"The mystery of life isn’t a problem to solve, but a reality to experience." -Frank Herbert, Dune
- fanwriter: *racebends classic character*
- white dudes: UGH NO CANONICALLY WHITE CHARACTERS MUST BE WHITE FOREVER
- fanwriter: *genderflips classic character*
- white dudes: GENDER ROLES EXIST FOR A REASON NOPE NOPE NOPE
- fanwriter: *creates a queer headcanon*
- white dudes: GROSS WHAT THE FUCK NO HOMO
- professional writer: *creates original narrative featuring prominent female, POC and/or queer characters*
- white dudes: POLITICAL CORRECTNESS MAKES EVERYTHING WORSE, NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR ISSUES
- professional writer: *tells true story featuring prominent female, POC and/or queer characters*
- white dudes: STOP PUSHING YOUR POLITICAL AGENDA DOWN OUR THROATS
- feminism: *points out the overwhelming number of straight white male protagonists and creators, argues in favour of diversity*
- white dudes: WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU COMPLAINING, IF YOU WANT TO SEE THAT SORT OF THING, JUST MAKE IT YOURSELVES, IT'S NOT LIKE IT'S HARD OR ANYTHING JFC
- literally everyone: ...
- source: http://fozmeadows.tumblr.com/post/87342407601/the-problem
The club is owned by Becky and run by Dale, but none of the staff know that. As far as they know, Dale owns it, runs it, and rules it. Becky likes it that way. She’s always been sneaky. It’s why we brought her along on our jobs. Sometimes I think, maybe if Tucker was still alive, maybe she wouldn’t be here. She’d still be out there: skulking around, covered from head to toe in a sneak suit, jacking into some corporate hardline somewhere. She’d be all fingertips and interface protocols, ripping apart defense barriers and hacking perimeter drones while Tucker screamed madman obscenities and blew shit up. And he’d still be waxing that ridiculous mustache of his and twirling it like a goddamned villain.
If you haven’t been reading his Number One With A Bullet serial, you’re missing out. But this is my favorite scene, and Week 5 just came out so you won’t be left hanging (too badly).
Go read it.
This is the cliché: a man comes home to find his wife in bed with his best friend.
This is the reality: I come home to find my best friend in my living room, pretending to drink coffee from a clean, dry mug. My wife’s voice is chirpy and insincere.
This is the cliché: a man drags his friend out of the bed, screaming, threatening, hitting.
This is the reality: I make awkward small talk and ask if there is any more coffee left.
This is the cliché: the wife screams and begs mercy for her lover, forgiveness for herself.
This is the reality: My wife says with a quaking voice, “Oh I think we just ran out. Should I make another pot?”
This is the cliché: the man throws his friend onto the lawn and intimidates his wife into penance and a renewed fidelity.
This is the reality: I say, “Nah, thanks.” I think about my dog and try to pretend I don’t smell sex in the air. I slap my palms on my knees and stand up. “Well, I didn’t want to interrupt,” I say, “I guess I’ll just go watch the game at the bar. Good night.”