'That '70s Show' has been pulled from Netflix and fans are ...
Michael Kelso That 70s Show Wiki Fandom
That '70s Show: 10 Things About Kelso That Would Never Fly ...
That '70s Show: 5 Times We Felt Bad For Kelso (& 5 Times ...
That '70s Show (TV Series 1998–2006) - IMDb
Michael Kelso That '70s Wiki Fandom
Kelso's older brother is very similar to Kelso, but everyone seems to like Casey more than Kelso. RELATED: That 70s Show: 10 Characters Ranked (By Intelligence) Kelso being hurt and ignored when his older brother came back to town is a relatable feeling and had the audience feeling bad for him. 1 Hated: Vying For Laurie Created by Mark Brazill, Bonnie Turner, Terry Turner. With Topher Grace, Laura Prepon, Mila Kunis, Danny Masterson. A comedy revolving around a group of teenage friends, their mishaps, and their coming of age, set in 1970s Wisconsin. Michael Christopher Kelso is a fictional character from That '70s Show, played by Ashton Kutcher. Tall, lanky and long-haired (except for much of season 7 and the series finale), he is the dim-witted pretty-boy of the group, coasting through life on his good looks. 'That '70s Show' has been a beloved staple on Netflix since 2011. Until this weekend. Now it's gone. Fans noticed that the Fox comedy — that launched the careers of Topher Grace, Mila Kunis ... The cast of That '70s Show was noticeably ruthless towards each other.Nevertheless, they all remained great, loyal friends. Even Hyde, despite his cynicism, showed signs of compassion when the others were in trouble. Kelso, however, was a bit of an oddball in terms of selfishness. If it got him out of trouble, he would easily throw any of his friends under the bus. Michael Kelso is a main character on FOX comedy That'70s Show. He is portrayed by Ashton Kutcher. Tall and lanky, he is the dim-witted pretty-boy of the group, coasting through life on his good looks. His behavior is very much in line with a stereotypical oversexed lunkhead. Michael has surprised many by scoring higher on a test than some of his other friends, leading some to believe that ...
420 mic FIRST Acid Trip Report
2020.09.28 06:39 GunnzzNRoses420 mic FIRST Acid Trip Report
For context, i'm about 5'5, 125 lbs, seth is 5'8, 165 lbs. We had acid gummies, and believed one contained 150 ug. we were very wrong. First gummy taken at 9pm. Around 11pm, two hours before I took the final dose, I retired to the hot tub with my friend Seth, who too had taken 150 mics. We took our second gummy on the way to said hot tub. I tried to shove him into the cold pool water, to which he responded by smacking the back of my head, knocking my gummy loose, and knocking my total mic count down by roughly thirty. As I sat in the boiling water, I felt the first gummy begin to effect myself, as I imagine it was Seth as well. The heat of the water made my body largely unconscious, so to speak, and I felt as though I were floating in space time. I dunked my head into the water for periods of time, typically no longer than three minutes (I used to swim, so I can hold my breath upwards of four minutes under no exertion). I would breathe through the side of my mouth, leaving my head in the water. Eventually, after what felt like eons had passed, I pulled my head out of the water, where I saw Seth staring off into the starry night sky. "I'm rea-ally feeling this shit now, man," he said. "Me tooooooooo," I responded. Having sat in the pool for the better part of two hours, we got out, and returned to my room, foolishly deciding to take the final gummies together, bringing my total mic count up to 420, Seth's up to 450. We watched Alice in Wonderland, and my mind was thoroughly blown, now feeling the effects of two tabs. At 2:30 am, the movie had ended, and I strongly desired to leave the house, now feeling the potent effects of two tabs in my system, and the come up of the third. So, we began to walk around the neighborhood, bringing our makeshift Aquafina bong and eight to ten grams of weed. This being my first trip, I neglected to consider that weed largely does nothing on high dose psychedelic trips, causing me to waste nearly all of our weed. The time loops begin here, though they were not ominous in nature yet. We would walk around, smoke a bowl, and sit on the road medians throughout my neighborhood, talking about the Joys and woes of life. Then we would loop, and having forgotten we smoked, would spark up another bowl. We returned to my home around 4:10, and walking down my backyard, I saw strange red lights in the distance. The same red lights I had always seen, as they were part of a large system of electrical towers, and in spite of my reason telling me they were miles away, the felt inches away from me. I began to freak out. The time, 4:16am exactly, was when the third tab began peaking, and I felt all 420 mics in my mind body and soul. I asked seth "Ok, when does this stop?" and he said: "We're in for a long ride. Let's just relax, listen to music." Yet every ten seconds, I would completely disassociate, causing me to panic more. Commence peak: total psychosis. We would return to my room, walk back outside, and so on, yet each instance, likely having taken five minute in reality, seemed to have occurred in an instant. Our time loops were the quite frequent here, occurring every twenty seconds or so, so for a while, we kept returning to the kitchen. Yet somewhere I felt my consciousness, and in that moment, felt like a slave to Lucifer, that me and Seth were satanic minotaurs on his chain, doing his bidding. I stopped to eat, thinking it would feel good, yet every bite of my fruit loops felt too lucid, too real, causing me more panic. It was here that I wrote a poem (more of a dialogue) with Seth, the wiser and more experienced psychonaut's, help: I've just seen my grandpa of one thousand years where is my dad? the cereal is felt 2289 We returned to my room, and seth checked his phone, seeing a message that he read out loud from our dealer: "BE CAREFUL WITH THE GUMMIES! THEY ARE DOUBLE DOSE, ONE HAS 300 MICS NOT 150!" I was in shock, as Seth said "Shit, man, we did too muuuuuuuuuuuchhhh...." As the words left his mouth, the peak reached the high point as we sat adjacent one another, with us entering full blown, schizophrenic psychosis, losing our shit for forty-fifty minutes on end. I would try to tell myself it's just a drug (too much of one at that), before breaking out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter in unison with Seth. The time loops were remarkably frequent here, occurring once a second or more. As I reared back in the aforementioned uncontrollable laughter, I would shut my eyes, seeing strange visions, different colored bubbles (as in bubble bath bubbles), the occasional satanic imagery, and more often than not, strange visions of crystallized sand, sand that I could feel, transporting me in that fleeting instant to a beach in a time long ago, specifically Savannah, Georgia, with my mother in the summer of 2008, feeling the sand between my toes and the warmth of the sun on my face, before my eyes would open, returning me to my psychotic reality. I got up, picking strange items up in my room to move them around, belle info they were sacred artifacts, when they were in reality no more than school books. Seth would roll around in my blanket, believing it to be a wraith that had him in it's clutch. We would swap roles every so often, with me wrestling and him moving my items around. We hugged at one point, and though it felt like a 5 second hug, almost thirty minutes had passed. We had another time loop, and emerged from the delusional psychosis, returning to a more manageable one. With the return of my sentience, the panic came with it. Seth noticed this and turned on that 70s show, claiming it was the ultimate aid for a bad trip. Bad Idea. Hyde, Kelso, and Donna's father's faces all seemed to be melting, or spontaneously growing and reabsorbing strange bumps on their faces. I would continue to get up and adjust the lights, believing they could help me feel more normal. Seth eventually suggested we listen to music, which I declined and deeply regret having done so, as Music truly is a great aid when tripping. I laid back, asking him if I slept if it would go away, to which he responded: "You're gonna have a hard time sleeping on three tabs, man." Eventually, he got up and got onto my PC, playing Minecraft with our mutual best friend Moses and his friend Selena. Disclaimer: the trip wasn't bad, just quite intense and given that it was my first time, overwhelming. I tried to sleep, but shutting my eyes seemed to do no more than open them up more, returning me to the sandy beaches of Savannah, or to other memories a human shouldn't be able to access, such as walking for the first time, or being held by my father in newborn infancy. Eventually I gave up, returning to watch that 70s show in my chair, panicked out my gord. The effects were just as strong, yet i was conscious of them. I could feel all of my five senses in any way, meaning I could smell what I felt, could see what I heard, etc. As a result, I felt an energy of sorts in myself, one that I would call my soul, and it was hard to keep it calm. Anything wrong would panic it, and by extension, panic me. So I played it as safely as I could, sitting comfortably in my chair, watching that 70s show, and drinking lots of water. Seth, meanwhile, was trapped in the nether, trapped with Satan. Loops would occur every five minutes or so, and somehow, in the midst of an episode that I knew nothing about, an Idea dawned upon me! "At sunrise, we will be free!" So, I told seth, When the sun rises we will be free of the acid ! He was so happy. Perhaps to be pulled from the clutches of Minecraft's hell, or to hear news of the ending trip. So we waited, looping time and time again, waited until the sky changed shade. And when It did, we sat upon my porch, watching the sun rise over the horizon. Where I expected to feel the liberation, I felt damnation. The sun was a giant fire ball, shot from fire flower mario's hands. It seemed unreal. The trees were broken masses of strange green particles, going in and out of one another. The birds were glitched pieces of code teleporting through the air, and the blue sky seemed to be the ocean's surface, one that I was looking up to from way down under the ocean. Feeling defeated, we returned to my room, getting back on our hellish, prison routine. Around 8am, Seth said he was ready to crash. I gave him the same advice he gave me, but he insisted, so I decided to join. I would phase out for seconds at a time, but for the most part, I was not sleeping whatsoever. I got up, while seth listened to his music, perhaps in hell, perhaps in heaven. My world was quite saturated now, and around 9 am, seth woke up, saying that he thought he had slept. I cleaned my room and showered, looking into the steamy mirror to see an unrecognizable face, realizing my legs were short. We fucked off until 4pm, when he left, and I fell asleep around 2am, having been tripped for fourteen hours, in an afterglow for eight, and awake for thirty eight hours. Although it felt like we had a plethora of epiphanies, due to the illusion created by the time loops, we only had two takeaways that we had already known, one each: I am short, Seth is fat.
2020.09.18 21:14 annieisaverageCharacters Archetype discussion (Using Heroes and Heroines- 16 Master Archetypes by Cowden, LaFever, and Viders)
I was hoping to find people who have this book/are familiar with the archetypes, because I'd like to discuss what some popular character archetypes are. Hoping to get a little discussion going...below I have posted some popular shows/characters. Below are the main arche-type names. You need the book for the descriptions. Each one has multiple iterations. Male: Chief, bad boy, lost soul, charmer, swashbuckler, professor, best friend, warrior Female: Boss, Free spirit, seductress, librarian, waif, crusader, spunky kid, nurturer --Possible discussions (if anyone is interested and has the book/knows the arche-types): Sex and the City main characters (Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, Charlotte) Fresh Prince main characters (Will, Carlton, Phil Banks, Ashley Banks, Hillary Banks) That 70's show main characters (Donna, Jackie, Hyde, Fez, Kelso, Eric) Big Bang Theory main characters (Leonard, Sheldon, Raj, Howard, Bernadette, Penny, Amy) Seinfeld main characters (Jerry, George, Kramer, Elaine) George Lopez Show main characters (George, Angie, Max, Ernie, Benny) Friends main characters (Ross, Joey, Chandler, Rachel, Monica, Phoebe) Hopefully I posted ONE show that you are familiar with. Feel free to post other show suggestions in the comments...if I even get a single person interested that is lol
2020.08.20 10:11 epictubeguysThe Battle of Stupidity
The dumbest of the dumb characters have to out-stupid each other. Whoever is the dumbest wins. Who would win? The contestants are: 1. Patrick Star (SpongeBob) 2. Homer Simpson (The Simpsons) 3. Peter Griffin (Family Guy) 4. Cosmo (Fairly Oddparents) 5. Michael Kelso (That 70s Show) 6. Ricky (Trailer Park Boys) 7. Beavis and Butthead 8. Charlie (It's Always Sunny) 9. Randy Marsh (South Park) 10. Ed (Ed, Edd, 'n' Eddy) Bonus Round: Fight to the death and all are bloodlusted.
2020.08.01 05:02 kinkyzilly3018[Thank you] To these awesome peeps who sent mail this past week 🐣✨
Thank you to these awesome peeps for the lovely mail! I appreciate your kindness & time to send something our way 🐣💕 u/CanaMeow Thank you very much for the super cute, handmade card! It’s always a pleasure exchanging with you & you always put a little extra magic into your snail mail💕 I don’t want to say too much as I will be saying it all whenever I send a response your way 🤗 Thank you for all the extra stickers! u/MariMnishek Thank you for the Schwetzinger postcard you sent for my husband! It is such a beautiful place & so happy you shared it with us. We sent something your way 💖 u/Jdoodle7 x2 Thank you for the gold foiled, butterfly stamped card with a matching envelope! I enjoyed working on all the cards during u/lmnoporcupine’s traveling cards idea. It was super fun to see everyone’s creativity! I’m glad you enjoyed the beach theme 🌊☀️ We also got the card you sent to my son, thank you very much! Thank you for your kindness & taking the time out to make a handmade baseball card! He enjoyed the baseball jokes & the stickers! We will be sending some things your way 🦄 u/kittycatcon Thank you for the Longboat Key, FL postcard! Looks like a beautiful vacation spot & I hope you soaked up some sun!💕 Sending something your way 💖 u/808pgh Thank you for the Florida postcard! LOL I totally get you when you say you don’t know which cards to send or hoard 😂 I think you give them so much love then know when to let go for someone else to love. Also, THANK YOU for the music recommendation! I have been listening to Movie by Tom Misch nonstop! Such a gem! Hehe, will be sending something your way! ❤️ u/New_Year_Baby Thank you for elegant notecard! I hope you’ve some time to relax and destress from work. Your story about running out of gas halfway through when you were BBQing make me laugh 🤣Thank you for that! I’ll be sending something your way. Oh! Every time I see your addy, it reminds me of Kelso in That 70s Show LOL 💖 u/katier127 Thank you for the handmade coffee postcard! It made it safely & you did an awesome job! What’s your favorite coffee? ☕️ Flavor? I sent a couple of items your way but sending more replies 💕 u/jaimekj Thank you for the Empire State Building postcard! I couldn’t help but laugh at your “find it funny” story about people mispronouncing your name! Thank you for sharing & will be sending something your way 🦄 u/ksbuni Thank you for the pretty, jawbreaker patterned notecard! I hope you’re doing alright & staying safe! Wishing you the best on your online work! Hope you get what I sent you soon 🤞 u/knittingtilsunrise x3 Thank you for the pink, floral notecard with an additional 2 postcards (the cute elephant & mouse + the mommy & baby sloths) 😍 I hope your SO has an awesome birthday and is spoiled with your love & cards 💖 u/may2021 Thank you for the handmade, washi postcard + the extras! I love the pastel colors & it is so elegant! I LOOOOOVE the water color roses you did! Keep it up & looking forward to seeing your art! 😍❤️ u/Mikepenpal6 Thank you for the beautiful, handmade card! It has such an elegance to it that I LOVE & I always enjoy seeing what you come up with. You always add a bit of magic ✨ I’ll be sending a reply your way 🦄💖 u/nil_ka x2 Hey & welcome back! 😘 I’ve missed seeing you on the sub & so glad to see you back! Oh wow! You went above and beyond with this happy mail! 😍Thank you for the Jeweled Cat by Lewis T. Johnson notecard with the extra goodies & the Whitefish, MO postcard! I don’t want to say too much since I’ll be sending you a reply but thank you for the crochet bumblebee, the little skateboard (do you remember when fingerboard was a thing? Took me way back!), and the llama stickers! Working something up to send your way 💖 u/libertyprogrammer Thank you very much for the lovely, rustic notecard of a truck imbedded with flowers + the pink stickers 💕 I’m glad to hear your buddy is on track in her recovery! Sending something your way 💕 MY SON RECEIVED SOME HAPPY MAIL! 💌❤️ THANK YOU TO THESE PEEPS WHO SENT SOMETHING HIS WAY THIS WEEK u/58flies Thank you very much for sending my son some happy mail! 💌 You are very kind to send him Pokémon cards & one that you were very fond of. I’ve hoarded the mail until I made this post but he’s already displayed the Pokémon cards in his room. Thank you for the page of a Harry Potter book, hehe. He was so happy & giddy opening up your snail mail & we appreciate you 💕 Will be sending something your way soon🦄 u/CapnCobbler Thank you very much for sending my boy some snail mail! ❤️ We get to squee over your mail again, hehe. He truly enjoyed the handmade superhero card you made. I’m hoarding it until I post this post but he’s already taken the Dino sticker into his room. He was in awe of the washi & said they were awesome (what? No, we’re not washi addic- yes we are LOL)! Thank you 3000 (see what I did there?) & we will be sending some happy mail back your way 💖 u/talipally x2 Thank you very much for the kitty card for my boy & a surprise, floral card for me! 💖 You opened up a whole new conversation of Zelda once he read Twilight Princess & Link to the Past. Thank you for telling me about yourself & your favorite life quotes! I need to take the “Worrying is like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do, but it doesn’t get you anywhere” to heart because I worry A LOT! We will be sending something your way 💕 u/Scottie0319 x4 Thank you very much for your generosity and kindness! My son’s oh-wows got louder & louder as he saw your cards, hehe. The dolphins postcard, the puppy paw print postcard, the TY notecard with the elephant & Monaters Inc sticker, & for the puppy notecard with the Pokémon stickers! He especially sqee’d over Slowpoke🤣 If you haven’t seen it already, check out the Slowpoke Song on YouTube. Thank you again for your generosity! We sent something your way but will send more happy mail! Thank you again 💕 Last but definitely not least, u/lmnoporcupine x2 Thank you very much for the handmade card with the stickers & TMNT tattoos AND the postcard of Hope the pompom! 💕 He assembled the paper plane as soon as he saw it 😂 He absolutely loved both cards! You are always so generous & I appreciate you always Sending a some happy mail your way 💕
I just finished off watching that '70s show finale and I think it wasn't as bad as I heard it was. I agree that the final season might have been quite boring but they had to complete it and the finale episode was quite heart-touching when kitty gave that speech when they decided not to leave Point Place. But I didn't like that she didn't appreciate Kelso, I mean she should've but overall the finale made it up for me and this sitcom has made it up to my favourite sitcoms list
2020.07.12 14:27 AlphaCoronaeI Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter
I sexually identify as an attack helicopter. I lied. According to US Army Technical Manual 0, The Soldier as a System, “attack helicopter” is a gender identity, not a biological sex. My dog tags and Form 3349 say my body is an XX-karyotope somatic female. But, really, I didn’t lie. My body is a component in my mission, subordinate to what I truly am. If I say I am an attack helicopter, then my body, my sex, is too. I’ll prove it to you. When I joined the Army I consented to tactical-role gender reassignment. It was mandatory for the MOS I’d tested into. I was nervous. I’d never been anything but a woman before. But I decided that I was done with womanhood, over what womanhood could do for me; I wanted to be something furiously new. To the people who say a woman would’ve refused to do what I do, I say— Isn’t that the point? I fly— Red evening over the white Mojave, and I watch the sun set through a canopy of polycarbonate and glass: clitoral bulge of cockpit on the helicopter’s nose. Lightning probes the burned wreck of an oil refinery and the Santa Ana feeds a smoldering wildfire and pulls pine soot out southwest across the Big Pacific. We are alone with each other, Axis and I, flying low. We are traveling south to strike a high school. Rotor wash flattens rings of desert creosote. Did you know that creosote bushes clone themselves? The ten-thousand-year elders enforce dead zones where nothing can grow except more creosote. Beetles and mice live among them, the way our cities had pigeons and mice. I guess the analogy breaks down because the creosote’s lasted ten thousand years. You don’t need an attack helicopter to tell you that our cities haven’t. The Army gave me gene therapy to make my blood toxic to mosquitoes. Soon you will have that too, to fight malaria in the Hudson floodplain and on the banks of the Greater Lake. Now I cross Highway 40, southbound at two hundred knots. The Apache’s engine is electric and silent. Decibel killers sop up the rotor noise. White-bright infrared vision shows me stripes of heat, the tire tracks left by Pear Mesa school buses. Buried housing projects smolder under the dirt, radiators curled until sunset. This is enemy territory. You can tell because, though this desert was once Nevada and California, there are no American flags. “Barb,” the Apache whispers, in a voice that Axis once identified, to my alarm, as my mother’s. “Waypoint soon.” “Axis.” I call out to my gunner, tucked into the nose ahead of me. I can see only gray helmet and flight suit shoulders, but I know that body wholly, the hard knots of muscle, the ridge of pelvic girdle, the shallow navel and flat hard chest. An attack helicopter has a crew of two. My gunner is my marriage, my pillar, the completion of my gender. “Axis.” The repeated call sign means, I hear you. “Ten minutes to target.” “Ready for target,” Axis says. But there is again that roughness, like a fold in carbon fiber. I heard it when we reviewed our fragment orders for the strike. I hear it again now. I cannot ignore it any more than I could ignore a battery fire; it is a fault in a person and a system I trust with my life. But I can choose to ignore it for now. The target bumps up over the horizon. The low mounds of Kelso-Ventura District High burn warm gray through a parfait coating of aerogel insulation and desert soil. We have crossed a third of the continental US to strike a school built by Americans. Axis cues up a missile: black eyes narrowed, telltales reflected against clear laser-washed cornea. “Call the shot, Barb.” “Stand by. Maneuvering.” I lift us above the desert floor, buying some room for the missile to run, watching the probability-of-kill calculation change with each motion of the aircraft. Before the Army my name was Seo Ji Hee. Now my call sign is Barb, which isn’t short for Barbara. I share a rank (flight warrant officer), a gender, and a urinary system with my gunner Axis: we are harnessed and catheterized into the narrow tandem cockpit of a Boeing AH-70 Apache Mystic. America names its helicopters for the people it destroyed. We are here to degrade and destroy strategic targets in the United States of America’s war against the Pear Mesa Budget Committee. If you disagree with the war, so be it: I ask your empathy, not your sympathy. Save your pity for the poor legislators who had to find some constitutional framework for declaring war against a credit union. The reasons for war don’t matter much to us. We want to fight the way a woman wants to be gracious, the way a man wants to be firm. Our need is as vamp-fierce as the strutting queen and dryly subtle as the dapper lesbian and comfortable as the soft resilience of the demiwoman. How often do you analyze the reasons for your own gender? You might sigh at the necessity of morning makeup, or hide your love for your friends behind beer and bravado. Maybe you even resent the punishment for breaking these norms. But how often—really—do you think about the grand strategy of gender? The mess of history and sociology, biology and game theory that gave rise to your pants and your hair and your salary? The casus belli? Often, you might say. All the time. It haunts me. Then you, more than anyone, helped make me. When I was a woman I wanted to be good at woman. I wanted to darken my eyes and strut in heels. I wanted to laugh from my throat when I was pleased, laugh so low that women would shiver in contentment down the block. And at the same time I resented it all. I wanted to be sharper, stronger, a new-made thing, exquisite and formidable. Did I want that because I was taught to hate being a woman? Or because I hated being taught anything at all? Now I am jointed inside. Now I am geared and shafted, I am a being of opposing torques. The noise I make is canceled by decibel killers so I am no louder than a woman laughing through two walls. When I was a woman I wanted to have friends who would gasp at the precision and surprise of my gifts. Now I show friendship by tracking the motions of your head, looking at what you look at, the way one helicopter’s sensors can be slaved to the motions of another. When I was a woman I wanted my skin to be as smooth and dark as the sintered stone countertop in our kitchen. Now my skin is boron-carbide and Kevlar. Now I have a wrist callus where I press my hydration sensor into my skin too hard and too often. Now I have bit-down nails from the claustrophobia of the bus ride to the flight line. I paint them desert colors, compulsively. When I was a woman I was always aware of surveillance. The threat of the eyes on me, the chance that I would cross over some threshold of detection and become a target. Now I do the exact same thing. But I am counting radars and lidars and pit viper thermal sensors, waiting for a missile. I am gas turbines. I am the way I never sit on the same side of the table as a stranger. I am most comfortable in moonless dark, in low places between hills. I am always thirsty and always tense. I tense my core and pace my breath even when coiled up in a briefing chair. As if my tail rotor must cancel the spin of the main blades and the turbines must whirl and the plates flex against the pitch links or I will go down spinning to my death. An airplane wants in its very body to stay flying. A helicopter is propelled by its interior near-disaster. I speak the attack command to my gunner. “Normalize the target.” Nothing happens. “Axis. Comm check.” “Barb, Axis. I hear you.” No explanation for the fault. There is nothing wrong with the weapon attack parameters. Nothing wrong with any system at all, except the one without any telltales, my spouse, my gunner. “Normalize the target,” I repeat. “Axis. Rifle one.” The weapon falls off our wing, ignites, homes in on the hard invisible point of the laser designator. Missiles are faster than you think, more like a bullet than a bird. If you’ve ever seen a bird. The weapon penetrates the concrete shelter of Kelso-Ventura High School and fills the empty halls with thermobaric aerosol. Then: ignition. The detonation hollows out the school like a hooked finger scooping out an egg. There are not more than a few janitors in there. A few teachers working late. They are bycatch. What do I feel in that moment? Relief. Not sexual, not like eating or pissing, not like coming in from the heat to the cool dry climate shelter. It’s a sense of passing. Walking down the street in the right clothes, with the right partner, to the right job. That feeling. Have you felt it? But there is also an itch of worry—why did Axis hesitate? How did Axis hesitate? Kelso-Ventura High School collapses into its own basement. “Target normalized,” Axis reports, without emotion, and my heart beats slow and worried. I want you to understand that the way I feel about Axis is hard and impersonal and lovely. It is exactly the way you would feel if a beautiful, silent turbine whirled beside you day and night, protecting you, driving you on, coursing with current, fiercely bladed, devoted. God, it’s love. It’s love I can’t explain. It’s cold and good. “Barb,” I say, which means I understand. “Exiting north, zero three zero, cupids two.” I adjust the collective—feel the swash plate push up against the pitch links, the links tilt the angle of the rotors so they ease their bite on the air—and the Apache, my body, sinks toward the hot desert floor. Warm updraft caresses the hull, sensual contrast with the Santa Ana wind. I shiver in delight. Suddenly: warning receivers hiss in my ear, poke me in the sacral vertebrae, put a dark thunderstorm note into my air. “Shit,” Axis hisses. “Air search radar active, bearing 192, angels twenty, distance . . . eighty klicks. It’s a fast-mover. He must’ve heard the blast.” A fighter. A combat jet. Pear Mesa’s mercenary defenders have an air force, and they are out on the hunt. “A Werewolf.” “Must be. Gown?” “Gown up.” I cue the plasma-sheath stealth system that protects us from radar and laser hits. The Apache glows with lines of arc-weld light, UFO light. Our rotor wash blasts the plasma into a bright wedding train behind us. To the enemy’s sensors, that trail of plasma is as thick and soft as insulating foam. To our eyes it’s cold aurora fire. “Let’s get the fuck out.” I touch the cyclic and we sideslip through Mojave dust, watching the school fall into itself. There is no reason to do this except that somehow I know Axis wants to see. Finally I pull the nose around, aim us northeast, shedding light like a comet buzzing the desert on its way into the sun. “Werewolf at seventy klicks,” Axis reports. “Coming our way. Time to intercept . . . six minutes.” The Werewolf Apostles are mercenaries, survivors from the militaries of climate-seared states. They sell their training and their hardware to earn their refugee peoples a few degrees more distance from the equator. The heat of the broken world has chased them here to chase us. Before my assignment neurosurgery, they made me sit through (I could bear to sit, back then) the mandatory course on Applied Constructive Gender Theory. Slouched in a fungus-nibbled plastic chair as transparencies slid across the cracked screen of a De-networked Briefing Element overhead projector: how I learned the technology of gender. Long before we had writing or farms or post-digital strike helicopters, we had each other. We lived together and changed each other, and so we needed to say “this is who I am, this is what I do.” So, in the same way that we attached sounds to meanings to make language, we began to attach clusters of behavior to signal social roles. Those clusters were rich, and quick-changing, and so just like language, we needed networks devoted to processing them. We needed a place in the brain to construct and to analyze gender. Generations of queer activists fought to make gender a self-determined choice, and to undo the creeping determinism that said the way it is now is the way it always was and always must be. Generations of scientists mapped the neural wiring that motivated and encoded the gender choice. And the moment their work reached a usable stage—the moment society was ready to accept plastic gender, and scientists were ready to manipulate it—the military found a new resource. Armed with functional connectome mapping and neural plastics, the military can make gender tactical. If gender has always been a construct, then why not construct new ones? My gender networks have been reassigned to make me a better AH-70 Apache Mystic pilot. This is better than conventional skill learning. I can show you why. Look at a diagram of an attack helicopter’s airframe and components. Tell me how much of it you grasp at once. Now look at a person near you, their clothes, their hair, their makeup and expression, the way they meet or avoid your eyes. Tell me which was richer with information about danger and capability. Tell me which was easier to access and interpret. The gender networks are old and well-connected. They work. I remember being a woman. I remember it the way you remember that old, beloved hobby you left behind. Woman felt like my prom dress, polyester satin smoothed between little hand and little hip. Woman felt like a little tic of the lips when I was interrupted, or like teasing out the mood my boyfriend wouldn’t explain. Like remembering his mom’s birthday for him, or giving him a list of things to buy at the store, when he wanted to be better about groceries. I was always aware of being small: aware that people could hurt me. I spent a lot of time thinking about things that had happened right before something awful. I would look around me and ask myself, are the same things happening now? Women live in cross-reference. It is harder work than we know. Now I think about being small as an advantage for nape-of-earth maneuvers and pop-up guided missile attacks. Now I yield to speed walkers in the hall like I need to avoid fouling my rotors. Now walking beneath high-tension power lines makes me feel the way that a cis man would feel if he strutted down the street in a miniskirt and heels. I’m comfortable in open spaces but only if there’s terrain to break it up. I hate conversations I haven’t started; I interrupt shamelessly so that I can make my point and leave. People treat me like I’m dangerous, like I could hurt them if I wanted to. They want me protected and watched over. They bring me water and ask how I’m doing. People want me on their team. They want what I can do. A fighter is hunting us, and I am afraid that my gunner has gender dysphoria. Twenty thousand feet above us (still we use feet for altitude) the bathroom-tiled transceivers cupped behind the nose cone of a Werewolf Apostle J-20S fighter broadcast fingers of radar light. Each beam cast at a separate frequency, a fringed caress instead of a pointed prod. But we are jumpy, we are hypervigilant—we feel that creeper touch. I get the cold-rush skin-prickle feel of a stranger following you in the dark. Has he seen you? Is he just going the same way? If he attacks, what will you do, could you get help, could you scream? Put your keys between your fingers, like it will help. Glass branches of possibility grow from my skin, waiting to be snapped off by the truth. “Give me a warning before he’s in IRST range,” I order Axis. “We’re going north.” “Axis.” The Werewolf’s infrared sensor will pick up the heat of us, our engine and plasma shield, burning against the twilight desert. The same system that hides us from his radar makes us hot and visible to his IRST. I throttle up, running faster, and the Apache whispers alarm. “Gown overspeed.” We’re moving too fast for the plasma stealth system, and the wind’s tearing it from our skin. We are not modest. I want to duck behind a ridge to cover myself, but I push through the discomfort, feeling out the tradeoff between stealth and distance. Like the morning check in the mirror, trading the confidence of a good look against the threat of reaction. When the women of Soviet Russia went to war against the Nazis, when they volunteered by the thousands to serve as snipers and pilots and tank drivers and infantry and partisans, they fought hard and they fought well. They ate frozen horse dung and hauled men twice their weight out of burning tanks. They shot at their own mothers to kill the Nazis behind her. But they did not lose their gender; they gave up the inhibition against killing but would not give up flowers in their hair, polish for their shoes, a yearning for the young lieutenant, a kiss on his dead lips. And if that is not enough to convince you that gender grows deep enough to thrive in war: when the war ended the Soviet women were punished. They went unmarried and unrespected. They were excluded from the victory parades. They had violated their gender to fight for the state and the state judged that violation worth punishment more than their heroism was worth reward. Gender is stronger than war. It remains when all else flees. When I was a woman I wanted to machine myself. I loved nails cut like laser arcs and painted violent-bright in bathrooms that smelled like laboratories. I wanted to grow thick legs with fat and muscle that made shapes under the skin like Nazca lines. I loved my birth control, loved that I could turn my period off, loved the home beauty-feedback kits that told you what to eat and dose to adjust your scent, your skin, your moods. I admired, wasn’t sure if I wanted to be or wanted to fuck, the women in the build-your-own-shit videos I watched on our local image of the old Internet. Women who made cyberattack kits and jewelry and sterile-printed IUDs, made their own huge wedge heels and fitted bras and skin-thin chameleon dresses. Women who talked about their implants the same way they talked about computers, phones, tools: technologies of access, technologies of self-expression. Something about their merciless self-possession and self-modification stirred me. The first time I ever meant to masturbate I imagined one of those women coming into my house, picking the lock, telling me exactly what to do, how to be like her. I told my first boyfriend about this, I showed him pictures, and he said, girl, you bi as hell, which was true, but also wrong. Because I did not want those dresses, those heels, those bodies in the way I wanted my boyfriend. I wanted to possess that power. I wanted to have it and be it. The Apache is my body now, and like most bodies it is sensual. Fabric armor that stiffens beneath my probing fingers. Stub wings clustered with ordnance. Rotors so light and strong they do not even droop: as artificial-looking, to an older pilot, as breast implants. And I brush at the black ring of a sensor housing, like the tip of a nail lifting a stray lash from the white of your eye. I don’t shave, which all the fast jet pilots do, down to the last curly scrotal hair. Nobody expects a helicopter to be sleek. I have hairy armpits and thick black bush all the way to my ass crack. The things that are taboo and arousing to me are the things taboo to helicopters. I like to be picked up, moved, pressed, bent and folded, held down, made to shudder, made to abandon control. Do these last details bother you? Does the topography of my pubic hair feel intrusive and unnecessary? I like that. I like to intrude, inflict damage, withdraw. A year after you read this maybe those paragraphs will be the only thing you remember: and you will know why the rules of gender are worth recruitment. But we cannot linger on the point of attack. “He’s coming north. Time to intercept three minutes.” “Shit. How long until he gets us on thermal?” “Ninety seconds with the gown on.” Danger has swept away Axis’ hesitation. “Shit.” “He’s not quite on zero aspect—yeah, he’s coming up a few degrees off our heading. He’s not sure exactly where we are. He’s hunting.” “He’ll be sure soon enough. Can we kill him?” “With sidewinders?” Axis pauses articulately: the target is twenty thousand feet above us, and he has a laser that can blind our missiles. “We’d have more luck bailing out and hiking.” “All right. I’m gonna fly us out of this.” “Sure.” “Just check the gun.” “Ten times already, Barb.” When climate and economy and pathology all went finally and totally critical along the Gulf Coast, the federal government fled Cabo fever and VARD-2 to huddle behind New York’s flood barriers. We left eleven hundred and six local disaster governments behind. One of them was the Pear Mesa Budget Committee. The rest of them were doomed. Pear Mesa was different because it had bought up and hardened its own hardware and power. So Pear Mesa’s neural nets kept running, retrained from credit union portfolio management to the emergency triage of hundreds of thousands of starving sick refugees. Pear Mesa’s computers taught themselves to govern the forsaken southern seaboard. Now they coordinate water distribution, re-express crop genomes, ration electricity for survival AC, manage all the life support humans need to exist in our warmed-over hell. But, like all advanced neural nets, these systems are black boxes. We have no idea how they work, what they think. Why do Pear Mesa’s AIs order the planting of pear trees? Because pears were their corporate icon, and the AIs associate pear trees with areas under their control. Why does no one make the AIs stop? Because no one knows what else is tangled up with the “plant pear trees” impulse. The AIs may have learned, through some rewarded fallacy or perverse founder effect, that pear trees cause humans to have babies. They may believe that their only function is to build support systems around pear trees. When America declared war on Pear Mesa, their AIs identified a useful diagnostic criterion for hostile territory: the posting of fifty-star American flags. Without ever knowing what a flag meant, without any concept of nations or symbols, they ordered the destruction of the stars and stripes in Pear Mesa territory. That was convenient for propaganda. But the real reason for the war, sold to a hesitant Congress by technocrats and strategic ecologists, was the ideology of scale atrocity. Pear Mesa’s AIs could not be modified by humans, thus could not be joined with America’s own governing algorithms: thus must be forced to yield all their control, or else remain forever separate. And that separation was intolerable. By refusing United States administration, our superior resources and planning capability, Pear Mesa’s AIs condemned citizens who might otherwise be saved to die—a genocide by neglect. Wasn’t that the unforgivable crime of fossil capitalism? The creation of systems whose failure modes led to mass death? Didn’t we have a moral imperative to intercede? Pear Mesa cannot surrender, because the neural nets have a basic imperative to remain online. Pear Mesa’s citizens cannot question the machines’ decisions. Everything the machines do is connected in ways no human can comprehend. Disobey one order and you might as well disobey them all. But none of this is why I kill. I kill for the same reason men don’t wear short skirts, the same reason I used to pluck my brows, the reason enby people are supposed to be (unfair and stupid, yes, but still) androgynous with short hair. Are those good reasons to do something? If you say no, honestly no—can you tell me you break these rules without fear or cost? But killing isn’t a gender role, you might tell me. Killing isn’t a decision about how to present your own autonomous self to the world. It is coercive and punitive. Killing is therefore not an act of gender. I wish that were true. Can you tell me honestly that killing is a genderless act? The method? The motive? The victim? When you imagine the innocent dead, who do you see? “Barb,” Axis calls, softly. Your own voice always sounds wrong on recordings—too nasal. Axis’ voice sounds wrong when it’s not coming straight into my skull through helmet mic. “Barb.” “How are we doing?” “Exiting one hundred and fifty knots north. Still in his radar but he hasn’t locked us up.” “How are you doing?” I cringe in discomfort. The question is an indirect way for Axis to admit something’s wrong, and that indirection is obscene. Like hiding a corroded tail rotor bearing from your maintenance guys. “I’m good,” I say, with fake ease. “I’m in flow. Can’t you feel it?” I dip the nose to match a drop-off below, provoking a whine from the terrain detector. I am teasing, striking a pose. “We’re gonna be okay.” “I feel it, Barb.” But Axis is tense, worried about our pursuer, and other things. Doesn’t laugh. “How about you?” “Nominal.” Again the indirection, again the denial, and so I blurt it out. “Are you dysphoric?” “What?” Axis says, calmly. “You’ve been hesitating. Acting funny. Is your—” There is no way to ask someone if their militarized gender conditioning is malfunctioning. “Are you good?” “I . . . ” Hesitation. It makes me cringe again, in secondhand shame. Never hesitate. “I don’t know.” “Do you need to go on report?” Severe gender dysphoria can be a flight risk. If Axis hesitates over something that needs to be done instantly, the mission could fail decisively. We could both die. “I don’t want that,” Axis says. “I don’t want that either,” I say, desperately. I want nothing less than that. “But, Axis, if—” The warning receiver climbs to a steady crow call. “He knows we’re here,” I say, to Axis’ tight inhalation. “He can’t get a lock through the gown but he’s aware of our presence. Fuck. Blinder, blinder, he’s got his laser on us—” The fighter’s lidar pod is trying to catch the glint of a reflection off us. “Shit,” Axis says. “We’re gonna get shot.” “The gown should defeat it. He’s not close enough for thermal yet.” “He’s gonna launch anyway. He’s gonna shoot and then get a lock to steer it in.” “I don’t know—missiles aren’t cheap these days—” The ESM mast on the Apache’s rotor hub, mounted like a lamp on a post, contains a cluster of electro-optical sensors that constantly scan the sky: the Distributed Aperture Sensor. When the DAS detects the flash of a missile launch, it plays a warning tone and uses my vest to poke me in the small of my back. My vest pokes me in the small of my back. “Barb. Missile launch south. Barb. Fox 3 inbound. Inbound. Inbound.” “He fired,” Axis calls. “Barb?” “Barb,” I acknowledge. I fuck— Oh, you want to know: many of you, at least. It’s all right. An attack helicopter isn’t a private way of being. Your needs and capabilities must be maintained for the mission. I don’t think becoming an attack helicopter changed who I wanted to fuck. I like butch assertive people. I like talent and prestige, the status that comes of doing things well. I was never taught the lie that I was wired for monogamy, but I was still careful with men, I was still wary, and I could never tell him why: that I was afraid not because of him, but because of all the men who’d seemed good like him, at first, and then turned into something else. No one stalks an attack helicopter. No slack-eyed well-dressed drunk punches you for ignoring the little rape he slurs at your neckline. No one even breaks your heart: with my dopamine system tied up by the reassignment surgery, fully assigned to mission behavior, I can’t fall in love with anything except my own purpose. Are you aware of your body? Do you feel your spine when you stand, your hips when you walk, the tightness and the mass in your core? When you look at yourself, whose eyes do you use? Your own? I am always in myself. I never see myself through my partner’s eyes. I have weapons to use, of course, ways of moving, moans and cries. But I measure those weapons by their effect, not by their similarity to some idea of how I should be. Flying is the loop of machinery and pilot, the sense of your motion on the controls translated into torque and lift, the airframe’s reaction shaping your next motion until the loop closes and machine and pilot are one. Awareness collapses to the moment. You are always doing the right thing exactly as it needs to be done. Sex is the same: the search for everything in an instant. Of course I fuck Axis. A few decades ago this would’ve been a crime. What a waste of perfectly useful behavior. What a waste of that lean muscled form and those perfect killing hands that know me millimeter-by-millimeter system-by-system so there is no mystique between us. No “secret places” or “feminine mysteries,” only the tortuously exact technical exercise of nerves and pressure. Oxytocin released, to flow between us, by the press of knuckles in my cunt. When I come beneath Axis I cry out, I press my body close, I want that utter loss of control that I feel nowhere else. Heartbeat in arched throat: nipple beneath straining tongue. And my mind is hyper-activated, free-associating, and as Axis works in me I see the work we do together. I see puffs of thirty-millimeter autocannon detonating on night-cold desert floor. Violence doesn’t get me off. But getting off makes me revel in who I am: and I am violent, made for violence, alive in the fight. Does that surprise you? Does it bother you to mingle cold technical discipline with hot flesh and sweat? Let me ask you: why has the worst insult you can give a combat pilot always been weak dick? Have you ever been exultant? Have you ever known that you are a triumph? Have you ever felt that it was your whole life’s purpose to do something, and all that you needed to succeed was to be entirely yourself? To be yourself well is the wholest and best feeling that anything has ever felt. It is what I feel when I am about to live or die. The Werewolf’s missile arches down on us, motor burned out, falling like an arrow. He is trying a Shoot On Prospect attack: he cannot find us exactly, so he fires a missile that will finish the search, lock onto our heat or burn through our stealth with its onboard radar, or acquire us optically like a staring human eye. Or at least make us react. Like the catcaller’s barked “Hey!” to evoke the flinch or the huddle, the proof that he has power. We are ringed in the vortex of a dilemma. If we switch off the stealth gown, the Werewolf fighter will lock its radar onto us and guide the missile to the kill. If we keep the stealth system on, the missile’s heat-seeker will home in on the blazing plasma. I know what to do. Not in the way you learn how to fly a helicopter, but the way you know how to hold your elbows when you gesture. A helicopter is more than a hovering fan, see? The blades of the rotor tilt and swivel. When you turn the aircraft left, the rotors deepen their bite into the air on one side of their spin, to make off-center lift. You cannot force a helicopter or it will throw you to the earth. You must be gentle. I caress the cyclic. The Apache’s nose comes up smooth and fast. The Mojave horizon disappears under the chin. Axis’ gasp from the front seat passes through the microphone and into the bones of my face. The pitch indicator climbs up toward sixty degrees, ass down, chin up. Our airspeed plummets from a hundred and fifty knots to sixty. We hang there for an instant like a dancer in an oversway. The missile is coming straight down at us. We are not even running anymore. And I lower the collective, flattening the blades of the rotor, so that they cannot cut the air at an angle and we lose all lift. We fall. I toe the rudder. The tail rotor yields a little of its purpose, which is to counter the torque of the main rotor: and that liberated torque spins the Apache clockwise, opposite the rotor’s turn, until we are nose down sixty degrees, facing back the way we came, looking into the Mojave desert as it rises up to take us. I have pirouetted us in place. Plasma fire blows in wraith pennants as the stealth system tries to keep us modest. “Can you get it?” I ask. “Axis.” I raise the collective again and the rotors bite back into the air. We do not rise, but our fall slows down. Cyclic stick answers to the barest twitch of wrist, and I remember, once, how that slim wrist made me think of fragility, frailty, fear: I am remembering even as I pitch the helicopter back and we climb again, nose up, tail down, scudding backward into the sky while aimed at our chasing killer. Axis is on top now, above me in the front seat, and in front of Axis is the chin gun, pointed sixty degrees up into heaven. “Barb,” the helicopter whispers, like my mother in my ear. “Missile ten seconds. Music? Glare?” No. No jamming. The Werewolf missile will home in on jamming like a wolf with a taste for pepper. Our laser might dazzle the seeker, drive it off course—but if the missile turns then Axis cannot take the shot. It is not a choice. I trust Axis. Axis steers the nose turret onto the target and I imagine strong fingers on my own chin, turning me for a kiss, looking up into the red scorched sky—Axis chooses the weapon (30MM GUIDED PROX AP) and aims and fires with all the idle don’t-have-to-try confidence of the first girl dribbling a soccer ball who I ever for a moment loved— The chin autocannon barks out ten rounds a second. It is effective out to one point five kilometers. The missile is moving more than a hundred meters per second. Axis has one second almost exactly, ten shots of thirty-millimeter smart grenade, to save us. A mote of gray shadow rushes at us and intersects the line of cannon fire from the gun. It becomes a spray of light. The Apache tings and rattles. The desert below us, behind us, stipples with tiny plumes of dust that pick up in the wind and settle out like sift from a hand. “Got it,” Axis says. “I love you.” “Axis.” Many of you are veterans in the act of gender. You weigh the gaze and disposition of strangers in a subway car and select where to stand, how often to look up, how to accept or reject conversation. Like a frequency-hopping radar, you modulate your attention for the people in your context: do not look too much, lest you seem interested, or alarming. You regulate your yawns, your appetite, your toilet. You do it constantly and without failure. You are aces. What other way could be better? What other neural pathways are so available to constant reprogramming, yet so deeply connected to judgment, behavior, reflex? Some people say that there is no gender, that it is a postmodern construct, that in fact there are only man and woman and a few marginal confusions. To those people I ask: if your body-fact is enough to establish your gender, you would willingly wear bright dresses and cry at movies, wouldn’t you? You would hold hands and compliment each other on your beauty, wouldn’t you? Because your cock would be enough to make you a man. Have you ever guarded anything so vigilantly as you protect yourself against the shame of gender-wrong? The same force that keeps you from gender-wrong is the force that keeps me from fucking up. The missile is dead. The Werewolf Apostle is still up there. “He’s turning off.” Axis has taken over defensive awareness while I fly. “Radar off. Laser off. He’s letting us go.” “Afraid of our fighters?” The mercenaries cannot replace a lost J-20S. And he probably has a wingman, still hiding, who would die too if they stray into a trap. “Yes,” Axis says. “Keep the gown on.” In case he’s trying to bluff us into shutting down our stealth. “We’ll stick to the terrain until he’s over the horizon.” “Can you fly us out?” The Apache is fighting me. Fragments of the destroyed missile have pitted the rotors, damaged the hub assembly, and jammed the control surfaces. I begin to crush the shrapnel with the Apache’s hydraulics, pounding the metal free with careful control inputs. But the necessary motions also move the aircraft. Half a second’s error will crash us into the desert. I have to calculate how to un-jam the shrapnel while accounting for the effects of that shrapnel on my flight authority and keeping the aircraft stable despite my constant control inputs while moving at a hundred and thirty knots across the desert. “Barb,” I say. “Not a problem.” And for an hour I fly without thought, without any feeling except the smooth stone joy of doing something that takes everything. The night desert is black to the naked eye, soft gray to thermal. My attention flips between my left eye, focused on the instruments, and my right eye, looking outside. I am a black box like the Pear Mesa AIs. Information arrives—a throb of feedback in the cyclic, a shift of Axis’ weight, a dune crest ahead—and my hands and feet move to hold us steady. If I focused on what I was doing it would all fall apart. So I don’t. “Are you happy?” Axis asks. Good to talk now. Keep my conscious mind from interfering with the gearbox of reflexes below. “Yeah,” I say, and I blow out a breath into my mask, “yeah, I am,” a lightness in my ribs, “yeah, I feel good.” “Why do you think we just blew up a school?” Why did I text my best friend the appearance and license number of all my cab drivers, just in case? Because those were the things that had to be done. Listen: I exist in this context. To make war is part of my gender. I get what I need from the flight line, from the ozone tang of charging stations and the shimmer of distant bodies warping in the tarmac heat, from the twenty minutes of anxiety after we land when I cannot convince myself that I am home, and safe, and that I am no longer keeping us alive with the constant adjustments of my hands and feet. “Deplete their skilled labor supply, I guess. Attack the demographic skill curve.” “Kind of a long-term objective. Kind of makes you think it’s not gonna be over by election season.” “We don’t get to know why the AIs pick the targets.” Maybe destroying this school was an accident. A quirk of some otherwise successful network, coupled to the load-bearing elements of a vast strategy. “Hey,” I say, after a beat of silence. “You did good back there.” “You thought I wouldn’t.” “Barb.” A more honest yes than “yes,” because it is my name, and it acknowledges that I am the one with the doubt. “I didn’t know if I would either,” Axis says, which feels exactly like I don’t know if I love you anymore. I lose control for a moment and the Apache rattles in bad air and the tail slews until I stop thinking and bring everything back under control in a burst of rage. “You’re done?” I whisper, into the helmet. I have never even thought about this before. I am cold, sweat soaked, and shivering with adrenaline comedown, drawn out like a tendon in high heels, a just-off-the-dance-floor feeling, post-voracious, satisfied. Why would we choose anything else? Why would we give this up? When it feels so good to do it? When I love it so much? “I just . . . have questions.” The tactical channel processes the sound of Axis swallowing into a dull point of sound, like dropped plastic. “We don’t need to wonder, Axis. We’re gendered for the mission—” “We can’t do this forever,” Axis says, startling me. I raise the collective and hop us up a hundred feet, so I do not plow us into the desert. “We’re not going to be like this forever. The world won’t be like this forever. I can’t think of myself as . . . always this.”
2020.07.12 01:54 SWGalaxysEdge7/12 ** Christmas on TV **
(all times Eastern USA) Royal Christmas Tomorrow, 12:00 AM / HALMRK 68 A prince has no intentions of following the customs of marrying into royalty after he falls for a seamstress, but his queen mother has her own plans for him and does not what him to break away from the traditional marriage and keep the royal lineage. Bob's Burgers - Better Off Sled Tomorrow, 12:30 AM / WMOR-DT 12 / IND / HDTV Louise, Gene and Tina engage in a heated turf war when their usual sledding territory is invaded by a group of angsty teenagers; Bob comes to Linda's aid as she faces limited time left to knit three scarves before Christmas arrives. The George Burns and Gracie Allen Show - Christmas in Jail Tomorrow, 1:00 AM / WTSP-DT2 610 / ATV George recalls the story of how he once got arrested and became incarcerated on Christmas Eve; Georges situation gets complicated as he searches for Christmas presents for his family and friends. Scoot and Kassie's Christmas Adventure Tomorrow, 1:37 AM / PLEX-E 391 A young girl and her friends get into the holiday spirit and organize a Christmas concert benefiting children in need, but when two thieves attempt to crash the event and steal the donations, it's up to the girl and her dog to catch the crooks. My Christmas Dream Tomorrow, 2:00 AM / HALMRK 68 A department store manager who wants to get to run the store's new Paris location promises the owner the store's best holiday display ever and then runs out of ideas, going to a recently-fired employee with artistic talents for inspiration. Fir Crazy Tomorrow, 3:00 AM / HALLMV 84 After a woman unexpectedly loses her job, she must work at her family's Christmas tree lot to make ends meet during the holiday season, and she soon enters into a conflict with the landlord who hopes to shut down her business. A Wish for Christmas Tomorrow, 4:00 AM / HALMRK 68 An office worker watches silently as her idea for a Christmas sales initiative is stolen and then gets a visit from Santa Claus, who asks her to make a wish, and when she wishes for courage her desire is granted, but only for 48 hours. Love Always, Santa Tomorrow, 5:00 AM / HALLMV 84 A sweet young girl who lost her father on Christmas three years ago and whose mother has never truly recovered since decides to write a letter to Santa Claus in hopes the he can find her mother find true happiness once again The Perfect Christmas Present Tomorrow, 7:00 AM / HALLMV 84 When a businessman's friend asks him to find the perfect Christmas gift for his girlfriend, he ends up gradually falling in love with her, while doing research on her, and feels guilty as his emotions are torn between his love and his friend Jingle Around the Clock Tomorrow, 8:00 AM / HALMRK 68 When a woman plans a Christmas celebration with her college friends, she is forced to work on an advertising campaign for her job, but when she finds herself working with a man with opposing views, she tries to pull off the perfect event. Christmas Secret Tomorrow, 9:00 AM / HALLMV 84 A recent divorcée and single mother whose life appears to be crumbling all around her finds new reasons to hope after landing a new job, meeting a handsome new flame, and uncovering a long-hidden family secret that promises to change everything. The Christmas Cottage Tomorrow, 10:00 AM / HALMRK 68 When an interior designer is asked to be her best friend's maid of honor, she ends up spending the night snowed inn with her friend's brother at their family's cottage, which is rumored to result in everlasting love to those who stay there. A Christmas to Remember Tomorrow, 11:00 AM / HALLMV 84 A TV personality with a bad attitude and a soaring stress level decides to take an impromptu road trip through the mountains to get away from it all, but after a bad accident gives her a case of amnesia, she relies on a friendly stranger's help. The Christmas Club Tomorrow, 12:00 PM / HALMRK 68 Two strangers encounter each other while trying to aid an elderly woman in recovering her lost Christmas savings, and thanks to a little help from fate and some Christmas magic, the two of them also find the true love their lives were missing. Miss Me This Christmas Tomorrow, 12:00 PM / TVONE 146 A seemingly perfect couple gets into a huge fight at Thanksgiving and decides to get a divorce, but when the woman stays at the same hotel where they got married, she starts a whirlwind romance and must come to grips with the end of her marriage. A Boyfriend for Christmas Tomorrow, 1:00 PM / HALLMV 84 Nearly 20 years after asking Santa to bring her a boyfriend for Christmas, a romantic skeptic finds herself heavily involved in her career as a social worker when an unexpected knock at the door reveals the gift she had been hoping to receive. Christmas at Pemberley Manor Tomorrow, 2:00 PM / HALMRK 68 When an event planner is sent to organize a small town's holiday festival, she meets a grumpy billionaire with the perfect estate to host her event, but when the two start planning the festivities, they suddenly find themselves falling in love. Hope at Christmas Tomorrow, 3:00 PM / HALLMV 84 When a mother and her young daughter come to a small town in North Carolina for the holidays, a man tries to make her Christmas wishes come true by helping her open herself up to life, love and believing in the spirit of Christmas again. Karen Kingsbury's Maggie's Christmas Miracle Tomorrow, 5:00 PM / HALLMV 84 A high-powered attorney and single mother seeks out a tutor for her devoted and struggling son, who wishes for her mother to find love and happiness, and quickly forms a close bond with the tutor, who also becomes a father figure for the boy. Christmas Getaway Tomorrow, 6:00 PM / HALMRK 68 When a travel writer's boyfriend unexpectedly breaks up with her, she decides to spend her holiday vacation alone, but when a mishap causes her to be forced to share a cabin with a widower and his family, an inconvenience turns into romance. Time for Me to Come Home for Christmas Tomorrow, 7:00 PM / HALLMV 84 When a country music star's flight home to Tulsa is canceled, he meets a fellow traveler, who is also trying to get to Tulsa, and they become unlikely traveling companions as they try to make their way home to their families in time for the holiday. That '70s Show - Christmas Tomorrow, 7:30 PM / WFTS-DT2 629 / LAFF Jackie invites all the guys to attend the dance at her high school; Kelso decides to ditch the dance altogether in order to spend some time with Brooke at the library; Kitty casts a reluctant Red to play the local Santa Claus. A Christmas Detour Tomorrow, 8:00 PM / HALMRK 68 Two passengers with clashing personalities cross paths again in their airport hotel after their flight is forced to change course and must find a way to work together so that she can reach her destination in time for her wedding. Last Man Standing - Last Christmas Standing Tomorrow, 9:00 PM / WGNAMER 18 The father of Kristin's baby unexpectedly comes back to town after a long absence leaving Mike and Kristin's boyfriend, Kyle, unsure of how to handle it; Mandy tries to unionize the elves to get better perks at Outdoor Man after Ed hires her. Once Upon a Christmas Miracle Tomorrow, 9:00 PM / HALLMV 84 After a young woman is told that she has less than a few months to live without a liver transplant, she meets a Marine, who is a perfect match and whose organ donation could save her life, and they soon develop a friendship which leads to romance. Christmas Under the Stars Tomorrow, 10:00 PM / HALMRK 68 An investment banker gets fired from his job in the middle of the holiday season, so he decides to take a job at a Christmas tree lot, and he soon starts to fall in love with an astronomy teacher there who is facing some tough times.
2020.07.10 16:15 Mavleo96"Michael Kelso is the Jerry Smith of That 70's show" Change my mind.
A person who is stupid and subconsciously in denial about his stupidity, brings havoc to people around all while being "innocent" and whose greatest superpower is that same catastrophic stupidity....fits Kelso as well as Jerry
2020.07.03 19:14 alon276Kelso's statement about home computers in S01E22
I find it hilarious and super coincidental thayt the future actor of Steve Jobs (well, one of them) foresees home computers in a show about the 70's where he's the biggest idiot. What are the odds? To those who don't remember, it's when kelso and red make smaller paddles for pong, and red tells him "You have seen the future!" And he answers"You're so right red, home computers! That is the future!" And red laughs at him in response....
2020.06.25 21:29 LatterExamination0What would be your opinions if these series ever got made into pops?
How I met your Mother: Marshall and Lily 2 pack, Ted, Barney, Barney with rubber ducky tie chase, Robin, That 70s Show: Red, Kitty, Vista Cruiser pop ride, Donna, Eric, Fez, Fez as batman (exclusive?), Kelso, Hyde, Jackie, The Mentalist: Patrick Jane, Teresa Lisbon, Wayne Rigsby, Grace Van pelt, Kimball Cho, I know some of these are outdated shows and don’t have much of a demand but what are your opinions on these Tristan
2020.06.25 11:42 Sweet_YTEric from "that 70s show" is really unlikeable even Kelso is better
Kelso is better than Eric. I think kelso is better than Eric for numerous reasons. The key reason is character development. I feel like Eric’s character developed backwards compared to Kelso. Eric went from the quirky nerd to the overly confident and too sarcastic. Meanwhile Kelso went from shallow and narcissistic to thoughtful and understanding. I find it interesting how they both handled breakups differently. Eric was more on the hateful side and kicking Donna out of his basement. Kelso was surprisingly very into his feelings when Jackie broke up with him. He even apologized to Jackie for cheating after Laurie cheated on him. Eric was once my favorite character but overtime I started to dislike him. It’s like he has funny and caring moments but overall he’s annoying to me. Eric constantly makes mistakes. I think Donna could do better at times. I mean don’t get me wrong Eric is a good guy but I think Donna deserves better. Mainly because Eric gets jealous, trust her, and is just a little rude at times. I think Eric is a good character but Kelso is better. I hated Kelso but I started to be okay with him after a couple seasons. I’m pretty sure a lot people will disagree which I’m okay with because I’m probably the only who finds him annoying. I know I didn’t give much but I was just listing the main reasons or what I was thinking.
2020.06.10 21:58 hpspnmagBob: the worst male on the show?
We never really meet Donna’s sisters, but the older one could have been conceived during Midge’s and Bob’s high school years. So the Pinciotti couple should have been together for at least 20 years. It probably did not begin as love marriage. So I get that there were a lot of unresolved issues there (e.g., Bob telling Kelso to sell the van before he got someone pregnant). From what we see in season 1 and 2, he makes me cringe. Bob is very dismissive of Midge’s desire to do something in addition to being a housewife (though normative in the 70s, we see others being okay with working wives: Red and Jack Burkhart). He did not listen to Donna or Midge when they wanted to explain things, and just wanted to buy them something to make them shut up. Bob appears to be considering a divorce when Midge wants to start her own business but won't go through with it because it would be expensive. I am pretty sure Bob was the one that got them to be swingers and seeing other people (Midge never gave any indication of this before Bob tried to stay at that swingers party). She was naive when she attended therapy, but to be fair to her, you don't expect your doctor to take advantage of you—or at least you shouldn’t. He started to get better with Joanne. She didn’t cater to his wants, and taught him to be more independent and live outside of gender roles. Then the whole Pam thing seemed to revolve around her physical appearance and how Pam would make him feel (e.g., feeding his ego). I get that some of this was for comedic effect, he just seemed to be the worst of the guys on the show. View Poll
2020.06.08 09:52 hpspnmagFandom updates character ages and are still wrong imo
previous post I was looking for an episode title because my phone being wonky took me to a different page than intended I accidentally found that that the character's birth years have been updated. Now stands as such to the following: Laurie born in 1958 (not part of the gang but still relevant because she’s one of the kids), Kelso born in 1959, Hyde born in 1959, Eric born in 1960, Donna born in 1960, Fez born in 1960, Jackie born in 1961 I’m a firm believer that writers know basic things about their characters when they are writing them. So even when they edit later on to “fix” mistakes it’s because someone didn’t like something, someone forgot that it was already addressed, or it’s a different writer putting their own spin on information for cannon. Also, I don’t think it was common for writers to worry about people discussing plot holes in their work at that point. ANYWAY back to the ages and why they are still wrong. Laurie : I still maintain that she was born a couple years before Eric, but now with her being born in 1956. Though I am going to adjust that she was probably in her sophomore year in college/university. When the series starts, she is coming home from college during the spring semester for Eric’s birthday. Hear me out on this: Laurie is mentioned in season 1 to be missing Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale, and it is implied that she had gone the previous year. I can’t see Red letting his innocent high school daughter go to Florida with her friends for vacation without parental supervision—regardless of her being his favorite. He would, therefore, be more likely to cave when his daughter talks/asks about experiencing college life and wanting her to fit in. So Laurie was probably still a party girl throughout her high school and college freshman year but somehow either she was doing well in managing her workload or had someone doing her work for hegetting exam keys to her final. So Laurie is definitely 19, and about 3 months from turning 20 (since her birthday is in July) during the time she is visiting for Eric’s birthday. The 3 neighboring in age with consistent evidence of being born in 1959 are— Eric : obviously turns 17 in episode 2, and it’s supposed to be 1976 during that episode. Kitty would never be confused about his age since she was literally counting down to when Red wanted to kick him out. Since his birthday is in March it does create some issues in continuity but that can be explained through us just getting snapshots of their lives. Donna : she’s a month older than Eric so she is 17 in the pilot. So pretty much that’s all that is needed for her. Hyde : Hyde is not older than the rest of the gang. Given what little we know of his past, his home life is bad. At the least he was neglected and at worst he was physically abused and parentified. I’m making the assumption that Edna always worked as a lunch lady because frankly, I think she’s too lazy to look for something else as she would need to be more respectful to people and follow more rules. She disliked and blamed Hyde for all her shortcomings, so I can’t see her putting off his education when it would mean she could get rid of him for a portion of the day. Being a lunch lady = knowing enrollment deadlines. So Hyde was in his correct class cohort from the get-go. Like I said in the previous message post he does not miss a school cut off date due to his birthday. He met Eric in kindergarten and became a hired gun at some point so those two are the same age. Meaning he is 16 when the show started and why his 18th birthday was pushed all the way to season 4. Fez : is still assumed to be born in 1959 since he is graduating with his other friends. We never really hear much about his age to be honest throughout the series but I’ll keep an eye out for it during this new rewatch. Jackie : being born in 1960 still works since at the end of season 1 she is a sophomore. [Jackie is a freshman at the beginning of the season but they've moved onto the next school grade a few episodes in] Kelso : With Kelso being 18 during the pilot—even if we didn’t know it until the Halloween episode—and shamed for not buying the rest of the gang beer (side note 1: was the drinking age in Wisconsin 18 in the 70s? Or was that at a federal level?)—he has to be born in 1958. [Side note 2: school-wise it seems like all the characters where in between grades. Since the series presumably begins in wintespring of ‘76 the core gang are sophomores and then I assume 1.04 &1.05 take place in summer ‘76. Then the Keg they are juniors in high school for the rest of the season].
2020.06.07 22:41 helltripWhat I thought was going to happen with Kelso and Brooke
I had just gotten done watching compilations of sad or dark sitcom moments through the years and, unsurprisingly, as nothing was really TOO taboo or sad in That 70s Show other than the scenes with breakups, there was nothing about the show on there. However, it did remind me of my original theory of what was gonna happen between Kelso and Brooke—Brooke was going to get an abortion. It actually seemed like it would allude to that, especially since Kelso and Brooke only had sex once and Brooke would be a single mother since she seen Kelso as unfit to father her child. Also, it being during the 70s, where things such as abortion seemed like a taboo topic. I thought that it actually would’ve captured the 70s essence and there could’ve been a whole episode directed to it, maybe Kelso intending on becoming a father and him getting excited, only for Brooke to break the news to him and him becoming distraught over it. I totally thought that it was what was going to happen and was actually shocked that they did carry out Brooke having the baby. This is just me rambling, feel free to discuss in the comments what you think. I’m eager to hear people’s opinions on this, as it seemed like an important topic to touch on, especially during the time period.
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im just gonna say youre a farmer Funniest scenes from That '70s Show. • Eric, Donna, Kelso, Jackie and Fez go to an ice shack. • 'Well damn, Jackie. I can't control the weather!' • 'Jackie, ... The group shares stories of Kelso in order to break up him and Angie. Eric: So anyone have any stories about Angie's new boyfriend and some of his crazy anti... Funniest scenes from That '70s Show. • Hyde teaches Jackie how to be cool. • Kelso comes over for dinner at the Formans. • Jackie fights Laurie. ***I do not ... Enjoy the videos and music you love, upload original content, and share it all with friends, family, and the world on YouTube. Funniest scenes from That '70s Show. • Kelso's fudgsicle. • Laurie makes fun of Kelso's jacket. • Kelso and Hyde fight over the jacket. • Red helps Bob get b... Before Ashton Kutcher and Mila Kunis were a thing IRL, we fell in love with Jackie and Kelso's relationship on That '70s Show. Here are our Top 10 cutest, be... Hilarious scene from: That 70's Show: s4e23 - Hydes Birthday Funniest scenes from That '70s Show. • Pam comes over so all the guys dress up to impress her. • The gang in the basememnt. • Kelso in Bob's hot tub. / Eric ... Funniest scenes from That '70s Show. • 'Well I'd like to help but not as much as I'd like not to.' • Kelso gets his hand stuck in a vase. ***I do not own any...