i had to watch this like 5 times because of no captions but lmao if someone makes a transcript for this it would be bomb
transcript: “So we have these Santas at work, right, okay? We have black and we have white Santas. And they’re like creepy, five-foot tall, lifelike animatronic… like, Santas that hold plates of cookies and milk, and they kinda look like they could wake up and come to life and murder you in your sleep– and they don’t include batteries, but we have these Santas. Like nothing screams ‘festive holiday cheer’ like a big, hulking Santa. Um. Nothin’ will jingle your jangles more. So, um, this woman comes in and she’s like, “Do you have these?” and I’m like, “Oh my god, yeah!” So a couple weeks ago we sold out of our white Santas, and we are down to like, three black Santas. And so, I take her to the aisle, I show her the Santas, and the first thing out of her mouth is, “I’m not racist, but…” and I’m like, well, I can’t– I’m not in the position to decide if you are or not, but if like– if I could use context clues and infer, uh, I would say maybe that you might be. And three, we’re talking about Santa. Like– (stuttering) did we switch subjects? And so, um, I’m in like, I– the next thing that pops out of her mouth is like, “This is not right.” and I’m like, okay, I’m sorry, but this is what the picture was. And she’s like, “No. Santa is white.” And I’m like, oh no, okay. Okay. So I’m in– I’m about to tell her, I’m like, mid-sentence, like, “I’m sorry, do you want me to go call another store, do you need me to, like, write you a raincheck just in case we we get any more.” And she’s like, “This is wrong, I want them taken down.” She interrupts me, says that, and I’m like, (pause). I like, look around, and I’m like, is she talking to me? Is this, like, my own, like, personal hell? But like, of course it is. So, um, I’m like, “I can’t take these Santas down.” And she’s like, “Why not?!” And I’m like, “You either have to buy them, or take them down yourself.” And that was like, the stupidest thing I could have ever said, because– (sighs) she takes this bag, with like, Jesus’s face, like, slammed right in the middle as a design– it’s big– she takes it off her shoulder, and starts beating these black Santas! She starts beating these Santas down, they were like, falling down… and I’m like, oh my god! What– what is happening? So like, I step in the middle of her and these Santas and I’m like, “Ma’am, ma’am, you need to leave, you need to stop, or I’m going to have to call someone.” So she like, stops, and she’s like, beet red, and like, huffin’ and puffin’, and she like, looks at me and I can tell she’s just trying to get like, a one-liner in, and she’s like, “The Santa I know is white.” And then she walks away. And I’m like, well– I’m processing what’s happening, while also thinking, like, the Santa you know? Santa’s not real. So unless you’re using an ouija board to contact good old Kris Kringle, um, from like, B.C. or whenever, I’m like, that’s pretty impressive, but how ya doin’ that. And, um, I– the last thought that ran through my mind is that, I’m like, I would hate to be in the room with her when she finds out that Jesus is not white.”
More unreasonable D&D magic items: an enchanted ring that appears to grant the wearer occasional strokes of plausibly deniable good luck. What it actually does is confer upon the wearer the near-religious loyalty of a mob of small, extremely stealthy goblin-like creatures who believe that it’s their sacred duty to help the ring’s bearer without allowing their involvement to become known. This works well enough in wilderness or dungeon; problems start to arise when the wearer gets back to town for some downtime, as the ring’s minions have never been outside the dungeon and have no idea how civilisation works, but still feel obliged to help.
The words cut through Alec in the same moment his hand touches the doorknob. He freezes like he’s just been shot with ice – ice through the heart, ice sticking his fingers to the handle, ice freezing his feet to the ground.
It takes him a long moment to even be able to turn his head, but he finally does, and his eyes meet Magnus’s. Not just Magnus’s eyes. His real eyes. He’s sat on the couch, martini glass dangling loosely between his fingers, bare feet on the floorboards making him look vulnerable. His whole face looks open. Scared.
Alec swallows and it feels like the motion goes all the way down through his body.
It’s been a long, long fight. The kind of fight where they’re not even using words they actually mean, by the end of it, just hurling their worst sides at each other, because it all comes down to insecurities, and past hurts, and things which aren’t even really about each other, and Alec had thought it best to just –
Get out of there. Clear his head. Before either one of them said something they couldn’t come back from. They hardly ever fight over anything bigger than whose turn it is to answer the door when their irritating neighbour comes around to complain about something, or who gets to be the little spoon that night, but when they do, Alec is used to this method of dealing with it. Walking out until they can cool down.
He’d always thought that was the right move. But he’s never looked back at Magnus’s face as he does it, before.
Looking back now, all Alec sees is that Magnus looks afraid.
Like maybe he thinks if Alec walks out the door right now, he’s not going to come back.
All of a sudden, the fight melts away, and Alec’s heart just stutters. How did it even start? His fears about immortality, again? All that boils down to is never wanting to leave Magnus, not being able to stomach the thought of it, and of course that’s different to taking a walk around the block or crashing on Maia’s couch for a night to cool down, but the fact remains. He doesn’t want to go. Not when it’ll hurt Magnus.
“I wasn’t – I wasn’t going for good,” Alec promises, but he lets his hand slide off the doorknob anyway. The anger’s fizzled right out of him. Looking into Magnus’s wide, heartbroken cat-eyes, looking at the vulnerable ways he curls his bare toes into the floor and keeps his posture so, so straight that he seems like he might snap – Alec wants nothing more than to go to him.
So he does. He takes three long strides across the room until he can drop down before Magnus, his knees colliding painfully with the wooden floors. He extracts the empty glass from Magnus’s hands and clutches them in his own, instead. “I never want to leave for good,” Alec promises, his voice rough and quiet and dangling between them. “That’s the whole point. You get that’s the whole point, right? I just only ever want to be with you, Magnus.”
Magnus’s throat bobs, like he’s swallowing every word Alec says – drinking them in. Alec stares into his eyes, and stares and stares, all his heart going out to Magnus. His knees ache and Magnus’s hands are trembling in his, and Alec feels a bit like he might cry.
“I just didn’t want you to go,” Magnus tells him in a breath, after several long minutes of looking.
Alec gets it. “Okay,” he says, and kisses Magnus’s knuckles, one by one. “I’m not going anywhere.”
what i do is not up to you 