Nick Offerman on being manly
Bonus Nick Offerman reminding people there actually is no such thing as “manly”:

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
$LAYYYTER
Peter Solarz
hello vonnie

Kiana Khansmith
Misplaced Lens Cap

tannertan36

shark vs the universe
styofa doing anything

Love Begins
Monterey Bay Aquarium
tumblr dot com
One Nice Bug Per Day

Discoholic 🪩
Cosimo Galluzzi
we're not kids anymore.
occasionally subtle

oozey mess

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AnasAbdin
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@mntginger
Nick Offerman on being manly
Bonus Nick Offerman reminding people there actually is no such thing as “manly”:
my fave angel concepts:
angels smoking on a street corner bc they kno it won’t hurt them
angels crying
their wings only being visible when they’re angry or experiencing strong emotion
u can feel the buzz in the air when ur around an angel, like ur in a thunderstorm
an angel wearing their halo on their wrist and disguising it next to like 5 glow stick bracelets
they can all sing beautifully and hauntingly
angels being able to play any musical instrument n just generally having a deep connection with music
if ur asleep around an angel u always have vivid dreams
plants grow faster when an angel is around
angels are immune to heat, and their halos are burning to the touch; when it rains, they steam
some angels will come out at halloween to help stop kids from getting lost; some will come out because it’s the only time they can have their wings on show
an angel’s touch is good luck. a kiss is great luck
where ppls moods are sometimes influenced by the environment, an angel’s mood influences the world around them. if u ever start crying for no reason, there’s a good chance that a sad angel is nearby
clouds form differently above the heads of angels
the outlines of their wings can b partially seen in rain, and the tops of them can b seen clearly when it snows
if an angel is out on nights with a full moon, they’ll often glow softly along with it
@imaginedsoldier
oh my gdO CAN YOU DRAW GODZILLA MOMMA CARRYING LIKE A HUNDRED LIZARD BABIES ON HER BACK FOR TAKE YOUR CHILD (lizard) TO WORK DAY
oh SHOOT well i cant swing 100 but how bout
If I don’t always reblog this assume I am dead
Forever reblog.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH
I love it! <3
@staff… this is a drawing about Godzilla. I’m actually disturbed that any algorithm could possibly consider this adult content, or flag my reblog.
I am a hard @iguanamouth stan
You’re a wealthy and famous writer whose bestselling children’s series, about a young girl escaping her house nightly to battle monsters in a fantasy world, has brought you endless success. Following your daughter’s eighth birthday, you start to notice strange cuts and bruises on her in the morning, which she casually dismisses. Your curiosity gets the best of you, and one night you enter your daughter’s bedroom far past her bedtime, but it’s not the room you know that you step into—it’s the world of your own series’ Book Five.
“The first rule of Night Club,” Leah says, dragging the back of her hand across her throbbing lip, smearing blood, “is you do not talk about Night Club. The second rule of Night Club, is you DO NOT talk about Night Club!”
They are gathered around her, pixies and ogres and ropey, gangling bogeys; minotaurs with their wet steaming nostrils and sharp-toothed mermaids thrashing in murderous silver streaks on the cold concrete floor, all under the yellow halogen lights of her mother’s Cellarworld (Book Five). Leah stands an inch over four feet and the knuckles on her right hand are split open and a tooth near the back of her mouth is loose when she wiggles it with her tongue and there are six more rules to go, but everyone knows them all already, and if they don’t it doesn’t matter.
No weapons. Hair-pulling, biting, gouging with nails: all of that’s allowed.
They do battle.
The pixie’s dress crumples like taffeta, like the princess-pink skirt of Leah’s bed, and Leah wrestles over it, kicks like she’s trying to tear out the seams, twists her head backwards to dodge the nail-points slashing at her face. Her hand closes onto a wing, brittle, and she twists hard, feeling slivers of it under her nails, clinging to her like glitter, indelible. She’ll be picking the shiny fragments of it off her skin for hours. The pixie screams, and Leah rolls the monster onto its back and brings her fist down against the bird-light hollow of skull, again, again, until the body goes limp under her and big meaty hands pull her off, patting her back, shoulders, monsters cheering their admiration, and the pixie shudders and drags itself up to a crawling position and looks up at her, a satisfied smile smashed into its insectoid face.
Leah nurses on her sore knuckles. First win of the night.
They do battle.
Dragonbreath searing ogre-flesh. Minotaurs twisting their massive veiny necks, goring horns upwards into the bulging belly of the beast with the sickening snap of ribs or keratin. Harpies slashing downwards; mermaids arcing their spines in the reckless desperation of the drowning. Monsters, monsters, monsters.
The whole world is warm with blood and sweat.
“You buy Books One to Four,” Leah says, stalking the sidelines, grimy. “You buy the merchandise. The backpacks. The patterned bedsheets. The Halloween costumes. You buy the tickets for all the movies! You log on to nightarena.com and play the flash games, take the quizzes, figure out which patron you’d be fighting for! You are not the merch you own! You are not your fandom! A generation without anything left to believe in but corporate fantasy, good and evil reduced to the girl protagonist of an endless iterative book series and all its subsidiary IPs, all to make a billionaire and her corporate partners even richer!
“You!” she says, and stabs her finger at a shaggy hulking beast of a minotaur, easily twice her height, great yellowed curving horns that end in blunted points spaced a handsbreadth part. “Battle me!”
It stares at her, and then lurches forward, eyes black and unforgiving.
“Girl power,” sneers Leah. “The future is female, finally, right in time for the future to be a corporate-owned dystopia of global warming and fascist upheavals. And all the dumb whiny boys failing in class, flunking out of college, having coasted for so long and finally realizing that the society they’ve built is crumbling around them, and lashing out in their petty shrieking toxic rage and burning down the rainforests, destroying everything beautiful they’ll never have, fleeing back to the same bigotries they’ve held all their lives and thinking it’s rebellion, never realizing that it’s all of us going down together!”
The minotaur lowers its head, panting steam like a great black engine, muscles tensing and surging like iron, and charges.
“We are the inheritors of the world,” Leah says, and leaps.
She clears the horns, hand closing on a fistful of hair and clinging tight as the minotaur thrusts its head upwards to stab at her. Leah’s wrapped around its sweating neck, legs locked around the pistoning bulge of its throat, and she claws forwards and drives her thumbs into its eyes and they slip boiling hot into the jelly, the minotaur bellowing beneath her, roaring as it tries to fling her off, slamming into a wall as she feels the impact shudder through her bones, her fingers hooked into the eye sockets now, dull bone cutting into her fingers as the world beneath her upheaves, topples, falls a terribly long way down to come crashing against concrete.
In the awed silence before recognition, the door creaks open, impossibly loud, casting a burning rectangle of light into the room, and all eyes abruptly turn to it.
Leah stumbles to her feet, her legs boneless with exertion, disentangling her fingers from the hair and muscle fibers, lines cut into her skin, her hands dark and wet and dripping. The minotaur still breathes beneath her, an oily warmth radiating off its dying form, blood and grease evaporating from its matted fur, from the gaping holes gouged into its face. Leah’s jaw aches, as if she has held it clamped it so tightly as to contuse the muscle, and touches her face with a limp wrist to feel tender bruises blooming across her cheek. And there, in the rectangle of the doorway, stands five-time bestselling author Leonora Pierce.
Leah smiles, and all of her aches. “Hey mom,” she says, and collapses onto the mat of fur into sleep.
Wow, that was good.
i still can’t believe renaissance fairs are real
it’s like anime expo for fans of the black plague
oh………..
it’s a kitty hurricane.
its ok, its only a kitagory 3
A Holy Trinity
…why…why not cat-egory…?
Boris Groh is one of my favorite artists, mostly because of his works that feature LARGE skeletons just doing their thing
This is by far my most successful post on tumblr and I am really fucking glad because my main man Boris deserves to be recognized for his work. Even if its mostly getting passed around in the form of memes about cheese.
Headcanon that McGonagall is offended on a personal level that Umbridge loves cats.
This literally got 600 more notes just while I was at dinner what the fuck
How has nobody thought about this before tbh
Ok but imagine McGonagall in cat form prowling around the castle, in strategically chosen places so that Umbridge will come across her.
Umbridge takes the cat back to her office and feeds it a little saucer of milk. The cat starts coming back to Umbridge’s office around the same time every night, until eventually Umbridge gets into a little routine of setting out a saucer of milk for the cat before bed. McGonagall now has all the best secrets on Umbridge, all of the results of the evaluations, and most importantly, is in a perfect position to spy on the ministry for the Order of the Phoenix.
All because Umbridge is obsessed with cats.
The mental image McGonagall lapping up that milk while full of burning hatred for Umbridge amuses me in ways I can hardly describe.
Let’s say your matrilineal line is fairly consistent and everyone has their daughter at 25. So four women in your matrilineal line are born every hundred years. In a thousand years, that’s only 40 women. Like the math is so simple and yet ? You don’t think about it. So in 2000 years, 80 women. So basically, 0 AD started roughly about 80 mothers ago. That’s it.
I’m……… i’m a little drunk n cannot deal with this right now
Yep
The advent of agriculture around 9500BC was about 450 mothers ago
you can’t just say shit like that without a warning
Many, many mothers ago, when the world was new….
Many of the notes here are saying “But women used to have kids earlier”
Okay. So, assume every woman had her daughter at 20 instead.
That’s five mothers in a century.
Fifty mothers in a thousand years.
One hundred mothers in two thousand years.
That is five hundred and seventy five mothers since the dawn of agriculture.
Less than six hundred women, between you and the dawn of civilization.
You are never so far from your ancestors as you think.
05/09/2018
http://thedevilspanties.com/archives/12471
Icelandic sheep
Where are they GOING
TO VALHALLA
@duskenpath
They’re coming home to my arms
Kinda wanna do something about how traditionally ‘feminine’ pastimes are just fucking metal.
Cooking? FIRE AND BLADE AGAINST FLESH
Gardening? FROM DARKNESS WE COME, OUR BONES STRENGTHEN THE EARTH.
Knitting? FROM BUT SIMPLE STRANDS THIS MANTLE MADE BY EAGER HANDS
Friendly reminder to ignore Salvation Army bell ringers this year.
They use your money to lobby for anti-LGBT laws around the world in addition to exploiting the homeless, supporting anti-POC, anti-LGBT, anti-woman Conservative politicians, and doing it all under the guise of being a “religious organization”
Read about it here.
I’m glad this post says “ignore”. Please remember not to rude - often times the workers do not know the messed up workings of the people they work for.
Dear all retail and customer servicepeople,
May you your shifts be over quickly and may you leave them with some energy left. May your days off be long and enjoyable. May your breaks be restful. May you find a way to enjoy the holiday season, despite what your work puts you through.
Morning Mood
Summing up my entire existence.