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Joined 2 years ago
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Cake day: June 6th, 2023

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  • I tip my fedora down and take a drag of my cigarette, blowing a plume of smoke whilst suppressing the urge to cough. I prefer vape pens and nicotine patches, but she doesn’t need to know all my secrets. “You dames are all the same”, I say cleverly, “with your big city ideas about efficient heating”

    “But let me ask you this”, I reach into my trenchcoat and pull out a leaflet, “is it really more efficient to burn fossil fuels to heat up a dark alleyway than to just wear a trenchcoat?” A silence greets us as the HVAC begins to hum at higher frequency. I push the leaflet about the sale on trenchcoats at a nearby warehouse into her porcelain hands, and then without looking back, stride mysteriously out of that alleyway.


  • I size up the family as I walk into their home, the spurs on my texan boots jingling like the winner I am. Another bunch of progressive trashbags leaving our wonderful state, and for what? For a better future in a kinder place? I spit in revulsion.

    Well, I’ll be selling their home, so I actually swallow the spit so as not to mess up the floor, and I also take my boots off since I don’t want to scuff the floor either. I hold out my hand like a man, and the guy has the nerve to actually shake it. I tremble with rage, but don’t let it show, so I just blush bashfully and ask him for his number when his wife’s not looking. Us men have ways of settling things. Usually at midnight. In a park. Behind the gents.

    He gives me his number like it’s not a big deal, but I catch the twinkle in his eye, and that’s good enough for me. Oh yes, we’ll be seeing each other soon. “We’ll be seeing each other VERY soon” I say, shaking his hand again. He tries to pull away, but I maintain grip and eye contact. Can’t let these pathetic trashbags think that I’m not onto them.


  • I signal to the bartender and he slides a glass across the bar. I catch it without looking and down it. It’s water, but I wince anyway to put on a show for the lady next to me who clears her throat.

    “Excuse me, I think that was my wa-” she starts, but I pull out at a cigarette and offer it to her. The bartender looks like he’s about to say something, but I silence him with a steely glance which he gives me as I place the cigs quickly back in my pocket and make a heart gesture. I slam my empty glass down on the table. “Another.”

    The broad stalks talking about her dead-end job in the union. I smile fondly, and tell her about my union-busting days working as mayor’s lapdog back when the city was a crime-addled ruin of its current self. I miss those days. The daily beatings of the unionists made me the man I am today, and I beat off my fair share of them too.

    She gives me a look and asks if I want to go back to her place for a little music. “Sorry toots”, I say, “I don’t play the clarinet.”

    She fixes with me a look, a look that a thousand women on a thousand dark days have given me; shock, awe, admiration, and another look which people assure me is this thing called “puzzled revulsion” whatever the hell that means.

    She leaves, and I watch her go, and part of me wishes that I could go with her to that midnight concert. But Jazz is the only woman that I need, which bums me out because I really like 1970s progressive rock.


  • The security guard’s eyes drinks him in with a glance, eyes fixed on the sweaty sticky wetness that embodies the target.

    Another victim of the sky lounge; taken in by sweetly worded false promises of dry air and brutalistic architecture, only to fall prey to the supple curves of some madman’s wet dream of a better tomorrow.

    Well not today, bub. Spread those legs, and arms apart. You’ll be flying in a chair soon.


  • I place my hat on the hat-rack and unholster the tea bags and porridge sachets in their usual place - you know - next to my gun and badge.

    I crack open the blinds a smidge and squint into the overcast street below, where a cop walks towards a homeless man and offers him food.

    I sip on my green tea-oolong fusion mix, as I watch the kind scene unfold. I shake my head. “These streets aren’t what they used to be.”














  • It can report just before it’s shutting down. Hell, if I run shutdown -P 20:00 "OH WE GOIN DOWN" you bet your ass that I will get a wall message on every tty with that message at 8pm.

    I’m just wondering how to reliably capture the shutdown messages without having to scan the entire system log. I just assumed that there would be one service file that I would have to check for these types of events, but apparently the best bet I have is the TLP service daemon which typically only runs on laptops.



  • I can actually believe that JK thinks she’s doing the right thing. She’s losing friends, money, reputation for saying what she truly believes, no matter how messed up. She never pretended anything but.

    Elon is not like that. Elon knew how to play the progressive part and have a progressive wife, and do/say progressive things to make himself look good when it suited him. The face-mask reveal and the 180 turn as he ditches his old friends (they served their purpose) for new ones, whilst his wealth skyrockets… this man surely deep down can’t believe that he has noble intentions.