theferrett: (Meazel)

Two blocks away from the ruins of 9/11 was a Burlington Coat Factory that some muslims wanted to turn into a mosque. Conservatives went berserk, claiming that the mosque was an insult to all who had died in the Twin Towers attack, that it was too soon, and (not all, but enough) claimed that they didn’t want this statement of a religion they disagreed with in their city.

At which point liberals argued back that America is about free speech. If the space is available, and the Muslims are willing to pay, then they should have the right to open up a temple. Yes, Muslims may be an unpopular religion in certain circles, and no, you may not like some of the causes that this temple may be funding, but your like of their goals is irrelevant. Freedom of speech applies to people you disagree with – and the true test of America’s values is not, “How do we tolerate people we like?” but rather, “How do we handle people with opinions at odds with everything we believe?”

As long as they’re not doing anything illegal, liberals argued, the Muslims should have the right to be there. And they were Very Sure about this.

Then the mayor of Boston slammed Chick Fil-A, urging them in an angry letter to “back out of their plans to locate in Boston.” And liberals shared this letter with a great whoop and WHOO GO TOM MENINO and great acclaim.  Seriously. It was spooged all over my Twitter and Facebook accounts.

Yet I think: What if the mayor of New York had expressed similar sentiments about the mosque?

Before we continue, I’d just like to express my credentials: I’m a big fan of gay marriage. Despite the fact that there is a Chick Fil-A literally across the street from me, and they are my favorite fast food chain, I have not eaten there in two years because of their anti-gay fundings. When the Muppets pulled out of Chick fil-A’s business, I immediately posted a link to Twitter that said, “Muppets do the right thing,” and I think that people have the absolute right to vote with their feet. This isn’t about me not being intensely pro gay marriage, or intensely anti Chick Fil-A, so if you’re starting a response along those lines, stop, delete your comment, and start over.

This is about freedom of speech for people you fucking hate.

But Ferrett, you’ll argue, this is a snack stand, not a temple!, to which I say, “So you’d have been okay with people telling Muslims that opening up a Muslim-run dry cleaning business close to the mosque was an insult?” Or Chick Fil A firing someone because they’re Jewish, because hey, work is different than worship and we only wanna hire nice happy Christians? No, guys, “freedom of speech” doesn’t mean “You get to be religious in firmly-marked areas with big symbols warning you so you know what’s going on,” but rather “People of all religions, even the icky ones, have an equal right to worship AND work, and express those beliefs through both.”

(And, you know, it’s not like all Muslims – particularly the fundamentalist ones – are a great bunch of well-adjusted people. All religions are nut magnets, and there were some very real concerns about where the funds the mosque raised were going. A lot of the mosques were funded by more virulent sects of Islam, even if the one in New York seemed to be largely run by a more peaceful branch.  If your worries about funding anti-gay causes are justified, then at least some percentage of the anti-mosque sentiments carried a similarly valid concern.)

Either way, you have a person in power telling someone, “I don’t like your religious beliefs, I don’t like how you spend your money, and I want you out of my fucking town.”  And your attempts to draw distinctions between that and the mosque are splitting some mighty fine hairs.

I hate Chick Fil-A, and I think they should have every right to build in Boston without having to worry about having permits pulled or being hassled because of their repugnant, stupid, backwater, bigoted, terrified, swamp-ass beliefs. That’s freedom of speech. They should have every right to go to Boston, build a franchise, have a constant stream of gays and gay-friendly straights picketing it and handing out fliers, spend months dealing with bad PR as the funds slowly run out and they realize that their anti-gay stance is costing them so much business they can’t afford to stay, and then maybe they’ll make a better choice. Or pay the cost of their opinions, because every opinion has a cost and if you’re willing to pay that price then you should be able to carry on with it.

The government, however, should not get involved.

This is not a popular stance, because so many liberals I know treat religion as though it were a disease. But that’s the point. Even if you dislike Chick Fil A, they have the right to their say – and part of their say involves selling chicken sandwiches to make a living. And a mayor telling fundamentalist Christians, “You are not welcome here” spreads the message to Christians that yes, they are persecuted, here’s the proof! And those dang liberals don’t practice what they preach.

Let’s practice. Let’s allow religious-run businesses to stand or fall on their own merits. And if it turns out that the fine people of Boston aren’t so pro-gay as to abandon Chick Fil-A, then I say that’s a problem we need to face in a different way than harassing them until they leave, and issuing bold threats from official pulpits. But as a government, let us make room for people of all stripes, even the foul and corrupt stripes of anti-gay bigots.

(And if you’re a conservative who is cheering now, yet was against the mosque? Shut the fuck up. The point I’m making is that we shouldn’t be as bigoted and closed-minded as you. If we should be ashamed, you should be ashamed doubly so.)

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

When teenagers start dating for the first time, nobody takes them seriously.  This is a mercy.

The first dates invariably involve a rush of Twu Wuv and promises to last forever and poetry so awful as to rival the Vogons.  Then it collapses into Drama as the first breakups show up and then some horrible bitch/bastard is dating YOUR Twu Wuv, and there’s gossip and fights and broken friendships galore.

Thankfully, because we know How Monogamy Works, we tolerate this startlingly stupid behavior because we know the vast majority of them will get their shit sorted out eventually and learn to date like (mostly) human beings.  This is, we think, a teenaged thing.

Except it isn’t.  If you’ve ever known the reclusive guy who gets his first relationship at age 21, you know the Twu Wuv and the ear-raking poetry and the plans of Future Forever are not an age thing, but a First Love thing.  When you’re feeling such intense emotions, surely this soul-strummingly beauteous thing must translate into results.

It’s a vital lesson that depressives in particular learn over and over in life: the intensity of the emotions you feel does not necessarily affect the real world.

Unfortunately, the time most people discover polyamory is when they’re in the early twenties – and while you’d think we’d have all learned our lesson from the monogamous dating scene, no, we have yet another set of embarrassing experiences to go through before we attain wisdom.  Poly has its own set of “just starting out” dumb behaviors, including the This Triad Is Forever promises, the I Can Date Infinite People And Keep Them All Happy fallacy, the Polyamory Is The One True Way smugness…

Problem is, while society looks at the first monogamous relationships and goes, “Well, that’s just teenaged silliness,” they look at the first polyamorous relationships and goes, “These are adults!  They should know better!”  But they shouldn’t.  Doesn’t matter how many advice books you read, it’s different when the rubber touches road and you’re in the driver’s seat, rocked by new high emotions and pushed around by bizarre fears.

So people look at the twenty-something poly premiere disasters and go, “Well, that’s how poly is.”  But it isn’t.  That’s how your first poly is, and it’s certainly how some people continue to do poly (much like how some people never quite seem to emerge from the high school method of dating), but most people learn to do a much safer, saner way of poly if they’re in it for the long run.

So poly gets a bad rap because our stupidity is on display.  It’s like Luke vs. Han; if all you knew about Luke was him in Return of the Jedi, showing up all bad-ass in his black outfit ready to kick Jabba’s ass, you’d think he was the greatest hero since Han Solo.  But no, you saw him back in his whiny teenager days, so Luke’s forever a dumb farm kid.  I bet if we saw Han Solo stealing credits from his mother’s purse and getting “hammered” on Bartles and Jaymes Wine Coolers, we’d be thinking what an idiot he was.

In short: Poly gets a bad rap because a) we go through a public phase of evolution where we learn vital lessons and look like idiots, b) at a time when we “should” know better, and c) society doesn’t excuse such shenanigans as part of a healthy monogamous evolution.

So the next time you see some young idiot gushing about how monogamy is outdated and poly’s the true way, just cringe and move on; he’ll probably be more embarrassed than you are in ten years. Hopefully.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Gini went to Teavana this weekend and almost drowned in pretention.

Teavana, if you do not know, is a store that doesn’t sell what you think it sells.  You might think it sells tea.  But what it actually purveys is an experience.  This is why the store is beautifully painted, and all the teas come in beautiful canisters, and when you read the descriptions of the sample teas available they sound like they’re a rare museum piece brought here by hand, from specially-trained Sherpas, from Mars.

It made me want to stand in the middle of the store and shout, “YOU’RE DRINKING LEAVES, PEOPLE!  LEAVES IN HOT WATER!”

Ah, but I cannot truly mock pretention, because there are things that mash my “Pretentious Douche” button hard.  Whenever I go to The Velvet Tango Room, home of exotic alcohol mixtures, I’m transformed into some snobby jerkhole who talks about top notes and his distaste for chartreuse… and I love it.  I love feeling like hundreds of people have slaved to bring me something rare and grand and noble that only We Fine Few can appreciate properly.  What I am imbibing – for a Pretentious Douche never “drinks” – is a heady blend of flavors and beauty that one must sit down to savor.  It makes me feel like a king of old, all for sixteen bucks a drink.

Done properly, I can cosplay Croesus on a George Bailey budget.

Clearly, given that Starbucks took something most of America used to view on the level of Twinkies and turned it into a four-buck-a-cup experience, one can take any drink and Experiencize it.  (One eagerly awaits the “Chill Assistance” store, wherein the various rare flavors of Kool-Aid are presented as magnificent subtleties for your tastebudding pleasure.)

The question is, is there anything we can’t Experiencize?  Is there anything humans do that we can’t apply the magic formula to?  The magic formula of:

  • Take an ordinary, everyday thing;
  • Create it from exotic, hard-to-find materials either shipped here from afar or grown locally and organically at great expense;
  • Have copywriters describe the ordinary, everyday thing in sweeping detail, so you’re forced to pay attention to every detail and start analyzing bits about this experience you never would have before;
  • Charge an assload for it, so it feels like this thing must be worth money now that you’ve paid ten bucks for it instead of fifty cents.

To verify this, I want to create a store called “Undercarriage,” a store devoted entirely to the sale of premium blends of toilet paper.  Oh, we all have our favorites already, don’t we?  Thick-ply vs thin-ply?  But what happens when you experience:

The French Curl: This rare moire watered silk blend was originally meant for Imperial usage only, famed by King Louis XIV as the only fabric smooth enough to satisfy his stylish brand of royalty.  An organza overlay gives this unparalleled cleansing material a hint of massaging purity as it excels at buffing away the clumpier waste materiel, and a hint of enfleuraged jasmine and sandalwood will leave you feeling like a monarch.  $20 per bundle, $7 for the pocketbook pack.

Think I’m kidding?  I’m pretty sure if I had the money to create a store where there were charts to find the perfect cleansing experience based on your diet, lots of references to ayurvedic medicine that mention speeding through such an essential element of life is why mankind is so stressed these days, saying that a stronger brand of cleansing material is needed to let you appreciate the sensuality of getting in touch with your body, and wham!  I’m an ass-millionaire.

You folks better hope I don’t become rich enough to start a store like this.  If I ever became rich, I’d make millions.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So I have a couple of follow-up thoughts on yesterday’s post on how women are not ethereal, mysterious beings:

1)  I did mention my genitalia as being my “credentials” for being a dude, which is not something that I strictly believe in.  I’m pretty much of the attitude that if you say you’re a guy, you are to me, and if you say you’re a girl, you are, too.  I can even agree with someone who says that they’re a guy when dressed in this clothing and a girl when dressed in that clothing.

That said, when I write quickly, I tend to write towards the person I think is most likely to read it – and in the case of yesterday’s rant, it was written at the douchey sort of guy who would completely freak the fuck out at the idea of separating gender from genitalia.  So I didn’t think to make that argument then.

I don’t necessarily know that I would have made that statement if I hadn’t been whipped into a foaming rant on women – I probably would have made some other reference to my dudeness.  Because I think that going into gender fluidity is a whole different can of worms, and a guy who’s having problems understanding that core concept of “Women have differing needs but are not alien beings” is not going to be able to digest “And dicks doth not make the dude” at the same time.

Both are necessary arguments, but I think if you have them both at once you just overload their little heads and they go splodey. And I was writing to a specific jackass, and as such I left out the argument for a very vital thing I believe in.

It happens.  I’m sorry when it does, because it leaves the impression that “This is what I think” as opposed to “This is what I think person X can handle at the moment,” which are often very different things.  So apologies to anyone who thought that was untoward. When I write quick, I tend to write specific, and that’s a failing.

2)  That post, as predicted, exploded over at FetLife, getting onto their global “Kinky and Popular” list and getting over 70 comments and 110 likes.  Yet not one person mentioned the anti-genderqueerness in that statement, which makes me wonder whether FetLife is secretly very gender-bound, or whether my audience here is very progressive in such an area.  Odd.

3)  Of the 110 people or so who loved it, about 80% were women.  Zero surprises there.

4)  The highlight of the FetLife post was a guy called “MrCunningLinguist” – always a good sign – who, when told by women that they found his concept of “chivalry” to be stifling and irritating, went off on this magnificent rant:

Not pleasant eh???

  • So when I leave the elevator before you, that’s pleasent for you
  • So when I don’t hold that door open so you can go thru first, that’s pleasent for you
  • So when I walk right by you going up stairs and see you have a baby in one arm and a stroller in the other and maybe a bag and I don’t stop and assist you down or up those stairs, that’s pleasent for you
  • So when you and I are carrying stuff in the house from shopping and I let you take all the Heavy stuff in, that’s pleasent for you
  • So when I sit down at the table before you, that’s pleasent for you
  • So when I walk on the inside of the street, that’s pleasent for you (although in some countries I’ve learned why men do that, but that doesn’t apply in the US..snicker)

So doing all that after a month. And not putting you on this genuine pedestal of “Womanhood” Would create this feeling???

…and went off on some more thoughts on how the problem with chivalry is that women think they don’t deserve it.  To which I said:

Basically, your entire comment breaks down to one astonished gout of, “YOU SILLY WOMEN, THINKING YOU DON’T WANT MY HELP. HOW FOOLISH YOU ARE.”

And then you wonder why someone might be offended by this.

Come on, dude. If I had a baby and a stroller and an arm full of baggage, it’d be nice to offer a hand to me regardless of any perceived gender. If you do it only for women, it’s because a) you think women need the help more, and b) you’re a tool hoping to score points with the chicks.

That’s chivalry. Don’t confuse it with the genuineness of, y’know, “Being nice.”

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Three Musketeers is a film that transforms spree killers into heroes by sheer dint of movie willpower.  All it would take is one person to note that these “Musketeers” are hair-trigger maniacs, willing to slaughter at the slightest provocation, and wham!  We’d be watching the 17th century version of Natural Born Killers.

Consider: In the first fifteen minutes of Three Musketeers, we are introduced to D’Artagnan, whose first act before he’s half a mile from home is to challenge a man to a duel to the death because the man insulted his beaten-down horse.  He is handily defeated by his better, and only avoids being killed thanks to voice of plot.

Then, upon arriving in the big town, he chases after the guy who beat him, hoping for a rematch, and is sufficiently rude and thoughtless along the way that he gets into three more duels, one with each of the Musketeers.  They face off when forty guards arrive to tell them that duels are illegal, at which point D’Artagnan kills five guards and the other Musketeers go, “Well, I like killing people!” and join in to slaughter at least twenty more.

And I do mean slaughter.  These people are thrusting blades into guards’ hearts, slicing them across the neck, flinging them off ledges.  There’s no blood, but people are getting fucking chopped up.  In the medicine-free days of the 17th century when people died to infections because of stubbed toes, it is difficult not to see how thrusting a blood-encrusted sword through someone’s chest is not going to lead to a long, slow death by suppurating fever.

Then they all return to their lair, where the Musketeers berate their manservant for not bringing them wine (even though he informs them they are broke).  As punishment for his inability to conjure wine out of thin air, they punish their manservant by making him sleep out on the freezing balcony, where they know – for they are told – that birds will poop in his mouth.

These aren’t musketeers.  They’re fucking mass murderers.  They probably have very stylish waistcoats made out of human skin in their closet.

Don’t get me wrong.  Three Musketeers is one of those movies that moves along at such a rapid clip that, like a stagecoach going to fast, it begins to shudder and shed space bits of plot and logic and characterization.  Something’s always happening.  It’s entertaining, for which about 40% can be attributed to things the producers intended to be entertaining.  The rest is sheer, “What the fuck?  They thought this was good?  Oh my god, this is ludicrous.”

This is a movie so accelerated that it’s like Cleolinda’s Movies in Fifteen Minutes came to life and wrote their own movie.  As an extra bonus, if you like Star Wars and The Princess Bride you’ll love The Three Musketeers, because about 10% of the dialogue is cribbed from it, including a wholesale ripoff of “Anyone who says different is selling you something.”

Three Musketeers seems custom-tailored for friends to get drunk and sit around their living rooms, snarking at what was intended to be amusing and is, for reasons that they didn’t really meant to be.  Plus, you get Orlando Bloom hamming it up in a way that’s Golden Razzie award-worthy.

The real trick, however, is watching how this movie makes the protagonists into heroes by repeatedly insisting they are.  The best part is the last: in the most sequel-bait final scene ever, we discover that the Musketeers have rampantly slaughtered hundreds of people in an attempt to prevent war with England… and in the coda, we discover that England’s attacking anyway.

They’re brutal.  They’re murderers.  They’re incompetent.  Yet the movie never lets you forget they’re heroes…. Probably because if it didn’t insist loudly and conspicuously, you might realize you’re watching Silence of the Lambs with no jails and a lot of swords.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So-called “professional” writers tend to look down on self-published authors, thinking that they’re just clods writing “DICK ENTERS THE ROOM AND SAYS HI LINDA LINDA BE MAD AT DICK” novels on butcher paper in crayon.  But though the perception of self-publishing is that of a bunch of Harry Potter fanfic writers wanking it to Hermione’s freshly-grown wand, the truth is that self-publishing offers a freedom that no one else can offer.  Freed from the restraints of having to actually, you know, make money, self-publishers can offer titles that no traditional publisher would touch with a ten-foot pole.

Or, in this case, a ten-foot pole covered in a condom.

Cooking With SemenThat’s right; if you’ve been thinking, “I love it when my partner jizzes all over my face – now, how can I combine that subtle aroma with pancetta and a nice rosė?” thankfully, the fine folks at Lulu have, er, come through for you.  Fotie Photenhauer’s Natural Harvest – A Collection of Semen-Based Recipes is now available for a mere $24.95.

Notes the book: ” Like fine wine and cheeses, the taste of semen is complex and dynamic. Semen is inexpensive to produce and is commonly available in many, if not most, homes and restaurants. Despite all of these positive qualities, semen remains neglected as a food.”

One finds it hard to imagine why semen hasn’t caught on in restaurants.  I think we all would like to gulp down the potentially STD-laden load of our waiter, mixed with some asparagus and perhaps a dusting of saffron, so when someone asks, “Why are your lips so covered in sores you can’t speak without bits of your philtrum flaking off?” you can say with pride, “I, madam, am a gourmet.”

After all, as Fotie says: “Some tend to dismiss semen as food and describe it as bitter or salty. This is similar to a person who tastes wine for the first time [and] says it tastes sour. Like all other foods, the tastes and aromas of semen open up and are better appreciated when you are able to compare and discuss the different tastes with other connoisseurs.”

If that’s not the classiest blowbang I’ve ever seen, I don’t know what is.

As it turns out, this book of squirty enjoyment has sold over 25,000 copies, so my hat is off to Fotie!  She found a need and, er, filled it.  This truly is an example of what people can do when they set their heads to it.  I think this is just proof that traditional publishing is going down.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

(NOTE: I originally posted this at FetLife as a humor piece, but figured it was amusing enough to post over here.  We’ll see how it goes.)

Looking over the FetLife profiles, it seems like “Dom” is the ideal career choice for the older gentleman who wants to get laid… So imagine my thrill! Here I am at 42, starting to pick up the whip! I thought my sexual career was over, but here I have at least another decade left in me!

Alas, I don’t have the look. I’m gonna need the look to get the babes. At least according to what I’m seeing on FetLife.

First thing I have to do is stop all of this inopportune smiling. I must always fix the camera with a steely glare, as though the camera was very naughty and needed to be punished. Perhaps, occasionally, rarely, a smirk may peek from the corner of my mouth, as though I am faintly amused at all of your frantic antics. But not often. For guffawing is not the realm of the True Dom.

Doms do not smileyface in texts. Ever. You can tell. Doms are SRS BUSNESS.

Next, I need to either scale up or scale down. Right now I’m a middlin’ tub o’lard – decent arms, beer belly, man-tits of maybe an A-cup. When I jog, things go swinging, but not enough to hit me in the face.

Ah! But the True Doms seem to come in one of two flavors. Either they’re elderly and musclebound, with that sort of workout fiber that says “MY FLESH WANTS TO SAG, BUT I STAPLE IT TO THIS HE-MAN PHYSIQUE SO ALL YOU NOTICE ARE SLIGHT RIPPLES OVER MY ROCK-HARD ABS.” Then I just wear a hat and leather chaps and wander around all day baring my gray-haired chest at people like it was Superman’s S.

Or I go the other route – gain a hundred pounds. Just get that big ol’ torture-room belly where I eventually look like the Rancor keeper, the look that says, “See that? Fuck you, society. I look like this, and I’m still gonna walk around in a loincloth. Because I don’t play by YOUR RULES. I am so confident that I will redefine cultural hotness just by LOOKING AT YOU, a black hole of expectation-twisting manliness!”

Then, of course, I have to shave my head. Can’t be a big ol’ torturer without a smooth pate.

Look how wrong my default picture is! No True Dom would ever have a default picture showing a lemur on his head. No, that lemur is topping me, my smile showing that I’m too willing to please, my face either too flabby or not flabby enough. I need a gaunt picture of me, perhaps at an SCA festival, impassively wrestling a lemur to the ground to show it who’s boss. THAT’S a Dom shot.

Then again, my photos are all wrong. The big problem? They’re of me. True Doms are all Leica experts, people who spend a lot of time in the darkroom perfecting glorious photos and videos of their subs. The goal of a True Dom isn’t to show what they look like, but rather to show off their attractive collection of half-naked women, a kind of fleshy charm-bracelet to jangle at other potential subs. It’s a way of saying, “Hey, this club’s full of hot women, and you could be a part of it! Fill out this application, we’ll talk to the bouncer. You can be a part of my kinky Borg collective.”

Of course, that means as a True Dom Old Guy, I’ll need to assemble my squadron of hard-bodied twenty-three-year-olds. They’re obligatory. You can’t get into the official Dom Resting Room at the airport without them (which is a lovely secret chamber to rest in between flights, with a St. Andrew’s cross and cigars and kneeling waitresses). I’ll need to get about seven or eight of them, perhaps hanging around the graduation ceremonies at Florida State University to try to pick some up on their way out the door.

Okay, sure, maybe there’s something a little weird in mackin’ on someone five years’ younger than my daughter, but here’s the trick: All those young women with the smoking hot bodies and the uncertainty inherent of being in your early twenties and not sure where you want to go with your life and the sexy pouty mouths and the willingness to try anything for the first time?

They’re all very mature for their age.

Truth, man. Every one of them, amazingly, is not just model-hot and willing to try anything at least once, but by some bizarre coincidence they’ve all got this intense wisdom that makes them, oh, just really so much smarter than everyone else their age. Except for these seven other identically-hot women over here of the same age that I happen to be playing with, they’re also all strangely wise beyond their years and also model-hot. But you? You’re special. Here, have a glass of good wine.

So yeah. I’m doin’ it wrong. I need to start bulking up one way or the other, and wrassle a lemur, and remove all these inconvenient smiling pictures. Then I’ll be on my way to a lifetime of hot babe-sex. What could be better?

Domminess, here I come.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

(No spoilers of consequence.)

Dear Doctor:

I’m not what you’d call a (makes air quotes with fingers) “Time Lord” kind of guy.  More of a “sits on the couch and watches TV” kind of couch potato.  And I certainly can’t claim to be a thousand year-old genius – I’ve just been watching synopses of your various adventures for fifteen years.

However, I should note that even with my limited knowledge of your technology, your history, and the multitudes of worlds you have to face, even I know that you don’t fucking walk through an electronic door when your companions are on one side and you are on the other.  This door will lock shut, forcing you to spend the rest of your adventure rescuing companions.  And if you walk through an electronic door and the TARDIS is on the other side of it, you do realize that you’re going to get separated from your trip home?

Look, I didn’t study at the feet of Rassilon or anything.  I’m just saying: see a door?  Wait a fucking second. Get all three of you in the same room.  Don’t charge ahead.

I know what’s going to happen.  G’wan, use that big ol’ brain of yours and make the conclusion.

Sincerely,
Ferrett Steinmetz

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

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