“C'mon Olympians it’s bedtime, time to go to your anti fuck beds!”
wtf is the “weight of one person”?
they’re acting like some of the athletes aren’t 95lbs and others 300lbs+
Yeah, you bring a good point. I know weighlifters and other fat athletes get treated like shit on the daily, but this is excessive
this is completely fake btw. these beds are intended to be recyclable and can hold up to 440lbs/200kg. there are no reputable outlets reporting on this “anti-sex” beds and the only ones that do are citing the tweet above. here’s another article disproving it like yes fat athletes get treated like shit and it’s important we talk about it but this whole anti sex bed thing is 100% untrue lol
Feminist fantasy is funny sometimes in how much it wants to shit on femininity for no goddamned reason. Like the whole “skirts are tools of the patriarchy made to cripple women into immobility, breeches are much better” thing.
(Let’s get it straight: Most societies over history have defaulted to skirts for everyone because you don’t have to take anything off to relieve yourself, you just have to squat down or lift your skirts and go. The main advantage of bifurcated garments is they make it easier to ride horses. But Western men wear pants so women wearing pants has become ~the universal symbol of gender equality~)
The book I’m reading literally just had its medievalesque heroine declare that peasant women wear breeches to work in the field because “You can’t swing a scythe in a skirt!”
Hm yes story checks out
peasant women definitely never did farm labour in skirts
skirts definitely mean you’re weak and fragile and can’t accomplish anything
skirts are definitely bad and will keep you from truly living life
no skirts for anyone, that’s definitely the moral of the story here
Now, a skirt that’s too long will be harder to work in–skirts brushing the floor may look elegant, but is also a tripping hazard–but that is not a problem with skirts in general, it’s a problem with that particular skirt not being suited to being worked in.
Skirts are very practical. You can hike them up if you’re hot or need more freedom to maneuver (this is called “girding your loins”). If you need to carry something, you can lift up your hem and make a pouch just like the person in yellow in the bottom picture above. If you need to handle something hot, a skirt generally has enough material you can hold it out from your body to use as a hot pad. (Tight skirts were only used by people who didn’t need to work/move until the invention of elastic fabric.)
Long skirts were markers of class almost as much as gender. Both men and women in the European middle ages wore extravagantly long garments to indicate both “I’m so rich I can afford THIS MUCH fabric” and “I don’t walk in the mud, I pay servants to do that for me.”
Skirt hiking: Definitely a Thing. (Janet’s tied her kirtle green/above the knee and not below…)
Love this post, and want to add: another example of the “empowerment means shitting on feminity” is the bizarro way that this genre attacks basic survival skills like cooking and sewing as pointless, inferior or mutually exclusive with masculine pursuits (like your lady knight should probably know how to cook for herself and sew her own wounds and patch her clothes while she’s on her quest through the North to rescue her boyfriend, or this happy couple is in for a world of hurt!)
Historically, skirts have been the garment of choice for almost every culture, gender and class. Breeches, or pants, were created specifically for riding horses.
“Perhaps you have forgotten. That’s one of the great problems of our modern world, you know. Forgetting. The victim never forgets. Ask an Irishman what the English did to him in 1920 and he’ll tell you the day of the month and the time and the name of every man they killed. Ask an Iranian what the English did to him in 1953 and he’ll tell you. His child will tell you. His grandchild will tell you. And when he has one, his great-grandchild will tell you too. But ask an Englishman—” He flung up his hands in mock ignorance. “If he ever knew, he has forgotten. ‘Move on!’ you tell us. ‘Move on! Forget what we’ve done to you. Tomorrow’s another day!’ But it isn’t, Mr. Brue.” He still had Brue’s hand. “Tomorrow was created yesterday, you see. That is the point I was making to you. And by the day before yesterday, too. To ignore history is to ignore the wolf at the door.”
I’ve thought about her Every minute since I reblogged this yesterday
can they do that? are you allowed to just fuckin… click and drag yourself like that? y’all practitioning the dark arts???? these people are out here defying gravity. moving around like the DVD player screensaver. they hacked reality and started wiggling their bodies back and forth like the Spore creature creator. I’m pretty sure they can clip through walls at will. shit.
When I lived in London, there was an old widow who lived near me. She had almost nothing to her name thanks to the laws at the time, except a small room in a house full of lodgers. She frequently made the difference in her meager living by doing spinning. Trouble was, she was almost completely blind and had very frail hands. She would nod off in her chair–the one piece of furniture she had–and leave the wool in the basket. I could see her from the rooftop that I liked to sit on, just off of Fish Street. And I knew her at sight, because she was always meeting her daughter in front of a particular shop I used to frequent. One night, I saw her nod off and the spindle hit the floor, and I thought, “I’m bored, and isn’t this a fun game to play?”
So I went and did it. I like spinning. It’s calming. It troubled me not one bit to do, and when the habit persisted, she began to wonder about it. She started leaving me presents and relying on me a bit, going to sleep on her mat, rather than sitting up in the chair. The spinning would always be done.
What wrong with giving an old woman magic, if it is within your power to do?
I found her body when she died, by that very means, and made sure someone else knew of it. It makes me very happy that when she laid down that night, perhaps not feeling her best, or perhaps knowing it was time, she said to herself, “My little imp will come tonight and see to me.”
And I did.
The real life Rumplstiltskin.
I’m afraid that was not my name at the time, but yes.
Man called Owen Wilson made these posters (found here on Twitter) and the English are going absolutely bonkers with fury, cancelling holidays and supposedly “reporting” him to various UK authorities…and he’s just like, “off you pop,” “Wales isn’t in England” lmao
Relatedly, Denmark just put all of the UK except for Wales on the red list, apparently, and I don’t know if that was intentional or a bureaucratic mistake but my Welsh language Facebook feed is going apeshit with joy
overstimulation/sensory overload really is like sorry I can’t hear you over the sound of my shirt tag being itchy and these two strands of hair touching my face and the tv and one of my shoelaces being undone and air touching me and the plane flying overhead and my own thoughts about remembering to buy hummus