding is a good starting place for
reciprocal solidarity with nations and peoples who are standing with us, in
heart and in action.
Susan Abulhawa is a Palestinian writer and the author of the
international bestselling novel, Mornings in Jenin (Bloomsbury 2010). She is
also the founder of Playgrounds for Palestine, an NGO for children.
The Arabic Slave Trade is something that is rarely spoken about and often goes unheard of. When we speak of the enslavement of Africans, many of us like to connect it with Europeans, which is fine, but we should never forget they were not the only ones. For over 900 years, Africans were enslaved by Arabic slave traders. They would take Africans from all over the continent including West, East, and North Africa forcing them to march thousands of miles to Slave Markets. The Men, Women, and Children were bound together by the waist and neck so that if one died the rest could drag him or her along. These walks became known as the “Death Marches” and an estimated 20 million Africans died on these walks alone. The Arabs believed it was God’s wish to see Africans enslaved and believed they were uncivilized animals. Sound Familiar? Slaves were beaten and abused regularly. Many African Women, young Girls, and Boys would be used as Sex slaves for their owners. Islamic Slave holders would stick their swords and other weapons into the Vagina’s of Black Women and cut off the penis of African Men. This was done because they believed Africans had an uncontrollable sex drive. Many Africans would be forced to convert to Islam believing if they shared the same religion, it would stop the abuse. Muslim slave traders would also promise them Freedom after conversion. This did not stop the abuse nor did it gain them their freedom. In Fact, one can argue it made them even more enslaved. When Europeans entered the slave industry, Muslim Slave traders would use the religion to exploit Islamic Africans to bring them other Africans. These Africans would then be sold to Europeans. Slavery in the holy city of Mecca would not be outlawed until 1966 and in all other Arabic countries until 1990. The Islamic Slave Trade began almost 500 years before the Europeans would come to Africa. It would be a catalyst for the dismantling of the continent and the massive expansion of the Religion. Had it not been for Islam, European Chattel Slavery may never have occurred. History is quite a teacher and once again as the late Dr. John Henrik Clarke once said, “Africa has no friends. If you want a friend, look in the mirror.”
Lets talk about robots. Every time Boston Dynamics reveals a new robot there’s always a huge number of people who are like “aaa robot uprising” and stuff and like…? Why are we as a society so afraid of robots? We’re building them to help us!
Like when people say “oh they’ll take all the menial labor jobs” like?? That’s not necessarily a bad thing? The problem is with how our system is set up and like there are gonna be people who won’t want robots because robots are way more expensive than people! Also, there will be people who can maintenence the robots and the robots will be able to do things that humans physically can’t do, like check on Chernobyl and Pripyat and the Fukashima power plant and stuff.
And it makes me sad that Boston Dynamics gets so much of their funding from the military. Yes, that’s where the money is but like?? Let robots be friendly and helpful first.
The Great Ideological Wars of 2017 have pitted gray-hairs against snowflakes, the we-liked-it-the-old-way boomers, more than half of whom cast their ballots for Donald Trump, vs. the idealistic millennials, who would prefer it if Grandpa kept his paws off their rights.
Then there’s the wild card: The 66 million aging hipsters known as Generation X.
Their very name conjures images of underemployed slackers, of flannels and Kurt Cobain and Elizabeth Wurtzel, the medicated and nihilistic symbol of the Prozac Nation. (This is assuming that anyone thinks of Gen X, so clearly America’s neglected middle child, at all.)
After college, Gen X donned flannel and started bands called Soundgarden and the Smashing Pumpkins. When a recession in 1990 and ’91 — no, millennials, yours was not the only recession — drained the nation of hope and career prospects, Gen X got a menial job and aspired to nothing much at all. By the late 1990s, the Atlantic had fretted that this sea of 20- and early-30-somethings had chosen “political apathy as a way of life.”
But as it reaches 50, Gen X no longer looks like an extra from “Reality Bites.”