You’re not fucking cripple punk if you are are gonna be ableist towards severely disabled people. Take those stickers off your cane if you can’t treat powerchair users with speech issues and carers like we’re fucking human beings.
In fact in general if you’re going to treat severely disabled people and people with intellectual disabilities or higher support needs like shit then stay the fuck away from disability “activism” or “advocacy”.
(hey op, hope you’re OK with me reblogging with commentary.)
so i’ve noticed that people are tagging this post with things like, “internalised ableism isn’t cool.”y'all have got the spirit, but wrong word. this post isn’t about internalised ableism.
internalised ableism = i feel like a burden on other people, i’m not in enough pain to need this mobility aid, i should just do XYZ even though it causes me pain, i’m faking, etc. it’s a product of other people’s treatment of you, to the point that you have to unlearn the shit that’s said to you because you start believing it.
being a dick to other disabled people is just ableism. the non-internalised kind.
if you don’t use a mobility aid, there is nothing internalised about your ableism towards to people who do. if you are sighted and hearing, you being ableist to someone who is blind or d/Deaf is not ‘internalised’.
it didn’t feel very internalised when my cane-using acquaintance told me, a wheelchair user, that they’d rather die than be a wheelchair user because of how embarrassing that would be.
i care about this now especially because there’s a trend of disabled activists who will catch themselves doing this and say “sorry, i’m working on my internalised ableism.” this implies they’re just as hurt by their actions as the actual victim, and they absolve themselves of any responsibility by blaming Ableist Society As A Whole for the way they, an individual, just mistreated someone else. sure, society plays a pretty important role in how we all think of disability, but pretending that nothing you say or do can be outright ableist because you’re also disabled is incredibly irresponsible.
you do not get to be a cripple punk and make fun of people who drool, or call people disgusting when they’re unable to meet your hygiene standards. you don’t get to be an ass to people who live with their parents and/or carers, who take certain medications, who can’t leave their homes, or communicate with words, or who need round-the-clock care. and you certainly don’t get to write it off as internalised ableism.
I feel like pirating media that isn’t sold or offered anywhere legally anymore shouldn’t be called piracy. Girl thats archaeology
Pirating abandonware is cyberarchaeology Preservation powered by a modern methodology Bury shit and find it later under public property Or offer an alternative to profit economically
I’m still thinking about it. Solitary, which is usually reserved for cannibals. cannibals, a group large enough that solitary confinement is usually reserved for them. because otherwise they’d eat everyone else. Solitary confinement, which is apparently justified for cannibals. cannibalism, which is not even slighty racialised in the public eye whatsoever. they only put cannibals in solidarity, except for this one guy. the torture institution only tortures a few people with this specific torture method, only if they’re cannibals. or this one specific guy
I’m still thinking about it. Solitary, which is usually reserved for cannibals. cannibals, a group large enough that solitary confinement is usually reserved for them. because otherwise they’d eat everyone else. Solitary confinement, which is apparently justified for cannibals. cannibalism, which is not even slighty racialised in the public eye whatsoever. they only put cannibals in solidarity, except for this one guy. the torture institution only tortures a few people with this specific torture method, only if they’re cannibals. or this one specific guy
I’m still thinking about it. Solitary, which is usually reserved for cannibals. cannibals, a group large enough that solitary confinement is usually reserved for them. because otherwise they’d eat everyone else. Solitary confinement, which is apparently justified for cannibals. cannibalism, which is not even slighty racialised in the public eye whatsoever. they only put cannibals in solidarity, except for this one guy. the torture institution only tortures a few people with this specific torture method, only if they’re cannibals. or this one specific guy
“Raw milk is better for you as long as you boil it” so true bestie now imagine if we could like. Super boil it. To really get all the bacteria out. And if we could do that quickly and efficiently. Imagine that.
“Raw milk is better for you as long as you boil it” so true bestie now imagine if we could like. Super boil it. To really get all the bacteria out. And if we could do that quickly and efficiently. Imagine that.
This is not an exaggeration. Your download speed would slow down to the point where Windows would make this kind of absurd estimate, and you’d sigh and leave the room for a while (because you couldn’t use the computer while it was doing this for fear it would crash and lose all your progress) and then you’d come back in 40 minutes and maybe it would now say 52 years or maybe it would say 3 minutes, who knew, not Windows.
This is not an exaggeration. Your download speed would slow down to the point where Windows would make this kind of absurd estimate, and you’d sigh and leave the room for a while (because you couldn’t use the computer while it was doing this for fear it would crash and lose all your progress) and then you’d come back in 40 minutes and maybe it would now say 52 years or maybe it would say 3 minutes, who knew, not Windows.
“So let me get this straight. We’re here to rescue a princess.”
“That’s right.”
“At the request of a princess.”
“Right again.”
“And you, who will be leading the expedition, are also a princess.”
“You’re very perceptive.”
“How big is your royal family, again?“
“We don’t have one.”
“But–“
“We overthrew our monarchy centuries ago, but we kept most of the titles around. The rank of ‘princess’ is held by the directors in charge of various civil service branches.“
“Huh. And the princess we’re rescuing today is in charge of…?”
“Public sanitation.”
“The Lord of Death’s Dominion kidnapped your public sanitation director?”
“We think he’s a little confused.”
I laughed too hard not to reblog this.
I mean. If your goal is to cause maximum death, letting trash, sewage, tainted water, and biohazardous waste pile up in a populated area with zero oversight is a pretty efficient way to go about it
See, the idea that taking out the appointed head of the government department in charge of public sanitation oversight would cause the day-to-day business of public sanitation to immediately cease is exactly the sort of confusion we’re talking about here.
Last week, Uber charged me $85 for a ride in Baltimore that should’ve been $20, so I decided to give Lyft another try. Today, after checking out of my hotel in Oklahoma, I called a Lyft and was picked up by Mike, a guy driving a red F-150 work truck. The truck bed was full of tools and lumber, and when I got in, I took the passenger seat.
“How far to the airport?” I asked.
“Fifteen minutes,” he replied. “You in a hurry?”
“Not really. Are you?”
“Never.”
As we cruised down the highway in the slow lane, I asked Mike if carpentry was his main gig.
“Among other things,” he said.
“Jack of all trades?” I teased.
“Don’t know about that. Back in the seventies, I was a plumber’s helper. Then I worked in heating and air for a spell.”
“How was that?” I asked.
“Hot and cold,” he replied, deadpan.
I couldn’t tell if he was joking. His voice had a Midwestern drawl, and his face betrayed no expression.
“After that, I started carpentry—trim, then framing. Eventually, I built custom cabinets in rich people’s houses. Learned spiral staircases and furniture. Did pretty good.”
“Are you retired now?”
“Nope. These days, I build campers.”
“Campers?” I asked, intrigued.
“Small ones you can tow anywhere—teardrop trailers. Got real popular during the lockdowns. I build ’em by hand, one at a time.”
“And how’s the quality?”
“Pretty good,” he said.
“Got a website?”
“Sure. Gotta have a website these days.”
“What’s it called?”
“Mike’s Pretty Good Campers.”
I paused. “Your company is called Mike’s Pretty Good Campers?”
“I like to manage expectations,” he said.
“Under promise, over deliver?”
“Exactly.”
“Is that what you were doing before picking me up?” I asked.
“Yup. But I got frustrated. And I don’t like to work frustrated. So I step away.”
“To drive strangers to the airport?”
“Never too frustrated to drive,” Mike said. “Besides, we ain’t strangers no more, are we?”
“No,” I said. “We’re not.”
As we neared the airport, I asked if he’d head back to the shop after dropping me off.
“Ain’t decided yet. Guess I’ll see how I feel in a few minutes.”
Before getting out, I said, “If I like your website, do you mind if I share it on Facebook? I’ve got a few followers who might be in the market for a pretty good camper built by a quasi-retired carpenter who drives for Lyft when he’s frustrated.”
“Can’t hurt,” Mike said. “Once people see these trailers, they fall in love. There’s even conventions for teardrop owners. Thousands show up—you wouldn’t believe how they decorate ’em.”
“Mike,” I said, “I’ll believe just about anything these days.”
At the curb, he unloaded my bags and asked, “Have I driven you before? You look familiar.”
“I don’t think so. I’d remember,” I said. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Was it okay?”
“It was a pretty good lift,” I replied.
Somewhere behind his mustache, I think Mike smiled. I walked into Will Rogers Airport, boarded my flight, and immediately searched to see if there was actually a website called Mike’s Pretty Good Campers.
Last week, Uber charged me $85 for a ride in Baltimore that should’ve been $20, so I decided to give Lyft another try. Today, after checking out of my hotel in Oklahoma, I called a Lyft and was picked up by Mike, a guy driving a red F-150 work truck. The truck bed was full of tools and lumber, and when I got in, I took the passenger seat.
“How far to the airport?” I asked.
“Fifteen minutes,” he replied. “You in a hurry?”
“Not really. Are you?”
“Never.”
As we cruised down the highway in the slow lane, I asked Mike if carpentry was his main gig.
“Among other things,” he said.
“Jack of all trades?” I teased.
“Don’t know about that. Back in the seventies, I was a plumber’s helper. Then I worked in heating and air for a spell.”
“How was that?” I asked.
“Hot and cold,” he replied, deadpan.
I couldn’t tell if he was joking. His voice had a Midwestern drawl, and his face betrayed no expression.
“After that, I started carpentry—trim, then framing. Eventually, I built custom cabinets in rich people’s houses. Learned spiral staircases and furniture. Did pretty good.”
“Are you retired now?”
“Nope. These days, I build campers.”
“Campers?” I asked, intrigued.
“Small ones you can tow anywhere—teardrop trailers. Got real popular during the lockdowns. I build ’em by hand, one at a time.”
“And how’s the quality?”
“Pretty good,” he said.
“Got a website?”
“Sure. Gotta have a website these days.”
“What’s it called?”
“Mike’s Pretty Good Campers.”
I paused. “Your company is called Mike’s Pretty Good Campers?”
“I like to manage expectations,” he said.
“Under promise, over deliver?”
“Exactly.”
“Is that what you were doing before picking me up?” I asked.
“Yup. But I got frustrated. And I don’t like to work frustrated. So I step away.”
“To drive strangers to the airport?”
“Never too frustrated to drive,” Mike said. “Besides, we ain’t strangers no more, are we?”
“No,” I said. “We’re not.”
As we neared the airport, I asked if he’d head back to the shop after dropping me off.
“Ain’t decided yet. Guess I’ll see how I feel in a few minutes.”
Before getting out, I said, “If I like your website, do you mind if I share it on Facebook? I’ve got a few followers who might be in the market for a pretty good camper built by a quasi-retired carpenter who drives for Lyft when he’s frustrated.”
“Can’t hurt,” Mike said. “Once people see these trailers, they fall in love. There’s even conventions for teardrop owners. Thousands show up—you wouldn’t believe how they decorate ’em.”
“Mike,” I said, “I’ll believe just about anything these days.”
At the curb, he unloaded my bags and asked, “Have I driven you before? You look familiar.”
“I don’t think so. I’d remember,” I said. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Was it okay?”
“It was a pretty good lift,” I replied.
Somewhere behind his mustache, I think Mike smiled. I walked into Will Rogers Airport, boarded my flight, and immediately searched to see if there was actually a website called Mike’s Pretty Good Campers.
I have seen this post probably at least 20 times courtesy of @lukadjo, each time passing over it thoughtlessly and only now do I process the bizarreness of it
ALT
