If humans evolved from monkeys, how come there are still monkeys?
1. There is nothing in evolution that states, insinuates, or infers that the entire population of a species must evolve in unison so that once the evolved animal (whatever it is) has evolved, it is all that remains. All species on Earth evolved from bacteria, but bacteria have not gone anywhere, now have they? Lower-order animals from which higher-order animals have evolved from are not required to then do or die. Those lower-order animals, if they still have the required adaptions to survive will do exactly that: survive. If the ecological niche remains, so will species adapted to that niche.
2. is that natural selection by random mutation is the gradual process on long time scales of small parent/child genetic differences that add up over thousands, millions, and billions of years. The most significant factor in natural selection by random mutation is the natural selection part. The environment punishes those that are ill-adapted to it and rewards those with beneficial mutations. As such, differential environmental conditions imposed on an identical species group will, given enough time, yield enormous differences.
Picture an example: a group of primates has adapted to live in the African rain-forest. A group of said primates, for whatever reason, become separated and stranded hundreds of kilometers away on the Savannah. Somehow, by some fluke of nature, they manage to eke out an existence. The former group is not subjected to any new selective (environmental) pressures; the latter group stranded in an environment to which they have not had time to adapt face new environmental pressures. Those pressures reward certain members, and their future offspring (those with beneficial mutations), with increased success in surviving and passing on those mutations. Eventually, beneficial mutations such as tallness and more upright walking (ability to spot predators from further away), tool-making (increases strength/efficiency which contributes to hunting success), and finer motor control (increases tool-making and tool-yielding ability) are adaptations that the environment selects for and rewards. After a million years, the Savannah group are taller, bigger, and possess fine motor control (and perhaps intelligence as a result). The rain-forest group, having no selection pressures out of the ordinary remain, more or the less, the same (although gene flow would be likely to change them somewhat also). The latter group can be said to have evolved form the former group, yet the former group persists.
What’s the difference between a matrix scheme, pyramid scheme and ponzi scheme?
Ponzi: This key idea is the company is lying to investors about the value of its assets and paying out new investors’ principal while pretending it’s the old investors’ profits.
You raise $100 from 10 people and promise them 100% per year return. You start with $1000. After a year you tell people you have $2000 but you don’t, you still only have $1000.
Two investors want out so you give them $200 each because if you refuse, you’re busted. So you have 8 investors and $600, but you’re telling them you have $1600. You have to keep recruiting new investors or you’ll run out of money.
Sometimes investments start out with good intentions but turn into Ponzis when they try to cover up losses.
Pyramid: You tell people up front that you’re going to take their money, and they get paid by recruiting new people to join. These lower recruits pass money to the person who recruited them and to you, say up to 3 levels. Your sales pitch is that in return for one fee, the recruit gets a fee from the 10 people he recruits, the 10*10 people they recruit, and the 10*10*10 people they recruit.
These inevitably collapse because you can’t keep finding exponentially more suckers. MLMs are basically a pyramid scheme with the addition of a real product being sold instead of just “memberships”.
Matrix: You buy some overpriced thing and get put on a list for a prize. For every 10 people who buy in, the person at the top of the list gets the prize end everyone else moves up one spot. So no matter how many people buy in, 90% don’t get the prize.
Ponzi schemes involve lying to investors. The other two are open about how they work but the vast majority of participants are guaranteed to lose money.
How come undercover police operations (particularly those where police pretend to be sex workers) don’t count as entrapment?
What is entrapment?
Entrapment is an illegal act by authority figures to MAKE people do bad things (Illegal). An example of this would be: An undercover Police Officer begging a person (Not a drug dealer in this case, just for example’s sake) to sell them drugs. This person, who actually just so happens to have drugs, repeatedly refuses the Officer’s requests, until he finally gives in just to shut him up. The Police Officer then arrests the person for drug trafficking, takes the “offender” to court, and then has to duck as a Judge throws his little mallet at him for entrapping some poor person.
Entrapment is the act of reasonably forcing a person to commit a criminal act they would not have otherwise done.
Understand that so far? Good. Now. What the general problem is, people don’t have a basic grasp of what entrapment isn’t. Entrapment IS NOT:
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Being an undercover hooker.
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Operating a child porn website
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Being a drug dealer.
“But why, internet anon? Surely, the Police are luring these poor, innocent people to their doom!” LOL. No. See. Get this: People suck, and actively seek these things out. And when they do, it’s no longer entrapment. That John looking to get his dick wet with undercover Suzie? He willingly tried to solicit her. Yes, she could have asked, and all he had to do is say no and go on his merry way, and he wouldn’t be handcuffed. Uncle Robert getting his door knocked down in the middle of the night by the FBI? No one FORCED him to watch little kids get fucked on the internet, he was looking for it. Your dumbass friend Marley who asked the wrong guy for drugs? He shouldn’t have been asking ANYONE for drugs. Nor should he have accepted any offers.
ENTRAPMENT IS: LAW ENFORCEMENT FORCING SOMEONE TO COMMIT AN ILLEGAL ACT, OR PRESSURING THEM INTO AN ILLEGAL ACT THEY WOULD NOT HAVE OTHERWISE COMMITTED.
ENTRAPMENT IS NOT: PLAYING UNDERCOVER HOOKER ARRESTING EVERY JOHN, DICK, AND JOE LOOKING IN THE WRONG PLACE FOR POON. IF PEOPLE ARE ACTIVELY TRYING TO COMMIT CRIMES AND THEY STUMBLE ACROSS AN UNDERCOVER POLICE OFFICER, THEY’RE SHIT OUT OF LUCK.
Additional fun fact: Undercover officers can do nearly anything to keep their cover, just short of killing someone (Presumably, they might actually). No, they don’t have to admit they’re cops just because you asked. Yes, they will deal drugs and kick you in the face. With undercover agencies, the ends justify the means.
What is Autism?
Autism is usually used to describe a difficulty in understanding social situations. People who have autism may have difficulty understanding what is appropriate in conversation, interpersonal relations, or interacting with large groups of people by displaying “strange” behaviors. These can include talking for great lengths of time about certain subjects past the group’s interest, or being unable to pick up on social cues (being uninterested in a certain topic of conversation, subtle clues towards guiding the direction of a conversation, etc.).
Autistic people process information on people with the ‘objects’ part of the brain, instead of the ‘social’ part. Thus, social norms and effects of ones behaviour on others are not considered, relevant or even understood.
Ever been somewhere completely foreign? The people talk strange, dress strange and act strange. Toilets flush the wrong direction, cars on the wrong side of the road. People on the street will stand too close to you or get angry if you point with one finger. All kinds of shit that leaves you with a vaguely uncomfortable feeling. You can communicate with people, although misinterpretations are common, and you can interact enough to get by, but you can never really get your point across when needed, and you just plain don’t have a grap of their social norms. Pretend this never gets better. That’s kind of how we think an autistic feels.
It depends, of course, on where one lands on the aforementioned “autistic spectrum”, but holds true to some extent with all autistics. It’s hard to get your point across or to get someone else’s point, others emotions or reactions to events make no sense, and are unpredictable to an autistic. It is honestly surprising to a person with autism that the neighbor would get mad at you for smashing his car windows with a hammer. You’d be confused if he liked his windows, or just hates that hammer. A lot of folks with autism cling to things like math for comfort. They like patterns, predictable things that always have a familiar outcome.
Check out The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time . Amazing story told from the point of view of an autistic child.
What’s it like to be part of a bukakke?
The line of mopes wraps around the warehouse. The line moves. I take a step. These men are not the chiseled studs with forearm-length penises of the porn A-list. They will never get the call to work in a scene for even a mid-tier studio. This is the bukkake line.
I’m in line just like these mopes are, but I used to be a model. Even my shirt, the sample I wore on the runway that the designer let me keep, is proof that I’m different.
Mopes lie. One mope brags about getting to fuck the girl for a solid minute before another mope tapped him on the shoulder to swap out. Another man describes performing in a one-on-one scene with a woman trapped by her own porn fame since her first movie, shot on actual film. “We had a connection!” Mopes lying to each other about porn party invitations at nightclubs whose doormen would never let them past the velvet rope.
The line moves. I take a step.
Directors for other bukkake movies and gang bang scenes rove up and down the line handing out business cards. One director poaches talent for a gang bang scene with an overdue pregnant woman. His scenes resemble a school of swarming piranhas stripping a cow to its bones. The scene will shoot close enough to Northridge Hospital in case woman goes into labor.
The man in line front of me disappears into the building. I follow.
Inside the processing room, production assistants tag and pack the mopes like cattle. As my eyes adjust to the dark, one of the production assistants foists a ball point and a talent release form into my face. I unfold my HIV test print out from a pocket and offer it to the P.A., but he has already moved onto the next mope without as much as a glance at it. Next, I hold up my IDs next to my face, flanking m head on either side like mouse ears, and another P.A. takes a snapshot with a digital camera.
The line moves. Take a step.
I come to a closed door at the far end of the processing room where next P.A. commands everyone to be quiet in raspy whispers. Filming has started. Through the door, I hear it. Panting…Snorting…A kennel of dogs? The door opens. I enter.
Take a step.
Bright and disorienting set lights scream across the room from every direction except the floor and everyone’s breath hangs before them in the meat-locker crisp air, and the hairs on hirsute men’s legs and forearms spring erect. In this main room, the line has collapsed into a gathering of man asses. They sag. Some cheeks pinch together, wide at the top and pointed at the bottom like inverted triangles. Others hang down, flapping against the backs of legs. Hair covers some. Sores dot another. I strip, find an unoccupied spot on the floor for my clothes and then return the crowd.
The other men also stand naked except for one distinction. The all wear shoes.
The mob packs in deep. Even standing on toes, and then hopping up and down in place, it’s impossible to discern its center. The sounds echoing from the center of the crowd resemble a stadium of open-mouthed teens smacking chewing gum. Squishy penises slathered in lubricant and spittle jerked off in unison. The sound echoes off the walls, punctuated by the moaning of the men at the center of the mob. The sound of…gargling, then coughing and gagging.
Take a step.
The current moves me closer to the front. Still, nothing visible except the other men who have now filled in close around me. The mob squeezes the mopes through its mass.
Sentence fragments…A narcoleptic female voice slurring phone-sex platitudes. “…all over my tits…oh, yeah…” Another woman’s voice says, “I’m sooo horny, papi!”
Take a step.
The forest of mopes ahead thins, and the men in this rank trying to stroke their penises up to an erection, spitting in hands hand for lube. The air which has exited the lungs of strangers many times over and its sourness coats the back of my throat like second-hand smoke.
Take a step.
It’s best to look straight ahead to avoid looking down, lest you see that you’re stroking your penis mere millimeters from the ass in front of you…then come to the realization that there is someone playing stretch and release with his penis behind yours. His cabbage breath exhaling hot on the back of your neck. Is he looking down at your ass while he strokes?
Take a step.
The mob spits me out to its front. There they are. Two girls built like pagan fertility dolls, resting on their haunches, caked from head-to-toe in the multi-shaded come of every man who gave his offering before me. Drenched baby bibs tied to their necks with large, cheerful loops. Faces covered. Hair pasted flat against their skulls. I can distinguish them only by their breast size. The studio lights above them heat the jizz on their foreheads, exciting convection currents of swirling globs of spunk like a lava lamp. Both women’s breasts have space on the undersides where the semen has dried to a crust, crackling and splitting and flaking when skin expands or contracts.
Now, just a pair of mopes stand between me and the women. An amplified voice screeches through a megaphone, “You two! Snowball! Go! Go! Go!”
The two men take their steps.
A dripping slot parts just above the chin of the woman with the larger breasts. A mouth. She sucks man in front of her while the woman with the smaller breasts sucks off another. Gooey hands grasp at the men’s doughy asses for leverage as the girls shove their respective mope penises into their faces. The first man pumps into the face of the larger breasted woman and, after moment, convulses, howls and slathers his load into her mouth and onto her face. She swishes spooze around her mouth and teeth the way you’d rinse with Listerine. The second man shoots his load into the smaller breasted woman’s mouth. Both women gargle their ejaculate in unison as the men step away and into the crowd, which re-absorbs them. The smaller breasted woman leans over and places her head in larger breasted woman’s lap, and then and opens her mouth like a hungry baby bird. Large Breasts then purses her lips. Come mixed with spittle, phlegm, and yet more come drips from Large Breast’s mouth in long strings and into Small Breast’s mouth. Small Breasts sits up, kisses Large Breasts. The women pass the gob back and forth into each other’s mouths – the mixture growing like a snowball with each pass – all the while fingering themselves. The opaque liquid drizzles down their chins and onto their breasts and the floor.
Eyes, blood shot and buried in slime, open and missile lock in on me. The ejaculate queens beckon me over.
The megaphone shrieks, “Go!”
Take a step.
When my foot lands it squishes deep into what feels like warm hair conditioner. The foot sinks and the gelatine goo oozes hot between the toes. When I lift the foot the sticky floor doesn’t want to let it go. Now it’s understood why other the mopes kept their shoes on.
I stand in front of the girls, penis in hand. Bereft of an erection. Large Breasts scoops spilled seed from the abattoir’s kill floor and feeds it to Small Breasts, who sucks her friend’s fingers dry. She smiles at me, blowing come bubbles. My stomach flips inside out and my breathing recedes to shallow gasps and my bones feel as though they’re sucked out of my legs. I sway.
The megaphone shrieks, “Stop! Half-time show!”
The director’s minions – dressed in what appears to be rain coats and fly-fishing boots? – cattle prod their way through the crowd carrying an industrial strength blow dryer. The appliance roars to life and the minions glaze the women’s faces with the come, glazing them like pottery. Fresh-broiled spunk wafts into my nasal cavity. I look around the crowd at the other mopes and see the eyes with nothing behind them. Heavy breathing. Moaning, and the smack-smack-smack sound of wet penises flogged in unison.
Hyperventilating, I turn around to leave and push through the crowd. Greasy penises brush against my wrist and hips as I pass.
My pants are in hand but the realization hits that there’s not enough bus fare in the pockets to get me out of the San Fernando Valley. I take a step. Back into the crowd.
The moaning mass of flesh wraps itself around me once again. I step, wait, and step again until the single-celled organism excretes me out to the front once more.
There is only one woman now. Small Breasts. She rests upside down on the back of her neck and shoulders. Legs apart, speculum prying her vagina open. The mope ahead of me drops his load down the chasm.
My turn.
A minion squirts watery lube into my hand from an industrial-sized drum. Eyes clinched shut, I think of that bank teller with the low-cut blouse who took my six-dollar deposit in loose change with a smile.
My eyes open. Her clamped-open vagina teems with mottled and bubbling spunk, occluded and overflowing like a truck stop toilet. Penis clutched in hand, my eyes roll back and both knees give. I come to in time to break the fall by placing a hand on the floor and into the tide pool of semen.
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A wall next to the pile of clothes supports my weight. Semen stuck between the webbing of my fingers tightens into a crust as it dries.
After kicking away a pair of skid-marked underwear to find my socks, I decide to leave then where they lay. I’ve got one pant leg on before stopping to look at the dried sperm crusting on my feet. Can’t find my shirt…Scanning the back of the room, I spot it. A mope is using it as a jizz rag. I struggle to keep from weeping, and manage just long enough to put on shoes.
As I’m are leaving, a minion stops me. “Don’t forget your cash.”
He hands me two twenties and a ten, and asks if I can come back to do another bukkake next week.
END.
– Tyler Knight
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