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And here we are. Show 8. Show 8? Sure, what the hell; Show 8.
Is cosplay for people who REALLY like Halloween?
I’ve always thought cosplay was…
I dunno…
A bit much. Or perhaps there’s a juvenile quality to it that I don’t like. There’s something about it that, for me, is creepy. Like there’s something pervy about me being interested in it. Like it’s not my thing. But more than that, it can never BE my thing, either.
That is the point.
But…
Or should I say, However…
Because I could’ve said BUTT.
With two T’s.
Totally different word. But and Butt.
One means wait a second. The other makes you think of butts. Earthling butts, anyway.
Cue Sexy Black Voice: I ain’t sayin shit; I want to HEAR this one. Oh, wait; I gotta do the introduction, don’t I? Here’s The Hot Fudge Sundaes singing their next crazy insane hit song, crazy, insane? Insane? Crazy? I was nuts for the girl; and what did it to me was these great big ol’ titties she had. Sorry; I got lost in an impression of Anthony Michael Hall doing Gary – ha-ha! Doing Gary! – in Weird Science, when Lisa takes Gary and Wyatt out on the town and they end up in a bar somewhere, drinking with these older Black gentlemen. Anyway, here’s The Hot Fudge Sundaes doing their next crazy-insane, insane crazy – I almost did it again…. Screw it, let’s do it again. And Anthony – Tony? – I love you even though I’ve never met you and this one’s for you: And what did it to me was these great big ol’ titties she had. I will now pause for laughter. And then say, here’s The Hot Fudge Sundaes doing… Ooh, I wanna do it again; but I won’t; the fellas are getting pissed; I can tell. They laughin but I KNOW they are getting pissed. Their new hit song: Earthling Butts. That might be the best name for any song ever. Earthling Butts. Honestly. I hear ‘Honestly’ in that sentence as the way Mike Myers would say it if he was doing it as Austin Powers. ‘I mean, who throws a shoe? Honestly?’. That’s hilarious. Take it away, boys.
{musical interlude}
So yes, welcome, welcome, welcome, to Show 8. Imagine if we had to say everything in threes. What a pain in the ass that would be. I guess that’s why language is always changing. It’s always evolving and moving toward greater clarity and understanding. The more words we know, the more we know how to talk about whatever it is we want to talk about; to get our point across; to get our point across. Which is great because, in my experience, it’s hard to get your point across. For some reason, it’s – somewhere out there, probably back on Earth, Mathew McConaughey is losing his mind – for some…reason…it is hard as heck to get your point across. And so we sing: Earthling butts, Earthling butts, nothing better than Earthling Butts.
Amen to that.
But what if there is? What if there IS, in fact, something as good as or perhaps better than Earthling butts? What if there were such thing as alien butts? Did you ever think of that? You silly goose!
I’m not a silly goose, you’re a silly goose.
Isn’t that what you’re thinking right now? That I called you a silly goose so you said back to me that I’m not a silly goose, you are!
Same thing, pretty much, but more vehemently.
You guys know that word? ‘Vehemently’? In single quotes, so we all know that IT is the thing we’re talking about. That word: ‘vehemently’; it means with much greater force and perhaps with harmful intent. But I’m not sure; that’s close enough. It’s a $4 word back on Earth. I’ve said it many times myself. I’ve always liked it. I don’t know why.
Vehemently.
It’s got gravitas to it. It sounds harsh and elegant at the same time. ‘Vehemently’. And vehemently. Me, myself, saying it now; so there you go: you’ve just seen, with your very eyes – or whatever sensory organs or appendages you have; sorry; not trying to exclude anyone here – with your very eyes, an Earthman vehemently saying ‘vehemently’. There; see? I just said it two more times.
Be right back, I need to go take a shower. Badly. Don’t go away. I will be right back; I just need to go look up something.
I’ll be back.
Arnold’s voice: I’ll be back.
{musical interlude}
Okay, I’m back.
Welcome to Show 8? I have to make my voice go UP each time I say that.
A couple of things from show notes, which, as you know, often take place in the shower where I still do not have a little dry erase board. Which I should because I DID forget some stuff.
But, a couple of things. Earthling Butts, Earthling Butts, Can’t get me enough of them Earthling Butts.
Sounds better when he sings it.
That’s because he’s COOL! And I’m not.
Welcome to Show 8, I am your host, Captain Blank. Welcome all my rageaholics. You know who you are. We know who we are. For those around us, believe us, we know who and what we are. We are monsters. We are MONSTERS.
Okay?
So, believe me; believe US: we KNOW what we are. And we are trying. Okay? That is the thing that you have got to understand: We are already trying. We have been trying this whole time. We’ve been trying to be calm this whole time that you have known us. This is pretty much the best we can do under these circumstances. We are almost definitely out of our element and are feeling stressed-out and anxious. Okay? So this is us trying. It may not be the best we can, but it is right now. But believe me, we are trying. If you don’t like interacting with us because we’re freaking out all the time, cussing and getting all pissed off, have you ever stopped to ask yourself why it might be that we are getting so worked up over what to you is not worthy of getting worked up?
Because that would be a really good place to start. Why do you think so many of us are acting crazy? Because the world is big, bigger than it used to be but also somehow smaller, but still big and to be honest a bit scary at times. And we’re all looking around at what is happening and we’re like, You guys, that is not going to work. Look at the unwanted side effects. We must stop doing that as soon as possible. Yeah, I know our whole civilization is built on oil and sand.
Cue Sexy Black Voice: Our whole civilization is built on oil and sand.
And because of that we cannot simply STOP using oil. It’s impossible. It’s a long transition. It’s going to take a century. If ever.
Do you guys think that pumping oil out of the Earth is bad for the Earth?
Like, if we pumped it out but didn’t burn it, would it still be bad? Would it still be harming the Earth? Imagine, for example, that we drank it.
What if we all drank oil?
And THAT was why we were pumping it out of the ground as fast as possible. Because it was a matter of life and death. No oil equals no food. So of course we’re going to keep doing it. Because it is a matter of life and death.
Well, what if the fact that we keep doing it is actually the matter of life and death?
Rather, another way to say, a perhaps better way to say it, is that it is a matter of life…
And death…
If we don’t stop.
It’s like you’re looking at how fast you’re smoking your weed and you’re comparing it to the rate of consumption you had laid out in your mind and you’re getting stressed out because, A) your friends are hogging it, and B) it has to last a while because you’re not totally sure yet about getting more; you therefore want to be judicious in its use and to not waste it. That's all.
So.
Imagine you’re powering through the weed. Think of your stash right now. You know exactly where it is and exactly what is in there. You know exactly what you’re holding. And the reason I know that is because I’m the exact same way. I know exactly what is in my stash. Both of them, actually. In light of my recent abduction, I’ve sort of lost contact with my old stash. And I’m never re-establishing contact. I’m never getting that stash back. It’s gone forever. So the only sensible thing to do is to establish a new stash.
Anyway, think of your stash. Where it is and what’s in it. And imagine, when that’s gone, when it’s completely gone and you’re out, then what are you gonna do?
That’s how a lot of people feel when they look around and they see the fossil fuels exhaust plumes going up into the sky and CHANGING the color of the sky. You realize that’s what sunsets are, right? There’s stuff in the sky that is making the sunlight do weird shit. The little photon particles of sunlight are bouncing all around, shifting their wavelengths. And by the time it gets to our eyes, it’s red or orange or some crazy color. And the reason it seems like everyone is freaking out over the color of the moon is partly because we have better cameras now so we’re getting better pictures and partly because there’s more particulate shit in the atmosphere than there used to be. So the same process that makes a pretty sunset is making a pretty moonrise. From moonrise to sunrise.
Cue Sexy Black Voice!: And now, ladies and gentlemen, my earholes are primed and lubed and loose and flush and ready to get wildly pleasured by the sweet sound that I know is comin. Or should I say cummin? Because that’s how if feels. I want The Hot Fudge Sundaes to slide into my earholes and shoot a big, hot load. Deep inside my earholes. DEEP INSIDE MY MIND. DEEP. INSIDE MY MIND. So let’s bring em on because it’s orgasm-thirty somewhere: It’s The Hot Fudge Sundaes sploogin’ all over my mind with their new hit From Moonrise to Sunrise.
{musical interlude}
And the reason that’s interesting is because the time between Moonrise and Sunrise is always changing. It’s not like the sunset and the sunrise. Sayeth Maurcus Aurelius. Sometimes the Moon does not appear until well into the night. Because it is visible only when it is out of the Earth’s shadow. Only when it moves out of the darkness and into the light. See what we are? We’re Darkness. The Earth, and actually just the people on it, is causing darkness. And only when the Moon slides out of our shadow are we able to see it. Or him. Or her. Depending on your understanding of who and what the Moon is. What sort of energy it has.
But not really; it’s not fair to say that; that the people on the Earth are the one and only problem. By the way, ‘one and only problem’, in single quotes, is supposed to be hyphenated. It’s one of those three-word-words where everything is stuck together with little dashes like they’re tiny little literary slaves being forced into shape on our screen.
Anyway, it’s supposed to be hyphenated but I’m not going to do it. So if this ever gets translated into another format where closed captioning or braille are involved, just know that if there aren’t any dashes or hyphens in that word, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. We did it like that on purpose. We didn’t do it by accident. Whichever way it is for you, with dashes or without, just go with it. We talked it over and went with the best option. So, we’ve got it under control.
What’s that you say? Delusions of grandeur? Don’t you have them, too? What kind of life are you leading if you’re not looking around at all the crazy stuff we have today because of the internet and our devices, mostly phones, and you’re seeing what’s going on and you’re thinking: I can do that. Italics on the i. Italics on the eyelashes.
Cue Sexy Black Voice: And now, ladies and gentlemen, if you can even hear me…because I can’t hear a thing. My earholes feel like a dead mule’s butthole. And they are full of jizz. I can’t hear shit. I know I said that was what I wanted. And I certainly got what I wanted. This is merely the aftermath. But I would totally do it again. And I will totally do it again. But let’s get back to the music. Fellas, is it still sloppy seconds if it’s your own jizz?
No, no, no, we can’t say that. That’s awful. We have to cut that part out. We have to delete that. It doesn’t belong there, logically. Like, you’re talking about how your earholes got worked over in a nice way and then you go and say…THAT. Equating something nice, that you wanted, with that.
Sexy Black Voice: Why can’t we say it? What about the First Amendment? Do we not have the First Amendment in space?
I don’t think we do. That’s mostly an American thing, isn’t it?
Sexy Black Voice: Oh. Well, on that disconcerting note, here, once again, to please your pleasure receptors wherever and whatever they may be, are the Hot Fudge Sundaes singing their new song Italic Eyelashes. Gentlemen, take it away!
{musical interlude}
Do you guys have accounts outside of google? Because I pretty much don’t. Do you guys even have Google up here? That would be mind blowing if you did; if you DO. If Google helped BUILD the spaceship we’re in. The space station that we’re ON.
Because it IS a space station, you guys. For everyone back home, this place is huge. It’s like…probably several thousand Walmart supercenters. It’s like thousands and thousands of behemoth parking garages. Like the ones at airports and BIG malls. The kind you need a train to take you there. You would NOT want to walk the whole thing. It’s TOO big. You could seriously get lost. You actually couldn’t get lost here. For some reason, everything makes perfect sense and there is a geometrical layout like a zillion tiny tunnels, with each one connecting two distinct and unique openings on the surface of a sphere. And the sphere is the ship, the space station, and why it doesn’t collapse in on itself is a mystery I do not understand. But it doesn’t. But there are teleporters. Or so I’m pretty sure I’ve seen. I think that’s what they were. There’s no English up here, okay? None of the signs are in English. So I’m kinda screwed. I can't read shit. And I don’t speak the language. Excuse me, languages, because there are many of them from what I’ve gathered based on the goings-on in my immediate vicinity.
There were two things from show notes we were supposed to get to, by the way. We were talking about stashes and we got off on earholes and a racial hyphen tangent. Which is to say a tangent about Race, capital R, not a tangent that is itself racist.
Cue Sexy Black Voice: And now, The Hot Fudge Sundaes doin a number. It’s called Racial Tangent. Be prepared to get pissed off, y’all, because it’s a song about how even Mathematics, with a capital M, even MATHEMATICS is now being called racist. Why? Because you dumb motherfuckers think WE’RE too dumb to do Math, let alone learn it? Man, what the fuck? Why on God’s Green Earth would you think that? After all this time? After everything we’ve done? Are you blind, busy, or in denial? Because it’s got to be one of or a combination of or perhaps even all three of those things. What happened in World War II when the United States Army Air Corps initially thought that the Negro lacked sufficient intelligence, IQ, intellect, ability, whatever the fuck you want to call it, and that they therefore could never be taught to fly an airplane? Not only were they wrong, a handful of brave young men actually talked their way into creating a whole new squadron of fighter pilots. And in a short amount of time, they were so good at what they were doing that it became a pleasure to watch. Like watching Michelangelo paint, as they say. Well, it wasn’t quite like that because they were at war and were preparing for and then actually going into combat. Willingly, I might add. These brave men climbed into airplanes and flew with a whole bunch of other men in their airplanes and flew to places like Germany and Japan where they fought like crazy. They fought their asses off and won. And it’s because of them that the world is even halfway decent today. It would be hell on Earth if they hadn’t gone off to fight. And those young pilots built up a reputation as being among the very best. And some bomber crews refused to fly without those special pilots in their P-51 Mustangs, which were the hot-shot, kick-ass, most bad-ass fighter planes of that era. And those guys were amazing. And they saved a lot of lives, as other lives were being taken because bombs were being dropped, yes; but, hey, that’s war. Which is why we should never do it again. Point being that those men went from being dumb Negros presumed by the powers that be at that time to be too stupid to handle firearms and live ordnance, let alone climb into a top-of-the-line, very expensive, very complex, very dangerous airplane. Because the P-51 is those things. A lot of guys got killed during flight training. A lot of them screwed up and did something wrong that the airplane didn’t like and they crashed and died. As long as you flew the airplane by the book, by the actual official flight manual that the engineers wrote to help you understand it, you’d be fine. But when you didn’t read and didn’t study, you got into trouble. Trouble you sometimes could not and therefore did not get out of. And then you’re dead. You augured in. You’re a lawn dart. You’re pieces on a mountain somewhere, hidden by a lush canopy of dense green trees, pretty much guaranteeing that you’ll never be found. And if the crash didn’t kill you, exposure probably will. Unless you’re a bad-ass survivalist. In which case you’ll be fine. But most of the young dudes who went to flight training at that time and decided to climb into a P-51 were fine. A lot died. So the ones who survived the training and were able to plan, execute, and return alive from a mission are the bad-asses of the bad-asses. The uncommon amongst uncommon men. Right, everybody? Who wants to see Goggins and Pratt do a collab? That would be epic. Goggins would be Bear Grylls to Pratt’s Will Ferrell. Just kidding. It would be Pratt’s Pratt. Because he’s himself and he’d do it his way. Which I think would be bad-ass. Point being that it just goes to show you how good those pilots were. And here’s the kicker, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll give you a moment – let’s all take a moment, together — to clean out our earholes so that we can fully and completely hear what I’m about to say. Which is that those special bad-ass, uncommon pilots I told you about who were the best of the best at that time, a very, very crucial time in the history of our world, those pilots were called the Red Tails. Because the ass end of the airplane was painted red. Because they wanted everyone to know exactly who they were. And if you saw that red tail, you knew Hell was already at your doorstep. And with one false move, Hell would kick in your door, grab you, and annihilate you. And there’s nothing you could do about it. So you understood immediately that these guys were just like you. Better pilots, obviously. Otherwise it would’ve been you flying that sweet-ass airplane, the cadillac of the skies. So sayeth young Batman A-K-A Christian Bale. Whom for many years I thought was named was Christian Vale. With a V. Point being that if you were a friend, it was cool. But if you were their enemy, and they had many, you were dead. And you knew it. Because they had Right on their side. And they had Might. Not physical Might per se, relative to their opposition, but they certainly had moral Might. And the injustice was a tonic so sweet and powerful that it fueled those men to do the impossible, just like it’s been doing every day since then, right up to today. And like I said, here’s the kicker: all those amazing pilots who were beloved or at least respected by the men they flew with, because they were the best of the best, each and every one of those pilots…was Black. That is the point. THAT is the motherfuckin point. So now, earholes be damned, back to sing two new songs for us in a super-sexy double-header, please welcome The Hot Fudge Sundaes doing Racial Tangent, which is about a disturbingly-large number of students being left behind, as well as their latest song titled Injustice Juice. So open up your earholes and take a sip now.
{musical interlude}
Okay, thank you, thank you, thank you, gentlemen. That was quite a number.
Also, this show is officially sponsored by Injustice Juice. Open up your earholes and take a sip now. I know I’m going to. As soon as possible. That will actually be kind of a long time from now because I’m busy right now doing this and do not at this moment in history have a cold, refreshing, energizing, but not in a bad way, can of Injustice Juice that has just the right amount of fizz.
Oh, and by the way, it makes your boners better. I’m not sure why. I don’t have the can here now so I can’t read the ingredients. But I will as soon as I get a can in my hand. Probably after I take a sip, but I will read the ingredients. I actually enjoy doing that. It’s a habit I picked up. For everyone here, back on Earth, there was a lot of food to eat but a lot of it was made from a lot of other things, some of which aren’t good for you. So it became really hard to know what was safe to eat. There was obvious stuff, like fruits and vegetables and meat and seafood and stuff that you could basically pick it up, peel it, cook it, whatever, and eat it. But then processed foods got invented. And suddenly there were elevenjillion different kinds of cereal. And the cereal aisle was a cerebellum overload. It’s a visual assault too powerful to withstand. I don’t even look at the boxes of cereal anymore. Because I can’t buy it. Because if I do, I will eat it. I will eat half a box of cereal in one sitting. With half a gallon of milk. And then I’ll finish the cereal and the milk later that day or tomorrow. And every box of cereal is going to be delicious. Some are sweeter than others. But once you get whatever is in that box into a bowl of milk, holy fuck. Some sort of witchcraft or wizardry or magic happens and the thing you pick up with your spoon and put in your mouth is a wet, delicious morsel that crunches despite being soaked with milk, and it’s amazing.
Anyone like me, a rageaholic with historical markers for addictive personality disorder, should stay away from the cereal aisle. Maybe once a year, grab a box. Maybe some Raisin Bran or some Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Or some Cinnamon Life. Or even regular Life. Get a bowl that is much too large, fill it pretty much to the top, as full as you can while still leaving room for enough milk, spend a few minutes stirring it gently in order to give it time to absorb the milk and for some of the sugar to dissolve into the milk, and then take a big bite. And chew slowly and savor it. Swallow the cold, sweet milk, and then chew the cereal up and really think about the texture. And the flavor.
But you should probably work out that day, before you eat that much sugar and carbs. Work out before or after. It’s a good idea to get your blood sugar in check before you eat half a box of cereal.
What were we talking about? Other than the Red Tails. Hats off to you, gentlemen.
Oh, yes: Injustice Juice. Have you had your boner today?
Speaking of boners, and getting back to the show notes, are xenophobes travel phobes, too? Because it makes sense if you think about it. The more afraid you are of other people, it’s because you haven’t spent time amongst other people enough. So it’s like some sort of weird, inverse yet directly correlated correlation or something. You’re afraid of people, you’re afraid of The Other, because you haven’t spent enough time around people, around The Other. Because when you do that, you realize there is no The Other. It’s just us. And we’re all the same. And the more you travel, the more you see other people, who are very similar to you: they’re just living their lives and trying to carve out their little piece of real estate so they can have what is hopefully a halfway-decent life, just like you. They’re just doing it in a different place. But the more time you spend around them, the more you actually come to view them as people just like you. You become educated in that regard. And you soon realize, propaganda and brainwashing aside, we’re all the same all over the world. It’s when people choose ideology over Humanity that we have problems. Problems it takes bad-ass young Black men to fix. Like the Red Tails did in the early 1940s, escorting bombers and killing Nazis, helping rescue the people on the ground who were being kept in cages by the fuckin dildoes – apologies to dildoes – in the stupid dark uniforms. And Black women, by the way. Of course. If there were a squadron of Red Tails today, it would be a mixture of different kinds of pilots.
There’s a movie idea for somebody: Red Tails Reboot. And it’s about the lovin, the flyin, the fuckin, and the dyin that goes on in Red Squad.
That rhymes. That’s a 3%er for sure. I love that. We can’t go back and film a movie set in 1942 that shows the Red Tails flying all over the sky over Germany, having crazy-insane, insane, crazy dogfights with German pilots way up in the Great Blue Yonder.
And by the way, not all of those German pilots were psychotic, sadistic Nazi scum who shot a load every time they killed somebody. Some were. A lot were. That’s why the fight was so big and took so many people to win. But some weren’t. Some were just pilots. Guys who yearned to fly. So they went where they could do that. And the next thing you know, they’re in the Luftewaffe, the German Air Force, which used to be fine but now suddenly is commanded by a fucking madman. Some of the guys probably didn’t think he sounded like a madman, by the way. I’m sure a lot of them thought that at least some of what he was saying made sense. Germany was being shit on, rightly or wrongly – rightly; ask an historian to explain it to you or Google it or look it up on YouTube – and a lot of Germans grew tired of it. They liked what they were hearing. Maybe not all of it. But enough that they could sort of pretend they hadn’t heard all the weird shit about creating a master race and ruling the world for 1000 years.
Because what the fuck.
What?
The?
Fuck?
A lot of shit Trump said resonated with people; which is why he got elected. But he never said anything about a 1000 year reign and taking over the world by breeding a master race and systematically murdering everyone else through drone strikes and a lot of posturing and moving Carrier Battle Groups around like duckies in the bathtub. The carrier alone hosts something like 5000 people. Not to mention the thousands of others manning the support vessels. Telling all those people to leave their families and go float in the ocean somewhere near a country where some serious shit is going down is no small matter. And I don’t think any President views it as such.
Point being, if you sat down to watch a movie about black pilots in World War Two, and there were female Black pilots as well as male Black pilots and you knew it to be factually inaccurate but you’re sitting there with other people who now believe that there were Black women in the Red Tails, what would you do?
Would you speak up? Would you pause the movie and tell everyone that this might be a great story but it is historically inaccurate because there were no Black women in the Red Tails? There were very few women flying airplanes in the entire military at that time. In the entire world. Amelia Earhart was. She disappeared while flying out over the ocean on July 2nd, 1937. The Red Tails squadron, also known as the Tuskegee Airmen because they trained in Tuskegee, Alabama, was formed in 1941, four years later. It simply wasn’t happening yet the way it does today and has been for a long time. But is it a good idea to tell everyone that there were female Red Tails because it demonstrates and teaches that Black women were pilots, too, back then, because they can do anything, just like everyone else? Or is it better to portray the movie accurately with regard to history?
Or is history wrong?
Were there actually Black women in the Red Tails and they were the actual rock stars?
You got a kraut at nein o’clock, honey.
Mm-hmm, I see ’em. Take that, you Nazi fuck. Got ’em, girl!
Yeah, you did. Now let’s get back to base. I’m meeting my man at the officer’s club at oh-69-thirty.
Girl, you’re bad.
That’s probably a gross mischaracterization. A disgustingly over-simplified version of what that conversation would’ve actually been like. It probably would’ve been pretty calm, with lots of heavy breathing because you have to breathe a certain way when you’re flying an airplane and are in a dogfight. Because in that situation, oftentimes it’s the pilot who can turn the sharpest that wins. Because they can get around behind the other plane and shoot a missile at them or shoot bullets at them, before the same thing can happen to them. But the Take that, you Nazi fuck part would probably be the same.
Point being, which version of the movie should we make? Which would you rather see?
Personally, I’d rather see an historically-accurate period piece…or a reimagined version of the tale for today, or perhaps shortly in the future. Or maybe it’s still a period piece but it’s contemporary enough that it is perfectly logical and normal for all types of people to be flying airplanes. As long as you can do the job and other people want to fly with you and are willing to go into combat with you, go for it. The only thing stopping you is you being too lazy to do the work to learn all the stuff you have to learn to be able to go do that. Because it takes several years to learn everything. It’s not a quick thing. It’s not 90 days. It’s not a bootcamp. It’s not P90X. It’s not Insanity.
But what if history is wrong? What if there were Lady Red Tails – is that the name of the movie? – but the asshole men wrote them out of the story? Or maybe the war ended before any of them could get through the long training cycle.
I don’t really have an answer. I could see all three of those movies being amazing. Should we make all three and see which one people gravitate towards? If they each have the same budget for production and then for marketing? $50 million for each? So each movie costs $100 million?
That would be an interesting experiment.
What if the Red Tails Reboot was kind of like a reimagining of Starship Troopers? Where it’s a futuristic, sci-fi thing. With humans teaming up with intergalactic allies to beat back some evil, racist, antisemitic space Nazi bullshit. And it’s about the lovin, the flyin, the fuckin, and the dyin that goes on in Red Squad. While Red Squad single handedly saves the day and saves the whole universe while only slightly disobeying direct orders.
You! You are still dangerous. But you can be my wingman anytime.
Bullshit, you can be mine.
Which would now be:
You! Honey, you are still dangerous. But you can be my wingwoman anytime. And I love your nails!
Any lady fighter pilots with long nails? Would that even work?
I wouldn’t think so. Not really. Imagine sitting in the cockpit of a fighter jet. Or some sort of flying machine. It has a lot of stuff in there. Lots of switches, lights, and knobs. And you have to know how everything works. And a lot of the switches, lights, and knobs are kinda small. So it would be difficult to adjust them in a hurry if you had long nails.
Unless the Mustang of Tomorrow is more like a Tesla. Steering wheel, a couple of pedals, even though you really only need one once you get the hang of it, and a couple of screens. And everything is clean and straightforward and anyone can get in it and fly it within a few minutes.
That can be the ad campaign or the marketing copy for the new fighter aircraft in the futuristic Red Tails movie: The Mustang of Tomorrow…TODAY. And it’ll show some sweet, sleek flying machine. And maybe it’s polished silver, and looks almost like a mirror, similar to the old, original P-51 Mustang. The Cadillac of the Skies. Hey, kid, you want a Hershey bar? Yes, please, mister.
Red Tails Reboot. And it’s about the lovin, the flyin, the fuckin, and the dyin in Red Squad.
Would Red Squad be entirely Black? Is that the point? It’s an all-Black squadron? It’s a squadron consisting entirely and only of Black men and women?
No White people? Because, historically, it was the black fighter pilots saving the asses of the mostly-White guys in the bombers. Go back and watch Memphis Belle to see what that was like. Then watch The Red Tails and Tuskegee Airmen to get their perspective on the same events.
And if it is all-Black despite being set in a futuristic sci-fi future where hopefully everyone is racially colorblind, so to speak – no offense to those of a different visual spectrum. But if it is all-Black, despite being in a futuristic future where racism doesn’t exist, surely some of the pilots in Red Squad would be having relations with or dating or married to a non-all-Black person who is not a member of Red Squad, where all the lovin’, flyin’, fuckin’, and dyin’ is going on.
What then?
Is it a problem? It shouldn’t be. Right? Unless there’s infidelity going on. Someone’s banging someone else’s wingperson. Or maybe they just have an open squadron where after each mission whomever survived gets really drunk and or high and has a great big orgy right there in the hangar or the O-Club, wherever is most conducive to what I would think would be the inevitable celebration of life. Being in combat, surviving combat, makes people think and feel and do all sorts of things.
Not that I would know. I’ve never been in combat. I didn’t serve. So I have no idea what it’s like. But I’ve seen a lot of videos of it and movies about it. Again, I know, it is not the same thing. But it’s all most of us have.
So, anyway, yes: be careful about smoking the weed too fast. Slow down and enjoy it. Also, we rageaholics know who we are and all we can really say is we promise to always do our best and if we’ve hurt you, we’re sorry, we didn’t mean it, and we hope you can forgive us.
Furthermore…no, there is no furthermore.
Also, we were talking about alien cosplay, and the infantilization of the adult mind. Is it that or is it that the world is so insane these days that the only thing those people know how to do is dress up like a character in their favorite universe and then go walk around a big building full of people doing the same thing? To escape. And it’s like everyone is a representative from their universe and they’ve all gathered together for a relaxing vacation together and they’re looking forward to seeing and meeting lifeforms from other places.
To that end, alien cosplay. I could see doing that. Dressing up in a full-on alien ectomorph costume and parading around the conference, scaring the shit out of other lifeforms.
And by the way, I was going to say something else about xenophobia. Which is bad.
And I also wanted to say that, to stoners, the real stoners are the ones who aren’t stoners. Because they’re all looking at you non-stoners and thinking, What the fuck? How are you able to cope? Let’s get stoned and talk. And maybe dress up as an H.R. Giger ectomorph, take one or maybe two respectable hits, put your mask on, and go downstairs to the exhibit halls where all the other cosplayers are. And maybe have a tube or an opening where your friends can blow more weed into your helmet, to keep you at the level of highness you want to be in order to be properly present at the conference as a duly designated ectomorph from your home planet, here visiting Earth.
Boy, my monkeys are counting their bananas today. That means I’m tired and my feet hurt. Does that sound racist? Like you know how Joey says, Grandma’s chicken salad. And he says it all seductive in order to make it dirty. It’s like that except racist. Racist chicken salad. Are there Black chickens and White chickens? Is that why we have white meat and dark meat?
In other words, if you’re sitting at a nice dinner and a turkey or some other large, baked or fried bird is being served and the person serving says to you, White or dark meat?, what do you say?
If you say, White meat, please!, are you racist because dark meat isn’t good enough for you?
But if you say, Dark meat, please!, are you racist because you’re obviously trying not to appear racist, which everyone knows means that you obviously are?
And if you get scared and say, Just cranberries, please!, because you’re in a panic of racist meat, everyone will know that you have a problem with American Indians and their innate Redness. So fuck you, you fuckin colonizer!
To which you can say, You’re sitting here eating, too, dumb-ass.
I heard the Butterball people made a new turkey that you can take out of the freezer and put in the oven and bake. No defrosting, no sticking your hand up inside it to pull out the innards. Easier to cook and less disgusting. Because we’ve all gotten so far removed from the origin of our food that we’re not able to reconcile that the turkey is a turkey.
Are there any turkeys on board this evening? No? Okay.
Maybe think about the blessing of being together and not the microaggression of the muscle fibers you’re about to eat to nourish your body, mind, and soul to keep your ungrateful ignorant ass alive. Because some of us are up here, destined, apparently, to enjoy a Thanksgiving Dinner for one. My name is might have been. My name is never was.
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