That feeling when the nurse in the ER calls for Marco, and 3 grown ass adults in the waiting room are unable to NOT.
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@morticiamom
That feeling when the nurse in the ER calls for Marco, and 3 grown ass adults in the waiting room are unable to NOT.
Reblog if you remember this motherfucker:
ooh i have a nice fun fact!
Static was WILDLY popular in Brazil (a country where the population is over 50% black) and we had re-runs for YEARS on open television. Everyone who was a kid in the 2000s knew and loved him. As a result, every single Brazilian Con has a LOT of static cosplayers!
So, a couple of years ago, Comic Con Experience (the biggest con in Brazil, which is actually also the biggest con in the world!) invited Static’s creator Denys Cowan as one of the guests of honor.
Now. Thousands of people attend his panel. And cosplayers went NUTS because they could show their Static cosplay to the creator himself! What none of us expected was Debts Cowan’s reaction:
He cried on stage.
He had never seen Static cosplayers - especially not so many of them! And he had no idea the show was popular here! No one ever told him his character was so beloved! Years and years of reruns and he had no idea! He obviously created the character with his experiences and his community (Black North Americans) in mind. Still, he accidentally touched a whole other community of black people who could see themselves on the screen as a superhero!
Anyway he is a lovely person and one of the best, most memorable guests we had. And I think this is a nice reminder that your art might touch people you can’t even imagine would when creating it.
⦕⁅⁅⁅ɔ ⦕⁅⁅⁅ɔ ⦕⁅⁅⁅ɔ ⦕⁅⁅⁅ɔ ⦕⁅⁅⁅ɔ
you have encountered a group of trilobites! reblog to help them on their journey
bucky
Is Steve trolling? Or is it Sam?
sometimes a song overall is mediocre but theres like one brief portion of it that u wish you could steal with the photoshop eyedropper tool and expand into a full song of its own
I didn’t realize other people felt this specific mood
The sax riff from Baker Street
so after a couple days of scrolling through old social registers from the 1910s and 1920s, i think i have finally amassed the ultimate list of utterly insane old money names. i am going to use every single one of these as an alias in one way or another, starting with marmaduke corbyn and miss elinor vandegrift
This is the most delightfullz zany list of names imaginable. When I inevitably go on the run I shall travel under the name Talbot Olyphant.
I will henceforth be known as Miss Gladys Gouverneur Glover.
It’s so funny being able to see the anglicised Dutch names in there. All the people in the notes associating “Guysbert B. Vroom” with some kind of vehicle or speed, while “vroom” means “pious”. 🤣
@copperbadge, you’ll be delighted to know that “Olyphant”, really just means elephant. Though I honestly can’t imagine how someone acquired that as a last name.
That’s why I chose it! TALBOT ELEPHANT. :D
So we’re just going to ignore Mrs. Harry Butts?
*heavy southern accent*: terfs aint got no friends
this felt important enough to share
On today’s walk.
Well, actually my attention was grabbed by the beautiful grounds at Pemberly.
the entirely nonjudgemental, monotone computer-generated voice of the satnav: turn around when possible
me: *in tears* i’m sorry i’m so sorry please don’t be mad
Oh, I dunno, I always thought my GPS sounded pretty passive aggressive when it had to say "recalculating" the second time in a row.
HEY GUYS i’m doing a survey for my linguistics assignment, could you please reply/reblog and tag where you’re from/where you grew up and what you call these?
From Yosemite to Gettysburg, and points in Between. Hair elastics.
hey everyone thanks for coming to the show we’re Arlene Titty Pills
Betty Biopsy
Beulah Don’t Like This Rash
Eleanor childbirth?
Viorica Earwax Flushing? lol
Marian Fracture
And that’s the most frustrating thing about depression. It isn’t always something you can fight back against with hope. It isn’t even something — it’s nothing. And you can’t combat nothing. You can’t fill it up. You can’t cover it. It’s just there, pulling the meaning out of everything. That being the case, all the hopeful, proactive solutions start to sound completely insane in contrast to the scope of the problem. It would be like having a bunch of dead fish, but no one around you will acknowledge that the fish are dead. Instead, they offer to help you look for the fish or try to help you figure out why they disappeared. (x)
This is actually a really good way to explain it, I think.
I WILL NEVER NOT REBLOG THIS
I’ve seen this reblogged without the original caption before and boy was i confused
Wait, this version of the post misses out what I think is the most important bit of the paragraph “The problem might not even have a solution. But you aren’t necessarily looking for solutions. You’re maybe just looking for someone to say “sorry about how dead your fish are” or “wow, those are super dead. I still like you, though.”“
^^^^^
I won’t be watching the Bundy Tapes on Netflix.
Instead I will be reading and thinking about Ted Bundy’s victims. I wonder where their movies are. I wonder why their names aren’t raised.
I wonder why we don’t hear about Lynda Ann Healy, a 21 year old psychology major about to graduate that semester. Lynda worked with handicapped children and got up early every day to report on the skiing conditions for local radio.
I wonder why we don’t hear about Debra Kent, a 17 year old aspiring social worker who was known for always having change to feed parking meters for strangers.
I wonder why we don’t hear about Susan Curtis. Susan was only 15 years old and was riding her bike to church that day. She was a star on her high school track team.
In a world filled with kind, beautiful people, I wonder why we all know Ted Bundy’s name. I wonder if that isn’t giving him and people like him exactly what he wanted. And frankly I’m sick of hearing people talk about him.
I’d like to talk about 12 year olds Lynette Culver and Kimberly Leach, neither of whom turned 13 because Ted Bundy stole their innocence and their lives from them. Kimberly had just been elected first runner up “Valentine Queen” by her peers and never got to wear that pretty new dress. Do you think her parents still have that dress, hanging in the back of a closet? I bet they do. I bet her dad sits with it in his darkest moments. You ever thought about him when you hear the name Ted Bundy?
Let’s talk about 19 year old Susan Rancourt, who had a 4.0 GPA. 17 year old Laura Aime. 18 year old Georgeann Hawkins. 23 year old Janice Ott. 26 year old Nancy Wilcox. 23 year old Caryn Campbell. 17 year old Melissa Smith. 19 year old Donna Manson, who was an excellent flute player and by all accounts a bit of a goth. 20 year old Kathy Parks. 22 year old Brenda Ball. 20 year old Lisa Levy. 21 year old Margaret Bowman. 25 year old Denise Oliverson, who had just gotten into a spat with her new husband and had gone for a walk to clear her mind. Denise weighed 105 pounds. She was bound, gagged, raped, mutilated and thrown from a fast moving car. Have you ever considered what HIS life has been like since that day? How many hours of his life do you think have been spent on the floor, clutching the ring he had given her, apologizing into thin air?
These stories are real. These people are REAL.
I get that Ted Bundy was handsome and his eyes were very blue but please. Please stop glamorizing him like this. He ended and ruined lives. Nothing about him is cool or worthy of emulation. Ted Bundy raped, tortured, mutilated and strangled over 30 females, including 12 year old girls. None of his victims weighed more than 115 pounds.
Ted Bundy was a pathetic man.
Emulate Lynda. Emulate Debra. Raise their names and their voices to those around you. Honor them. They were very real people with promising lives and futures stretched ahead of them, stolen.
Please don’t elevate or whitewash this kind of rampant violence against women. I assure you the world is harsh enough for us without a new generation thinking Ted Bundy is a cool, fascinating guy.
Thanks.
You’re a regular office worker born with the ability to “see” how dangerous a person is with a number scale of 1-10 above their heads. A toddler would be a 1, while a skilled soldier with a firearm may score a 7. Today, you notice the reserved new guy at the office measures a 10.
You decide it’s best to find out what you can about this person. Cautiously, you approach his desk. He’s a handsome man, tall, but with a disarming smile. How could such a friendly guy with such cute, dorky glasses be dangerous?
You extend your hand. “I noticed you’re new here. What’s your name?”
He shakes your hand warmly. His gaze is piercing, as if he’s looking right through you. “The name’s Clark,” he says. “So, how long have you worked for the Daily Planet?”
This one wins.
It’s been a few weeks, and one of Clark’s friends shows up. She’s pretty and all, enough muscle that she must work out. First thought would be that she should be maybe a 6.
Clark’s introducing her around. “This is my good friend, Diana, she’s in from out of town.”
You blink, and take a step back in fear. You’ve never seen an 11 before.
The day Bruce Wayne shows up for his long promised interview with Lois Lane, you can’t help it, the mug your holding drops from your fingers and sends a shock of hot coffee and ceramic shards across the floor.
Clark stops a few feet away and squints at you worriedly from behind those ridiculous glasses you’re 99% sure he doesn’t actually need, and asks tentatively, “Everything all right?”
You ignore him in favor of staring at the inky dark numerals hovering over the beaming fool gesticulating some fantastic yacht story for a gaggle of secretaries and minor columnists.
That’s it. Your gift has officially gone haywire. There is no other explanation. Because there is absolutely no way that Brucie Wayne is a 10.
At this point, you’ve seen it all. Miled manner reporters and billionaires at a 10 and a model-like woman at 11. You were really starting to doubt your power. The day you really stopped believeing in it was when Bruce Wayne came for another visit, and this time with a kid. The kid couldn’t be more than 10 years old, a bit on the short side.
He was an 8.
The day you started believing in it again was when you saw on tv the formation of something called the justice league.
There were those same numbers over superman, batman, wonder woman and robin. That’s when you put two and two together. You wonder how nobody at the daily planet noticed that Clarke was Superman with glasses. You wonder why you didn’t notice. You wonder why nobody put two and two together that Diana Prince and Wonder Woman looked exactly the same. You look in the mirror as the realization hit you and you see your own number change from a 3 to a 9.
I don’t think I’ve ever actually reblogged this magnificent post and that’s shame.
This is...beauty.