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#I feel like the universe hit me with a garbage truck then dumped the garbage on top of my dead body
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I know I’m all be gay do crime but like when I say that at this moment there’s no amount of illegal bullshit I wouldn’t commit to get my brain to let me fucking sleep I mean it with every fiber of my being
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Sorry for not posting much this week, it’s the busy season at my workplace and I’ve been doing 60′s!  Mostly just teaching people how to not be stupid or lazy.
Anyway, have this snippet from the fic-in-progress; Red and Sans meet for the first time.  
aka: Sans is pissed that he got blamed for dumb stuff Red did, got thrown in jail for three days, and wants to ‘talk’ to Red.
aka:  Red thinks Sans is gonna kill him (he’s not) and falls off a roof, and Sans gets threatened with dick biting.
There’s some weird perspective shifts, since Red still thinks of himself as Sans at this point in time.  There’s also some Papyrus being a cutiepie.
warnings:  cursing and injury
‘should be a good haul this time’  Sans thought with a grin, as he practically jingled with loot he’d lifted off random humans around town.  Cash and coins were all well and good, but so many humans only carried those stupid plastic cards protected by PIN codes that were completely useless to him.  So, he’d moved on to sneaking off with watches and jewelry, sometimes whole handbags and even sunglasses.  So many humans owned stupidly expensive pieces of garbage.
The door to the pawn shop beeped as he entered, and the pawn broker, Johan, beamed at him.  He’d become a regular in the past few months, and the shady little shit of a man never questioned exactly where he’d gotten all his loot.  Sans swore he’d stolen the same custom Rolex off three different people already.  But as long as he got paid...
“’ey bud.  got some good stuff for ya.”  Sans sauntered up to the counter and began to empty his pockets.  
The door beeped again, another customer, but no one got in line behind him, so he ignored it.  He was well disguised enough now that he didn’t worry about getting recognized.  Curiously, he plucked a ring out of the pile of shit he’d stolen before the broker could snatch it away.  Thick band, gold with a ruby red gem.  Fake, but pretty.  Some kind of class ring or something, probably not worth much.  
It fit on his middle phalanx nicely, and he just grinned as Johan gave him an incredulous look.  “Cheap.  It suits you.”  He replied, mildly amused.
“fuck you too bud.”  Sans grumbled, also amused.  He felt pretty good today.  Less pain.  Today was gonna be a good--
He jolted as he felt himself being checked, and barely stopped it before it completed.  Whoever had entered the store was a monster, and one with shitty manners at that.  Hardly anyone just randomly checked him anymore, unless he freaked them out.
Curling in on himself, Sans hid his hands in his pockets and looked over his shoulder.  He didn’t see anyone, but he knew they were there.  He could feel them staring daggers into his back.  “...hey, i’ll be outta yer way in a sec.”
Johan was just finishing up the tally on his haul before dumping it all into a box and setting the case full of cash on the desk.  “Alright, I can give you 250 for all of--”
“250?  the fuck man, you know that watch is worth at least a hundred on its’ own.  350.”  Sans snapped.  
Johan rolled his eyes and sighed.  “Fine, you’re right.  300?”  
“fine, you frugal ass.  gimme.  ‘m in a rush.”  Sans held out his hand for the cash, and as soon as Johan was done counting, he turned to leave.   “alright i’m out.  see ya.”
“Until next time, friend!  Maybe rob a Hot Topic this time so you don’t smell so much like a fast food dumpster!”  Johan called after him, laughing.  Sans snarled and flipped him off, before taking all of three steps before he ran right into whoever had checked him.  
Sans glanced down to see his alternate in all his short, shitty glory glaring up at him, his sockets dark.  Welp.  “...hey buddy.  i think you and me need to have a talk.”  Spoke an all too familiar baritone.  Just barely an octave deeper than his own.  
Of course it has to be him.  Fuck this day.  Fuck me.  Just fuck.  Sans paused for just a second before shoving his alternate out of the way and bolting for the door.  
“shit shit SHIT.”  He hissed, slamming through the door and running for the corner, before he felt himself bodily flung against the side of the pawn shop, held there with blue magic.  “fuck, why did it have to be him!”  
“well that was rude.”  Other Sans replied, approaching him cautiously.  His left eye was blazing with magic, and he hardly looked like he was putting any effort into keeping Sans pinned.  It was actually infuriating how easy the weakass bastard made using Blue Magic look.
“the fuck’s your problem, man?  put me down.”  Sans demanded, trying to play the ‘i have no idea what’s going on so you better stop’ card.  Hopefully his hood was keeping his face hidden.  
Other Sans caught his bluff and simply scoffed.
“nah.  you and me, we’re gonna have a chat.  if you behave, maybe i’ll put you down.  but maybe not, since you’ve got some pretty heavy LV going on there.  you’re probably pretty dangerous, actually.”  Other Sans commented.  
Sans flinched.  He’d stopped the check, when had he...?  Oh god, was this Sans also The Judge?  The cold, knowing look he was getting told him that yes, this was The Judge of this world and his ass was getting Judged real hard.
Sans tried to speak, to say something, to do something, but he was panicking.  The way he was now, he was way too weak to do much damage, even backed by strong intent.  But all it would take was one hit, just one, his alternate only had one HP.  But...he didn’t want to do that.  What kind of damage to the timeline would that cause?  What would happen to him if the anomaly reset while he was here?
Other Sans raised a brow bone at his silence.  “...uh, you okay there pal?  you’re looking a little rattled.  heh.”  He asked, sounding almost concerned.  Almost.
‘do something anything fuck fuck FUCK’  Sans’ mind finally screamed at him, and he delved into what little magic he’d stored back up.  His alternate jumped in shock before being thrown across the street into traffic, causing his hold on Sans to falter.  Unfortunately, Sans’ own hold failed not long after, letting his alternate shortcut safely out of the way of a passing truck.
“shit.”  Sans whispered, ducking into the alleyway before forcing himself into his own shortcut.  Just getting on top of the building hurt like a bitch and made his soul scream in protest, and he barely rolled out of the way in time to dodge a set of bones flung at him with surprising accuracy.  For someone with such shitty stats, Other Sans sure seemed to have good aim.  
It took him another moment to realize that now he was actually being attacked by his alternate, and decided he’d probably pissed the smaller skeleton off enough to be worried.  Another set of bones came a second later, and he took off sprinting across the roof.  There was a pop as his alternate appeared behind him, and Sans managed to escape another attempted pin by shoving Other Sans back with his own Blue Magic.  But his alternate barely stumbled.
He was nearly at the edge of the roof when a wall of bones shot up to block him.  Out of instinct, he pulled himself into another shortcut - at least, he tried, before he felt the most god awful stabbing pain in his chest and he screamed.  His magic had refused, and he tumbled into the bone attacks before slipping off the roof.  
Looking back, he barely caught the shocked look on his alternates face before he crashed against the railing of a fire escape, bounced off a closed dumpster, and tumbled onto the asphalt to lie in a heap.  
Everything was pain.  Drawing in air for non-existent lungs was pain.  Trying to moan in pain was pain.  He shuddered and felt the tingle of shortcut magic shoot up his spine, his soul screaming at him for magic he wasn’t using.
“--oh fuck.  i thought you’d shortcut around them, not run right through them, geez.”  His alternate whispered harshly, tentatively reaching out to touch his shoulder.  “i’m sorry, i just--”
Sans snarled, and snapped his teeth in an attempt to bite the little fucker’s hand.  “don’t fuckin’ touch me, you little bitch.”  He hissed.
His alternate pulled back and glared at him.  “wow, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine?”  He spat.  “sorry for actually worrying about you, asshole.”  
Sans managed to choke out a laugh.  “y-you should be sorry.  for being a f-fuckin’ creampuff.”  He shook with the effort of talking, and everything was just...pain.  Why did this hurt so much??  “...although, for someone with only 1 ATK, this...hurts.  a lot.”
His alternate actually looked...remorseful?  “that’s because of your LV.  only one attack, but it hits you once for every LV you have.  So, five bone attacks multiplied by your 13 LV--”
“i know basic math, dipshit.” Sans coughed.  He tried to get up, and cried out in agony as his bad arm gave out.  His alternate had the gall to try and hold him down.  
“don’t move, you also took some pretty nasty damage in the fall.  just, uh, don’t try to bite me again.”  Other Sans let him go after a moment, and pulled a monster candy out of his pocket, offering them to him.  “here.”
Sans’ soul clenched at the sight.  He wanted to, he knew that the candy was full of magic he so desperately needed, but he also knew it’d probably kill him at this point.    “god no, please.  no monster food.  i can’t.”  He moaned, almost sobbing.
His alternate pulled back in confusion.  “what?  you need to heal, this’ll--”  
“i know what it does, i just - i can’t take it.  yer fuckin’ creampuff magic is trying to kill me.”  Sans explained.  It didn’t seem to help.  “ugh, i’m not...from here.  this universe.  so turns out, my magic is different enough from yours that they’re incompatible, or some shit.  i dunno...”  He felt something in him give way, and everything went dark for a moment.  But at least the pain stopped.  
Wait, that was probably bad.
“...so you are me.  how did you even - wait don’t fall asleep, you gotta stay - oh fuck.”  
---------
Holy crap, so this was actually Sans’ alternate from another timeline.  Or universe.  An entirely different set of timelines, so different that he said his magic couldn’t even process their food.  And he’d probably just killed him by chasing him off the side of a building.
“paps, it’s near the pawn shop.  yeah, i’m fine.  i’ll explain everything in the car, just hurry.”  Hanging up the phone, he cautiously gave the other skeleton a quick check, since he couldn’t just cheat his way out of it this time.
Sans
LV: 13
ATK: 60 DEF: 10
HP: 12/145
*His bark is worse than his bite.
Sans grimaced.  Just...what kind of twisted hell verse did this guy come from, where any version of himself was forced to have so much LV?  At least his HP seemed to finally stabilize.  He sighed, deciding that there wasn’t much else to do but wait for Papyrus, since he’d figured a shortcut would probably do more damage than good.  
Cautiously, he reached out and touched one of his Other’s distal phalanges.  The ends were slightly darker, curled into barely noticeable claws.  He wore a well-worn leather jacket that held the lingering scent of Dust that he’d hoped would stay in his nightmares.  
And his teeth, they were jagged and pointed, one of them having been knocked clean out at one point to be replaced with a false, gold one.  The bone around the area was still cracked, and Sans hoped that was from the fall rather than being a lingering injury - it wouldn’t scar like that unless it’d had to heal the natural way.  The long and painful way.  
It...hurt, to see someone, anyone, this...worn down.  And yet...he couldn’t ignore that LV.  There was no way anyone got that amount of EXP just by defending themselves.  And yet, his alternate hadn’t attacked him.  Actually, no one had been attacked.  It would’ve been on the news.  And, if he was correct in thinking that this was the suspicious ‘doppelganger’ that’d gotten him thrown in jail for three days for missing curfew too many times, he’d clearly been here for months already.  But where?
Then he realized.  The pawn broker had taunted him about smelling like a dumpster.  He’d...he’d been on the streets for months.  Had resorted to petty thievery to survive.   Was literally starving to dust because of some kind of...magical incompatibility?  Sans jumped when the skeleton in front of him groaned.
“hey, don’t move too much.  you passed out.”  He said, his tone as gentle as possible.  It didn’t stop the doppelganger from jolting and struggling to scoot away from him, staring at him and at his surroundings in confusion.  In complete terror.  
“it’s okay.  you’re okay.”  Sans assured him, and his Other focused on him for a moment before slumping in exhaustion.  Sans noticed his eyelights, the normal ones, were red instead of white.  Maybe another result of his LV twisting his magic?   He certainly recalled Frisk’s eyes having a crimson glint in the bad timelines...
“...ugh.  well, ‘m still alive, so...i’m guessin’ yer not gonna kill me.”  His alternate whispered, his voice hardly audible.  Sans looked heartbroken.  
“no, i’m not going to kill you.  also, what the heck kind of accent is that?”   He asked, genuinely curious.  Maybe he could make light of this situation, kind of put him at ease.  The doppelganger snorted.
“...picked it up off mobster movies, to sound intimidating.  it, uh, kinda stuck.”  He replied quietly, and Sans was surprised to hear just how similar they sounded when his Other got rid of the accent.  Similar, but different enough.
“whoa, that’s...so weird.  to hear you talk in my voice.”  He commented.  
“that’s my voice, you asshole.”  And the accent was back.  Along with the anger.  
Sans shook his head.  “stars, are you what i would’ve sounded like if Paps hadn’t forced the swear jar on me?”  
His Other stared at him in shock, and after a moment he realized it was because he’d mentioned Papyrus.  “do...do you have a Papyrus?”  The doppelganger’s eyelights went out, and he started to shake a little.  Sans backpedaled, holding his hands up in apology.  “hey, s-sorry i mentioned--”
“yeah.  yeah i do.”  His alternate choked on the words.  “i...i was hopin’ to avoid yours.  i miss paps so much.  he’s still...back home.”  
“...oh.  i’m sorry.  i can’t imagine...”
His alternate let out a shuddering sigh.  “it - it’s fine.  he probably doesn’t even care that i’m gone.  probably thinks i’m dust.  he’s better off.”
Whoa.  Hearing that shook Sans to his very soul.  It just sounded so wrong, Papyrus would never just...not care.  About him.  They were brothers.  “that’s not - stop.  don’t think like that, i’m sure he’s worried about you.”  Sans tried to assure him, and his alternate just gave him an empty laugh.
“that’s a nice thought, princess.  i dunno what yer paps is like, but sounds like he’s a lot better than mine...”
“that’s not what i meant, your brother can’t be that--”
“SANS!”  Papyrus ran towards them, before skidding to a stop at the sight of the other skeleton.  “WHAT...SANS, WHAT HAPPENED??”
“it’s...a long story, bro.  just help me get him home, he’s hurt pretty bad.”  Sans said, getting to his feet.  His doppelganger didn’t even try to fight him when he looped an arm around him, he was too busy staring at Papyrus.  
Papyrus shook himself out of his shock to help Sans lift the stranger.  “WHY ARE THEY INJURED??  AND...A SKELETON?”  He asked.  Sans ignored him to wheeze at the effort it took to lift his doppelganger.  
“oof, why the fuck are you so heavy?” He asked, only to wince when Paps glared at him.  “LANGUAGE, SANS!  ...HE IS ODDLY HEAVY FOR A SKELETON.”
“oh for fucks sake, let go of me you absolute fuckin’ weenies.”  Sans’ alternate snarled, and the brothers jumped back in shock.
It took some effort, especially with his injured arm and barely being able to stand, but the doppelganger finally managed to shrug off his jacket.  It landed on the pavement with a disconcertingly heavy ‘thud’, and the brothers looked between the jacket and it’s owner for a few moments before Papyrus reached out to grab Sans’ other before he toppled over again.
“what the heck is that thing lined with, concrete?”  Sans asked incredulously.  
“special metalized-polymer i developed back in my lab days.  stronger than concrete but heavy as shit.”  The doppelganger panted slightly, before yelping when Papyrus picked him up bridal style, his face flushed faintly with red magic.  He seemed so much...smaller without the jacket, too.  More similar to himself.
“WOWIE!  THAT WAS CERTAINLY WHY YOU WERE SO HEAVY, YOU HARDLY WEIGH ANYTHING WITHOUT IT!!”  Papyrus chimed, before heading towards the car.  
Sans looked back at the jacket for brief moment, before turning to follow.  
“you better not leave my fuckin’ jacket back there you dick!”  “LANGUAGE!”
Flinching, Sans rolled his eye lights and retrieved his Other’s coat.  It must’ve weighed 100 pounds, at least.  Thankfully, Paps had the trunk open and he wasted no time hefting the stupid thing into it.  Panting, he headed towards the passenger seat before he noticed his brother shaking his head and pointing to the back.  
“i can’t sit back there, the uh...our friend is back there.”   He said through the door.  
“BECAUSE HE IS INJURED, I DON’T WANT HIM TO ACCIDENTALLY ROLL OFF AND HARM HIMSELF FURTHER.”  
“sooo...?”
“SANS, JUST SIT BACK THERE AND HOLD ONTO HIM, PLEASE.  YOU SAID IT IS URGENT THAT WE GET HIM HOME AND, WELL...”  Papyrus fidgeted shyly.  
“ah, right.”  Paps was...well, to call him a hazard behind the wheel was a understatement.  Sans opened the door to find himself being glared at by his flustered alternate.  “heh...hehe, you’re lookin’ a little red there, bud.”
“shut the fuck up and get in before i die in your brother’s car.”
“PLEASE DO NOT DIE IN MY CAR.  OR ANYWHERE ELSE FOR THAT MATTER.”  Papyrus tensed, upset.  
Sans shoved his alternate further into the car so he could sit and put on his seatbelt.  His other elbowed him in the knee, before scooting back so his skull was resting on Sans’ leg slightly.  Sans raised a brow bone at him curiously.  “...w...what are you doing?”
“makin’ sure i can bite you in the dick if you let me fall on the floor.”  
Sans tensed, his look shifting to one of horror.  “wh - i don’t even have it - what the actual fuck is wrong with you??”  
“LANGUAGE, SANS!  AND DO NOT BITE ANYONE, Uh.”
“...let’s just call him Red, bro.”  
“that’s not my name.”  
“do you wanna tell him your name?  be my guest.”
“...name’s Red.”
“HELLO RED!  PLEASE REFRAIN FROM ACTUALLY BITING ANYONE, ESPECIALLY IN...INAPPROPRIATE PLACES.  LIKE MY CAR.”  
Sans’ doppelganger, now dubbed Red, broke out into wheezy laughter at Papyrus’ statement, before whispering “oh my god, creampuff, he’s precious.”
“Paps can you please just drive?  now??”  Sans hissed, his face dusted with blue.
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The Stars, the Trees, and the Moon
CONTENT WARNING: death, description of gore, marijuana
It was mid-August, and Ryan was leaving to go back to Salt Lake City that next week for his junior year at the University of Utah. That night was going to be the last night we would be able to hang out before he left. The sun had set a couple of hours ago, but the air was still hot and dry. We were sitting in the bed of his truck, parked off of the main road a ways on a gravel path. The truck stereo Ryan had set up and designed himself was playing Fleetwood Mac through the open back window. We were surrounded by old trees; thick trunks rose into distant black peaks of needles against the stars, seeming to sway in the wind in time with Stevie Nicks herself as they stood over us.
“You wanna hit this?” Ryan held out the joint he was smoking, I rolled over to grab it. 
“Thanks,” I said, taking an over-ambitious drag that quickly resulted in a fit of coughing. 
“Didn’t know you became a little bitch being down in Corvallis al this time,” he chuckled as he reached into the backseat to grab me some water. As I drank, he watched me with a sly smile before inhaling and blowing smoke up towards the branches above us. He crushed the spent joint on the lip of the truck bed and leaned back onto the pillows he’d brought along.
“Fuck you,” I said with a smile, shoving him into the metal side of the truck. “Just because I don’t take fat rips right before class every day doesn’t mean I’m a little bitch.” 
“Whatever,” he rolled his eyes and folded his arms behind his head. I laid down next to him and looked up. That far from Portland, we could see almost ten times as many stars as we could back in town. We watched them for a while, listening about halfway through Rumors before Ryan groaned as he sat back up, “What time is it?”
I sat up as well, putting my hands on the window track for balance as I leaned into the cabin of the truck. I squinted my eyes to make sense of the LED clock on the center console. “About one thirty. You’re mom still enforcing a curfew on her little boy?” I said with a smirk. The late-night lectures Mrs. Waterson used to torture to us with in high school when we stayed out past curfew were reason enough for us to speed all the way home to beat the clock. 
“No.” He sighed and began packing up the pillows and placing them in the backseat, avoiding my gaze. “I uh, have to start packing up my room to move out. I was offered an internship over the summer in Salt Lake for next year that will probably turn into a job after graduation, and I think I’m gonna take it.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry I didn’t tell you, I understand if you’re upset or—”
“No, you’re fine,” he made eye contact with me as I interrupted him, and I tried to give him a reassuring smile. “I’m just a little caught off-guard, that’s all.” Almost as if to punctuate the change in mood, a cold mountain breeze slunk through the trees. 
“Well,” Ryan stood up and climbed out,” let's get going so I can get you home.” I nodded, and we piled into the truck. The somber end to the night, combined with being mildly high, kept us from making any conversation as Ryan put the truck in reverse and backed out down the gravel road. Little pieces of rock pinged against the undercarriage, drowning out the music. I closed my eyes and leaned my seat back as turned onto the paved mountain pass back towards Portland. I tried to ease into sleep as fast as possible to escape the majority of the drive home.
“FUCK,” Ryan suddenly yelled as he smashed his horn, brakes screaming. My eyes snapped open just in time to see a human form in the truck's headlights smash into the grill and disappear under the front bumper. We skidded to a halt almost 300 feet later. 
“Fuck. This is bad, this is really really bad,” Ryan grabbed at his hair as he got out, leaving the driver’s side door wide open. While the body of the truck wasn’t damaged, there was an incriminating streak of blood across the front. The air smelled heavily of iron and burned rubber, twin skid marks lead from the rear end all the way to a vaguely visible motionless heap.
“Is he okay?!” I yelled after him. As I got out, I fumbled with my phone trying to turn on the flashlight as I sprinted across the asphalt. The bright white light clicked on just in time to reveal the growing pool of glistening crimson around the body. I could see Ryan standing there over him in the dark, blood beginning to pool around the white soles of his sneakers. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…” I mumbled under my breath as I kneeled down beside him. As I turned over the limp body, I gasped.
He was mangled, plain and simple. The face was an unrecognizable mess of red with patches of white bone visible underneath. The only way I could tell he was a man was the mess of matted beard where the chin should be. The blood-soaked flannel he wore was a deep violet under the fluorescent light. The large backpack he was wearing had torn open, spilling camping gear across the road. He was completely still, no movement to signal the presence of life. 
“What the fuck are we gonna do?” Ryan said as he began to pace. Behind him, the headlights shone out into the trees, creating hard white shapes that no longer seemed to sway in time with the music seeping from the stereo. I looked from the truck, to the body, to the trees, to Ryan leaving bloody footprints in the street. It felt like something clicked in my head: I didn’t feel scared, or confused, or even high. I had to make a decision. 
“We’re gonna hide him.” 
Ryan stopped pacing and looked at me like I was crazy. “What? Where?” 
“You have garbage bags in your backseat don’t you? The lake we used to camp next to is only about 20 miles out of the way. We can dump him there,” I said as I pulled my hair out of my face in a high bun and began walking towards the truck. When I got there, I turned around to look at Ryan. “Come on, we have work to do.”
He stood stunned for a minute before finally nodding. Together we managed to wrap the body up in a black garbage bag along with the strewn camping supplies. We were able to half drag him to the trunk before dropping him in the back and covering him with a tarp. Ryan clicked the stereo off as he started the truck again, letting the silence hang thick like oil in the air as we resumed the drive through the woods.
The road narrowed slightly and became bumpier the closer we got to the lake. Once we got there, we backed up onto the loading dock and got out of the truck. The moon was visible now, it wide face barely clearing the top of Mt. Hood. The lake was a giant flat mass of black, it's far shore hidden in the darkness. Moonlight reflected off of the black water, bathing us in white as we stared across the water’s surface. Ryan turned his head to look at me and I met his gaze. The light from the moon carved deep shadows into his face, making him look years older. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it and swallowed hard before turning back towards the truck. Together, we lifted the body out and dragged him as far on to the lake as the old wooden dock would take us before pushing him in.
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thedapperrabbit · 4 years
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She-Ra Rewatch: season 3 and onwards through season 4, and boatloads of Introspection time!
So Ive been rewatching She-Ra with my partner, because sharing Entrapdak is caring. I could probably squee on about that for a century or more (because eeee, sharing things i love with people i love AND THEY EVEN PAY ATTENTION TO THE THINGS AND REMEMBER THEM!)...but ill spare you, kind internet strangers who for some reason find my thoughts mildly interesting enough to be reading this. This is going to be a lot. Like, a LOT. A lot especially from a stranger that youve probably only seen a notification from due to me sticking a heart on your content or for reblogging something lovely youve made in pictures or words. I dont think anything is going to be violently trigger-y because im not always great at judging that stuff and also ive yet to feel quite comfy enough to be  fully open-posting specifics about my own past trauma, other than a vague allusion to self-harm and distant-ish unspecified abuse aaaand the usual childhood garbage truck of assholes....but i suppose you could possibly draw some darker potential conclusions from the content im focused on. Also, my ADHD makes it incredibly hard to keep to a straight and non-branching narrative so...ramble-y bits and expressions of brain frustration ahoy. Either way...you are forewarned, just in case. Sorry in advance, this is going to be a small booklet by the time Im done explaining, and thinking, and then attempting to stick words to abstract feels which sometimes im great at, and then others i fucking suck at...but at least this is all written and not me trying to say this to any of your faces! Thats....a mercy all of its own. Haa...  Anyway, while rewatching with my partner, I realized just how much more painful parts of it are to sit through now...they were the first time, and each time since, but NOW having spent a while mulling over the series as a whole a bunch, and reading a lot of other peoples writings on here and finding myself largely in agreement with most Entrapdak fan’s assessment of things, I just....feel like all the air is ripped out of me during some moments, watching  with keener insight. And despite thinking i had myself reasonably well figured out by my age, its all also made me further consider a few things about myself as well. Particularly my notable internalized fury response to chunks of it which have been consistent through all my viewings of SPOP. With Hordak at least, its way easier to understand my reactions. For me at least. Maybe not so much for the people around me. And, shittier due to intensity and subject matter, but still easier in the long run because...the broken bits in me that he resonates with are fresher and sharper and still more recent, like within the last ten years, and thus more towards the front shelves in my head, compared to things that resonate with Entrapta, which are all old, lifelong dull aches at this point. I feel like nothing i can point to is fully sufficient to fully express my feels involving Hordak. But, maybe the best representative moment is with the crying i do every damn time I see his face looking up at Prime just after he glimmer and catra were beamed up...because ive seen that face in the mirror. I HAVE MADE THAT FACE. That same. Goddamn. Face. I may not have gotten a jab to the back of the neck directly from the person I made it at...but they often seemed to silently goad me to harm myself in an attempt to jolt my brain out of getting stuck in re-looping through what theyd just done/said to me. Likewise, much of his interactions with Entrapta are very...very weirdly familiar in feeling, but in a good way. Watching the stuff with Hordak hurts because fuck me if it isnt frequently like watching myself back in 2008ish to 2013, which was the duration of the worst parts of that particular circle of hell i parked my ass in. So...that makes sense. Hes so well written in those moments, it occasionally gave me PTSD flashbacks (still does a little, but now im prepared and braced for it and can shrug it back off....thanks, lifetime of therapy and years of studying abnormal psychology! Still totally not an expert, just very passionate...just, as a disclaimer).  Entrapta though...Entrapta is a different story. Mostly, I see Entrapta and in her free expressions of delight and joy and her bouncy enthusiasm I am reminded of a younger, less discouraged me in some ways, and in others, a “me” I could have been, but...well, extremely early-onset anxiety and depression made me insanely self-conscious super-super early on...not that i was great at hiding or...i guess the term people seem comfy with is “masking”? Which was a huge problem, or so it was in the 80s when far less was understood of such things. Id do so for a bit and then would forget to, in a way (because id forget long enough to go and trust again reflexively) and would get badly bullied and would squish everything down until id feel a crumb of safety again, and then almost instantly ADHD would pop that mask right the rest of the way off aaand it would start all over again. Ad nauseam until my teen years, where the depression sort of “fixed” that, and made it much easier to destroy my desire to share much of myself freely at all, save for with one or two people, and to a less deep extent a broader circle of nerd friends. Course, then i hit 30 and ran out of the majority of fucks I used to give. Or I became so damaged and salted with anger that parts of me dont grow any fucks anymore? Either way, plowshares to swords, WHEEEE!) And, maybe thats where this time while watching, I started to really think back to all that, and to how i see Entrapta treated by the other princesses, or really just in general except by Hordak...and why it burns my biscuits so badly. Every time I see someone roll their eyes at Entrapta’s beautiful unbridled enthusiasm or try to make it seem distasteful or at least weird and unwanted and uncomfortable for them but then dont even bother to try coming to terms with why they feel that way... or how they seem to feel free to grab and manhandle her without her consent, or the way they try to lessen her contributions because shes non-normative? Like its the fucking least she can do to make up for being weird in their space (...okay, that might just be the anger kicking in..but i dont feel like its an entirely innacurate assessment, is it?)  All of that...seeing it inflicted upon someone, It feels like someones punched me right in the damn sternum, but because its a hurt that im so desensitized to, it seems to have a much different effect than the sharp, violent crushing pain that i feel when I relate to Hordak a little too well for comfort. Again, i could go on, but its nothing more eloquent people on here havent already spoken volumes on. And my first gut reaction is always “I dont understand! why is that their reaction to her?! it doesnt seem logical at all, i dont seem to be able to parse it correctly, how is this acceptable? I HOPE SHE IMMOLATES YOU ALL.”. Which...I suppose isnt entirely usual for me (the silent wishing that people be immolated, I mean...i blame my past years of working in retail. And devouring too much Warhammer 40k contentl).  (oh gods...and this is going to be the most clusterfucky part cause i can feel my meds kicking in and thats gonna be hard to keep coherence on but i gotta get this all out of my head or ill forget it or get too scared of you fucking BRILLIANT insightful smart people on here and then ill continue to live scared and regretful that i never said..anything, and just sat here like “noticeme, entrapdak sempais!”  Ehhn...which is to say, if this is a garbage dump from here down, dont worry, when i wake up ill fix it...but hopefully itll at least make a tiny bit of sense ) But I realized something...something I hadnt ever rememberd much about due to the shitty neuronormative (apology if thats wrong term) behaviors continuing over years and years but in less and less directly aggressive ways as i grew older and was more prone to losing my shit in , (and likely because I got excessively lucky and managed through...uhhh...agonizing determination? Sheer stubbornness? Alleviatory rebalancing of universal karma? fuck if i know --to  curate a surprisingly supportive circle of other castoffs and misanthropes.) That was exactly how people used to treat me.  OKAY THISLL BE EDITED LATER to add in the rest of what i was gonna say...im...too full of Ambien sleep meds and damn write it anymore...and im aing trouble separating realigty and dream...an i k apawing at the kybord...not safe Lov yous for reading this far. Il fix it later, swears.
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cowgirlontheloose · 5 years
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The Shaman and the Swift Fox
Some time in the early 1990s, I had a dream. A female form appeared to me. Maybe a goddess, shaman or fairy creature? She didn’t explain herself. She told me I had to help wildlife. I can’t recall her exact words. But I understood I had to take some sort of action. Then she faded gently from the scene just like in the story books. Poof! 
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The morning of my dream, I nibbled my toast and thought hard. Mug of tea in hand, I went to my computer and wrote three similar emails:  one to the Swift Fox recovery team in Alberta and Saskatchewan; one to Burrowing Owl recovery on the prairies, and one to threatened Black-tailed Prairie Dogs in Saskatchewan’s Grassland National Park. I volunteered my services for three months. “Use me however you want,” I wrote. “I’ll scrub cages, count poop, run errands, type, do paperwork or answer phones.” I provided a bio, some glowing references and hit send. 
I was free-lancing in those days — writing for various magazines and organizations. I worked from home, where I could glance from my computer screen out the window to my wild, overgrown 80 acres. Now and then, creatures would plod, scurry, bound or fly by:  turtles, fox, deer, raccoons, skunks, wild turkeys, blue heron and a host of tinier beings that I couldn’t see. But I knew they were there.
Most of my research and writing concerned endangered species. I adored learning about their biology; how they all play a role in keeping our world turning. It thrilled me to discover that the lives of Barn Owls, Kangaroo Rats or Flying Squirrels actually had an impact on my life and the planet. Not directly maybe. But through a chain of influences, weather systems, tiny and significant world events — each one influencing something else and something else and something else — I finally understood how dependent we all are on forces we are mostly clueless about.
One example (and there are millions more) let’s take sea otters, sea urchins and kelp forests to see how we are all connected. By the way, there are no exceptions to this rule. None.
Kelp forests provide homes for a vast number of creatures. Just like any land forest, kelp removes C02 through photosynthesis and turns it into energy it needs to flourish. Along come hungry sea urchins — small, spiky critters that eat kelp. Generally, there are plenty of sea otters around to eat some of the urchins so that everything is balanced tickity-boo and everyone has enough to eat. So far, so good, including all the teeming smaller species also living in the watery forest. But humans have been working overtime dumping toxins and garbage into the sea. Exacerbate this horror with oil spills, over fishing, coastal development and soon otters vanish, leaving the hardier urchins to multiply and literally eat the kelp forest to death along with everyone else living within. 
This particular chain reaction doesn’t stop there of course. It goes on from one thing to another, interacting with other chain reactions all over the planet. Eventually, you and I, our kids and grandkids are affected. It’s a glacial process, so most people don’t notice until it’s far too late, until we wake up to something like the horrors of climate change.
And now, back to my fateful dream and the send button.
A few months later, I found myself in Edmonton at the office of Dr. Lu Carbyn, a Canadian Wildlife Service scientist and chairman of the Swift Fox (Vulpes velox) Recovery Team. The task he set me was to locate myself somewhere near Medicine Hat, Alberta. There I would give talks to schools and community groups about this little fox, why it’s recovery was vital, and how we could all help by not shooting, trapping, poisoning, paving over or digging up their grasslands home. 
I was also expected to have informal visits with some of the major ranch owners. It was these large spreads on which the fox depended after all. And it’s a well known fact in conservation efforts that some Canadian land owners — and no doubt, the world over — do not ever want it known that a vulnerable species was spotted on their property because it could lead to restrictions for the rancher. Their unofficial motto if this should happen is “shoot, shovel and shut up.” I’m not suggesting that any of our prairie ranchers fall into this category. I’m just reporting what I heard again and again in the field.
All this talking in front of groups was a scary stretch for a shy sort. And the thought of me — clueless female Easterner — presuming to educate Western ranchers who possessed more know-how and grass-roots intelligence than I could blink at, made me want to turn tail.
But a deal was a deal.
Lu rounded up a vehicle for me, a cranky, rusting station wagon with balding tires which frankly, was not reliable (I wasn’t about to complain, believe me), and off I went to Elkwater, pop. 80-ish. Here I boarded with the gung-ho and endlessly inventive Lyall family:  Noreen, Don, Richard, 6, and Alec, 4. (Our adventures together will have to wait for another time, alas.) Their home was a few miles from Elkwater on the rolling prairie I love so much. Highway 41 stretched by our door, north to the Trans-Canada and south to Wildhorse, Montana, one of the loneliest border crossings I have seen. 
Before settling in Elkwater, howerver, Lu and I trucked south-east to Val Marie, Saskatchewan (800 km) with several Vulpes velox in cages. Some had been wild trapped in the U.S., and others raised in captivity at the Cochrane Ecological Institute in Alberta. We would be releasing them in Grasslands National Park in hopes of establishing a sustainable presence there.
Forget Banff, Jasper and the Rocky Mountains. Grasslands is possibly Canada’s most gorgeous natural treasure. Established in 1981, this 907 sq. kms. protects one of our country’s remaining un-meddled-with, mixed-grass/short-grass prairie. The park is home to several species in various states of peril:  Bison, Burrowing Owls, Black Footed Ferrets, Greater Short-horned Lizards and Black-tailed Prairie Dogs.
The night before the release, Lu and I camped in this magical place bathed by the misty light of stars and full moon. As his tent was hidden over the brow of a hill and I was located below on a flat expanse, I seemed to have the entire planet to myself. I woke several times and crawled out to pinch myself in disbelief. Coyotes wailed and shooting stars fell. And beneath my bare feet the prairie sighed.
Next day’s release was, in some ways, anti-climactic. So many years and resources, so much funding, will and people power, had brought us to this moment, yet it was just the start of an unfolding mystery. Would this little fox survive long enough to become an integrated part of Canada’s living tapestry again?
We opened the eight cages and stood well back. Some bolted, some crept from captivity to the glory of big sky and vast grasslands. My eyes shimmered. Those sleek, camouflaged coats blended flawlessly into the prairie hues. I blinked. Like wraiths they melted away one by one.
Once settled in Elkwater, I set up appointments with every school and group  I could find. I’ve long forgotten how many there were, or how far afield I roamed. I fondly remember a lively one-room school in Buffalo, Alberta, somewhere between Bindloss and Jenner. Although it was in the middle of nowhere (at least to this Easterner) and clearly a fading hamlet, the school was full of life and energy. Online now, I see that Buffalo is listed as a ghost town, although the minuscule post office and store were operating as of 2015. No sign of the school.
Oh so many schools! The elementary kids had lots of question and comments, always a forest of hands waving at me. The high school crowd was generally stoney-faced — too cool to reveal themselves in any way. I left those presentations feeling like a boring idiot, but hey — I tried. The most interactive and fun schools were Hutterite colonies — Spring Creek, Cypress, Box Elder, Elkwater. Here I was warmly included and herded on chatty tours of the colony by pink-cheeked, giggling youngsters. Once, my son Adam, was visiting me on his way back to University in New Zealand, and came with me (I probably forced him) to one of these colonies. I know he answered a barrage of questions about what New Zealand was like. I hope he remembers that time. This is the kid whose only apparent childhood memory is of me chasing him upstairs whacking at his legs with a wooden spoon. 
I covered thousands of lonely miles. One night on my way to Consul, Sask. (1.5 hours drive — was I nuts?) a full moon poured a fantastical light onto the prairie. I pulled over, got out and lay down in the middle of straight-and-flat-as-an-arrow Highway 13. I don’t know why I did it, but the prairie sang to me in four-part harmony that night.
I surely recall heading south an hour one cold night to Manyberries. Up and over the high bench of the Cypress Hills I drove, straining my eyes for elk and moose. Then down to the long flat stretch to Montana. 
I passed the sign that said something like Warning — No Gas Or Services For The Next 100 Kms. and tried not to add a sub-text which urged Better Say Your Prayers, Sister. 
The road was bare and I hummed happily. Suddenly snow — an instant, blinding white-out and the road vanished. I crept to a standstill. Yes, I knew possibly only a few kilometres from me, lights glowed from a warm ranch house at the end of a long laneway. But I had no hope of finding that. I waited, my heart rattling in my throat. 
Fifteen minutes later, headlights glowed behind me and a transport truck swirled past. How could he possibly see? But now I had quickly fading tracks to follow, which I did. There was no way I was going to risk turning around and hitting the ditch. Ten minutes later, the white-out stopped dead. Bare highway appeared and the transport’s light drew away from me. On I went to Manyberries, trailing clouds of dumb luck and good fortune.
Did I make any difference to the Swift Fox effort? Who knows. My time volunteering was precious beyond measure and enriched my life and understanding of how the world turns. And what of Vulpes velox (also called the Kit Fox) today in 2018? Once common from the Canadian prairies south to Texas, No thanks to humans, it was extirpated from Canada in 1930. Between 1983 and 1997, conservationists introduced more than 900 of these house cat-sized animals to the Canadian grasslands. It is estimated that 600 are living and reproducing in our country today.
The Committee on the Status of Endangered Wildlife in Canada (COSEWIC) designated the Swift Fox as extirpated in 1978. It was uplisted to Endangered in 1998, and since 2009 was further uplisted to Threatened.
Wildlife Preservation Canada says the Swift Fox recovery is considered “…one of the most successful endangered species translocation programmes in the world.
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kidsviral-blog · 6 years
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The Dark Side Of America's Redneck Reality TV Obsession
New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/the-dark-side-of-americas-redneck-reality-tv-obsession/
The Dark Side Of America's Redneck Reality TV Obsession
Television networks like TLC and MTV can’t keep mining poor rural Americans for show ideas and then act surprised when their stars implode.
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Honey Boo Boo and Mama June. AP John Bazemore
When TLC’s Here Comes Honey Boo Boo — a spin-off featuring the family of Alana Thompson, one of the breakout stars of Toddlers & Tiaras — premiered in 2012, critics called it repellent and disturbing, which was not a completely unfair assessment: The family’s favorite meal is a mix of butter and ketchup that Honey Boo Boo’s mother, who is known as Mama June, microwaves into a red slime and pours on to spaghetti for the girls. They call it “sketti.”
It was also a show, however, about a family that enjoyed spending time together and, despite their issues, seemed to genuinely love each other. The majority of the episodes are shockingly mundane — as the show goes on Alana doesn’t even do beauty pageants very often. It seems like the only really outrageous thing about Here Comes Honey Boo Boo was that TLC had the gall to a let poor family from Georgia show the rest of the country how they lived. American audiences gawked along at a family that hung out in garbage dumps and ate roadkill. Its first season was one of TLC’s highest-rated shows ever.
But gawking at the real lives of rednecks is only entertaining if it’s not too real. The news that Mama June is dating convicted sex offender Mark McDaniel was a bridge too far; TLC canceled the show last week, shelving an entire completed new season of episodes. TMZ also learned that TLC is offering to pay for counselors and tutors for the children. The day after the show was canceled, Alana’s sister Anna — now 20 — claims she was allegedly sexually assaulted by McDaniel when she was 8 years old. She told People magazine that McDaniel “would try and touch me and all that stuff.”
It’s an extreme case, but this isn’t even the first legal issue for Mama June; in 2008, she was charged with theft of child support payments. None of this legal murkiness is that unusual in the pantheon of hillbilly reality television, which takes as its starting point the premise that it’s OK to watch poor (usually white) people from the American heartland struggle to cope with the realities of modern life.
The phenomenon hit its stride in 2012, when Duck Dynasty, Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, My Big Fat American Gypsy Wedding, and Buckwild all came out within months of each other, and followed on the heels of the success of shows like 16 and Pregnant, Teen Mom, and Toddlers and Tiaras. All of these shows raise the same question: With 45 million Americans living below the poverty line, are we supposed to laugh at these people, pity them, or relate to them? Why — when several of these shows have imploded under the weight of their subjects’ own struggles — do they keep getting made? Is the pressure of being the “right kind of redneck” too much to bear?
Universal Studios
CBS
  America has long been comfortable laughing at hillbillies. The hugely popular Ma and Pa Kettle films of the late ’40s and ’50s were spun out from a 1946 film adaptation of a rural slice-of-life novel called The Egg and I. In their first movie, the Kettles and their 15 children move to a modern home and struggle to learn how to live with all the expensive gadgets Pa Kettle wins in a tobacco slogan-writing contest.
There ended up being 10 Kettle films in total, and at the height of their popularity, Marjorie Main and Percy Kilbride — the actors who played the titular Ma and Pa Kettle — were the biggest stars in the country.
The Beverly Hillbillies were no different. Paul Henning created the show for CBS in 1962, based on his experiences living in the Ozarks. The show was panned by critics, but became one of the most popular TV shows ever made. Henning went on to make two spin-offs for CBS, Petticoat Junction and Green Acres.
CBS then doubled down on hillbilly/rural America-based programming so heavily — including the shows Hee-Haw, The Jackie Gleason Show, Mayberry R.F.D. — that by the late ’60s, the network had earned the nickname “The Country Broadcasting Network.” The oversaturation led to backlash, and CBS began its “rural purge,” canceling 15 shows between 1970-1971. Not even Lassie was spared.
But the famous pop culture hillbillies of 20th century were actors reading from scripts. Their versions of poverty and ignorance ended when the episode was over. It was safe. Today, the real Pa Kettles and Jed Clampetts of the world are speaking directly to people like them. But when you take real Americans who’ve been living under the poverty line and pull them into the pop culture spotlight, the dark reality of what it means to be poor in America comes with them.
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Brenna Gaskin, a contestant on Toddlers and Tiaras. TLC
In his book Hillbilly: A Cultural History of an American Icon (Oxford University Press, 2005), author Anthony Harkins argues that American pop culture becomes obsessed with rural hillbilly culture during moments of economic tension, and mass media rednecks help the American middle class blow off some steam and feel a little more secure: “Well, at least I don’t have it as bad as those people.” Harkins’ theory corresponds roughly with the rise of the “hicksploitative” reality TV phenomenon of the last five years, although it might downplay the transformative effect of having a marginalized group be represented on TV, and it’s a bit of an oversimplification to write off the popularity of something like Here Comes Honey Boo Boo or Duck Dynasty as merely an exploitative guilty pleasure for the middle class.
TLC premiered Toddlers and Tiaras and MTV premiered 16 and Pregnant in 2009, at the height of the Great Recession. Both shows are unnervingly similar — even down to the format. Take two or three young women, who are usually from lower-middle-class towns in the American South or Midwest, and then follow them around as they either have a baby or compete in a toddler beauty pageant.
They were huge hits and spun off into their own reality franchises, with dozens of imitators on a diverse array of cable networks. It’s not surprising: The shows are cheap to produce and give a viewer an addictive mix of schadenfreude, existential horror, anthropological fascination — a feeling of “I might have it bad right now, but at least I’m not a pregnant teenager crying in a Burger King parking lot in Georgia or a pageant mom hot-gluing rhinestones on my 4-year-old in the lobby of an Alabama Hotel Marriott.”
MTV’s short-lived Buckwild is a good watershed moment in the new era of hillbilly reality shows. It followed nine young people from Charleston, West Virginia. It was marketed as a “redneck Jersey Shore.” It caused national outrage. In one episode the stars shoot a potato gun at each other; in another they fill the bed of a dump truck with water and jump into it from the second-story window of a house. Most episodes end with the cast getting blackout drunk at a house party and fighting each other until the police have to intervene.
The outrage wasn’t surprising. The Buckwild cast took the American redneck lifestyle to its logical endpoint: mouth-gaped yokels literally sitting naked in the mud, drunk on moonshine, and having sex with each other. But living that way isn’t sustainable.
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The cast of Buckwild. MTV
In February 2013, Buckwild cast member Salwa Amin was arrested by police during a drug raid and charged with possession of a controlled substance with intent to deliver. Amin pled guilty and was sentenced to one to five years in prison in January 2014. A few days after Amin’s arrest, cast member Michael “Bluefoot” Burford was arrested for an aggravated DUI.
Buckwild wasn’t canceled, however, until the death of 21-year-old breakout star Shain Gandee, who was fired from his job as a sanitation worker several months before filming. In April 2013, Gandee’s body was discovered, along with the bodies of his uncle David Gandee, and friend Donald Robert Myers, in their truck. An autopsy ruled that Gandee, his uncle, and Myers died of carbon monoxide poisoning after their truck got stuck in the mud while the three were off-roading.
That same year, though, other networks were having issues with their authentic hillbilly stars being a little too authentic.
Phil Robertson, family patriarch of A&E’s Duck Dynasty, was given an indefinite suspension by A&E after calling “homosexual behavior” sinful in a GQ interview in December. A&E had to release a statement saying that Robertson’s views were personal ones and didn’t reflect the company’s views on homosexuality. Robertson was reinstated by A&E nine days later. A few months after, in July, Joann Wells, star of My Big Fat American Gypsy Wedding spin-off Gypsy Sisters, was arrested for allegedly stealing thousands of dollars from Target. TLC refused to comment on the incident. In August, Will Hayden, a cast member on the Discovery Channel’s Sons of Guns, was arrested and charged with repeatedly raping a child. Discovery canceled the show after Hayden’s arrest.
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Phil Robertson speaks during the 2014 Republican Leadership Conference on May 29, 2014. Getty Images Justin Sullivan
The legal troubles of reality stars are not exclusive to rednecks, obviously. Stars from the Real Housewives franchises, Mob Wives, and Jersey Shore have seen their fair share of controversy. But those shows, unlike their hillbilly counterparts, are far more interested in excess and cartoonish party culture.
And the appeal of this new wave of redneck reality TV is more complicated than just middle-class viewers gawking at the poor. There are just as many — if not more — viewers tuning in to see families that actually look like them depicted on television. A lot of people genuinely love Duck Dynasty — it’s a ratings powerhouse and launched a book that sold more than a million copies on Amazon. The show has 8 million Facebook fans. People are not watching Duck Dynasty out of a mean, snarky irony. It’s also safe to assume a lot of their fans share the same religious values as the fundamentalist Christian cast.
The problems arise when these authentic hillbilly “real-life characters” start acting in a way offscreen that doesn’t comport with the relatively safe, contained version we see of them on-screen. You’re going to have a problem if you’re trying to re-create The Beverly Hillbillies with real people — people who are currently fighting a serious meth problem, don’t believe in evolution, and are mired in poverty. Their issues don’t vanish under a spotlight — they usually get worse.
The reality-TV hillbilly isn’t going away any time soon. This week MTV is premiering a new show called Slednecks, which has been described as “Buckwild in Alaska.” In the trailer there are scenes of naked skiing, backwoods keggers, and drunk guys in diapers chopping wood. Hopefully there won’t be another Shain Gandee or Jenelle Evans or Mama June — but it also doesn’t seem too unlikely.
Read more: http://www.buzzfeed.com/ryanhatesthis/how-hillbilly-reality-tv-got-way-too-real
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