Business Gender Vs Party Gender.

I was so absorbed by my soul-consuming obsession on my little screen I forgot about my soul-consuming obsession on my bigger screen

Love at first sight : classic, seen over and over, bland, boring

HATE at first sight : new, exciting, spiteful, refreshing, sassy, spicy

I love when ppl put back to their place straight white men who thinks their on top of the world. Especially when it is women, queer or colored ppl who take back their power

soooo today i learned that back in the early 90s, coca cola tried making this thing called “ok soda” as a marketing stunt to beat out pepsi since they had way more of a hold on the “younger/rebellious” generation at the time, and their way of doing that was naming it “ok soda” so that they could copyright the word “ok”, the most popular word in the world, and at the same time brand it as an…ironic soda??? like the whole thing with it was that they tried to brand ok soda as a counterculture soda but instead of making it about typical 90s RADICAL EXTREME!!! fodder the theme of it was uh. unsettling capitalist brutalist dystopia. instead of being bright and colorful the color scheme was only stark whites, grays and reds and the cans looked like this. bold shapes and labels stating ominous, robotic things with a figure always staring dead into you on the front, no coca cola branding on it at all.

sometimes there would be “prize cans” of this stuff where instead of having soda inside it there would be hats. and they didn’t sell this option in boxes by the way they just put prize cans in random vending machines. and put like 25 cents in it so hey. you could get an actual soda that isn’t just hats. maybe.

did i mention that this soda also had a fucking MANIFESTO??? because yeah it sure had that printed on some cans and it goes as follows

and there’s these things called “coincidences”, which… yeah it doesn’t make it sound any less ominous

and you might be wondering how the soda itself tastes like does it taste good? ok? well apparently it was just a regular “citric” tasting soda but somehow they fucked it up so bad that it was compared to “carbonated tree sap”, and instead of trying to make the drink taste better they included that it tasted like shit, INTO THE ADVERTISING SCHEME ITSELF. they would literally advertise that it tasted like ass as a part of the ironic marketing, no i am not kidding.

but if you thought that’s where it ended there’s one more curveball and without any exaggeration, you will not expect what i am about to tell you.

take a look at this guy.

this guy is the “face” of ok soda, as in he was printed on the most cans and technically served as a mascot of sorts for the entire thing. his face was a major part of the branding, and this design for the cans was one of if not the most common.

okay. cool. no issue there right?

take a guess on who this guy is based off of.

the artist’s coworker? a generic guy? the artist himself? a relative? some random reference model they hired?

CHARLES MANSON. YES, THIS IS REAL. MEANING FOR A BRIEF MOMENT IN TIME, CHARLES MANSON’S FACE WAS USED AS A MEANS TO SELL COCA COLA.

the lead artist himself has even come forward to say this is the case. and now you may be asking wait. how’d he do this? how’d he possibly get away with this, years after the crimes had been committed?

well according to him, it was simple. apparently none of the contracts he signed said anything against putting a mass murderer on the can. so. there’s THAT.

unfortunately or fortunately depending on how you look at it, ok soda never really caught on since *surprise surprise!* teens really don’t want to buy soda that looks like a brutalist art museum, and it never had a wide release so it was only a thing for like two years between 1993 and 1995. but from what i’ve heard there’s still people who are giving this soda a small modern following, collecting all the cans and merchandise and even coming up with stand in recipes for the soda formula itself.

so yeah! that was ok soda.

what the fuck

goodbye l'manberg <3

baby girl is a beautiful name for an adult man

The last part is optional

my new year’s resolution is to become even more cryptic, eldritch, monstrous, blood-sucking and unholy. and maybe tidy my room.

The Onion’s journalism is the only journalism that matters. Holy fuck.

“Where on earth did you get a harmonica?”

Connor took his harmonica away from his mouth with mild annoyance. “You didn’t get your prison-issued harmonica when you got locked in here?”

The enderman guy in the next cell over, Ranboo he said his name was, looked taken aback, which was the biggest change in emotion Connor had seen from him. “No?”

“It was a joke man, don’t worry.” He didn’t want the guy to have a heart attack or something. “I hid it in my onesie. I mean, there’s no radio in here so I had to make do.”

“What was that song you were playing? It was really nice.” Ranboo still sounded kind of rough- he’d been crying on and off since Sam had brought him in yesterday.

“It’s- uh- it’s Mask Sus Remix.” Connor looked down at the harmonica and then up at Ranboo.

“Sounds interesting… is it a classical piece?”

“Uh… yeah, definitely.” Connor replied after a moment of silence. Ranboo nodded. Silence fell between them again. Connor wanted to pick up the harmonica and start playing again to mask the silence, like he had when Ranboo was crying, and even put the thing to his mouth, but lowered it again. “Hey, Ranboo?”

Ranboo looked at him, those red and green eyes so jarring to see. “Yeah?”

“Why are you in here? What the hell did you do?”

Ranboo laughed. Well, he gave a single, dry “ha!”, at least. “It’s a long story. What about you?”

“You clearly don’t understand how the exchange of information works, so I’m not telling you.” Connor folded his arms.

Ranboo shook his head. “Really, I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“Is that why you’re crying all the time?” Connor asked, figuring he might as well ask all the emotionally invasive questions now.

Ranboo shook his head, looking more and more distressed. He didn’t say anything, though, just turned away and pressed his shirt cuffs to his eyes.

“Sorry man, didn’t mean to upset you.” Connor said, mentally kicking himself. He put the harmonica to his lips again and began to play again, this time something a little more relevant. A song called “Folsom Prison Blues”, although still as incomprehensible as the last, as he’d only leaned to play a few days ago.

Time wasn’t dictated by clocks in prison. This wasn’t particularly new to Connor, the null of time, but it was still a weird feeling. The warden was their time god here, when he came with food. A full meal delivery passed before Ranboo spoke again.

“I just really miss my kid. And my husband.”

Connor had been drifting off on the floor, but sat up to look and listen. “You have a kid? And a husband? I didn’t know anyone was, like, able to form meaningful connections anymore on this server.”

Ranboo chuckled at that. “Yeah. Me, Tubbo, and Michael. I miss them a lot.”

Having come from nothingness, Connor couldn’t relate to the whole family thing, but it still was sweet to hear Ranboo speak so lovingly about them.”

“Hey man, it’s gonna be okay.” Connor wasn’t quite sure why he said it, but it felt like the right thing to do. “We’re gonna be okay.”

The prison alarms were still blaring when Ranboo was slaughtered in front of the prison. Connor watched his body collapse to the ground like a puppet that’s had its strings cut.

Connor heard Technoblade’s yell, the gasps from the crowd. It was the middle of the day, blinding hot and hostile. His now dirty onesie stuck to him like a second skin. And he watched Ranboo die.

He slid into the ranks of the gathered crowd of locals like he has always been there, and no one even gave him a second glance. So forgettable he might as well have just been there the whole time, that’s who Connor was.

He watched the place where Ranboo’s body had fallen for a long time after the crowds had left. He was mildly sad, as one would be for who, in all reality, was essentially a stranger. But it was the husband and the kid that he couldn’t stop thinking about. Even that much love wasn’t enough to stop a blade.

Connor dug a small hole in the bloody sand and buried the harmonica. An unfair grave for an unfair death.

— ALBERT CAMUS, “the myth of sisyphus”