
Kaledo Art
Cosmic Funnies
Peter Solarz
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
DEAR READER
$LAYYYTER
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

shark vs the universe
No title available
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
cherry valley forever
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
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occasionally subtle
Not today Justin
styofa doing anything

tannertan36
Mike Driver
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
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@theawkwarddragan
if ‘get low’ was an indie tune (mumford and sons are shaking)
the older i get the weirder it is that not a single p.e. teacher in my entire school career was able to recognize the difference between “a child who doesn’t get enough exercise” and “a child with serious health problems impeding their ability to exercise in this particular way”
you know what else is weird? we had to do that fitness test every year but like… we never actually… learned how to do the things they tested us on…
like, now that i am an adult i have learned how to build up my strength so i can do pushups, but that seems like something they could have taught us? in school? in the class where they tested our ability to pushups? they never taught us how to work our way up to actually doing a chin-up, or whatever. even if i had just been “out-of-shape” (as a CHILD), nothing they did would have solved that problem. i did not learn how to exercise in a functional way until i was out of school and teaching myself, so i’m not sure what those p.e. classes were even intended to accomplish, really.
“van gogh ate yellow paint because-” he was suicidal, karen
“If Van Goah had antidepressants, we wouldn’t have his artwo-” We’d have a lot more of his work, Karen, and who the fuck cares about what we get from him he deserved to be well, karen.
Friendly reminder that we have first hand accounts from Van Gogh saying his art suffered when he was depressed, and that the time he spent in a mental hospital was the most productive of his life. “Starry Night” is literally the view outside his hospital room window. So even if you wanna buy into the “People are only as valuable as what they produce” mentality then getting Vinny on some Prozac is a win/win.
how do straight white boys survive in the real world
Olisiko teillä hetki aikaa puhua puurosta
Translation from Finnish: “Do you have a moment to talk about the porridge.”
I see your Russian cat memes and raise you Finnish bear memes
“Girls want a Superman, but they walk past a Clark Kent every day”
You fuckin CLOWNS think you’re a CLARK KENT? Not on my fuckin watch. You dumb, headass motherfuckers are barely a Guy Gardner and you think you’re a CLARK KENT? The amount of disrespect is unreal.
Listen here, wannabes: My boi Clark is 240 lbs of PURE KANSAS BEEF trained from a young age by Ma Kent to Love and Respect women as the Intelligent, Independent beings they are. He is shy rambling about tractors and casually moving the copy machine when my pen falls behind it and he would NEVER demand I be sexually or romantically interested just because he’s nice.
Y’all ain’t Clark Kent.
i just saw a post that redid POTUS as SCROTUS which stands for “so called ruler of the united states” and i wanted to let you all know that’s how i will exclusively refer to trump henceforth
Maui is not obese
Maui is a powerful demigod. Big and strong and… oh, you think he looks fat?
That’s probably because you’ve been conditioned by the media to accept this
as what strong and fit looks like. Amiright?
Sadly… these guys are not all that strong. Yeah, they got muscles… but they aren’t built in a useful way. They are built for looks and that’s about it.
This…
is a strong guy. Actually a competitor in the Strongman competition. But… his tummy sticks out and he doesn’t look like a Dorito.
You know who else is strong?
These guys…
And Maui…
Look at those arms, omg. And that solid, sturdy torso. You can see a shadow where his meat covers his ribs, but he doesn’t look like any slouch to me.
And this guy…
That’s Dwayne Johnson’s grandfather. When the Disney animators showed him their sketches of Maui, he pulled out a picture of his grandfather and showed it to them because he was amazed how similar they looked. This dude was also a pro wrestler.
There’s actually a great infographic about ab muscles and stuff over HERE. but this is the part i want to show you.
Now… look at Maui again.
That thickness don’t move like fat. It doesn’t jiggle and he’s able to flex it. Look at how it sits on his body. It doesn’t sag… he doesn’t have a gut. There’s even a slight V shape to his torso.
It’s just big and not ‘defined’.
And people aren’t used to that.
(sorry, this isn’t the most organized post… i kinda just let it all spill out)
#CROW NO
Crow: CROW YES!
It’s actually impossible to measure how many fucks a corvid give because there is no device sensitive enough to register such a tiny amount.
science/animal side of tumblr… explain to me the birb thing
Tail Pulling is a behavior noted in many corvids. The practical application is to create a distraction that will allow the birb to make off with the target’s food. Imagine being in the lunch room and a large fellow has a Twinkie you covet. You can’t just take it from him because he’ll defend his Twinkie. But if you thwap him on the back of his neck and then dash around to snag the Twinkie while he investigates, you stand a decent chance of enjoying spongey goodness. This is basically that in birb form.
Except corvids don’t only do this as a distraction. Sometimes they seem to just being doing it to mess with other animals/birbs. But to use my lunch room analogy, there are times you might thwap someone sneakily on the back of the neck just for amusement. Primates exhibit behavior that appears to be just be annoying other animals for amusement. Given how intelligent crows are, its not unlikely that this is a manifestation of an innate desire to just fuck with someone else for the fun of it. Such as this from the link above:
THANK YOU FOR THE BIRB KNOWLEDGE
BECAUSE IT IS FUN
This speaks to me on a molecular level.
birbs just wanna have fun
Sorry to hijack a little, but to put it bluntly, corvids are also pretty BALSY. They are more than prepared to harass other huge birds of prey which could deal them a lot of damage. There’s plenty of cases of corvids ‘riding’ other birds as well. It’s often to harass the larger bird out of the area, but as @red3blog said, they quite often (in layman’s terms) enjoy fucking shit up for fun.
‘Where the hell is the seatbelt on this thing?’
I mean they deserve a medal for having such huge bird balls imo
Literally no fucks are given by corvids. Ever.
My spirit bird.
i forgot this shit existed and im happy I found it again
Corvid: you know where you’re going?
Eagle: no
Corvid: I told you we should’ve stopped for directions
Responding to an officer’s threats to arrest you. Transcribe and share yall
Picked it up at the people’s response team training i’m at rn
Important rn
This is important as hell, but someting about the way it’s phrased makes me think of the Super Friends book with the Lex Luthor 40 cakes thing.
When someone says these days sexism and misogyny don’t exist anymore show them this.
Bruh
Yooooooo…
Levels
I wanna say Thats violation but that means he was gone send her that unwanted shit too 😂😂😂
black mirror season 4
Savage
This is super epic.
He was obnoxious to begin with, it is true, but if he moves forward in this wooing as a respectful dude, he will text her something nice like it was fun to meet her or maybe ask her on a date. Mom will text him back and there will be a bit of confusion before he realizes what happened. He’ll be a bit chagrined and mom will probably feel bad enough for him being rejected to make him cookies or something.
HOWEVER
If he starts in with that fuckboy shit (asking for sex right out the gate, dick picks, asking for nudes, etc.), he will learn the ultimate lesson.
In short, he is only fucked if he fucks himself.
This is Greek Mythology levels of savage.
#In which a man is in command of his destiny #And does not know it
YOOOOOOOO
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.
IT GOT BETTER
Despite this, you go about your life. You don’t talk to Clark – Superman? – and kept out of his way. His girlfriend Lois Lane – she was a five when you first met, but now she’s a nine just like you – tries to get you to interview Bruce Wayne, but you refuse. You meet other people in Clark’s group of friends with high numbers. The daughter of the police commissioner from Gotham. The forensic scientist from Central City. More and more people to avoid and worry about.
Meanwhile, your paranoia gets to you. You start working out. Training in self defense. Studying the Justice League, trying to find its members. Finding out all their identities so you can be ready.
One day you wake up with a ten above your head.
That day you get a call. You recognize the area code. Gotham. Your heart is in your throat. You should throw the phone away, run. They’ve found you. You’re doomed. You might be a ten, but you can’t beat them all.
You pick up the phone anyways.
“Hello?”
“Hey, this is Clark Kent. I was wondering if we could talk.”
Your mouth goes dry. “About what?”
Clark’s voice goes quiet. “Well. About the Justice League.”
You stiffen in your seat. Your adrenaline kicks in, and your eyes dart around the room. You can hang up, pack, grab a plane ticket to wherever and disappear. Your passport hasn’t expired, and you’ve been talking to Perry White about a vacation anyways. You could say it’s a family emergency and never come back.
But they’d find you. You know they’d find you. They’re goddamned superheroes. They can carry buildings. They could probably manage finding you.
“Hello?” Clark’s voice returns, tinged with concern, and suddenly you stop. Calm down. They’re the good guys. At least they’re supposed to be.
“Yeah, sorry, just a little shocked you–”
“Caught up to you?” Clark asked. He laughed a little, but it wasn’t teasing. His voice had his regular ease, the same casual tone he would employ to talk about the weather in the break room. “Yeah. Lois noticed your odd behavior, actually. We didn’t realize it was linked to the League until you refused to interview Bruce, and then we knew something was up.”
“Speaking of Bruce Wayne, are you using his phone? Your area code is Gotham, not Metropolis.”
Clark laughed. “Damn. Lois wasn’t kidding when she said you were the best investigator working for the Daily Planet.”
“I just notice things is all.” You laughed nervously. You still can’t shake your general unease. This guy could kill you without any effort. You’re no match for him, or for any of his friends for that matter. Hell, Batman didn’t even have powers and he’d still fuck you up.
“Yeah, and that’s a skill we could use around here. Would you like to talk about joining? Bruce can send you a car, bring you here–”
“No,” you say, sharper than you intended. “Sorry. I’d rather meet in public, if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course. Lunch or coffee? It’s still early, but it’s a bit easier to cram all of us in a restaurant than a coffee shop.”
“Lunch, I guess. And no superhero stuff.”
Clark pauses, then sighs sadly. You’ve heard this sadness before in rare amounts. When bad things happened and fear and greed overtook people, he’d always frown and sigh, like someone watching their best friend self destruct, unable to help or save them. “You’re afraid of us. Aren’t you?” His voice is concerned and hushed.
A pang of guilt starts to replace the fear. “You can throw around buildings like a sack of potatoes, Clark. Your friend is powerful on an impossible level, Bruce’s kid is a fucking eight–”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Clark said, the sadness disappearing. “You have a number system for us?”
“Look, it’s a whole thing. I’ll talk about it over lunch.” You grab your laptop bag. “Where are we meeting?”
Clark said something to someone else. “Got any restaurant ideas? They want lunch.”
Bruce Wayne – you’ve heard enough interviews to recognize his voice – said, “Saffron’s pretty good.”
“Jesus,” someone else said. You’ve heard the voice, but you couldn’t place it. “I keep on forgetting you’re rich.”
“You don’t think it’s a little much, Bruce? The pay at Daily Planet is good but not that good,” said Clark.
“I’ll cover their tab.”
“Okay…” Clark returned to the call. “Saffron, in…thirty minutes? You’re downtown, right?”
“You can get a table to Saffron in thirty minutes?” said the strange voice. “Boy, am I glad I made friends with you guys.”
“Yeah, that works.” You’re a bit hesitant, but you swallow your nerves. At least for now. Your thoughts about threat levels made you forget that Clark is a decent guy. All you could do is hope that he thinks you’re decent, too. “See you then.”
“See you then. Be safe. Bye.” Clark hangs up, and you’re left in your room. The worry is starting to turn into something different. Excitement.
You shove the phone into your pocket, grab your keys, and head out the door. You’re so full of restless energy you walk the whole way there. Once you arrive, you catch your reflection in the mirror and notice that you’re starting to suit that ten above your head.
KEEP GOING!!!!!!!
The hostess takes you to a hidden corner of the restaurant. It’s mostly empty, as though it’s only just opened. Sitting at a long table, chatting politely, was the Justice League.
They aren’t wearing masks or uniforms, no bright colors and costumes. Clark Kent is in his usual office wear, Bruce Wayne is wearing a tailored suit, Diana Prince dons a nice blue dress, and Oliver Queen wears a nice button down. You don’t recognize two of them – a twenty something in jeans and a hoodie, a man in a green shirt, and a burly guy in a baggy t-shirt and old jeans who looks like he had just washed up from the sea. All of them, aside from Diana, are tens, of course.
Clark Kent stands, shakes your hand when you come in. “Glad to see you made it.” He introduces you to the others, and they all shake your hand quite happily and greet you like a friend. You learn that the guy in the hoodie is Barry Allen, the dude in green is Hal Jordan, and the beach dude is Arthur Curry. Waitresses, all ones, twos, and threes, come in with drinks, and one plops a mug of coffee in front of you, along with a small menu. Clark Kent gives you a knowing gaze.
Once the waitresses clear out, Bruce sits up straight. “Clark, would you rather I do the honors?” His silver watch glitters in the light from the windows.
“No, no, Bruce,” Clark says, setting down his glass of water. “I think it’s best if I ask them myself.”
Within a moment, you piece it together. “You want me to join the Justice League?”
Clark Kent cracks a smile. “How’d you guess?”
“You call me out of the blue, mention the Justice League, invite me to Bruce Wayne’s place, and then here, where you introduce me to a group of people who all look strikingly similar to the members of the Justice League.” You take a sip of coffee. “Subtlety is hardly your strong suit.”
Barry Allen laughed. “They got you there on that one.”
“Well, you’re right. At first Bruce wanted to handle the situation himself,” – you’d rather not think about what handle was a euphemism for – “but I insisted we do some more digging. We did, and what we found was…surprising. To say the least.”
You look at him oddly. You aren’t normal – no one else saw numbers floating above people’s heads – but you weren’t surprising. Your parents were the only ones who knew about your ability, and they’re long gone. You’ve got no checkered past, no odd history–
“You have powers.” Clark’s voice was clearly impressed.
“How did you find out about that?” The fear comes back, forming a knot in your stomach. “I’ve never told anyone else about it.”
“It’s not hard to notice,” Barry Allen says in between sips of soda. “Most of the information we got we got from Lois after she’s hung out with you.”
“I’ve never her told her anything about the numbers, though.”
Oliver Queen sits up, flashing you a confused look. “Numbers?”
Okay, something’s not right here. “The number I see over everyone’s heads,” you say, keeping your voice low. “It ties into how dangerous everyone is. Usually it’s just a one or two, maybe a three or four or five if they’ve got some kind of training or if they work out or whatever. Almost everyone at this table has a ten.”
“Almost?” Diana furrows her brow.
“You have an eleven,” you add.
Diana nods, smiling with a bit of pride and making an “I told you so” face to Bruce Wayne, who rolls his eyes. Oliver Queen clears his throat as Bruce and Hal pass him a couple bills.
“Ignore them,” Barry says, rolling his eyes at the three of them. “What you said was interesting – I might have to ask you a few questions on that later – but it wasn’t what I found. Remember the sensory and memory study you did when you were ten?”
You do remember it. Your parents were contacted by a scientist friend of theirs who needed kids to run a study on memory and stimuli. You remember it clearly. The large sterile room, the tests, the person conducting them, a handsome woman with a four above her head, the questions, the smell of latex gloves and fresh bleach. But you don’t remember the results. You were never told the results, other than that they were good, though with a test like that it was hard to say.
“Well, I found the tests. And they were superhuman.”
Oh shit this is the best one!
I NEED MORE
THE CONTINUATION OF THIS IS A MUST!!
““Die mad about it” is my favorite shade ever. Now stop making women justify wanting birth control coverage because of all the other health care benefits the Pill has.”
DIE MAD ABOUT IT.
DIE MAD ABOUT IT.
Still not understanding why this one didn’t work.