The Queen’s Gambit (2020)
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@mindlesvandalism
The Queen’s Gambit (2020)
shout out to the older woman in the snack aisle at walmart who just answered her phone and snapped “i’m in an important meeting, what do you want?”
“Life is pain. Anybody that says different is selling something.”
— The Princess Bride
The Princess Bride (1987)
samtaims ai vonder if inglis spiiking piipöl aar eiböl tu riölais thät ai äm äksöli vraiting in inglish rait nau bat tsast vith veri finnish spelling
sou if juu spiik inglish bat not finnish kän juu pliis reblog änd liiv ö komment on tis post tänk juu veri mats
Sammteims ei wonda iff inglisch schbieking pipel ahr ebel tu rieleis set ei ehm ecktschuli reiting in inglisch reit nauh batt schast wiss währi tschörmen schbelling
So iff ju schbiek inglisch batt nott tschörmen kenn ju plies riplock end lief eh kommänt on dies pust senk ju wäri matsch
tänk juu for joor tsörman kontribjuusson, ai äpprishieit it veri mats. änd it oolsou helps mii tu gräsp tö essens of tsörman äksent
Samtajms aj vonder if ingliš spíking pípl ár ejbl tu rielajz det aj em ekšuely rajting in ingliš rajt náv bat džast vit veri slovak speling. Sou if jú spík ingliš bat not slovak ken jú plís riblog end lív en koment on tiz poust tenk jú veri mač
Самтаймз ай вондр иф иньглиш спикинь пийпль ар эйбль ту риэлайз дзят ай эм экшуалий райтинь ин иньглиш райт нау бат джаст виць вейрий рашин спеллинь. Со иф ю спик иньглиш бат нот рашин кэн ю плиз риблог энд лив э комент ан дзис пост цянк ю вейрий мач
Samtæms æ wonda if ínglis spíking pípl ar eybel tú ríalæs ðet æ em ektsuali ræting in ínglis ræt ná bat dsast við veri æslendik speling
so if jú spík ínglis bat nott æslendik ken jú plís ríblog end líf a komment on ðis post þenk jú veri mats
Samtaims ai uonder if inglisc spiching pipol ar eibol tu rialais det i em acscualli raiting in inglisc rait nau bat dez uid veri italian spelling. sou if iu spic inglisc bat not italian chen iu plis riblog end liv a comment on dis post tenk iu veri macc’.
sumtaimes ai wundère eef angliche peepole ar ébl tu rayolize zat i am actualie ritin en angliche rite nau bat dees iz veri french spélling. sau if u speec angliche bat nut french plis cun u reeblog end leev a commant en deez post tank u veri muche
somtajms ai wonde if inglisj spieking piepel ar ebel toe riëlais det ai em eksjelie wraiting in inglisj rait nau but djust wif verrie dutsj spelling
so if joe spiek inglisj but not dutsj ken joe plies rieblok ent lief uh komment on dis poost tenk joe verrie mutsj
Samtajms aj łonder if inglisz spikink pipul ar ejbul tu rielajs dat aj em akczueli rajtink in inglisz rajt nał bat dżast łif weri połlisz spelink
Soł if ju spik inglisz bat not połlisz ken ju plis riblok ent lif a koment on dis połst fenk ju weri macz
somtaghms aigh bhondar iobh iunglois spíocang píopal ár éabal ta ríalaghs dat aigh eim aicsiúlaí raghtuing in iunglois raght nadh bot diost bhot bhéirí aighris spoiling
sómh iobh dhiú spíoc iunglois bot nát aighris cean dhiú plíos ríoblág eand líomh a camoint án dus póst taenc dhiú bhéirí moit
sʌmtaɪmz aɪ wʌndɚ ɪf ɪnglɪʃ spikɪŋ pipl ɚ eɪbl̩ tə ɹilaɪs ðæt aɪ æm ækʃəli ɹaɪɾɪŋ ɪn ɪnglɪʃ ɹaɪt naʊ bʌt dʒʌst ɪn ði ɪntɚnæʃʌnl̩ foʊnɛɾɪk ælfəbɛt
soʊ ɪf ju spik ɪnglɪʃ bʌt nɑt aɪ pi eɪ kæn ju pliz ɹiblɑg ænd liv ə kɑmənt ɑn ðɪs post θænk ju vɚɹi mʌtʃ
ソムタイムズ アイ ワォンダー イッフ イングリッシュ スピキング ピーパル アル エーブル ツ リアーライズ ザット アイ エッム アックシャリー ライティング イン イングリッシュ ライット ナオ バット ジャスット ウイッス ベッリ ジャパニーズ スペリング。
ソ イッフ ユー スピック イングリッシュ バット ノット ジャパニーズ プリーズ リブロッグ アンッド リーヴ ア コメンット オン ディッス ポスット サンク ユー ベリー マッチュ。
samtaims ai uandăr if ingliș spiking pipăl ar eibăl tu riălaiz zet ai em ecșuali riating in ingliș rait nau băt giast uiz a veri rumeiniăn speling. său if iu spic ingliș băt not rumeiniăn chen iu pliz riblog end liv a coment on zis post senk iu veri maci.
Sometimes I wonder why non English speakers are like this
because it’s a funny harmless joke at the expense of the world’s current lingua franca, whose native speakers often make fun of the ‘weird’ accents and pronounciation of people who very likely speak at least one more language then they do.
Bitch👏how👏do👏you👏call👏these👏people👏"“non-english speakers”“👏👏👏👏👏 Literally the only language used in this post is English
…who peed in Captain No-Fun’s cereal this morning? native English speaker here and I think you guys are hilarious. PROCEED
Having depression and anxiety is like being scared and tired at the same time. It’s the fear of failure, but no urge to be productive. It’s wanting friends but hate socializing. It’s wanting to be alone but not wanting to be lonely. It feels everything at once so it’s like you numb.
TWO MONTHS LEFT OF THE 2010S HOW ARE WE FEELING
gonna throw some parties for an unrequited love and die face down in a swimming pool
like or reblog if you save ✧
how am i stressing and not giving a shit at the same time
A politician dies…
And ends up standing in front of the pearly gates. Saint Peter looks at him for a second, flicks through his book, and finds his name.
“So, you’re a politician…” “Well, yes, is that a problem?” “Oh no, no problem. But we’ve recently adopted a new system for people in your line of work, and unfortunately you will have to spend a day in Hell. After that however, you’re free to choose where you want to spend eternity!”
“Wait, I have to spend a day in Hell??” says the politician. “Them’s the rules” Says St Peter, clicks his fingers, and WOOMPH, the guy dissapears… And awakes, curled up with his hands over his eyes, knowing he’s in Hell. Cautiously, he listens for the screams, sniffs the air for brimstone, and finds… Nothing. Just the smell of, is that fabric softener? And cut grass, this can’t be right?
“Open your eyes!” says a voice. “C'mon, wakey wakey, we’ve only got 24 hours!”. Nervously, he uncovers his eyes, looks around, and sees he’s in a hotel room. A nice one too. Wait, this is a penthouse suite… And there’s a smiling man in a suit, holding a martini. “Who are you??” The politician asks. “Well, I’m Satan!” says the man, handing him the drink and helping him to his feet. “Welcome to Hell!” “Wait, this is Hell? But… Where’s all the pain and suffering?” he asks. Satan throws him a wink. “Oh, we’ve been a bit mis-represented over the years, it’s a long story. Anyway, this is your room! The minibar is of course free, as is the room service, there’s extra towels next to the hot-tub, and if you need anything, just call reception. But enough of this! It’s a beautiful day, and if you’d care to look outside…” Slightly stunned by the opulent surroundings, the man wanders over to the floor-to-ceiling windows through which the sun is glowing, looks far down, and sees a group of people cheering and waving at him from a golf course. “It’s one of 5 pro-level courses on site, and there’s another 6 just a few minutes drive out past the beach and harbour!” says Satan, answering his unasked question. So they head down in the lift, walk out through the glittering lobby where everyone waves and welcomes the man, as Satan signs autographs and cherrily talks shop with the laughing staff. And as he walks out, he sees the group on the golf course are made up of every one of his old friends, people he’s admired for years but never met or worked with, and people whose work he’s admired but died long before his career started. And out of the middle of this group walks his wife, with a massive smile and the body she had when she was 20, who throws her arms around him and plants a delicate kiss on his cheek. Everyone cheers and applauds, and as they slap him on the back and trade jokes, his worst enemy arrives, as a 2 foot tall goblin-esque caddy. He spends the day in the bright sunshine on the course, having the time of his life laughing at jokes and carrying important discussions, putting the world to rights with his friends while holding his delighted wife next to him as she gazes lovingly at him. Later, they return to the hotel for dinner and have an enormous meal, perfectly cooked, which descends into a food-fight when someone accidentally throws a bread roll at the next table (where Ghandi is having a game of truth-or-dare with Marylin Monroe). As everyone is falling about laughing and flinging breadsticks at each other, his wife whispers in his ear… And they return to their penthouse suite, and spend the rest of the night making love like they did on their honeymoon. After 6 hours of intense passion, the man falls deep into the 100% Egyptian cotton pillows, and falls into a deep and happy sleep… And is woken up by St Peter. “So, that was Hell. Wasn’t what you were expecting, I bet?” “No sir!” says the man. “So then” says St Peter “you can make your choice. It’s Hell, which you saw, or Heaven, which has choral singing, talking to God, white robes, and so on”. “Well… I know this sounds strange, but on balance, I think I’d prefer Hell” says the politician. “Not a problem, we totally understand! Enjoy!” Says St Peter, and clicks his fingers again.
The man wakes up in total darkness, the stench of ammonia filling the air and distant screams the only noise. As he adjusts, he can see the only light is from belches of flame far away, illuminating the ragged remains of people being tortured or burning in a sulphurous ocean. A sudden bolt of lightning reveals Satan next to him, wearing the same suit as before and grinning, holding a soldering iron in one hand and a coil of razor-wire in the other. “What’s this??” He cries. “Where’s the hotel?? Where’s my wife??? Where’s the minibar, the golf-courses, the pool, the restaurant, the free drinks and the sunshine???”
“Ah”, says Satan. “You see, yesterday, we were campaigning. But today, you voted…”
Jeff, this isn’t a joke; I’ve just had a spiritual awakening.