Humdrum Places - BlogFlock

🛝 The Lion Slide - foofaraw

2026-04-23T16:00:01.000Z

Oli and Craig sat on the wall outside Burgon’s News, the newsagents at the edge of Gildeen park, eating crisps.

“You ever hear the story about the lion slide?” said Craig, through mouthfuls of Ready Salted.

“Hasn’t everybody?” said Oli. “Used to freak me out. But then I grew up.”

The lion slide in Gildeen park had become legend.

The big fibreglass cat lounged atop a green metal tunnel with its four legs spread out over the edges. Its tail was the ladder and its giant pink tongue functioned as the slide, lolling out of its yawning mouth on to the soft playground surface below.

It had seemed to appear overnight, replacing the traditional climbing frame and slide apparatus that dominated Gildeen Park for years. Everything else was the same: the elephant on the spring that cut your thigh when you sat on it, the roundabout that barely moved anymore, and the swings with chunks missing from the seats. But the lion looked out of place. Brand new. Shiny. Safe. Friendly.

That was the scariest thing about it. It invited kids in. The big goofy eyes, the dopey expression. Cartoons had taught children that animals with a face like that were slow moving, stupid, easily tricked. Bugs Bunny would have made short work of it. Thirty seconds into the episode, the lion would be holding a bomb painted to look like an apple, and BOOM, soot blackened face and mane half burnt off.

Parents would send their toddlers into the big lion head and minutes later there would be screaming. The parents would rush in, pulling out their bloodied kids, blaming it on insects, wildlife, or other kids.

Parents didn’t blame it on the lion. How could they? That would mean believing it was something more than a slide.

But the children knew better. They always do. It wasn’t long before every kid in the area heard about it and gave it a wide berth.

“Remember Jason?” said Craig. “How he never came back to school?”

“Didn’t he move to Torquay?” said Oli.

“His parents did. They couldn’t stand being here. Not after what happened. Jason had been in detention, see? So when he left school, it was already pitch black, and for some reason the idiot decided to take a shortcut through the park.”

“Yeah, so?”

“He never came out the other side.” Craig threw his crisp packet in the bin. “What do you think of that?”

“One,” said Oli, “people get abducted all the time, and two, if he never came out the other side, how do you know he went in in the first place?”

“Ella D’Mario saw him go in. She was picking up milk from Burgon’s and, get this,” Craig was getting more animated now, “when she came out, she heard a scream and something she said sounded like an animal crunching on bones.”

“And Ella D’Mario knows what an animal crunching bones sounds like? She lives on an estate in the middle of England, not the plains of Africa.”

“She’s seen a David Attenborough documentary, ain’t she? Anyway, if you’re so sure, why don’t you go through there tonight? I’ll text Ella, yeah? We can all go.”

“No,” said Oli. “I’m not doing that.”

“Scared?” said Craig. “Little scaredy boy, are you?”

“Yes,” said Oli, “yes, I am. But not because of some story about a kid-eating slide. Like I said, I’ve seen the news. People go missing from parks at night all the time. Besides, I’ve got homework to do.”

But Oli found himself back at Burgon’s News that night and when he got there, Craig and Ella were waiting.

“Knew he’d come,” said Craig, extending his palm to Ella. “You owe me a fiver.”

Ella counted out five pound coins into Craig’s waiting hand.

“I’m just picking up some fags for my mum,” said Oli. At thirteen years old, he shouldn’t have been able to buy them, but Mr Burgon was a family friend. “I’m not going in there.”

“Come on, Oli, it’ll be fun,” said Ella.

Later, Oli would tell his mum that it wasn’t peer pressure that convinced him to go in, but of course it was. One friend he could resist, but two? And one a pretty girl? He was only human.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” said Oli. “But we’re in and out. No hanging around just to prove we’re not scared. We’re all scared, no matter what either of you say.” He turned to Ella. “And if you even slightly believe what you told Craig, you definitely should be.”

“Of course I’m scared,” said Ella, “that’s what makes it fun.”

“Okay. In and out,” agreed Craig. Ella nodded. “Everybody got their phones?”

Oli and Ella held up their little black Nokias.

“Whack on the torch, and we go in,” said Craig, pushing a few buttons on his to make the pathetic beam of light that passed as a torch come on. “First sign of trouble, we run. I mean, even if the lion’s alive, how fast can it move if it’s made of metal?”

“Fibreglass,” corrected Oli. “Fibreglass is lighter.”

“Whatever. What do you say? We’ll be safe from anything with three of us. Plus, if there’s any weirdos, we can call the police. Okay?”

“Okay. But in and out,” said Oli.

“In and out,” said Ella.

“In and out,” agreed Craig. Then they stepped on to the grass.

Artwork by Tony Tran

As they walked through the park they struggled to see more than a few inches in front of them. The moon was barely visible through thick clouds and, as they got further in, the lamps from the street were useless. The phone torches were weak and only cut spaghetti strand thin beams of light into the inky black. Ella’s was faulty and flickered on and off rapidly. Most of the park was grass, and it had been raining earlier, so as they walked their feet squelched in near perfect unison.

Then there it was. Dopey eyes shining in the torchlight, raindrops glistening on the sightless pupils, the open mouth and lolling tongue frozen in place. Just like normal.

“See?” said Oli. “Nothing. Now let’s get out of here before some park weirdo turns up.”

“Give it a minute,” said Craig, his phone’s pathetic torch scanning the lion like a prison searchlight, as if he was willing it to move.

Oli looked at his phone until 8:45 clicked over to 8:46. “That’s a minute. In and out you said. Time to out.”

“Yeah, come on, Craig,” said Ella. “I don’t like it anymore.”

For a moment, Oli thought Craig wasn’t listening. Ella and Oli lowered their torches, leaving Craig’s sole beam shining at the lion’s face. It was then that Oli thought, just for a fraction of a fraction of a second, that one of its pupils contracted and there was drool on the tongue. A fresh shiny rivulet of saliva too large to be a rain drop, making its way down to the ground.

But then it was gone.

If it was ever there.

“Let’s go,” said Craig, then, to Ella. “You didn’t see Jason at all, did you?”

Ella looked insulted. “I did. I saw him walk off in this direction, then I heard a scream and crunching. I mean, traffic was bad that night, so it was faint, but I could swear…”

Oli and Craig looked at each other, laughed and then started leaving.

Ella trotted alongside them. “Okay, don’t believe me, but I know what I heard.”

They squelched back out towards Burgon’s News. Three pairs of feet in almost perfect unison.

Then, after a minute or so, five or six more started ambling behind them. It was hard to be sure how many, as it was if something big and cumbersome was struggling to coordinate its limbs.

Squelch, squelch, SQUELCH, squelch, SQUELCH, SQUELCH.

Oli, Craig, and Ella sped up a little, refusing to turn around to see what it was.

There was heavy breathing and what sounded like a roar—if lions roared with their tongues out. At one point, god help him, Oli swore he felt the tongue on his calf. He wanted to turn around to see, but he kept looking forward, eyes fixed on the lights of the street and Burgon’s News in the distance. Ella’s torch cut out and they were left with two tiny beams carving a glistening path in front of them. If they could just make it to the street, something told him they’d be safe. The park was the lion’s territory, and a lion didn’t leave its territory.

But then one of the beams cut an arc in the grass. Craig. He’d turned around to look. Now Oli wanted to turn around more than ever, see what Craig was seeing, but Ella grabbed his wrist and, god damn it, they ran—Oli’s little low beam torch drawing shapes in the air like sparklers on bonfire night as they stumbled across the uneven ground.

Finally, they hit pavement.

Ella was bent over, breathing hard. Oli was crying. A motorbike sped past, the roar of the engine almost drowning out the scream.

But then it was quiet. No more traffic. Not another soul on the street.

Oli and Ella stood there under the neon sign of Burgon’s News, listening to what could only be described as the crunching of bones.

Mark Granger (He/Him) is a writer from Leicestershire, UK. He lives with his wife, two children, dog, and an unnerving sense that something is watching him from the shadows. His short fiction and poetry have been published in Qualia Nous Vol 2, Secrets Of The Majestic and Fumptruck. He can be found at markgranger.com

Another House Party - foofaraw

2026-04-22T16:00:16.000Z

—Ellie Black

📮 April Zine - foofaraw

2026-04-21T21:49:56.000Z

The April issues of Foofaraw Zine is here!

While I know it's horribly late, I didn't want to let Tony's beautiful cover art go to waste...

Of course, all stories will be published for free on the web throughout the month, but paid supporters receive a PDF/EPUB with all of the month's stories at the beginning of the month, along with a few other goodies, including the bonus Four-headed Foofaraw. And Patrons get stuff in print!

Individual issues are also available for purchase on Weightless books, where you can also subscribe.

Periodic Aggregation: Routed Carefully & Electronically Logged

This month...

Funny Page

Another House Party by Ellie Black

Stories

The Retro Diner by Lisa Taylor
The Bug by George P. Cross
Out of the Band by David McGillveray
The Lion Slide by Mark Granger
Removal by Rae Patterson

Poem

Our Garden Plot by Andrew Maust

Observations

The Monster At the End of the Essay by Nicholas de Marino

Interviews

Lisa Taylor
George P. Cross
David McGillveray
Mark Granger

Cover art

by Tony Tran

〄

On to the zines...

📺 The Media Guide S7E4 - foofaraw

2026-04-21T14:49:36.000Z

Welcome back to another excellent week of comics and... not much else. That doesn't mean it's a complete waste of a week though. There are still some decent shows returning and a couple albums that might be worth checking out...

The Media Guide | Foofaraw

Your weekly guide to the movies, shows, comics, and albums worth knowing about.

Foofaraw

Interactive webapp for paid subscribers

⚔️ Head Lopper Vol. 2 #1 — Image Comics

It's the return of one of the most fun, quirky comics with amazing world building, delightful art, and humor throughout. It's a hard book to beat, and I'm 100% here for it coming back with a new number one.

💪 Half Man Season 1 — HBO

Richard Gadd made some pretty big waves when he broke into the industry creating and starring in Netflix's Baby Reindeer. It was a bit of a viral hit, but it was something I just couldn't find my way to finish. It'll be interesting to see if he can find success again now that he's on the big stage with HBO and real expectations.

🐺 Hotwire Trip Switch by Prince Daddy & the Hyena

Didn't find much music I really loved today, but this was a fun surprise for me from a band I've never heard of before. Definitely worth checking out if you are into the 2010's era emo/pop-punk scene.

🛡️ Corpse Knight #1 — Skybound

I don't know anything about this book or this creative team, but just looking at that wonderful cover, this feels like the art-forward world-building books we've been getting a ton of lately. And I say that in the best way possible.

Paid subscribers get the full breakdown of all shows, movies, comics, and albums for this week along with access to the Foofaraw Media Guide webapp.

🎙️ David McGillveray - foofaraw

2026-04-20T23:15:45.000Z

Read David's story, Out of the Band, now!

Are you a musician yourself?

Absolutely not. No talent, not enough patience. But I am a life-long music obsessive, record buyer and attendee of obscure gigs. Indie, reggae, synthpop, punk, electronica, rock, rave, a bit of metal, house, hip-hop (nineties vintage), goth, more indie, I love it all. No country, though. That’s inexplicable.

What band or album do you find yourself returning to over and over lately?

I have a core of bands that are never far from the record player, and I admit this does situate me in time and space. Killing Joke, New Model Army, Sisters of Mercy, Joy Division, Smiths. I’m an eighties alternative post-punk cliche! More recently, I recommend the work of a British band called Heartworms - a bit goth, a bit early-eighties alt-rock, with a sprinkle of something of their own.

Do you think Galen has any regrets with the way he lived his life and/or treated the people around him?

I don’t think so. He’s an arsehole and he deserves his fate. There’s a difference between realisation and regret. I don’t think he moves into the regret stage by the end, but he makes some progress. He realises he’s brought much of it on himself and the world doesn’t need him, which is a start. He has an eternity to do his regretting.

Was there any real life band that you pictured while writing this story?

Not really. It’s a bit of an archetype, an amalgamation of every dysfunctional band in history. But the story popped into my head, fully formed, at a specific gig, Depeche Mode at the Olympic Stadium in London. We were watching the support act, a British singer called Nadine Shah (well worth checking out, btw), and she performed at the front of the stage with her band. This was because the rest of the stage, and it’s massive, had Depeche Mode’s synthesizers and other equipment set up all around it. Some of it was shrouded in sheets. It sparked the idea for the story and you can see some of that imagery in it.

How many times has this story been rejected by other markets?

Hmm. Nerd alert. Let me check my rejection notes/list of grievances. Eleven. That’s not bad. My current record for story rejections before finding a home is thirty-two. Rejections are not statements of fact about a story’s worth, although it’s easy to lose confidence in the face of a blizzard of them. Equally, acceptances are very often a confluence of fortunate timing, a first reader’s mood and personal taste, luck and finding the right editor as well as quality and skill. Writers must harden themselves to these realities. The only thing they can control is what they write, and how well. If you like what you write, send it out. Although there is always the possibility that you might be kidding yourself.

What’s a great short story you’ve read recently?

I don’t read a huge amount of short fiction, although I’m dipping into the classic pulp stories of Robert Bloch at the moment. My reading habits revolve around older sci-fi novels, travelogues and rock biographies. The last speculative fiction that properly blew me away was the Amaranthine Spectrum books by Tom Toner a few years ago. He’s got such a big, original imagination, weird and different. Too much stuff these days is full of wet characters leaking emotions all over the page.

What book are you reading right now?

I’m reading Angel Station by Walter Jon Williams, a cyberpunky space opera from 1989. It’s pretty good. I’m a fan of his early stuff, especially Hardwired and Voice of the Whirlwind, and all the original school of cyberpunk authors. I liked the gritty, grimy feel of their worlds.

I self-published a collection of my previously published short sci-fi stories last year. It’s called Forgotten Dragons, Plastic People and you can get it via Amazon. It features obsessive space-monks, messages encoded in the songs of alien birds, modified US saboteurs in China and plastic elves.

Sunday, April 19, 2026 - A Humdrum Life

2026-04-19T21:22:05.000Z

The swallows have returned…

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🐌 Our Garden Plot - foofaraw

2026-04-19T16:00:38.000Z

It was a dry, dead patch of land
Where even the pebbles shriveled
Beneath the scorching sun
But you said we could make it grow
Anything, something, everything

You said it wouldn’t be too hard
To dig a well, and carve a canal
To install vapor towers and solar shields
On our hands, blisters formed and burst
In mockery of your boast

Every night our bones ached
Skin caked with sweat and dirt
We lay cradled in a gentle embrace
Quietly dreading the next plague
That would decimate our crop

When that first sapling produced
Its first small pear, no larger than my palm
You sliced it like a christmas ham
Like we were starving peasants
We toasted “To us and our harvest”

My blisters are now callouses
The canal flows like a river
Water turbines hum with electric life
Vapor machines draw dew
Across that once dry, dead patch of land

I wish you could see it now
No longer a sapling, our first tree’s roots
Reach deep around where you sleep
Still cradled in a gentle embrace
We remain in this place we made

Andrew Maust is a recovering adjunct who lives in Mesa, Arizona. His writing can be found in Radon Journal, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, MetaStellar, and Utopia Science Fiction. When he isn't writing, he spends his time extolling the virtues of sleeping in a hammock.

Zach Cregger's Sci-Fi Thriller The Flood Will Land in Theaters in 2028 - The Independent Variable

2026-04-17T23:54:09.000Z

reactormag.com

The Flood was originally in development at Netflix, but in November, The Wrap reported https://www.thewrap.com/zach-cregger-sci-fi-movie-the-flood- netflix- theatrical/ that development there had come to a halt when Netflix would not commit to a theatrical release for the film.

Well... I've been reading articles and posting from the terminal, which has been fun! So I'm still getting the hang of things around here....

But anyway... It's awesome Cregger ditched Netflix to get a theatrical release, but I feel like he might be doing a little too much... Three movies in three years only ever results in diminishing returns, unless you are Coppola.

YouTube now lets you turn off Shorts - The Independent Variable

2026-04-17T01:12:23.000Z

theverge.com

Limit your Shorts scrolling to zero minutes per day.

And to think, I just cancelled my YouTube Premium Family subscription… maybe I should keep it after all…

Tax Day means less filings from immigrants worried about exposure to ICE - The Independent Variable

2026-04-16T23:05:59.000Z

washingtonpost.com via themorningnews.org

So not only are we spending hundreds of billions to try to deport people, we're also going to be losing hundreds of billions from the tax revenue they bring in.

Spaceballs: The New One - The Independent Variable

2026-04-16T17:22:13.000Z

youtu.be via worldofreel.com

The fact that Mel Brooks is going to turn 100 soon is wild. He looks and sounds great. But I hope they film his stuff first, because Spaceballs was like my Bible as a kid, and I really hope they can deliver on this. Even if not, what the hell—it'll be fun to have something with a 100-year-old Mel Brooks in it.

The conspiratorial left needed proof Trump is a monster. They settled on Sascha Riley. - The Independent Variable

2026-04-16T17:12:04.000Z

ms.now

When asked directly what expertise she brought to survivors of trafficking or child abuse, Voldeng said, “My approach is proactive and pre-emptive.” Her team, she said, is “a mix of Red Cross meets Jedi Knights.”

I don't even know where to begin. If anything, this feels more like a mental health story than a political story. It's a little scary to think that something like this can happen. Our brains are just so fragile and malleable. I'm sure this guy maybe believes it and thinks his memories are true, But I just don't think in any world that any of that is a real possibility. The fact that people want to help him get the message out and believe it is an even more troubling sign of the times. What's even worse is it would probably take real proof of something like this to get the people on Trump's side to turn against him. There's enough monstrous stuff out there that he's done and said with real evidence alreasy, and it has zero effect on people and their morality as they strive for more power and ignore the real-life consequences that come from that.

Allbirds, the San Francisco shoe brand that made 'Salesforce Ones,' pivots to AI - The Independent Variable

2026-04-16T17:05:09.000Z

sfgate.com

American Exchange Group, which entered a purchase agreement with Allbirds earlier this year, intends to “build on Allbirds’ legacy and deliver compelling products to Allbirds’ customers” by changing its name to NewBird AI. The company is set to receive $50 million from an investor, and stocks have soared to $19 per share, up from $2.59 earlier this year.

This feels like the moment when we can officially say AI has jumped the shark. Even as a skeptic, I have to admit the usefulness is real; I've been able to utilize Claude Code to help me make some little web apps and tools for myself, but I don't know how you go from being a huge shoe company—even if you are based in the Bay—to an AI company. Its capitalism run rampant. Everyone's just chasing a dollar rather than working on things that they actually think are important, that they enjoy, or that they want to do. It's the personification of a bad MBA.

Out of the Band - foofaraw

2026-04-16T16:00:16.000Z

Galen walked from the fog of dry ice and on to the stage like he always did, owning it, until there was only the mic stand between him and his people.

But there was no roar this time, no blinding spotlight, no desperate desire in the eyes of the boys and girls pressed against the barrier. There were no waves of love hitting him like a tangible, psychic pressure, filling his heart and brain, the feeling that had sustained him for so long.

The auditorium was empty.

A few cleaners picked up crushed plastic beer glasses and dropped them lethargically into polythene sacks, ignoring the stage. Various members of the road crew were on stage, moving gear about or crouching by the equipment, tinkering. Prepping for sound check, the purgatory of lost rock bands.

Galen recognised most of the crew, they’d been with the band for years. But they wouldn’t meet his eyes, wouldn’t even look at him. He knew they laughed about him.

“He’s even worse than on the last tour.”

“It’s the dope. Can’t handle it.”

“How can you be that fucked up and still think you’re the Messiah?”

They never said it to his face, not even the rest of the band did that. They used to call him The Head. As in big. As in dick. But none of them had lived the lives of saints, especially early on.

Fuckers. Disloyal fuckers. He’d made this band. His songs had bought their penthouses.

Galen tried out a couple of his old moves, just for fun, but they seemed foolish now. He stepped back from the microphone. It had been set a couple of inches too low for him.

The stage was lit up by harsh overhead lights so the techs could work. He could see naked cables snaking across the floor, the wear on the speaker cabinets, the old flight cases propping up the laptops at the back. Without the magic of stage lighting the mystique was spoiled, the atmosphere sucked away. It was one of the reasons Galen hated soundcheck. That, and having to hang out with the rest of them while they pretended the crew were important, or worse, their mates.

No one noticed any of them when he was out front.

A black sheet was draped over Zhero’s drumkit so it resembled a pile of forgotten furniture in an abandoned house. The kit had grown since the last time Galen bothered to look. Zhero always had to have one more drum to bash, one more hi-hat. It was compensation for his inadequacy. Look at me, I’m over here behind the kit! Look at me! Galen had always hated Zhero’s hi-hats. Total shit.

He wandered about the stage. Here was Mikey’s old bass, propped up against a speaker. He played every single gig they ever did with that bass. Mikey was all right. Uninspiring, but all right. Did his job, nothing too showy, stayed in his spot.

Der Stuka was another story. His little empire was over on the other side of the stage. The prick’s ego was in direct proportion to the number of guitars standing upright and gleaming like they were on parade. Crew swarmed there like flies, tuning, polishing, replacing strings, hoping they’d do it right, because if they didn’t there’d be hell to pay. And they called Galen The Head.

Stuka was a miserable little cretin, but he wasn’t stupid. He had plenty of gutter cunning. To think how he’d turned them all against him, first the rest of the band, then management, then the record company. Whispering, always whispering. He’d worked hard at it, and it was persistent, insidious work.

Galen realised now that Stuka had always resented him—right from the start. His power. It was Galen they all wanted. The fans used to run past Stuka and the rest to get to him. Galen did the interviews because he had something to say. Stuka never had the charisma, the spark. But he was patient and clever and he was happy to take the money and his share of Galen’s light while he chipped away at his foundations. Galen swore it was Stuka that let that guy with the bad dope backstage in Boston.

Artwork by Tony Tran

He returned to the mic. Time had passed. The crew were gone and he stood alone. The fans were beginning to stream in, the obsessives staking their claims by the barrier. They seemed younger.

Stuka had always wanted him out, and Zhero backed him up, and Mikey said nothing when it all went to shit after Boston. Stuka picked his moment well.

What hurt even more was who they replaced him with. Riley! Stumpy Riley, one of Zhero’s drum techs. He’d been creeping around for years, kissing arse like it was part of the job, and then overnight he was out front, in Galen’s spot.

The auditorium here was big, wherever it was. The band had more than held on to their audience. Too safe to feel a real edge? Uncomfortable with genuine confrontation? Then why not try counterfeit rebellion, with a few tattoos and haircuts and nothing inside. A covers band. Sell-outs. Fucking actors.

The place was filling up. Band t-shirts, body art, hair, the uniform, the usual. Galen couldn’t hear their voices now. They weren’t calling his name. Everything was insubstantial, somehow, like reality was being dialled down, decohering. The light faded and changed, dying everything in a deep, velvety red.

The band were walking on to the stage. Galen’s stage. To play Galen’s songs. To his audience.

The dry ice swirled about him, enclosing him like a cloak, obscuring his view, all those faces, until they were less than memories. He’d undone himself and the truth of it finally hit. He was destroyed and the band played on. And he understood then that the dry ice was not dry ice at all, but the mist that divides the first and the second stages forever.

David McGillveray was born in Edinburgh, Scotland but now lives with his family in London. He likes islands, post-punk, curries, walking, live gigs, skimming stones and lots of other things. His fiction has appeared in Clarkesworld, Analog and The Daily Tomorrow and his story collection Forgotten Dragons, Plastic People is available on Amazon.

Thursday, April 16, 2026 - A Humdrum Life

2026-04-16T15:44:36.000Z

Here we go again…

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Flexoki - The Independent Variable

2026-04-16T00:15:48.000Z

stephango.com

This project has been a battle between my competing desires in science and art. One part of my brain searches for reliability and precision, while another part searches for those elusive imperfections that remind us what feels real. Solving for all these problems is how I arrived at Flexoki. I hope you find it useful.

I didn't really understand this at first, but I've come to be a bit obsessed with this theme. Similar to Solarized, it didn't seem useful for my own purposes—even if I can see how developers might find them nice. I think the prose & analog approach that Steph takes makes it better for me personally. It brings some of the simplicity that I love about the simple black, white, and blue themes that I tend to use across a lot of things while still being easy on the eyes, easy to understand, and a delight to use. I now use it in all my home-baked apps, in Drafts, in Obsidian, in Mona, in Ghostty, basically anywhere I can have a theme, I'm using Flexoki.

Can AI judge journalism? A Thiel-backed startup says yes, even if it risks chilling whistleblowers - The Independent Variable

2026-04-15T21:31:08.000Z

techcrunch.com

When asked if Objection could make it harder for media to publish important stories holding power to account, he said “If it raises the standards of transparency and trust, that’s a good thing.”

There is so much wrong with this whole thing that I don't even know where to start. Using AI models that are known for making things up, getting things wrong, and hallucinating to fact-check journalists is obviously insane. The fact it costs $2,000 to file an objection means only people who have 2 grand laying around will ever have the opportunity to do so. This means the rich and corporations will be the only ones taking advantage of this “system” to sow doubt in pieces that are unfavorable to them. And for what it's worth, I don't think the standards of transparency and trust were broken before racists like Trump started getting involved in politics and making things up and calling actual journalism fake news. So maybe we just make it easier for people to go after those like Trump who make false claims and don't do anything to back them up not the journalists and whistleblowers who help keep power accountable.

April 14, 2026 - The Independent Variable

2026-04-15T19:03:41.000Z

heathercoxrichardson.substack.com

Today, when asked if he were comfortable with Trump’s threat of last week that an entire civilization would die if it did not meet his demands, Senate majority leader John Thune (R-SD) changed the subject by saying: “You’ve got to…look at what the president is doing, and I think right now he’s trying to open the Strait of Hormuz, which…we are all supportive of.” The strait was, of course, open before Trump attacked Iran.

Feels like the perfect time to remind people of the wonderful writing that Heather Cox Richardson has been doing for a while. As things get crazier, I think Heather does a wonderful job summarizing what's happening. Given all the craziness, it's just impossible to keep track of what new nonsense has happened today, and she's able to put it down on paper in a concise way that makes sense. It's clear, but still leaves you thinking the world is going to end very soon. Which...

If Every Congressman Facing Credible Rape Allegations Resigned, We’d Have No One Left to Govern the Country - The Independent Variable

2026-04-15T18:56:42.000Z

mcsweeneys.net

It’s naïve to imagine the government can continue to function without the tireless dedication of our best and brightest rapists. ... The American voter isn’t stupid. They know what they’re getting into when they cast a vote for a man. ... In other words, we, the American people, were asking for it.

There are way too many perfect lines in this piece. I can't pick just one.

🚧 OBSTRUCTION #16 - foofaraw

2026-04-15T17:56:39.000Z

Catch up!

Matthew Burbridge