Cosmic Funnies
AnasAbdin
Game of Thrones Daily
Cosimo Galluzzi
KIROKAZE
dirt enthusiast
Three Goblin Art
h
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Love Begins
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
ojovivo
No title available
No title available
oozey mess
Show & Tell
roma★
taylor price
Not today Justin
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from India
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from North Macedonia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from France
@pineawaycamp
We camp like this by forest lakes for several days. The smell of smoke and cowberries on our hands lingers for weeks afterwards. We exist on two hours sleep and hardly ever feel tired. Two or three hours' sleep in the forest must be worth many more in stuffy town houses and the stale air of the asphalted streets.
– Konstantin Paustovsky, from “Meshchora Country,” Selected Stories (Progress Publishers, 1970)
Color plate of moths and butterflies drawn by Adolphe Millot, published in the French encyclopedia Larousse Pour Tous, ca. 1907-10.
Internet Archive
Väinö Blomstedt ( 1871 - 1947 ) Finnish painter
"Lake in the Wilderness" oil on canvas 103 x 64 cm, 1895
Finnish National Gallery
FJ Cruz
The Four Sisters
Our common insects. 1869.
Internet Archive
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap">
<meta FIELD_CLEARANCE="BLACKSITE::PRIMATE_REALISM" />
<script>
ARCHIVE_TAG="FACTS_STRANGER_THAN_FICTION_001"
EFFECT="existential humiliation, biological realism, savage comedy"
TRIGGER_WARNING="species slander, ape discourse, ideological discomfort"
</script>
BLACKSITE TRANSMISSION
FACTS ARE STRANGER THAN FICTION, DUMMY
===
Ah yes.
Homo sapiens.
The anxious upright ape
who thinks downloading empathy memes
means he escaped nature.
You hate Trump.
You love Kamala.
You meditate.
You burn sage.
You drink mushroom coffee
and tell people you are “healing.”
Wonderful.
Meanwhile your species
still has road rage,
nuclear weapons,
serial killers,
and a porn industry so massive
it probably affects weather patterns.
But sure.
You figured it out.
And one of my favorite modern delusions is:
“Animals don’t hate.
Only humans do.”
*sigh*
Brother…
Please watch
The Ghost and the Darkness.
Two lions literally started hunting human beings
like they had unpaid invoices.
Not starving.
Not desperate.
Specializing.
That is the part
your spiritually moisturized brain
cannot process.
Nature is not a Disney movie.
Nature is a giant stomach
with weather.
You think the wolf cares about morality?
The praying mantis literally eats its lover’s head
mid intercourse.
Dolphins commit crimes.
Otters have committed acts
that would get a human escorted out of society
by torch carrying villagers.
Chimpanzees,
your close cousins by the way,
have documented war parties,
territorial murder,
infanticide,
and the emotional stability
of drunk prison inmates with opposable thumbs.
That is your family tree.
You are not descended
from peaceful crystal merchants.
You are descended
from murder apes
who figured out teamwork.
And despite this,
modern people still walk around
talking like:
“I could never hurt an animal.”
Brother…
you season dead flesh.
With PAPRIKA.
You sprinkle garlic powder
on smoked muscle tissue,
throw it on a grill,
then stare proudly into the sunset
like a suburban warlord.
Those incisors in your mouth?
Not decoration.
Your ancestors did not survive ice ages
eating cucumber slices
and affirmations.
And let us discuss plants.
You know what really destroys
the “nature is pure love” crowd?
Carnivorous plants.
Think about how insane that sentence is.
A PLANT got tired of sunlight
and said:
“No.
I want blood and insects now.”
That is horror movie behavior.
That is veganism betraying itself biologically.
Even the damn shrubbery
said:
“Sometimes life must be consumed.”
The universe is not obligated
to match your politics,
your hashtags,
or your emotional comfort package.
You voted for Kamala?
Cool.
You voted for Trump?
Cool.
Meanwhile somewhere in nature
a parasite is currently
eating the eyes of a fish
while controlling its nervous system
like a biological hacker.
Reality does not care
about your yard sign.
You think good always wins?
Brother,
have you LOOKED outside lately?
History is basically:
“Here are six thousand years
of war,
plague,
betrayal,
tribalism,
and one guy inventing mozzarella sticks
to keep morale stable.”
And honestly,
that is the funniest part.
Humans keep trying to morally sanitize existence
while existing inside
a universe built on consumption.
Something dies
so something else continues.
That is the deal.
Always has been.
Your body right now
is digesting dead organisms
while tiny microscopic creatures
crawl across your skin,
inside your gut,
and probably influence your mood
without asking permission.
You are not separate from nature.
You ARE nature.
Nature with Wi Fi.
Nature with anxiety.
Nature with student loans
and erotic search history.
That is all.
And despite all this chaos,
people still walk around
with absolute certainty.
Talking like they solved existence
because they reposted therapy quotes
over watercolor backgrounds.
Brother…
you are one untreated infection away
from hallucinating in a hospital gown.
Relax.
The universe is not cruel.
It is simply under no obligation
to comfort your primate mythology, dummy.
Reblog to a fellow primate requiring a wake up call...
<AUTO PURGE IN: 17:17:17 | APE SOFTWARE STILL ACTIVE>
</div>
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap">
<meta name="title" content="THE WORLD DOES NOT REWARD GOODNESS. IT REWARDS POWER."> ARCHIVE_TAG="BLACKSITE_REALITY_LEDGER_002_TUMBLR"
EFFECT="moral nausea, cultural disgust, no anesthesia"
WARNING="This is not inspiration. This is a brick through the stained glass."
</script>
THE WORLD DOES NOT REWARD GOODNESS.
IT REWARDS POWER.
There.
That is the sentence buried under school assemblies, HR seminars, celebrity charity galas, empowerment slogans, and every soft voiced lie ever sold to people too broke to survive another betrayal.
You were told to be nice.
Patient.
Forgiving.
Understanding.
Civil.
Meanwhile, the people running the room studied a different gospel.
Money.
Lawyers.
Optics.
Bombs.
Access.
Denial.
Narrative control.
That is adulthood.
Not good people winning.
Powerful people doing evil, renaming it, surviving it, monetizing the apology tour, then lecturing you about compassion from a stage with better lighting.
EXHIBIT A: BENJAMIN NETANYAHU
Schools hit.
Shelters hit.
Children dead.
Girls dead.
Families sleeping in classrooms because the world told them nowhere else was safe.
Then the bombs found the classroom too.
And what came next?
Not shame.
Not handcuffs.
Not exile.
Vocabulary.
Operational necessity.
Human shields.
Targeted militants.
Regrettable civilian casualties.
That is how empire wipes blood off its mouth.
A dead girl becomes collateral.
A bombed school becomes a disputed site.
A mother screaming over a small body becomes background footage for people with clean shirts and dead eyes.
First the body goes under rubble.
Then the truth goes under policy.
That is the double burial.
EXHIBIT B: GHISLAINE MAXWELL
The polite face beside the monster.
The socialite.
The connector.
The polished little bridge between predators and rooms full of important people.
And what was she convicted of?
Helping traffic underage girls.
Not internet fog.
Not basement rumor sludge.
Conviction.
This matters because evil does not always show up looking like a sweaty man in a trench coat.
Sometimes evil arrives well dressed.
Educated.
Female.
Connected.
Smiling beside royalty, donors, academics, billionaires, and professional moral lecturers.
Power loves that.
People underestimate evil when it wears pearls.
EXHIBIT C: ELIZABETH HOLMES
Black turtleneck.
Fake baritone voice.
Dead eyed startup messiah routine.
A billion dollar medical fantasy sold to investors, journalists, politicians, and boardroom fossils who wanted to believe genius looks cinematic.
She did not need a gun.
She had branding.
She did not need a throne.
She had venture capital.
Lie with enough confidence and they call you visionary.
Bleed ordinary people quietly enough and they call it disruption.
Collapse with enough investors and someone will still call you complicated.
EXHIBIT D: HOLLYWEIRD
Hollywood is not a moral authority.
Hollywood is a meat market with cheekbones.
This is the same town that sells innocence, then acts shocked when the children come out damaged.
Child stars.
Stage parents.
Creepy producers.
Predatory contracts.
Handlers.
NDAs.
Public breakdowns sold as entertainment.
Rehab arcs turned into magazine covers.
Then award season arrives and suddenly everyone is wearing black, crying about justice, and lecturing grocery clerks about compassion from inside gowns worth more than a used Honda.
Spare me.
These people clap for courage after twenty years of pretending they did not hear screaming through the walls.
They ignore a predator until the predator becomes bad for the brand.
Then they discover morality like it was hiding under the gift bag.
EXHIBIT E: THE ANTI MAN MACHINE
Modern culture tells men to open up.
Then pisses on them when what comes out is ugly.
Lonely?
Loser.
Sexless?
Creep.
Depressed?
Fragile.
Angry?
Dangerous.
Broke?
Your fault.
Divorced father?
Weekend accessory.
Suicidal?
Mention it briefly, then get back to the more fashionable suffering.
Men are told they are toxic, useless, dangerous, privileged, emotionally defective, sexually suspect, and somehow still responsible for carrying the furniture of civilization up the stairs while being insulted by people who cannot change a tire without filming a panic attack.
Then society acts shocked when boys grow bitter.
You cannot starve a generation of dignity and expect them to write sonnets.
That is not feminism.
That is cruelty with a tote bag.
EXHIBIT F: CORPORATE EMPOWERMENT CULTURE
Corporations do not believe in your values.
They believe in market segments.
They believe in quarterly reports wearing a rainbow pin.
They believe in mental health awareness while scheduling people into nervous breakdowns.
They believe in Women’s Day posts written by companies with maternity policies that look like medieval punishment.
They believe in “standing with communities” until standing costs money.
Then the values go back in the drawer.
They sell empowerment.
They sell healing.
They sell identity.
They sell rebellion.
Then they underpay workers, crush schedules, outsource labor, fight unions, and slap a smiling diverse stock photo on the homepage like that fixes the spiritual smell.
That is not morality.
That is capitalism wearing a sensitivity lanyard.
EXHIBIT G: YOU
Yes.
You too.
Me too.
All of us.
We pretend we hate corruption until corruption entertains us.
We pretend we care about victims until the victim interrupts our favorite show.
We pretend we want truth until truth threatens our comfort.
We pretend we are brave until bravery requires consequences.
Then suddenly everyone becomes very nuanced.
Very careful.
Very balanced.
Very concerned about tone.
A school gets bombed.
A child gets used.
A man gets spiritually ground into paste by a culture that calls him privileged while he is one missed paycheck from collapse.
A corporation sells virtue by the pound while treating workers like replaceable organs.
A celebrity monster gets protected until the profit margin changes.
And still someone crawls out of the digital swamp to say:
Maybe this could have been worded more gently.
No.
Some truths should not be gentle.
Some truths should arrive like a brick through stained glass.
THE BITTER TRUTH IS THIS:
Goodness without power is decoration.
Truth without teeth is a scented candle in a burning building.
Kindness without boundaries is self harm with better manners.
They told you to be nice because nice people are manageable.
Nice people wait.
Nice people apologize.
Nice people explain themselves to liars.
Nice people bring receipts to arsonists.
Nice people keep asking monsters to be fair.
No.
Be good.
But do not be harmless.
Be moral.
But do not be mute.
Be compassionate.
But do not be stupid.
A bombed school is not complex.
A trafficked girl is not an unfortunate scandal.
A fake genius is not misunderstood.
A ruined child star is not industry pressure.
A lonely man is not a punchline.
A hateful ideology is not liberation because it found a prettier banner.
Name the thing.
That is the first rebellion.
Because once you let power rename the body, the blood, the victim, the boy, the girl, the father, the mother, the child, the wound, and the grave, you have already lost.
The world does not need more polite witnesses.
It has enough.
It needs dangerous moral memory.
People who can look at a press conference, a celebrity apology, a corporate campaign, a feminist rage sermon, a sealed file, a studio redemption tour, and say:
No.
I see the rot.
I smell the blood.
I hear the lie.
And I am not calling sewage perfume because the bottle has a famous name on it.
Read more reality razors and savage literary doctrine at:
https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence
https://patreon.com/TheMostHumble
Blacksite Literature™. Scrolltrap doctrine. No moral anesthesia.
Warning: This post will be called “too harsh” by people who can tolerate evil as long as it has good lighting.
</div>
<!-- END TRANSMISSION: POLITE LIES TERMINATED -->
British fungi. 1911. Cover.
Internet Archive
BEGIN TRANSMISSION
div style="white-space:pre-wrap" meta fossil-record="incomplete, hostile, suspicious" meta category="factual horror / extinct life / unknown biology" script ARCHIVE_TAG="THE_OTHER_NINETY_NINE::PUBLIC_FUNNEL" EFFECT="prehistoric dread, fossil-record paranoia, Patreon compulsion" /script
🦠 THE THINGS THAT WERE NOT ANIMAL, PLANT, OR FUNGUS by Mr. Humble | Blacksite Literature™ on Patreon. Join Mr. Humble | Blacksite Literature
Here is the part of prehistory people do not sit with long enough.
Some ancient life may not fit into our clean little categories.
Not animal.
Not plant.
Not fungus.
Something else.
Something extinct so completely that modern biology has no living drawer to put it in.
Scientists have been arguing over Prototaxites for more than a century. These things stood on ancient land before proper forests existed. Some reached around 26 feet tall. For a long time, people called them giant fungi. Recent work suggests they may not have been fungi at all, but an entirely extinct lineage of complex life. A dead branch. A missing kingdom. A biological language with no surviving translator.
That should bother you.
Because “giant fungus” was already bad.
“Giant thing that looked fungal but may belong to no living category” is worse.
That is not a monster.
That is a filing error in reality.
Now imagine the Earth back then.
No humans.
No birdsong.
No mammals.
No hospitals.
No immune system trained for whatever the hell that air was carrying.
Just wet ground.
Low, primitive plants.
Strange arthropods.
Early animals testing land like idiots.
And above them, massive columns of something.
Not tree.
Not mushroom.
Not animal.
Something else.
A tower made by a vanished experiment.
A shape from a version of Earth that did not keep receipts.
And here is the ugly possibility:
Life then may not have been compatible with life now.
Not in the cute “your phone charger won’t fit” way.
In the “your lungs are not licensed for this atmosphere” way.
Different oxygen levels.
Different microbes.
Different spores.
Different pathogens.
Different chemistry.
Different rules.
You would not be a time traveler.
You would be exposed meat with a calendar error.
Everybody wants a time machine until they realize the past had air you were never meant to breathe.
You think the dinosaur kills you?
Cute.
The dinosaur is visible.
The dinosaur has manners.
The dinosaur at least lets you know the meeting has started.
The real threat is the cloud you inhale before you see anything.
The spore wall.
The microbial soup.
The wet prehistoric film on the rock that your hand touches once before your body starts negotiating with something older than bone.
That is the horror of the unknown.
Not that ancient Earth had monsters.
Of course it had monsters.
Earth has monsters now.
The horror is that the worst things may have left no bones.
No skulls.
No claws.
No teeth.
No museum pose.
Just chemical traces.
Odd fossils.
Dead lineages.
And scientists standing around saying, very professionally:
“We do not know what this was.”
Good.
Maybe we should not know.
Maybe the fossil record is not incomplete by accident.
Maybe it is mercy.
Maybe some things dissolved because the planet itself decided nobody needed a sequel.
Maybe the worst life did not vanish.
Maybe it was edited out.
Because bones are not proof of importance.
Bones are proof of durability.
The soft things may have ruled.
The pulsing things.
The threaded things.
The spore things.
The things that digested before they chased.
The things that made the air dangerous.
The things that did not need eyes because the whole environment was their mouth.
And somewhere in that gap, in the part of Earth history too soft to fossilize and too extinct to classify, there may have been entire ecosystems made from categories we no longer possess.
Not animal.
Not plant.
Not fungus.
Else.
That word is the problem.
Else.
A life form can go extinct.
A species can go extinct.
A whole branch can go extinct.
But a category?
A category going extinct means reality used to have options it no longer offers.
That means ancient Earth was not just “different.”
It was running different software.
And we are the update pretending the deleted files never mattered.
So yes.
The past is dead.
But not cleanly.
It died in mud.
It died in spores.
It died in oceans that changed chemistry.
It died under skies that would poison your vacation.
It died in forms we cannot name because naming requires survivors.
And some of those survivors became us.
That is the punchline.
You are not standing outside prehistory.
You are what leaked through.
You are the child of things that escaped the incompatible world.
You are the warm little mammal at the end of a billion-year disaster chain, drinking coffee, checking notifications, and pretending the dirt under your feet is not an archive of erased biology.
The full drop goes deeper.
Fungal predators.
Spore walls.
Extinct kingdoms.
Life that may not fit inside modern classification.
The possibility that ancient Earth was not merely dangerous…
but biologically incompatible with us.
Read the full transmission on Patreon.
Because the unknown was not empty.
It was occupied.
And maybe that was Mother Nature’s version of pity.
Maybe she buried the worst drafts.
Maybe she let the soft horrors rot without names.
Maybe she looked at her future hairless, upright-walking primate children, already doomed to invent taxes, comment sections, dating apps, and inspirational LinkedIn posts, and decided:
No.
They don’t need to know what the breathing wall was.
Let the dummies have bones.
More drops, more damage: https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence https://patreon.com/TheMostHumble
Reblog if you understand the fossil record is not history.
It is the part of the crime scene that hardened.
AUTO-PURGE IN: 00:00:99 -- UNKNOWN LINEAGE DETECTED
END TRANSMISSION
black-panther-gold
The Great Divide archway, Kicking Horse Pass Alberta/BC
1932
The Golden Calf in a Silk Suit
You were raised on the Good Book, weren’t you?
You sat in the pews, heard the sermons, and learned exactly how to identify a false idol. You know the stories of the stone altars and the golden calves that led the ancients to ruin.
Yet, here you are, bowing down to any man who wears an expensive suit and holds a microphone in a political office.
You’ve traded the eternal for the electoral, following a "leader" who promises you the world while he picks your pocket and solders your chains.
You think you’re standing on the side of righteousness, but you’re just a lemming in a Sunday tie.
Satan doesn't need a pitchfork and a tail to lead you astray; he has a fast-track, painless funnel to hell lined with patriotic slogans and campaign promises.
It’s a smooth ride down. You won’t even realize you’ve left the path of the spirit until the elevator doors open and you finally feel the fire.
By then, the man in the suit will be long gone, and you’ll be left holding the bill for a soul you sold for your tribe.
The narrow path is much harder to see from the crowd. https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence
Wake up before the harvest is over. https://patreon.com/TheMostHumble
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap">
<meta scrolltrap-category="BLACKSITE LITERATURE™ :: UNIFORM GHOST :: QUIET HONOR">
TRANSMISSION_CODE="GHOST_AMONG_GODS"
TRIGGER_WARNING="nostalgia, service identity, quiet pride"
EFFECT="chest tightness, silent respect, reflective melancholy"
GHOST AMONG GODS
I pass them.
Carefully trimmed haircuts.
Measured steps.
Uniforms pressed like discipline stitched into fabric.
Appropriate bearing.
Soldiers.
I slow without meaning to.
Because once
I walked like that.
Once
I spoke like that.
Once
I carried weight that never showed
but everyone recognized.
It does not matter
that I came from another branch.
Uniform is uniform.
We know each other without words.
A nod.
A glance.
Recognition.
Brothers.
Sisters.
Different patches.
Same gravity.
The men.
Stepping forward
into what they believe
manhood means.
Protector.
Shield.
The quiet acceptance
that mortality might call their name
before their twenties even settle.
They step anyway.
And the women.
Special call out.
Because they were never summoned.
Never required.
Never subject to selective service
or draft.
Yet they stepped forward
into defense
into uncertainty
into mortality
on purpose.
They volunteered
for gravity.
They walked toward it
when they could have walked away.
That deserves respect.
Not slogans.
Not hashtags.
Respect.
Because voting rights
mean something different
when you also volunteer
to defend the system that grants them.
I once led squads.
Honorable death dealers
of gunpowder and discipline.
Young faces
looking to me
for calm
for direction
for certainty
when certainty did not exist.
I remember the sound
of boots on gravel.
The quiet before movement.
The way responsibility
sits heavier
than any pack.
I remember.
Now I pass them
with a polite nod.
A small smile.
Civilian clothes.
Civilian pace.
Civilian life.
They do not know
what I once was.
And that is fine.
Because service
is not meant
to be worn forever.
But still…
When I pass them
I feel it.
The echo.
The posture
straightening without permission.
The quiet recognition
that I am no longer among them.
I am something else now.
A ghost
of what I once was.
A civilian
with memories that still stand at attention.
I pass them again.
They move with purpose.
Young.
Focused.
Unaware of the weight
they already carry.
And I nod.
Because I know.
Because I remember.
Because once
I walked among gods.
And now
I walk quietly
as their ghost.
Quiet respect never needs to shout.
More transmissions:
https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence
Support the ghost writers still standing:
https://patreon.com/TheMostHumble
</div>
Nature is a mutable cloud which is always and never the same.
Ralph Waldo Emerson "Essays"
1841
"In case of consumption look for these for a cure." Household discoveries. 1913.
Internet Archive
