Top: in 2026, an officially licensed Donkey Kong Bananza plush was released in Japan that featured an expression on Donkey Kong's face that appears to be a frown from most angles. Together with the "thumbs up" gesture this creates a humorous mismatched effect.
Bottom left: this inadvertently resembles a reaction GIF that is very widespread on the Internet, featuring Brent Rambo from a 1990s Apple promotional video. Note the distinct combination of a frown with a thumbs-up gesture.
Bottom right: interestingly, a Donkey Kong version of this reaction was made in 2023 by video creator Udge that has itself gained popularity. While it is unlikely that these GIFs inspired the expression of the plush, it is a notable coincidence that Donkey Kong has already independently been depicted in a similar way by fan sources.
Source: plush, Apple video, Udge fan reaction video
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Day one of trying to resurrect my dead wife and my assistant who for some ungodly reason is the only necromancy expert that agreed to work with me keeps asking things like “where's the lucky body, so to speak” and “are we still in the clandestine promenade to the graveyard with a couple of shovels stage orr” until I snap and tell him I don't need a body for all the advanced reconstruction that I'm pioneering here and I can swear the fucker is giggling behind my back as I type this. The fucking nerve.
Day two of trying to resurrect my dead wife and my assistant keeps insisting it's “not, strictly speaking, necromancy” and I inform him if he keeps going on like that I'll kill him and bring him back to show him what real necromancy looks like, and he makes doe eyes at me and says he's my necromancy expert. I fear one of us may not survive this. Perhaps multiple times.
Day one of trying to ✨reconstruct✨ my dead wife and now that I've conceded on the front of dialectics we can finally get some work done. Maybe exact language is really important when you're a ghoul or a vampire or whatever he is but I'm pretty sure being an asshole played the biggest part in this. Anyway, I showed my assistant (henceforth referred to as The Menace) all of the material I've gathered from my wife's journals and interviews with her friends and the more responsive members of her family and maybe going through all of her browser history and how I have been mapping my findings to an experimental neural guide that I can use as basis for growing a brain (something nobody has done this precisely before, not that it's a big deal) and The Menace went “woww you sure had to do a lot of research to figure out your wife”.
I shut myself in the dungeon as a murder-prevention measure and by the time I cooled off enough to reemerge he has plugged all kinds of new data into the neural guide, data that I have already deemed useless, might I add. The Menace has currently locked himself in the dungeon. Why the actual fuck did I think it's a good idea to have a dungeon that locks from the inside.
Day two of trying to reconstruct my wife and the janky data The Menace plugged into the system seems to have, by some miracle, improved its output’s correlation with the sample data I have of my wife's preferences and ideas as they are presented in her journals by nearly 15%. The Menace still refuses to leave the dungeon even when I inform the bastard I have put away both the medical saw and my poisons kit. Highly unprofessional of him, but what could I expect. I try plugging in some of the other discarded data and correlation drops by 2%.
Day three of trying to reconstruct my wife and The Menace- well I do need them to understand who you are, don't I- has agreed to exit the dungeon on the condition that I refer to him by name, and also that he has his input in making the logs, which currently consists of him peeking over my shoulder as I type and giving even more smug comments than usual. Are you happy now, Derek? Can we finally get to work? And why wouldn't I use Tumblr it's a perfectly adequate blogging platform-
Day three of trying to reconstruct my wife, unmonitored log. Derek passed out as soon as I said we're done, so I have something akin to privacy, snoring notwithstanding. Today has been… productive, actually. Although he won't reveal his methods, he's been doing well enough consistently enough with sorting the data for the neural guide that I left that to him and switched my attention to constructing the body. If work continues at this pace we might get to prototype testing in no more than a week. Fast work. Too fast, maybe. Fuck, I don't know what I'm talking about. I should go to sleep.
…I should probably move Derek to the couch at least. If he sleeps in the chair he's bound to have a headache tomorrow.
Day four of trying to reconstruct my wife and the making of the body turned out to be trickier than I thought. Yes, yes, I know, it has been largely deemed impossible but I figured out the brass tacks easily enough, the devil’s in the details. I know the basics, I have pictures, memories, but they don't particularly detail the inside situation, do they? The deviations in textbook anatomy that make a person something like themselves. She was always fine when we were together. Well, physically at least. I don't have any x-rays or ultrasounds or the like and so I have to turn to the most dire of measures.
I have to go talk to her mother. Derek, if you're reading this, carry on with your tasks as normal. Keep the log going if I don't write tomorrow.
Day five of trying to reconstruct this guy's allegedly dead wife and. God, I do not know what to write here. The neural guide, as he likes to call his pretty janky database, is going fine. Could start growing the ol’ brain tomorrow, if he'll be around to give the go-ahead, but. Well.
Day six. I started growing the brain. I'm pretty sure he'll be mad he wasn't around for the occasion but he's bound to be mad at me anyway, so what the hell
Day eight of trying to reconstruct my dead wife and I have.. not managed to retrieve the medical information. Derek has made significant progress in the meanwhile. I suppose I'll just have to improvise.
Day ten of trying to reconstruct my wife. Taking a break. The trip has had.. an effect. I suppose I know now why she was so eager to get out of that house. Derek will provide updates if there are any.
Day eleven. The brain’s fine. Everything’s fine, except for this whole mess of a project. Janush is moping around in the dungeon and he didn't even care to ask if I am up for continuing the work after.. that. Why wouldn't I be, right? Big, strong Derek. Died before just fine Derek. I ask the brain who its father was and it says he was a musician. It is wrong. I recognize the voice.
Day eleven. I have to acknowledge the lady's capacity to turn a face and a table. Mother-in-law was.. remarkably polite. Gentle, one could say, if one was not in her basement five days prior praying for his life. And there was some logic to her words. She does have, prior experience? Making this body? Of her flesh and all that. It wouldn't be unreasonable to entrust that project to her in exchange for some mother-daughter bonding time and I don't have the resources to do this myself anyway and-
who am I kidding. She wouldn't have wanted this. If I am to drag her back from the dead I need to be honest about who I'm doing this for. What I'm doing this for. If it's worth her being trapped again.
I need to talk to Derek - I think he went to the dungeon just as mother-in-law arrived.
Somehow still day eleven of trying to reconstruct my dead wife and this fucking menace - yes I remember our agreement I don't care - drags a fucking bell tower - no I will not be thanking you for leaving the tower behind there's still a goddamn church bell in here and. Okay if that's how you want to do it let's do it. Let's type out a little q&a, shall we? Keep the record straight.
Q: How did you know there was a secret passage in the dungeon?
A: You're really stuck on that one huh? There was a draft, J. I poked around the first time I was hiding there and found where it was coming from. It's frankly embarrassing you didn't.
Q: Why did you leave?
A: Because I had a genius plan that only worked if I did it right then?
Q: Why did you leave me?
A: I was not aware you’d fancy an elopement. I was under the impression you were in the middle of becoming a happily married man again- okay okay fine put the scalpel down. Jesus Christ. I needed a distraction, it would be suspicious if we both up and left. I thought she would behave if she wasn't on her home turf, and I thought right. It worked perfectly. I am curious when you're planning to hold my celebration party.
Q: So it was all calculated?
A: Yes. My Machiavellian schemes are going very well for me, thank you for noticing.
Q: You are aware I can backread the thread, right?
A: …
Q: Your parting note didn't sound very Machiavellian to me.
A: I fail to see the question here. Yes, she's scary. I was scared. I do some of my best scheming scared.
Q: Fine then. Why the bell?
A: In my opinion it is the best material for the body.
Q: Why?
A: You didn't really bother going through the data you gathered, huh? It's the bell she and her father made together. The personal connection will aid in readjustment greatly. Second to her actual body, which we cannot get or copy, this is the best shot we have.
Q: Why are you doing this?
A: Because you're going to pay me extremely handsomely any day now?
Q: Then why were you the only one willing to help me?
A: I mean, look at this mess. Look at where we are. Holding a q&a in your basement on tumblr dot com while your frankly terrifying mother-in-law is keeping critical information hostage, your phone screen is cracked and typing is hard because the damn thing doesn't recognise my fingers half the time. There's a draft from the secret passage you apparently didn't know about. Not what most would call an ideal work environment.
Q: Then I'll ask again. Why are you here?
A: Look, believe it or not I like what I do, and I like being good at it. If I can squeeze a successful reanimation out of this I can safely consider myself the best in the business. It's professional interest. And the fact that you’ll pay me handsomely any day now doesn't hurt, either.
Day twelve. The body is ready - quick work, but my assistant assures me it is without fault. I think to ask him how he is so sure, think better of it. Maybe it'll all click into place when she's here. Who knows. I miss her. I hope I see her soon.
Commencing the unification and reanimation procedure.
Hiiii. So, I did look over your shoulder when you were logging in to write one of your logs and maybe memorise your email and password just in case, well, in case of this, I guess. I'm so alive you wouldn't believe. Your wife did go up in flames though. Again. My condolences. Your mother-in-law is probably fine? Didn't particularly bother to check. Didn't particularly bother saving our project, either, and I do feel like I owe you an explanation for that.
I wanted her to be real so badly. It would be my greatest work.
Some version of her existed since I was fifteen, perhaps before. I don't remember clearly. She was a necessary invention to keep some of myself: different mannerisms, different likes. Different laugh, all chime and no sting. My father was a bellmaker. He wanted to make music but all he made had the sound of him, and that he could not stomach, so my father was a bellmaker and his wife was a woman with whom he could share a dislike of everything he was, the common interest biding him over to his grave, and then I was left with the metal, my mother and her.
By the time I married you I knew more about her than I did about myself. I'm sorry, you had no chance. She was warm and agreeable and a good listener and she had a beautiful laugh, oh, the chimes in it. I dressed her like a doll and loved the way you looked at her, awed, small glances that caught nothing I would wish to hold. You did not question why our new house had a dungeon that locks from the inside, did not notice the hidden passage leading to the cemetery.
My father was a bellmaker: I know how metal learns to sing in careful hands. Flesh is much more pliable.
I will not bore you with the details – suffice it to say I made myself with much more care than I made her. You had ample opportunity to observe the finished work.
What I do need to tell you is what came of her.
You were right to not go looking for a body: not really much to find. Some parts I used in the transfer - it is a profoundly bad idea to transplant one’s own brain without any assistance, in case you were wondering - the rest are ash in the flower pot in your lab. I thought it’d be a nice touch. I’d love to tell you I had thoughts of coming clean then and there but I am trying to cut back on all the lying, so. You were useful enough, and nice, and I made no plans of missing you. I did not account for how much you'd miss her.
It flattered me, in a way, to see the impact of my craft. Its surprising longevity. I began to wonder whether I had misjudged her, discarded her too easily in my desire to exist. She wasn't real, sure, but who said she couldn't be, given the chance? It was all half formed doubts until I saw your posting and knew exactly what I had to do, which is to reroute all calls and emails to myself and show up a few weeks into the search, when you should have been just desperate enough to accept however. You didn't get any, by the way. Calls or emails. Shouldn't have bothered with the whole interception thing.
To my delight your data had only scraps of me in it, her making up the bulk, and most of the me-scraps you had already discarded as your lovely wife having a particularly bad day and saying things she wouldn't say, otherwise. To my surprise the thing had no chance of living.
It is hard to explain to someone who'd never worn her face: every bit of “I want to be here, I want to exist” was an error, a slip of the mask. Something I failed to separate as cleanly as I would have liked. The more void of me you rendered her the less use there was in trying. So I compromised - threw in a few of the discarded bits and watched the model confirm likeness.
I was an idiot. Probably still am, but now I am aware of at least one of my glorious fuck ups. The mask only works if it fits the face. Do you understand? No matter what he did my father's music had the sound of him.
This would be a great time to stop and walk away but. I’m not sure but what. Sure Mother did piss me off but it's not like she did anything she wouldn't do, and anyway it had nothing to do with me now. Maybe I wanted to figure out what your angle was. Maybe it was too much fun to throw dead wife introspections at you and see the wheels in your pretty head all crash into each other.
Anyway, sorry I didn't save your wife. The whole question of personhood was really getting to me and no matter if she could be her own person or was truly just a piece of me it would be unfair for her to be born trapped into the same old bullshit. Also fires make me nervous. You can think that she broke free if you want, which wouldn't be the truth but wouldn't be as much of a lie as I thought. It was fun. Lying to you less. Scary as shit at times, but fun.
You can DM me on Discord if you want to hang out or something.
Peeling off the broken breastplate of a stoic knight who only fights and never speaks, just to realize there’s nothing in there. Not metaphorically—the armor is literally empty. It doesn’t appear to affect him. If the armor stays mostly in the shape of a knight, he just gets back up to keep fighting. But with the chest plate off he just sits there, equally impervious to curiosity as I reach up into the cavity where his body might’ve gone. Stubbornly, no answers are found anywhere in there.
So I forge him a new breastplate and on the inside, because I know he has plenty of room, I put a little pocket. Not big enough to hold anything functional of course. Just a little extra piece to see what he’ll do with it.
He comes back next time with some grievous injury to his nothing, presumably from the massive shredded gash across his thigh plates. He sits and waits. I fix it for him. He is still nothing in there. I decide to add a drawing on the inside, of the type of beast I imagine could rend metal into scraps with a single blow. He puts it back on. He no longer moves as if he is injured.
Over time the interior of the knight becomes decorated with whatever odds and ends I could think to attach to the inside of a guy who’s got room to carry it. What really gets me is that he never removes any of it. Never requests a change. Not even when I installed a curtain rod for a small tapestry, or a bud vase to carry roses for his beloved, or an accordion folder for letters. He didn’t say a word for any of the many, many drawings of mythical beasts that now fight forever inside of his shell.
There are plenty of other forges. I’m not entirely sure why he keeps coming back here anyway. We’re pretty popular, but he could get his armor fixed a lot quicker (and with fewer ridiculous modifications) literally anywhere else. I asked him if I could get a look at his nothing again. He flipped up his visor and nodded his head so I could take a look. It was the same as it had been, filled with drawings and trinkets and weird little fixtures I’d put in there. I asked if he was annoyed by it, or liked it, or felt anything at all, but he literally only ever says nothing, so I’m not sure why I asked.
There’s not much room left in his nothing now. When he comes back for repairs I’ve had to fix my own foolish additions. Some of these pieces are intricate and irritating to repair, but I fix them anyway. It feels wrong to take any of it away from him now, even though I’ve been rudely encroaching on his nothingness to the point where it’s barely even there. How he squeezes his nothing back into a body so full, I’ll never understand. But it’s a game to me now, finding a spot not yet filled and putting something there. A dark part of me wonders if he ever gets filled up completely, if whatever sorcery holds the nothing-knight together may break, and it will all clatter unceremoniously to the floor.
When he hands me his breastplate yet again, it is so shockingly disfigured that I wonder if being made of nothing has somehow kept him alive. No ordinary knight could sustain such injuries. So I fix it. And he waits, unmoving, in a quiet corner of the forge. It’s like he’s watching, even though I know the reading glasses I put inside his helmet were just for fun. I’m careful to put it all back exactly the way it was when he last left. There’s no room to add more this time.
He examines the breastplate, and pauses before putting it back on, like he’s looking for something. Is he worried about the fit? But it suits him just as it always did. He calmly points to a little space, about an inch, between a miniature shelf and one of many pockets. There’s nothing there. I ask him what’s wrong, and again he points. It’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen from him, and it’s barely anything at all. I take it to mean he wants something there.
I spend some time engraving a little snail in the gap. He watches, as much as nothing can watch. When I’m finished he holds the breastplate, but he doesn’t put it on right away. I ask him if something’s still wrong. He says nothing, and puts it on. I tell him I can’t add anything else. Even if he could ask, there’s no room left.
Next time he comes back, there’s nothing wrong with his armor—he lets me check to make sure. I ask him what he’s doing here. Out from one of many pockets, he retrieves a tiny rusted knife. It’s in miserable condition, barely worth saving. I tell him I could make him a nice new one, but I’ll fix it if he likes. He puts it away and reaches around to find something else, a needle and thread. Better condition, but I’m not a sewist and I tell him as much. He puts them away. He then retrieves a little twisted piece of wax paper. I open it. It’s candy. I ask if I can eat it. He says nothing. I eat it. It’s flavored with cinnamon. I’m surprised he let me take it.
He keeps bringing me candy now. His armor is the most laborious to repair out of every client my forge serves, but it’s my own fault so I can’t complain. Sometimes he keeps me company while I work. I wonder if he is trying to tell me something when he hands me mints. I wonder again at the lemon lozenges. He stares at me when I eat, as much as nothing can stare.
One day he brings me a little jar of honey. I thank him, I tell him I’ll save it for dinner. He watches me work, he puts his repaired armor back on, and he stays. My shift passes slowly, and when I finally pack up to leave it’s dark outside. He follows me out of the forge. I ask him where he’s going. He points to the jar in my hand. I ask him if he wants to watch me eat it. He says nothing, but the nothing-knight clearly wants something, so I open the lid and dunk my finger in the honey. I try not to get any on my chin. He stands there, inches away, watching me try to consume this jar of honey without a utensil. It tastes like clovers. About half the jar is left when I’ve finally had enough of pretending to be a bear, but he doesn’t move to leave.
I ask if he’s going to follow me home. He says nothing. I tell him he can if he wants to. Again, nothing. I start walking, and he follows at my side. I know he’s not going to say anything ever, so I fill the silence. I tell him I’m grateful for the sweets, I tell him about how his various components are made, I tell him I’ve never met anyone made of nothing before. I tell him it’s a rare opportunity for a smith to work so much on the inside of something. He says nothing. I tell him again how much I like the candy.
It occurs to me that maybe filling me with sugar is as close as he can get to filling someone else’s empty armor with trinkets. I’m not sure if that’s really why he does it. I tell him I don’t have room to be filled with anything on the inside, not like him. I’m not a container for much besides food. He offers me another piece of candy. Maybe he likes containing something, the way I like to feel full. Maybe it’s nothing at all.
—
I didn’t edit this even a little bit. Thanks for reading!
In Yoshi's Island DS, if a Koopa Troopa is hit with an egg while it touches a wall underneath a relatively low ceiling, its shell will clip through the ceiling and continue moving on the next surface above it, as seen in the footage.
Main Blog | Patreon | Twitter | Bluesky | Small Findings | Source: ヨッシー大好き研究所
Super Mario 64 DS contains a glitch known as "hyperspeed holding". If the player character is holding an object in his hands and continuously runs on a slope of a certain incline against a wall, the character will build up speed indefinitely (or at least until he clips through the wall due to the speed being too high).
In the footage, this is used to obtain a Red Coin from within an ice block without using Yoshi's fire breathing ability which would normally be required to access it. Wario is holding the baby penguin and running against a fence on the slide. After a minute of this he reaches such speed that he can run all the way up to the ice block and clip inside it, collecting the coin.
Main Blog | Patreon | Twitter | Bluesky | Small Findings | Source: bobbybobsm64ds
I am currently in New Zealand to do the comedy festival. New Zealand is on the bottom of the world, so in order for their trees to grow upwards, it seems they have to go sideways and around
“Regarding setting, the court held that both works taking place in Alaska high schools was not protectable because Alaska is a public place and setting a teen novel in a high school is a common genre convention.”
Tomodachi Life: Living the Dream but with 60 clones of the same guy
a small taste of whats to come.
There's now a PART 2!!!
I've been loving the hell out of Living the Dream and I've always had one Mii who I absolutely adore. If you've ever seen my account, you know who I'm talking about considering I draw him all the time; Quit!!!!
^ here he is on my main island.
So I decided I wanted to run an experiment: I would make an alt save with 60 of the same Mii. Every single Mii will be a clone of our beloved Quit (seen above) with the exact same personality, voice, face, dating preferences (all Quits can date all 3 gender options), everything. The only difference is that 20 of them are male, 20 are female, and 20 are nonbinary (because I'm curious on if Mii gender impacts how a Mii forms friends).
It was a lengthy process making 60 of the exact same Mii, but finally...
Welcome to Quitland.
My general rule for this save file is that I must interfere as little as possible with the Quits lives. I'll only give them food, new clothing, treasures, or new housing if they directly ask me for it. I can't force any relationships either (barring the tutorial which forces you to do so). I want to see how these 60 clones all grow and adapt, and how they will eventually differentiate themselves.
I had put all 60 Quits in at midnight so right after doing so I decided to head to bed. I then proceeded to spend the chunk of my morning doing quite possibly the stupidest thing ever:
Creating a giant pixelated Quit to put on the ground.
From there I learned about something kind of interesting. Turns out when you create 60 Miis all at once, with all of them having no little quirks, friends, or really anything to define their AI past their basic personality, they become...
...kind of stupid.
Here are some examples of small groups of Quit randomly choosing to follow one "leader" Quit for no reason. They REALLY enjoy doing this. Its not uncommon for small packs of Quit (usually containing 2-6 members) to just stalk another Quit for extended periods of time. I believe they are developing pack-hunting strategies. This scares me.
They also enjoyed talking. A lot. My entire island is just constantly full of random Quit chatter 24/7.
I'll admit though it is very rewarding just seeing all of them standing about, doing weird Quit things. I feel like a proud father of 60 single-celled organisms.
Also I got quite possibly the funniest Tomodachi Life clip I've ever seen:
There ain't a single brain cell between any of them. Honestly it was really fun just watching them frolic about, like an ant farm made entirely up of brainless homunculus.
In terms of actual development between the Quits, some of them became acquaintances and a few even became friends, but the REAL development was between Quit 1 (known as Original Quit) and Quit 3:
Quit 3 started crushing on Original, and just a few minutes after that Quit 3 surprised me by deciding to just up and confess to Original. This was pretty shocking...so far, every other Quit has been fairly reserved in making relationships. While plenty of them became "like-minded" (not surprising considering they all have the same mind), few were brave enough to become friends, let alone lovers. Perhaps Quit 3 is some kind of deviant Quit???
Well lucky for Quit 3, their boldness ended up paying off...and Quitland got its first couple!
I wonder how long it'll last...
Besides that, only one other romantic event happened. Which was Quit 48 developing a crush on Quit 28. (I know it's hard to tell that this Quit is different from the Quit above...but trust me, its a different guy.)
...could this be considered an example of egomania...? I mean they look identical...
And that was about everything interesting that happened on day 1 of my little experiment. I might post more if anyone has any interest in the Quit ant farm. This is a little different from what I usually post so hopefully the people who follow me just for the art don't mind a bit of a change lol. To end off, here's some group pictures after I finally unlocked the photo mode:
Personally I'm a really big fan of chicken Quit right now.
happy 20 year anniversary of Neil banging out the tunes!
though every rat is special, it's a wonderful and unusual thing for their accomplishments to be remembered and cherished by so many people so many years later. we're all so fortunate to know about the rat who banged out the tunes!
thank you to all the people who sent me reference photos of their beloved rats for this piece!!! credits under the cut!
@joe-spookyy Ben and Socrates
@gooseontheinternet Chamomile and Beefy
@runawayy-rat Bartholomäus and Emo
@theunholystromboli Macrogryphosaurus, Xenoceratops, and Graciliraptor
@techlecticwtch Solas and Dorian
@merlyn-bane Roslyn and Rizzoli
@logictoinsanity Luna and Buttercup
@hagsthehag Orphie, Psyche, Calypso, Ariadne, and Eury
having a freeze response to stress is so funny in the context of normal adult stressors. millions of years of evolution are trying to tell me that the email will not find me if i stay very still and do nothing
