workersolidarity:

Three, four years ago I could have told you, and did tell people, that inflation would start steadily going up, and I said even then that it would likely be stubborn, meaning it wasn’t going to be an easy fix.

I knew this back then because it was obvious, even years ago, that the BRICS countries, along with many African and South Asian countries and elsewhere were looking for ways to get around using the US Dollar for trade.

They were making moves to expand trade relations outside US dollar transactions and were for many years planning and building the infrastructure for a future Multipolar world.

And that process began rapidly picking up pace three or four years ago.

I began to say then, what I’m still saying now, as that process goes on and trade outside the US Dollar system grows exponentially year-on-year, that’s going to begin to have an effect on inflation.

Why? Well, Imperialism really. Because the US for decades has depended on the steady demand for US Dollars to hold down inflation, allowing the US to use debt spending to finance wars, military bases and imperialistic ventures like Syria.

Remember, it was the US in its massively dominant position after WWII that built the Bretton Woods System that made the US Dollar the world reserve currency pegged to gold, and it was the US that unilaterally abandoned Bretton Woods 1 and took the dollar off Gold, allowing for the US to finance wars through debt spending, and created the Petro-Dollar with Saudi Arabia in the 1970’s.

This debt spending is essentially the surplus value from the Global South and other poorer countries that must buy US Dollars to fund infrastructure projects, energy consumption, food and medicine imports, etc since it’s the world reserve currency and if you wish to use the US Financial System at all, such as the World Bank, or SWIFT messaging system, well you have to use US Dollars.

Basically, it’s the sucking of the wealth out of poorer countries to finance their own economic oppression.

But as these countries catch on and with new rising global powers like Russia, China and Iran building the infrastructure for an alternative system, the US Dollar is being abandoned faster than ever.

In 2000, more than 70% of Foreign Exchange Reserves were held in US Dollars. By 2020, that figure had dropped considerably to 59%. And the rate at which it’s dropping is only increasing.

Knowing this, I said back in 2019 and 2020 that inflation was likely to become a problem. And if it did become a problem, then we knew exactly what the Fed would do as a result: dramatically increase benchmark Interest rates.

This didn’t take any particularly specialized or secretive sources to figure out. It’s been obvious for years to anyone seriously interested in economics and geopolitics.

And what happens when interest rates go up? The value of the bonds bought under lower interest rates suddenly go way down, while debts become more expensive. It’s like gravity in economics.

So with all that being said, why then did all these banks (Signature Bank, First Republic Bank, and Silicon Valley Bank) continue buying troubled assets and Treasury bonds if they’re so smart and educated and knew all this?

I mean, these guys are supposed to be the best of the best corporate bankers, right? On the cutting edge of investment banking, right? That’s what everyone said even just months before Silicon Valley Bank failed. (CNBC host and moron of the year Jim Cramer literally praised Silicon Valley Bank less than a month before its failure)

So one of two things must be true here and neither one is good for YOU the average worker.

Either these bankers are idiots; complete morons who have little to no understanding of basic economics, geopolitics, and monetary policy, something that should be of concern to all of us.

I mean, I’m just a dude working for a small retailer in New Orleans and even I knew this inflation and higher interest rates were coming.

So why exactly are these people paid such exorbitant salaries? If I can understand the basics of their job better than they can, why am I a retailer, and he, a millionaire banker???

So that’s one possibility, one I’m virtually certain is actually true, that our ruling Elite isn’t particularly smart or well educated in reality, anymore than ordinary people I meet everyday, and any one of us could easily do their jobs just as well or better than they do given the opportunities afforded to them.

But even if in this case, that’s not what happened. That these weren’t idiots. Well then the alternative is something that should also be deeply disturbing to you: that these bankers knew they would be facing this situation, that they were well aware of the coming inflationary pressures and equally aware what the Feds response would be, interest rate hikes.

And instead of using the last couple of years to shed possibly dangerous assets and shore up the money the banks kept on hand, they continued to do what was personally making them so much profit, at the expense of tax payers, because they were absolutely certain that the government these bankers spend so much money on campaigns for, would swoop in regardless of the recklessness of their behavior, and bail them out no matter what.

These are not the signs of a healthy political, economic or banking system.

spaceshipsandpurpledrank:

spaceshipsandpurpledrank:

The guy im the video is actually white (Albanian), so don’t feel bad.

(via demilypyro)

theellipelli:

writing-prompt-s:

“Do you have any last words before I kill you?” snarled the demon. That was 33 years ago and I’ve not said a word since yet it still shadows me, waiting.

Today he is wearing the face of an unnoticeable man. Gazes travel past him and over him as he moves through the crowd outside. He is the human version of oil on water. Plain face, plain clothes, plain everything. He walks like so many others, talks, laughs, and smiles.

I know it is him, though. 

After thirty-three years of spending each day with him at the edges of my vision, I would know him blind. 

He walks through the doors and immediately begins scanning the café for me—he knows where I am, he always does, but he enjoys pretending that this is a game he is letting me win. Eventually, he spots me, sitting in booth tucked into the furthest corner. It is where I always sit, where I have spent every Friday since before he met me. 

He shoots me a smile and strides across the floor, ducking behind patrons and swivelling past chairs and tables. Before long he is standing outside my booth.

His hands are in his pockets, and if he were wearing a more rugged face, I might have been intimidated. “This seat taken?” He asks. He is smiling wide now. He knows I am with no one.

I shake my head.

“Neat,” he says, jumping into the seat and sliding as far in as he can until he is right in front of me. “What are you eating?” He asks.

When I was younger, I would raise my eyebrows at him in disbelief, or annoyance. Now, I only nod toward the tart on my plate. It’s self-explanatory enough. 

Besides, he’s not curious about what I’m eating. He’s curious about whether I’ll speak.

If you ask my family or friends about why I no longer talk, they’ll sit you down for an hour and explain the deep, traumatic effects of post-traumatic stress disorder. They’ll show you the news, interviews with the police in the paper, and explain how, ever since that day, not a single noise has escaped my mouth.

They’ll explain how I tried learning sign language, morse code, or simply writing down things on paper, and how time and time again, I refused. How all communication with me has ceased, aside from nods and shakes of my head. 

Then, of course, they’ll insist that it isn’t a bad thing and that I am an “excellent listener!” 

If you ask him, he’ll say I am doing it simply to spite him, or to avoid death. On bad days, it’s both. Often, he will ask me why I refuse to talk and grow frustrated at my lack of response.

If you ask me, I will not answer. But if I could, I would say; “It is because I need the time to think.” 

Aren’t your final words supposed to be your magnum opus? Each day I have spent pondering what my final sentence shall be, shadowed each day by my end. It has been a fruitless thirty-three years.

Until today.

He’s talking to me. He usually talks to me. He’s good like that. This face is alright to look at, but he’s worn better ones. A few weeks ago, it was a small lady, petite and blonde and with a voice so high that I feared her excited rambling would shatter glass. Some months before that it was an older man with a good beard. That one might be my favourite.

I’m sad he looks so plain today. I would’ve liked it if he looked more my age instead of twenty-something on this occasion.

Of course, I cannot tell him this. Instead, I listen intently to what he says and smile when he says something funny and nod along. 

The first ten years were the worst ones. We both hated each other then. I was terrified of death, of course—I was twenty and was clinging to life with unparalleled fury. He spent days screaming at me in frustration, then tripping me up in the streets, throwing eggs at me between my home and the store. After a while he began instead trying to provoke me, to say such outlandish things that I simply had to retort. But back then I was stubborn, and I wanted to turn at least fifty before he took me away. 

Then, when I turned thirty, we both settled into a routine. It wasn’t good, but it was nearing something pleasant. 

Refusing to communicate for ten years does put a hamper on relationships—at the time I was especially alone. I had some friends, yes, but I was never anyone’s favourite person.

For a few years, back then, my only company was him. And my parents, who would call me so often that after a while I stopped picking up my phone.

For a few years, it was just him and I. He wasn’t as frustrated with me anymore. At that point, I think he was more curious about how long I could drag the silence out. 

Instead of trying to pry words out of me through annoyance, he instead began talking to me like a friend. He came over to my house every once in a while, hands clutching bags of dessert, wily tales on his lips and excitement in every new face he wore. 

We are friends now, I hope.

Thirty years, and I have never once spoken a word to him. And here he is, for another day, to tell me about his day. Isn’t that lovely?

Sure, his kind most certainly thinks of relationships differently than I do. It wouldn’t surprise me if this was truly some long-winded plan to have me speak my final words, and he can finally collect on my soul.

He tells a joke. It’s funny—it’s really funny. I do not laugh, but I grin with my teeth. He doesn’t look disappointed when I don’t make a noise, but instead returns the smile with even more vibrancy. 

I like his hair today. It’s dark and curly, but short and sweet. Usually, he has long hair—locs, curls, or straight. He says he enjoys the feeling of it against his shoulders. I have long since stopped wishing I could speak. But if I were still thirty, I might have entertained the idea of opening my mouth to compliment him. 

But today, I am set. 

I tap him on the wrist, and he stops talking.

“Yes?” He asks. The mocking tone amuses me—he’s challenging me to speak.

Instead, I move my arm to my mouth and tap it once.

“If you’re asking me to shut up, please know that you would have to pay me,” he says, leaning forward only slightly. He places one of his arms on his table, while the other one remains in his lap.

I shake my head and tap again.

“I don’t want to kiss you either.”

He usually has no trouble interpreting my wants. It makes me slightly gleeful that today he misunderstands me twice.

Oh, how I want this to be good. I want him to be so surprised he can’t speak. I want the tables to turn, just for today, just for a minute. I want him to be the speechless one, for just a breath.

I’ve known my words for a few months now. They’re simple, easy. I almost wish I’d been allowed to say them before. 

I open my mouth and tap my lower lip.

He stares at me in confusion, brow furrowed in deep concentration, as though he thinks he might see something mysterious in the back of my throat. Then he sighs and leans back in his seat, defeated. “Sorry, girlie. I don’t understand what you want today.”

“I love you.”

My words are scratchy and quiet. It’s a breeze that comes and goes, only to be heard by me. 

And him. 

Immediately, he straightens, ramrod straight in an instant, staring at me wide-eyed across the table. He is speechless. I am overjoyed.

I smile at him again, cheeks pulling my lips up. My teeth aren’t perfect, and I have never enjoyed smiling so widely, but today is a good day.

When he does not speak, I cannot help but continue.

“Thank you for being with me, these years. I love you. I think I’m done now. I’ve had it good, with you, but I think it’s enough. I’ve caused you enough trouble as it is.”

He stares. Wide-eyed, mouth opening and closing. If he were human I might have moved to his side and asked if he was alright. Not a word comes from his mouth.

Speaking hurts, and I suddenly find I don’t enjoy it that much. If he doesn’t speak now, what can I do but sit silent?

“What?” Is what eventually manages to push past his lips. It’s a helpless little sound, more a puff of air than a word. It makes me smile.

I nod.

“Wait, can you speak again?” He asks, leaning forward across the table to grab my hand. “Please, speak again.”

“I love you,” I say again. My voice is tinny, lacking in power and volume. It is like a thin piece of paper or a single drop in a vast ocean. It is nothing to the world.

It might be everything to him.

He remains quiet for another while, hand slipping out of mine and leaning back in his seat, defeated. He stares at the edge of the table, running a finger across it, before sighing. “Haha,” he starts, raising his head to smile at me. “Man. It sucks that you choose now, of all days, to speak. There’s this new movie I really wanted to go see with you.”

I remember it. He showed me the trailer last year when it first came out on the internet. Some hero-flick. Not my type of movie, but he loves them. I’ve watched a thousand at his side.

“Why not—” I begin, and cough. My throat is dry and aching already. I push through. “We don’t have time for just one movie?” I say, smiling again. My cheeks ache. 

There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes as he ponders, hand on his chin. “Well, I suppose we have time for one movie. But we better do it fast, or else we’ll miss the scene after the credits.” He leans across the table and grabs my tart, shoving it into his mouth and chewing it. “Come on, come on! The movie starts in 10 minutes.”

I give him an exasperated stare, and he laughs.

“Don’t blame me! You always leave here at three pm at the latest. Besides, there are no other showings of this movie!”

There are. I know, because I briefly looked at the tickets last week. I bought some for tomorrow, but I guess they won’t be needed anymore. It’s alright to do it today instead.

He grabs my hand and pulls me from my seat, jumping with excitement. He’s smiling at me, wider than he has in a while, and pulls me into a crushing hug. 

When he pulls back, he’s different. The hair is the same, and so are the eyes. But he’s a bit older, a bit looser with age. He doesn’t look as old as me, but he looks old. His hair is greying at the temples. I smile and run my hands over the white streaks.

“I don’t get why you dye yours,” he says, tugging lightly at my hair as well. “The grey adds to the sex appeal.”

I hit him on the shoulder and laugh, though I make no sound. He beams. 

“Eh, whatever. It’s too late for that now. I’ll have enough grey for the both of us, what do you say?” He shoots me a smile across his shoulder as he turns away from the booth and walks out of the café. 

I follow through the door and come out to stand on the side of the road with him. He smiles at me, then grabs my hand and tugs me away towards the cinema. 

(via allhailweegee)

prinxvariety:

pseudonymjones:

ALT

The most ridiculous thing about this shit is that the idea that skeletal remains can be easily and unambiguously ‘sexed’ is absolutely bunkus

In 1972, Kenneth Weiss, now a professor emeritus of anthropology and genetics at Pennsylvania State University, noticed that there were about 12 percent more male skeletons than females reported at archaeological sites. This seemed odd, since the proportion of men to women should have been about half and half. The reason for the bias, Weiss concluded, was an “irresistible temptation in many cases to call doubtful specimens male.” For example, a particularly tall, narrow-hipped woman might be mistakenly cataloged as a man. After Weiss published about this male bias, research practices began to change. In 1993, 21 years later, the aptly named Karen Bone, then a master’s student at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, examined a more recent dataset and found that the bias had declined: The ratio of male to female skeletons had balanced out. In part that might be because of better, more accurate ways of sexing skeletons. But also, when I went back through the papers Bone cited, I noticed there were more individuals categorized as “indeterminate” after 1972 and basically none prior.
Allowing skeletons to remain unsexed, or “indeterminate,” reflects an acceptance of the variability and overlap between the sexes. It does not necessarily mean that the skeletons classified this way are, in fact, neither male nor female, but it does mean that there is no clear or easy way to tell the difference. As science and social change in the 1970s and 1980s revealed that sex is complicated, the category of “indeterminate sex” individuals in skeletal research became more common and improved scientific accuracy.

Source: https://www.sapiens.org/biology/intersex-biological-sex/

Cis transphobes, you too could have your skeleton miscategorised hundreds of years after your death, because neither gender nor sex are the clear binaries you want them to be. Which you would know if your view of science in these fields wasn’t perpetually stuck in the first half of the 20th century.

(another good article from Sapiens on transgender perspectives on archaeology/anthropology - https://www.sapiens.org/archaeology/transgender-people-exist-in-history/ )

Anyway I just wanted to put this here to say that the assholes who go “when they find your bones” aren’t even correct, in recent decades that narrow approach has been challenged in the fields of archaeology and anthropology, and don’t let anyone invalidate the joy we feel in life.

Trans joy now and forever.

(via theinfinitelyclassyoctopus)

thebestworstidea:

joey-wheeler-official:

magathapai:

gallusrostromegalus:

songofkeys:

vr-trakowski:

joey-wheeler-official:

joey-wheeler-official:

joey-wheeler-official:

there aren’t enough posts going around about the swedish cryptid known as the skvader which is a rabbit with pheasant wings and also a very good boy.

like this one dude just made a fake taxidermy and spread it around as a hoax for a good ass while and it lead to this really cool fantasy creature and i am genuinely dissapointed that it never gets used in anything

THE BOY

Rabbirds, by the amazing @tkingfisher/Ursula Vernon (source).  

The lack of skvaders is particularly frustrating when you realize it forms the third point of a wonderful cryptid trifecta.

You got the jackalopes, which are rabbits with antlers.

And you got the wolpertingers, which are rabbits with antlers and wings.

And then… what? Do you escalate? That’s unbalanced, those two rabbit cryptids don’t have the same number of extra things, the wolpertinger is clearly the jackalope But More.

BUT with the skvader on the other side, balance is restored. Antler rabbit, winged rabbit, winged antler rabbit. It’s a classic Venn diagram of imaginary lapine beasts, and it’s only complete if you acknowledge the fucking skvader.

Good thing Ursula’s got our back, at least.

This is a really excellent point and I applaud your advancements in Cryptid Theory.

Gentleman, if I might add:

yes you may add this

I think balance in crypdids is VERY IMPORTANT.

(via theinfinitelyclassyoctopus)

catchymemes:

netherworldpost:

olderthannetfic:

olderthannetfic:

snugglebunchesofeyes:

trist-pkmngal:

thebyrchentwigges:

missmollyetc:

cumaeansibyl:

thelaughingman1:

delicatelytoobear:

hobbit-hole:

femmefaramir:

older lotr illustrations sometimes depict éowyn wearing ridiculously small armour. apart from the problem general sexualisation of the only female character (who really does anything), there’s another hilarious thought:

éowyn pretended to be dernhelm, a man. to fit in, she must have worn men’s armor. so the armor in the illustrations is normal for rohirrim.

therefore, all the rohirrim rode to war just like that:

there’s a thundering sound in the distance as the rohirrim ride into war but rather than hoofbeats it’s the collective sound of all their cheeks clapping

the artist for this particular piece is Frank Frazetta and to be fair to him this is how he drew the orcs armor 

so the rohirrim comment is probably not that far off

That’s a man who just straight up had a problem with the concept of wearing pants into battle, and I respect that

male or female

hero or villain

sea or land

even in the snow

I guarantee you Frazetta’s Rohirrim were 100% pants-free

Good Old Frank. That man loved bodies and hated clothes so much

Frank Frazetta was the reason He-Man was designed like that; the producers conduct a study to see what art appeal the most to children, and Frank’s work came out on top in popularity. So everyone in He-Man is dressed the way they are directly because of Frazetta.

That man gave us the gift of warrior thighs and tits for everyone.

Ah, it has been too long since I have seen the no pants post on my dash. And yes, this is a rare case where it wasn’t some sexist nonsense but an egalitarian No Pants Agenda.

It’s time for my regular reblog of Gondor Needs No Pants

(via theinfinitelyclassyoctopus)

ejacutastic:

(via impossiblevariable)

spacelazarwolf:

dragonwysper:

spacelazarwolf:

new post bc i really need folks to stop spreading tactics that are going to get missourians killed.

attorney general bailey has set up a website where you can report “concerns” about transgender care.

DO NOT SUBMIT PLAUSIBLE ENTRIES.

bailey will take those entries as real stories and use them as fuel to come down even harder on transgender care in missouri. instead, do what we usually don’t do and spam the absolute shit out of it. vary your submissions so they can’t just filter out certain keywords. but DO NOT submit stories that could sound real, because bailey will present them as real.

here is the link.

What counts as a plausible entry, and how would he use it to fuel anti-trans rhetoric? Not at all dissing your advice!! Just want some clarification.

basically, don’t submit anything that the most bad faith reader possible could take as real. “oh this care provider was giving two year olds breast augmentations!!!!!!” obviously fake to normal ppl, but bailey and the republicans will spin it however they need to. go with ridiculous stories that can’t be misinterpreted.

(via allhailweegee)

i-am-renfield:

I will no longer tolerate abuse. 🙅‍♂️

Come see me, only in theaters April 14th.