-majority of drug warrants signed are for no-knocks
-might as well be rubber stamps since no probable cause required
“bUt A jUdGe SiGnEd a WaRrAnT”
It’s hard to believe his lawsuit wasn’t upheld. Roger Stone gets days
and days of national coverage and support from the White House for a
perfectly civil arrest. This man gets no attention for this violent –
and baseless – attack on his home.
Does anyone know what’s happening with this right now? Info on this is from November. I’d like to know if theres any way to donate to his legal fees or the cost of repairing his home
the US minimum wage that we all agree is too low to live on ($15,080/yr) is far more than many legally disabled people receive in benefits
the maximum SSI for a single person is $8,796/yr if a disabled person marries another, each drops to a max of $6,600/yr
while you’re fighting for 15 maybe look at that too
Not to mention we aren’t allowed to have more than $2,000 saved at a time. EVER. Like EVER or we lose all benefits completely. In the bank, in cash, it doesn’t matter. The government literally keeps us poor, while also making us pay immense amounts of money for health care that we require to even survive or function (let alone work enough to be able to get off of benefits, not to mention that there are a ton of people who will never be able to do that anyways). It’s a very, very broken system and not one that was ever meant to actually help anyone.
Plus, “marriage equality” is still a huge problem for disabled people (as you can see), which is something almost everyone is ignorant to/doesn’t care about.
DO NOT LEAVE DISABLED PEOPLE OUT OF YOUR ACTIVISM.
I love genuinely innocent “boys will be boys.” Just saw a guy come out of a frat house to poke a pair of jeans they’d left outside - they were frozen solid, and as soon as he confirmed that, like twenty more boys came rushing out of the house going “YOOOOOOOOOO”
I heard grunting outside my window the other night and there were four boys struggling to push this giant snowball (like 7 foot diameter) down the sidewalk.
I once lost my keys at a frat house.
My drunk ass had actually walked home without them, pounded on my apartment door, gotten let in by my rightfully-disgruntled roommate, and proceeded to pass out on the couch. Apparently I puked in the toilet before passing out. I do not remember this part.
The next morning, I schlepped back to the frat house. I stood there, right in front of the front door. This was a novel experience for me. I’d never been at a frat house in broad daylight before.
A boy, presumably, of the house, asked me what I was doing.
“I lost my keys in here last night,” I called back. “I was seeing if I could go in and look for them?”
He opened the door and gestured for me to come in.
“Go wherever you want.”
I’d never seen a frat house post-party before. Wandering up the stairs and through the halls, I was surrounded by hungover and still-drunk frat boys stumbling around in their socks and sandals and gym shorts, seeking out food and showers like moths to a porch light. A few of them threw puzzled glances my way. I’m sure they thought I was some post-bacchanalia hallucination.
I entered one room where a boy was drunkenly watching some Old Yeller-esque movie on a tiny TV in the corner of his room from his bed.
“Do you like dog movies?” he asked, voice all mumbly from grogginess and also from the fact that his face was squished against his pillow and half-buried by his blanket.
I told him I did.
He mumbled again, pleased, and asked what I was doing. I told him I was looking for my keys.
“Sorry, I haven’t seen any keys around here.”
I didn’t doubt him.
Twenty minutes had passed. I’d searched just about every bedroom and nuclear-waste-dump-site of a bathroom in that house. I’d given up on ever finding my keys and was prepared to beg my roommates’ forgiveness and get a new set copied.
As I stood there in the hallway, silently bewailing my predicament, a particularly-burly frat boy approached me.
“You need help with something?”
“I lost my keys here last night and I can’t find them, I’ve looked everywhere.”
“What do they look like? I’ll put it into the group chat.” He was already pulling out his phone.
No one ever checks a group chat, I thought, but what the hell. It was worth a shot. “Um, it’s just a ring of keys. The keychain is a pink plastic cat, though, like yea big. Like bright pink, you can’t miss it.”
He nodded, presumably typing this description faithfully into the group chat.
“Alright, I sent the message out. Good luck.”
And with that, he turned and left.
A few moments later, I heard a distant thundering. It was coming from upstairs, and it was getting louder and louder. One assumes that how I felt in that moment was how Simba felt seeing the wildebeest stampede through the ravine as a horde of large young men all thundered down the stairs, making a beeling for me.
“Someone tell the girl!” One of them shouted, faceless in the mob. “Girl! Hey, GIRL!!! We found your keys, girl!!!”
They circled around me. I hadn’t felt that small since I was maybe eleven years old. One of them split himself off from the crowd.
“Are these -” he pulled out a ring of keys from his pocket, “your keys?”
And lo, there was the distinctive bright millennial pink cat keychain dangling off the ring.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Oh my god, yes.”
“EYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!”
The cheer went up.
Turns out he found them in the bathroom upstairs. I thanked them again profusely. There was a scattered round of “no problems” and then, just as suddenly as they descended, they all dispersed, like ships in the night.
I have been here, multiple times!
By referring to the order as a “Little Rosa”, you don’t have to make as big a deal out of the fact that you’re seeking help.
And believe it or not, it gets better. Rosa’s also gives out sweatshirts to the homeless (or sells them to the general public) that has information on local soup kitchens and even computer training in the area, on an insert sewn inside the sweatshirt.
