There were giants in the earth in those days

Every single dad packed into the car:

Your husband and all his coworkers:

yes these goats really exist! in most ways they are normal goats, except for how they secrete spider silk in their milk

(or rather, they secrete a special protein in their milk, which is then extracted and woven into silk fibers)

their DNA contains transplanted genes taken from the Golden Orb Weaver Spider, whose silk is incredibly strong--but can’t be naturally produced in large quantities. because...spiders are tiny ya’ll.

these superpowered web-slinging spidergoats genetically modified but otherwise normal and healthy goats can produce much larger amounts of this material (marketed as BioSteel), which is stronger than steel and more bulletproof than kevlar. plus it’s lightweight, elastic, and bio-compatible (compatible with living tissue), meaning it has a ton of potential industrial and medical applications.

(imagine 40 years from now you need knee surgery, and your doctor sits you down and explains that your shiny new anterior cruciate ligament was actually artificially woven out of spider-goat milk silk. also in this magical hypothetical future we have universal healthcare. and the wealth of all billionaires has been globally redistributed. this is my hypothetical scenario, i do what i want.)

like i said. pretty nifty!

and here is a photo of one such genetically modified BioSteel™ goat, her name is Freckles

It has been literal years but every time I see Martin’s tweets posted somewhere and his word is shared as truth while her post is not shared it sort of reiterates the fact that we trust men to speak about feminism more than we believe women who experience it. 

Adding screenshots of her post. His whole post is there without needing a link. Hers should be, too.

the other thing tho, the flip side, the reason my bitterness and hatred for this show rose gradually like bile in my throat, the sickly aftertaste of day-old coffee--Supernatural is about America, in its most raw white hateful glory. And it shows.

I mean, yeah, as we know, there isn’t a marginalizing trope they don’t hit. You have “magical negros” (at least 3 i can think of off the top of my head--wait, I forgot about the fetish cat-witch, make that 4), and fridged lesbians and ambiguously “Asian” typecast-neurotic nerds and sexy Strong Female Characters and queer-baiting that flips into bury-your-gays and no matter what happens next, fifteen years of mocking fans for wanting what the narrative promised will not be undone.

The lesbian dies, and the Asian prophet dies, and the maternal Black psychic dies, and the blonde girlfriend dies, and the blind psychic dies, and the Deaf hunter dies (fucking offscreen), and every one of the Strong Female Characters die, and they all die so the armed white men can justify enacting further violence.

But that isn’t the point. That’s just a side-effect of the point.

You have wendigos and skinwalkers and Indian curses, Kali and Ganesh and Zao Shen and Baron Samedi. Sacred beliefs that are stolen and framed as monsters that stalk innocent women and children.

Other people’s religions are pillaged for monsters, gods rebuilt into depraved beasts that, without fail, hunger for white flesh. Christian beliefs and Christian values are grappled with for seasons, rebelled against with gravitas. Even when God is a deadbeat novelist named Chuck with an evil twin, the rosaries and rituals and holy water and prayers are still wielded as weapons to kill the wicked “pagan gods,” the foul, foreign, savage spirits and beasts.

You have shapeshifters, creatures that are somehow always evil: perhaps they’re assaulting innocents for their perverted pleasure, or they’re angry at being locked away and rejected because of their nature. Their nature, which is in itself no threat at all. Hunters, sure as American men always are with their guns and their black-and-white codes, call them “unnatural,” and we’re told they’re deserving of death. Their anger at being outcasts condemns them. Embracing the label of monster condemns them too.

You have families (always white families) trying to live their lives and being attacked by inhuman, awful things, over and over again. The family business, things that need to be eradicated with guns and fire and bloody stakes.

Supernatural is an American fantasy.

Supernatural takes place in a nation that doesn’t exist, backwoods Canada calling itself Las Vegas, a nation beset with inhuman threats that creep like rot from within. White, gun-toting alcoholics drive around in their car from the 60s and heroically, valiantly carry on the fight against the foul things that infiltrate their American dream. They kill walking, talking, feeling monsters with human faces, some of which have done no evil at all, and they are heroes.

Shapeshifters, witches, skinwalkers, foreign gods, these are things that do not deserve a trial. By their nature, they are evil. Our heroes roll through town in a muscle car and worn jeans, and shoot the monsters dead.

Saving people, hunting things.

(The white men with guns decide which is which.)

This is why I love Supernatural: it was fun to watch, still is really, if only for nostalgia’s sake; and I thought for a time there might be room in its story for me.

This is why I hate it: because it hates me. Because it hates everyone who is not a straight, cis, American, abled, culturally-Christian white man.

The first one in the left corner: It’s a first communion rosary, and it’s not cheap.

The black one in the first line: That’s a widow rosary and it’s old.

The white one in the second line:  is a commemoration rosary. It has a miniature picture in the round part. I haven’t seen that since the 70′s.

In the third line, multicolor one: It’s an Anima mundi, I have only seen those in the hands of Rosary ministery’s old ladies. The oldest ones are from the 80′s after Juan Pablo II came to Mexico for the first time. It’s one of the old ones, I know because the crucifixes are different.  The third one on the fourth line: Red and gold. The style is old, the metal is dark, that’s a 50′s rosary, probably a quinceañera one (or it’s maybe older, from the 40′s when the brides carried red roses with their offerings).

The fifth one on the fourth line: It’s a quinceañera rosary with Ignatius’s tear. The style is old and in my part of Mexico is orphan girls who used it. At least it was when I was young. The third one of the fifth line: the blue one with the anchor. That one I have only seen in Veracruz and it doesn’t look new. The fifth one on the fifth line: That’s a 90′s wedding rosary. Black and white patterns were popular on that date. The fourth one on the last line: That’s a first communion rosary from the 30′s. It’s delicate and most probably silver. The rest wrench my heart too, the humble everyday rosaries with wooden beads and knots. Those are cheap and bear the wear and tear of their user handling. But those  I described are much more.

Those are mother’s rosaries.

Now, by fake I mean: the alligator wasn’t real, it was put there as a prank by some Youtubers, to record people’s reactions. So the guy a) survived, and b) reacted as he would (AKA: fought a fucking alligator to save his friend) had it been real, because neither of them knew it wasn’t.