#discworld reference

[21st-century-minutiae]

Whenever you say something is a pun, I can't help but think of terry pratchett's "A pune, or 'play on words'"

In Terry Pratchett's satirical comedy series, Discworld, there are many elements in the fictional Discworld which recognizable close, but distinct, from "Roundworld" (that is to say, our world) concepts.

In Discworld, the word "pun" doesn't exist. Instead the word is "Pune," explicitly named after the fictional founder of the Fool's Guild, Jean-Paul Pune, who wrote an extremely detailed thesis on the exact classification of humor (which is strongly implied to take all the fun out of comedy). Clowns in the Fools Guild are forced to memorize the thesis. Thus, "a not very funny joke, involving word play" is known as a "pune" across the book series, almost always clarified as "A pune, or 'play on words'" as noted above.

In contrast, the etymology of "pun" in English is lost. The word goes back to the 16th century, and it is speculated that it comes from the Italian "Puntiglio" meaning "Equivocation" or "Trivial Objection."

[earhartsease]

it literally just occurred to us that in the US, people who serve you at bank counters are known as bank tellers - and here "teller" means someone who counts up a thing, "to tell" was related to the verb "to tally"

but

so this means that someone who works in one of those really posh banks for rich-as-creosote people is literally

a fortuneteller

[headcanonsandmore]

Do The Doctors Drink?

One: Yes, but only a small glass of brandy. Never in front of his companions. 

Two: No. He gets panicky enough as it is. 

Three: This guy drinks wine. But not cheap wine; it has to be vintage and immensely expensive. Not that he ever seems to pay for them, though. 

Four: Would you give this creature alcohol?  

Five: This dorky dad only drinks tea. No alcohol whatsoever. Whenever one of his kids friends wants to drink (usually Tegan), he gives them a lecture on being responsible; he has to set a good example, after all. This is normally about five seconds before he falls over a priceless vase (breaking said-vase) and knocking himself unconscious. Again.

Six: Likes a glass of scotch on occasion but tends to prefer being alert. He needs all the alertness he can, given what he has to deal with most days. 

Seven: This little Machiavellian does not drink, but pretends to do so as to keep everyone off their guard. Has had to pull drinks away from Ace on several occasions, as she’s still underage. 

Eight: Only on occasion, only wine, and only socially. Normally in a bohemian French café. 

War: He needs a drink but doesn’t have the luxury of doing so very often.  

Nine: A couple of pints. No nonsense about it, and never drinks too much. Will sometimes start quoting the Vimes Boot Theory of Socio-Economic Unfairness, depending on who he’s with. 

Ten: This twink has woken up in random alleyways after a night out so often that he had to invent a homing device on the TARDIS so he could find his way back. Somehow, this actually managed to get worse after Donna turned up. 

Eleven: Would like to drink, but everyone keeps refusing to serve him because he looks, like, nine years old. Even the psychic paper doesn’t help. 

Twelve: This man has been drunk at more music festivals than he would like to admit. Although he does start to limit his intake after Bill shows up. 

Thirteen: Too neurotic to drink and tends to get very clingy around Yaz on the rare occasion that she does (not that Yaz is complaining too much). 

Fugitive: Holds her drink very well and will drink anyone under the table. Always something cool and sophisticated without being expensive. 

[mbrainspaz]

I recently inherited some cats and since I never learned their previous names I renamed them. This guy I named 'Mustache' for obvious reasons.

Found out last week that his former name was Dewey.

Dewey.

Dewey Mustache.

[skyriderwednesday]

Fair to say the Disc's calendar is A Thing and uh...

What gets me is that it's almost never mentioned???

Like there are a few references scattered throughout but it doesn't ever come up to my knowledge in a plot impacting way, it's just kind of There.

So with my very limited knowledge (spurred on by getting a few likes by pointing out that the Disc doesn't have a month called July), and with my only reference being the Discworld RPG book, let's talk about the calendar for a bit.

(Most of this comes from pages 11 and 12 if you're interested in seeing for yourself. I appreciate anyone with more info chiming in on this!)

Years

It takes the Disc about 800 days to rotate once all the way around ("relative to the turtle"), and for... some reason... the seasons happen twice during this time. So the Disc has an 800 day long, eight season year known, according to the info in the RPG book, as the Spin Year "among those with sufficiently advanced astronomical knowledge and time on their hands". However, only "wizards and astrologers" care about this, and to the average person on the disc the year is 400 days and four seasons long. The RPG book states that this 400 day period is what is meant by a 'year' unless specifically stated otherwise.

(Does this mean technically everyone on the Disc is only half as old as they think they are?)

For the first half of the eight season year, the sun comes up on the left of the hub, and for the second it comes up on the right.

Months

This is the part that makes me mildly upset.

The 400-day year is divided into 13 months. The RPG book is extremely brief on this point.

What it does do is list the months in order, state that there are eight days in a week (Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Octeday), and then that there are 50 weeks in a year.

(I assume the weekend is Sunday and Octeday. It could be Saturday and Sunday and then the new week starts on Octeday, but that doesn't seem right to me)

Dividing 400 by 13 means there should be about 30 days in a month (it comes out exactly as 30.76923076923077), but this isn't clarified. At least 10 of the months must have at least one extra day to make it up to 400, but I don't know which ones these are.

(Of course it could be entirely different, but I hold out hope that it is something like this.)

The Disc's months can be split into two groups: those that share their names with 'Roundworld' months, and those that don't.

The Disc has months called February, March, April, May (of course), June, August, and December.

It does not have January, July, September, October (which I find a bit weird), or November.

The Disc's remaining months are called Offle, Grune (yes on the Disc it is currently Grune), Spune, Sektober, Ember, and Ick.

My reaction to this is approximately "...Oh. Okay."

In order the months are Offle, February, March, April, May, June, Grune, August, Spune, Sektober, Ember, December, and Ick.

I hope this is interesting to somebody, but Idk really I just wanted to share this calendar before I lose my mind over it.

:)

[esperanta-dragon]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: World of Warcraft Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Thassarian (Warcraft), Darion Mograine, Leryssa (Warcraft), Khadgar (Warcraft) Additional Tags: Funny, Humor, Discworld References Summary:

Thassarian is trying to get to his nephew's birthdays so he can read him his favorite fairy tale. But the whole world is against him! Including demons, his boss... and a different time zone. P.S.: Yep, we've managed to translate it into English. It's super silly thing but I hope you will have a good laugh.

[lozheadcanonsandmore]

Every time Link has a near-death experience, Death has a near-Link experience. 

DEATH: OH. YOU AGAIN. I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU’LL COME QUIETLY THIS TIME? 

Link: Not a chance. Still haven’t saved the Princess. Also, I’ve got a fairy. 

DEATH: WELL, THEN, DON’T LET ME DETAIN YOU. 

(later)

Link: Bloody stupid trap... Oh. Hey there. 

DEATH: DON’T MIND ME. I BROUGHT A BOOK. 

Link: ...good idea. 

[detectivejigsawpines]

Abyss-finale (Raise a glass to freedom)

...I have never been drunk in my life. Because I don't drink. Therefore my knowledge of how to be drunk is very limited, and mostly based on the idea that it's similar to being very, very sleep-deprived (which I have been on probably far more occasions than is healthy for me). My suspicion is that if I did drink, I would be either a very giggly drunk, or a very angry drunk.

Reading the chapter to the end will clarify why this is valid.

“You what?!”

Shermie and Ford both stared at Stan, aghast, as he continued to scramble eggs after telling them how he’d essentially bought himself from their father.

Stan grinned.  “You shoulda seen the look on his face-it was even better than the time when we went to that restaurant with the triple-decker steak.”

Shermie snorted, hard.  “Oh wow...I always knew you were crazy, Stanley, but this-this exceeded even my expectations.”

He did a little theatrical bow, twirling the spatula between his fingers.  “That’s what I do best.”

When their mother came down, however, some of his ebullience-a lot of it, in fact-dissipated at the look on her face.

Ford’s stomach twisted in a hard knot, because even he could see that level of heartbreak.

Stan winced, and turned off the burner.  “...Hey, Mom.”

Mom looked up at him sadly for a moment, before at last whispering, “This isn’t gonna be fixed, is it?”

Stan let out a sigh that was equal parts sad and frustrated as he set down the spatula he’d been using.  “Whaddya want me ta do? Beg and plead for him ta say I’m part of the family again? It wouldn’t work, Mom, and even if it would…”

Even when he had still been mad at his brother, Ford knew he wouldn’t have wanted him to sacrifice his dignity to that extent.  He wanted it even less now, when he understood better what had happened and wasn’t a stupid hormonal teenager.

Mom was trying hard not to cry now.  “Stanley…”

“Am I gonna lose you too if I can’t make things up with him?” Stan suddenly asked.

It snapped Mom out of her despondency somewhat: her eyes widened, and then she jabbed a finger into her son’s chest.

“Stanley Pines!  What kinda mother ya take me for?!  What, ya think I’m gonna tell ya ta shove off just cuz your pa’s got a big stick up his-”

The rest of her words were muffled in Stan’s shirt as he pulled her into a hug.

“Just checkin’,” he whispered into her hair.  “Love ya too, Mom.”

********

Pa came down a while later, and sat stoically through breakfast, before telling Shermie, “Pack up the car when you’re done.  We’re leaving.”

Shermie blinked.  “Already?”

He nodded.  “Gotta get back to the shop.  The rubes ain’t gonna fleece themselves.”

The oldest son sighed.  “You got it, Pops.”

Pa gave him a sharp look at the slight insolence in his tone, but then went back to eating the eggs.

Since they hadn’t brought much, it didn’t take them long to get ready to leave.  Mom held both her boys tightly, wringing out promises for them to call her more often, and then Shermie took his turn for some more affectionate noogying and apologies for not getting to spend more time checking out their home.  Then they were putting their things in the car, leaving them alone on the porch with Pa.

Ford wondered if he was going to say-well, anything.

An apology was most likely too much to hope for, but-well, something.  Something to prove that he was a human being, not a robot.

All he did, though, was give a small nod, and then turn away and head for the car.

As they watched it drive back down the road, Ford said, “...We need to go to Dan’s place.”

“What for?”

“I need a drink.”

********

On the Corduroy cabin’s front porch, Dan poured out more of his family’s home-brewed liquor and handed it over.

“Sounds like you guys had a rough time.”

“...Wasn’t so bad, not after I gave ‘im the money,” Stan muttered into his glass.

“Ya shouldn’t’ve done that,” Ford scolded; his words slurred more than usual, finally making him sound like a Jersey boy for once.  “‘S wasted on ‘im. Prolly never even spend it.”

Stan shrugged, and held out his glass again.  “S’not my money anymore. I don’t care.”

The part of Ford’s brain still capable of rational thought wondered what exactly was in this Corduroy family recipe.  Dan had said it was apples...or mostly apples. Definitely had apples in it. It was powerful stuff, whatever it was; they’d only been doing this for half an hour and he’d already reached the point where the edges of his vision were going in and out of focus, and he needed to sit down even though he was already sitting down.  He squinted at Dan.

“How’re you handlin’ this stuff so well?  You’re lit-ral-lit-little-little-er-ally younger’n we are, you’ve had less years ta build up a tolerance for drink.”

Dan smirked.  “Guess I’m just manlier than you.”

Ford glared.  “Ha. Ha. You even drinkin’?”

Dan pointedly poured himself a glass of whatever-he-called this stuff (Crumble?  Scramble? Something like that), from the same bottle they’d been using, and gulped down a shot.

Stan whistled appreciatively.  “You’re good.”

“Got a lotta Scottish in my blood.  Makes it easy.”

“Nice.”

****

“...I shoulda stood up ta him better,” Ford muttered finally.

The other two stared at him.

“He started sayin’ all this crap about you bein’ a-a bad influence an’ stuff, Stanley, and I tried ta defend you, but I just...froze up.  I failed you again.”

“What?  No, nononono, don’t do that ta yourself.”  Stan scooted his chair over next to Ford’s, not heeding the horrible scraping noise it made on the wooden boards, and slung one big arm over his shoulder.  “S’not your fault, ‘kay? Dad’s-Mom says I got pershonality, but he’s got one too. Big one. Size’a New York City-big. Not an easy one ta go up against.”

“What, are you-are you sayin’ I don’t have personality?”  Ford gave Stan a wounded look.

“No, no, ‘course not.  Jus’ not a pers’nality used ta fightin’ people.  ‘Specially not Pa.” Stan squeezed him. “Not your fault.”  He ruffled Ford’s hair...and then gaped at it in wonder. “Whoa.  Your hair’s real...floofy. Heh heh. Floof, floof, floof.” He continued playing with it, giggling, until Ford swatted his hand.

He felt a little comforted by Stan’s words...but not much.  “S my job,” he insisted stubbornly, staring at the middle of Stan’s three faces floating before his eyes on the assumption that it was the real one.  “Needa...fix things. Last time-you were homeless cuz I couldn’t get over myself an’ help you, so I needa-”

“Hey, I shouldn’ta hung around your project, so I wouldn’t’ve broken it, so you coulda gone ta the dumb science college.  You’re more important than a boat, Sixer, an’I made ya feel like-likit was the other way ‘round.”  Stan suddenly snatched the bottle off the table, began chugging down the rest of its contents.

“Hey!  No fair, gimme that.”  Ford grabbed for it, leading to a sloppy tug-of-war that ended with the-grumble?  No, scumble, that was the name of this stuff-splashed all over both of them.

Ford put the bottle back on the table with a resigned sigh, and then wrapped his arm around Stan.

“You’re more important’n a college, St’nley,” he murmured, letting his heavy eyes droop shut.  “Shoulda remembered that too…”

****

Soon enough they were both snoring, completely passed out on each other.

Dan threw away the empty bottle, and went inside to grab a blanket, which he draped over both of them.  Then, as the effects of the scumble finally started to hit him, he just made himself comfortable stretching out on the porch.

********

When they wake up, all three boys are VERY hungover. Stan and Ford end up staying until they're feeling well enough to stand and walk home without throwing up, while Ford tries to deduce the ingredients for a hangover cure Fiddleford came up with in college. As best he recalls, it included a raw egg, Tabasco and Worcestershire sauce, but he could never get his friend to divulge the rest of it. He resolves to experiment until he deciphers it on his own-as soon as his head stops feeling like it's all stuffed with rocks that keep rolling around and banging into each other.

Stan has a few nightmares while he’s sleeping them off, but he doesn’t remember them that well when he wakes up, just being surrounded by a lot of indistinct whispers.