"Hey can I get a pup cup?"

#dog #dogs #DogsOfMastodon

Portland, Oregon, this 27th day of September, Anno Domini 2025

My Dearest Winnie,

Read this by candle or cold brew, and know that if irony were a currency, this missive alone would bankrupt the world. I write you from the smoldering, raucous theatre of absurdity that was once called downtown, for yesterday the orange impresario himself rode forth with his ragged coterie, and Providence saw fit to turn the whole affair into a comedy so perfect it will be quoted by drunk philosophers for generations.

They came in formation, a ragtag parade of bluster and bad toupees, flanked by Rudy with his permanent squint, Steve with his grievance, Bannon with a wild grin, Pam with her practiced smile, Kash with all the misplaced confidence of a man who once trusted his gut, Pete with an unnatural fondness for stunt uniforms, and a congress of lesser clowns—men and women assembled from cable news, rancid think tanks, and the desperate corners of the internet. Trump took command atop an olive-drab Humvee, his face a living billboard of insult and hunger. He raised his hand, and the assembled MAGA legion roared like a carnival of used-car salesmen.

They had plans, Winnie. They unfurled maps, they argued tactics, they debated whether to charge the city or merely tweet it into submission. They deployed the usual props—armored vehicles painted with inexplicable slogans, an enormous banner that read MAKE PORTLAND NORMAL AGAIN, a portable microphone that echoed his bravado into the mist. They expected fear, surrender, perhaps even a baying of permitless fury. They expected to be taken seriously.

What Portland gave them was wrath wrapped in irony, a tactical response of mockery and artful weirdness. The first volley came not from a baton but from a chorus of brass bands, their players mounted on food carts, playing dissonant polkas until the generals’ heads swam. Then came the poets, three deep, chanting alternately in rhyme and profanity, making the men in fatigues blush with shame. A phalanx of cyclists, moustaches waxed, man buns immaculate, formed a rolling barricade, their spokes glittering like a thousand tiny swords. A flotilla of donated houseplants, each labeled with a passive-aggressive note, blocked an avenue until the generals consulted a florist.

Rudy proposed a flank, and immediately a squad of knitting grandmothers confronted him with needles poised, their eyes colder than any tribunal. Bannon attempted a firebrand speech, and a flock of drag performers answered with a synchronized lip-sync so savage that several aides fainted from aesthetic confusion. Pam sought to command respect by distributing glossy pamphlets; they dissolved under the light drizzle into confetti that the children swept into the mouths of marching toddlers. Kash, ever certain in his own narrative, advanced with an air of menace, only to be waylaid by a spontaneous improv troupe that convinced him he was a supporting actor in an avant-garde play about risk management. He wept on cue, then apologized to everyone for being him.

Trump attempted to restore order by ordering a charge, and for a glorious minute the scene looked as if history itself might be consulted. They advanced, flags snapping, rhetoric rehearsed, boots marching with terrible rhythm. The crowd parted, and from the parted crowd emerged the weapon no general could have foreseen: satire, precise as a blade, merciless as winter. Someone unfurled a banner reading WOLVERINES FOR PEACE, and the line paused, uncertain whether to be insulted or recruited. A barista climbed atop a dumpster and read aloud a scathing Yelp review of their coiffures. A dozen scooters—painted florescent—scooted forward in formation, clipping heels, and sending the march into a tangle of cords and broken dignity.

The pitched battle devolved into theatre, and theatre is Portland’s home field. The MAGA column found itself pelted not with rocks, but with artisanal bagels, each smeared with righteous schmear. They were hosed not with water, but with cold brew, a caffeinated baptism. Their armored Humvee became a canvas for a group of performance artists who glued postcards, plant tags, and manifestos to its flanks until it resembled a very bad museum exhibit. One lieutenant, in a moment of existential surrender, was compelled to join a flash mob that taught him how to vogue. He did it badly, but with commendable commitment.

By noon their morale had curdled. They tried to regroup at the central plaza, only to be greeted by a coalition of satirists who projected fake news onto the side of City Hall, each headline more ludicrous than the last. Bannon tried to retort with a screed, and a chorus of middle schoolers responded, chanting, “You’re canceled, sir, you’re canceled.” It was devastating. Their speeches became the butt of jokes whispered into phones and then amplified into the sky like a thousand tiny sirens.

At last, defeated not by force but by a civilization’s sense of humor, they retreated—hobbling, confused, and astoundingly coiffed. Trump mounted his Humvee, looked back with the defiant squint of a man who will not accept ridicule, and declared the day a “strategic redeployment.” The crowd responded with a chorus of laughter, the sound of which rolled through the streets like thunder and left the generals staring at one another in a new and terrible silence. They had been mocked, jeered, and cartooned into irrelevance, their threats rendered into memes before their boots cooled.

Winnie, there was pathetic grandeur to their failure. They fell not like warriors, but like men who had been invited on stage for a roast and then could not find the exit. Their policy papers were replaced by zines. Their proclamations were sung in falsetto by a brass trio. Their last act was to try to reclaim dignity by posing for a photograph, and the only photograph that remains is one in which a pigeon defecated on the brim of a chief’s hat. History will not remember them as conquerors, but as the evening’s entertainment.

And us, beloved, we carried on. We tended to the injured, mostly scraped egos and ruined hair, we organized an impromptu potluck of apologies and kombucha, and we painted a mural along the fence that read KEEP IT WEIRD, KEEP IT WILD, KEEP THE HUMOR SHARP. The city smelled of incense, victory, and the faint perfume of reformulated bravado.

When the dust settled and the last tweet was archived into the great heap of bad ideas, I walked the avenue and thought of you. How small these men seem when stripped of pretense, how enormous the city feels when it refuses to bow. If ever there is a ledger of brave, strange acts, let them write that Portland laughed them off the field, that wit triumphed over bluster, that irony was not merely a costume but a shield, and that we, who love this place for its delicious oddity, stood fast.

Return to me soon, and bring a scarf, for the nights grow cooler, and the city always smells of possibility. If the generals return, let them bring stronger slogans, and perhaps some humility. Until then, I remain your faithful, ridiculous, and utterly in love correspondent,

Ever yours,
Major Hugo “Manbun” Reynolds, Stumptown Volunteers

#battleofportland

picture a day: sep 27

cjs-wunderkammer.ghost.io/pict…

#photography #blog #cats #faceplant #Caturday

picture a day: sep 27

Paying the Caturday tax today. 😺 Here we have Sprite faceplanting against my leg, but he's giving a bonus "poof head", what we call it when the fur on the back of his head is all poofed out for whatever reason (excitement, grouchiness, defensive…

^{Cheryl Lindo Jones (CJ's Wunderkammer)}

A friendly cat I met on my ride earlier today in Hulme. Manchester for

#caturday

„Einer für alle!“ – „Alle für einen!“
Auch wenn sich die Welt von Jahr zu Jahr immer schneller zu drehen scheint und wir immer größere Teile unserer Geschichte verlieren, so wird doch immer dort, wo sich ein paar Knaben mit hochrotem Kopf und ein paar Stöcken gegenüberstehen, dieser Ruf schmetternd wie ein Fanfarenstoß durch die Jahrhunderte gellen. Weiter auf dem Leiermann-Blog.

blog.der-leiermann.com/der-mus…

#Kultur #Spielen #Blog #Blogging #DerLeiermann

Der Musketier - Blog - Der Leiermann

Der Musketier. Das Leben des D´Artagnan. Und immer wieder wird sich der Musketier des Königs aus dem Staub erheben ........

^{Leiermann (Blog - Der Leiermann)}

We recently expanded our walks and my poor girl and her little legs sleep all morning when we get back.

These photos are all about an hour apart.

#dachshund #dogs #dogsofmastodon

[1/2] theguardian.com/australia-news…
stallman.org/articles/genderle…

Here's an example of the messed-up English prose that results when people use plural pronouns for individuals: They said if they had the opportunity to use their correct pronouns, it would “feel like the first time” they could “properly breathe out” since they had started working at

Teacher takes legal action against Melbourne Catholic school group over refusal of pronouns

State and federal anti-discrimination laws on collision course as Sacred Heart Girls College in Oakleigh refuses to recognise Myka Sanders’ gender identity

^{Cait Kelly (The Guardian)}

La Rai rinvia «No Other Land»: il dietrofront sulla messa in onda del documentario prevista per il 7 ottobre. Spunta l’ombra di una “telefonata politica”
https://www.open.online/2025/09/27/rai-rinvia-no-other-land-7-ottobre-telefonata-politica/?utm_source=flipboard&utm_medium=activitypub

Pubblicato su GUERRA ISRAELE-HAMAS @guerra-israele-hamas-OpenGiornale

La Rai rinvia «No Other Land»: il dietrofront sulla messa in onda del documentario prevista per il 7 ottobre. Spunta l’ombra di una “telefonata politica”

Secondo quanto trapela da Viale Mazzini, la decisione sarebbe arrivata dopo una telefonata di natura politica, che avrebbe “suggerito” il rinvio. Molti dipendenti parlano apertamente di censura

^{Cecilia Dardana (Open)}

La Global Sumud Flotilla e gli attivisti che lasciano la missione: «Si rischia una risposta violenta»
https://www.open.online/2025/09/27/global-sumud-flotilla-liti-risposta-israele/?utm_source=flipboard&utm_medium=activitypub

Pubblicato su GUERRA ISRAELE-HAMAS @guerra-israele-hamas-OpenGiornale

La Global Sumud Flotilla e gli attivisti che lasciano la missione: «Si rischia una risposta violenta»

Le liti a cinque giorni dall'arrivo a Gaza. La portavoce italiana torna a Roma. Per trattare una mediazione. I parlamentari sulle navi e l'ipotesi di sbarco a Cipro. Intanto il governo valuta la zona cuscinetto

^{Alessandro D’Amato (Open)}

FreeBSD 15.0 Alpha 4 Will Now Install pkg From Release Media

FreeBSD 15.0 Alpha 4 is out today as the newest weekly test release in working toward the FreeBSD 15 stable release in early December...
phoronix.com/news/FreeBSD-15.0…

Tornano in vigore sanzioni dell'Onu all'Iran dopo 10 anni - Medio Oriente - Ansa.it
https://www.ansa.it/sito/notizie/mondo/mediooriente/2025/09/28/tornano-in-vigore-sanzioni-dellonu-alliran-dopo-10-anni_960d489f-d7e6-4140-ae1f-ebb13ac52be7.html?utm_source=flipboard&utm_medium=activitypub

Pubblicato su ESTERI @esteri-AgenziaAnsa

Tornano in vigore sanzioni dell'Onu all'Iran dopo 10 anni - Medio Oriente - Ansa.it

Sono scattate le sanzioni Onu all'Iran, a dieci anni dall'accordo sul nucleare del 2015, voluto fortemente da Barack Obama e cancellato da Donald Trump, che aveva allentato la stretta sul regime di Teheran. (ANSA)

^{Agenzia ANSA}

Lauga, il mistero del mercantile russo nel Mediterraneo: “È carico di droni”
https://www.repubblica.it/esteri/2025/09/28/news/lauga_mercantile_russo_droni_mediterraneo-424875603/?utm_source=flipboard&utm_medium=activitypub

Pubblicato su Notizie dal mondo - la Repubblica @notizie-dal-mondo-la-repubblica-repubblica

Lauga, il mistero del mercantile russo nel Mediterraneo: “È carico di droni”

Le intelligence europee si interrogano sul ruolo della nave che ancora pochi giorni fa incrociava davanti alla Sicilia. Per gli analisti Zelensky pensava a que…

^{Gianluca Di Feo (la Repubblica)}

UN imposes 'snapback' sanctions on a hungrier, poorer and more anxious Iran
https://apnews.com/article/iran-snapback-sanctions-nuclear-us-israel-war-5b13ed1781659c1a9871427881ef239b?utm_source=flipboard&utm_medium=activitypub

Posted into International News @international-news-AssociatedPress

Stream Hundreds of Hours of Studio Ghibli Movie Music That Will Help You Study, Work, or Simply Relax: "My Neighbor Totoro," "Spirited Away" & More

openculture.com/2023/09/stream…

Hurricane Humberto strengthened into a rare Cat 5, but there’s another storm the US needs to watch | CNN - cnn.com/2025/09/27/weather/tra…

#press #hurricane

Remember Kids:

Don't gatekeep or harass people about the tools they use!

It's okay to gently offer a suggestion and ask their reasoning for using something, but constantly bugging them to use "X" or making them feel bad for using a thing that works for them is not good!

Let people use the tools that they know, work well with, and work well for them! Don't be an asshole!

But I would like to say, if at all possible, especially in the FOSS space, we should try to guide people away from using things that are built by bigots, abusers, transphobes, etc, those projects don't deserve the support.

Autumn rain falls again in gray Washington
https://www.washingtonpost.com/dc-md-va/2025/09/27/rain-washington-weather-clouds-virginia/?utm_source=flipboard&utm_medium=activitypub

Posted into Local @local-WashPost

Hey, here's a quick question

Why does anyone need to "tone down" violent rhetoric?

Rhetoric doesn't kill people

Unless you're saying....

The Voice Brasil 2025: veja como será o +Voice, experiência estendida no Disney+
https://canaltech.com.br/entretenimento/the-voice-brasil-2025-veja-como-sera-o-voice-experiencia-estendida-no-disney/?utm_source=flipboard&utm_medium=activitypub

Posted into Canaltech @canaltech-canaltech

Data centers spark fears of a ‘Digital Cancer Alley’ in Louisiana

thelensnola.org/2025/09/25/dat…

#tech #technology #ai #artificialintelligence #datacenter #environment #environmentalscience #pollution #health #cancer #louisiana #bigtech #techbros

Data centers spark fears of a ‘Digital Cancer Alley’ in Louisiana

The Lens NOLA investigates how Big Tech’s data center boom in Louisiana and across the South could create a “Digital Cancer Alley,” fueling pollution, water shortages, and higher bills for Black and working-class communities while offering few local …

^{Gus Bennett (The Lens)}

There's three BIG things YOU can do for our country and our state:

Go to ANY No Kings 2 Protests. Be seen. Speak out. Connect. nokings.org/

Protect our health care: vote yes on Measure A saveourlocalhospitals.com/

Vote Yes on 50 - redistrict California, stop the GOP: stopelectionrigging.com/

#politics #democrats #democracy #california #USPol #CAPol #Prop50 #nokings #measurea

No Kings

On June 14—Flag Day—Donald Trump wants tanks in the street and a made-for-TV display of dominance for his birthday. A spectacle meant to look like strength. But real power isn’t staged in Washington. It rises up everywhere else.

^{No Kings}

Portland, Oregon, this 27th day of September, Anno Domini 2025

My Dearest Sissy,

I put pen to paper with trembling hand, for today I witnessed both glory and grotesquery at the PSU Farmers Market, now forever etched into the annals of this absurd war.

The battle began at first light, when the Trumpist Guard sought to seize the stalls of cheese-mongers and drive our forces from the campus green. They advanced with bayonets fixed, yet found themselves repelled by wheels of Rogue River Blue, hurled with such velocity they might have been cannon shot. Brave men of Stumptown Volunteers brandished brie like sabers, their edges soft yet strangely unyielding in the melee.

The clash was terrible, Sissy. Camembert grenades burst upon the pavement, leaving the air reeking of cream and defiance. One company formed a phalanx with shields of cheddar, holding firm against the Guard’s pepper-spray fusillade. From the trees, skirmishers rained down mozzarella balls like slingstones from David’s hand. Never before has dairy been so lethally deployed.

It was during this chaos that the infamous Kash Patel, swaggering emissary of the President, strode onto the field. He sought to rally the Guard, mocking our cheese-borne valor. Yet cruel irony struck him low. Being dreadfully intolerant of the milk of cow, his stomach revolted at the merest whiff of parmesan drifting on the wind. He doubled over, struck not by bullet nor blade, but by the thunderous cannon of his own bowels. A fit of flatulence so sustained and malignant erupted that the Guard fled in confusion, believing some new infernal weapon had been unleashed. Thus was Patel felled, toppled by the tyranny of dairy, laid prostrate among the goat-cheese crumbles.

The day is ours. The Farmers Market stands unbroken, its kale untrampled, its honey jars gleaming in the September sun. Yet I cannot shake the memory of Patel’s ruin, nor the fear that lactose itself has become our most unpredictable ally.

Hold me in your heart, my sweet Sissy. Should I survive the next campaign, I shall bring you a wedge of victory brie, still warm from the field of battle. Until then, know that my love for you is fiercer than any cheddar, sharper than any gouda, and eternal as the stink of blue.

Forever yours,
Major Hugo “Manbun” Reynolds, Stumptown Volunteers