Fuck, I dunno man

I'm just a good intentioned storyteller with no idea what I'm doing at any point, so please enjoy the shitshow

[bogleech]

lol

[sneakyspades]

hold on gotta look somehing up

[sneakyspades]

[the-real-numbers-deactivated202]

[apinklion01]

[[ Transmission of image ]]

Three pictures are displayed. The first is a picture with a Magic the Gathering card and a circular piece of wood. The card has a circular piece taken out. The text reads as the following:

D&D players, here’s a great way to turn your old Magic cards into tokens in case you don’t have any minis.

The second is a reaction meme with Skipper from the Penguins of Madagascar TV show.

The third is a screenshot showing the value of the Magic the Gathering card from the first picture. At TCGplayer.com the card, a Black Lotus, is shows at the value of $42,000.

[[ end of transmission ]]

[perfectcromulence]

After reblogging this post an hour or so ago I wised up and realized there’s no reason to make a game token for a blue flower. To demonstrate the utility of this craft technique, you’d use an orc or an elf or something like that. The first image above has got to be a photoshop. Here’s the original image:

[shakuras3nder]

[timaltman]

do you think the dc universe has a news site like the onion that’s just like…

“meddling parents still alive, preventing bruce wayne from adopting yet anther orphan”

[yesokayiknow]

“new study shows that 87% of all americans class superman as american citizen despite being born on a different planet, but only 49% avoided eye contact when asked about why martian manhunter doesn’t count”

“area woman thanking her lucky stars that batman and superman fell out on the same day she was due to go to boss’ niece’s bat mitzvah”

“arkham guard astonished by trip to iron heights, only now learning what locks are for”

“area man pretty sure he should be making more than $60k a year if his boss has 10 billion dollars to waste on robotic exosuit”

“breaking news: lex luthor sues superman for loss of earnings, claims that continually losing fights to him is negatively affecting his work ethic”

[littlemissonewhoisall]

“Hub City mayor declares state of unemergency after two hours without a violent crime”

“grown man who dresses in halloween costume every night thinks clown his biggest problem”

“disappointed child realizes Booster Gold at birthday party the real one, not just a guy in a costume”

“drunk Aquaman rampages through ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ ride”

[wombatking]

“new Teen Titan not attached to any Justice League member wonders why they’ve been issued a uniform with a red shirt”

“Earth totally not a tax haven, say Green Lantern Corps as they assign eighth lantern to same planet”

“’no one knows how to stop him’ says armed police officer as non-powered clown-themed supervillain begins 82nd massacre this year”

[kunfyouzed]

Clark.

Clark wrote all of these, you can’t change my mind.

Bruce is exasperated but thinks some are funny and does nothing, nothing at all to stop it, even tells the press some are close to the truth.

[draconym]

Thinking about that day another park ranger and I discovered that

1. we both used the same shampoo and

2. Suave Essentials Tropical Coconut drives honeybees absolutely bugfuck wild

[draconym]

3. He's allergic to bees

[ablessingofbumbles]

It’s likely the scent! Banana scent (Isoamyl acetate) is the same scent as the aggression pheromone bees put out when they’re angry. Never eat bananas near bees! Always check your lotion, sunscreen, etc bottles for banana scent or isoamyl acetate before going near bees

[hoovse]

So you're telling me that when bees get mad they start violently smelling like bananas?

[ablessingofbumbles]

Can confirm! In (hopefully) very rare cases, a large hive full of pissed off bees smells a lot like bananas! Usually there’s not nearly enough of them for humans to be able to smell it, though.

[arra-tech]

[bunnyqueengrace]

@cyber-flow thank you for the funniest tags I've seen all day.

[fred-erick-frankenstein]

[ID: a digital drawing of a bee with boxing gloves, fighting a sad and confused (and bruised) looking banana. The banana asks "why?" /end ID].

[ID: a screenshot of two tags, reading: you could say - you could say that they go bananas. /end ID].

[what-even-is-thiss]

When I grow up I wanna be upper middle class.

[what-even-is-thiss]

I want like… a condo. And enough money to go on vacation sometimes. And maybe a mug.

[sbpstudios]

bro look at thrift stores or garage sale for mugs

i once got a set of four cat mugs for a dollar. one of the best days of my life so far

[what-even-is-thiss]

Maybe I’m tired of going to thrift stores for mugs. Maybe I’m tired of the $5 target mugs. Maybe I want a really nice mug. Not like five hundred nice mugs. Just like… one or two would be nice. You know? Maybe I’d hang one on my wall. I think I’d like that. Owning a wall.

[i-need-glitter]

@what-even-is-thiss

Go to any streets that close for art events, you’ll find at least 1 good potter selling their wares there

I got the cup I use for my bathroom at Las Olas, Florida for their art fair a few years back, it was like $15ish but the potter had a set all in the same color combo of a bowl, 2 sized plates and 2 different mugs. I just wanted the one small cup but I’ve got the card somewhere

At the same art fair a year or two later a different potter was there selling his stuff and that’s who I got one of my tea mugs from for like again $15isb

[what-even-is-thiss]

Again, people are misunderstanding my actual desires represented by the mug.

[what-even-is-thiss]

There you go.

[i-wear-the-cheese]

Every time we go into a Big Fancy Houseware shop just to browse, I stare wistful at the mugs. “We have enough mugs” I will say. But I know I my heart that all the mugs at home are mismatched and old, or secret Santa gifts from across the years. None of them have been purchased solely for the joy of buying a fancy new mug.

[parkasaurus-rex]

Like you could even go to the clearance aisle for mugs. The change of seasons always brings new and interesting things. OR A GOODWILL TRIP? Holy shit this person is going on and on about expensive ass mugs when what you really need in life is to not fall into the trap that capitalism has inevitably laid for all of us that makes us believe wholeheartedly that the only happiness we will find in life is the ability to purchase expensive things and to own expensive things

Go green and try to re-thrift for shit that’s so trivial it takes one slip of the hand to watch it completely fall to pieces

[what-even-is-thiss]

I made this post over a year ago now and inevitably whenever it gains more traction someone will pop up completely misunderstanding me, not understanding that I’d just like to be comfortable. I don’t actually want advice on how to acquire mugs. I own a couple of mugs. I’d just like to be able to have some security. Maybe a pool. Maybe I’d like to own a small amount of property. A condo, maybe. I’d like to be able to travel. You’ll notice that nobody here is giving advice on how to acquire a condo or a vacation. They’re just taking the mug part seriously. All I wanted to do was fantasize about a world where I don’t live in a studio apartment that takes up half of my paycheck in rent alone and maybe I have a stupid white dad device mounted on the wall to showcase my mug collection. Can everyone just shut the hell up about telling me how to acquire mugs? I don’t care about the traps of consumerism! I just wanna be able to afford to visit my aunts sometimes! And so what if I do want an expensive mug? That’s my goddamn business.

[whitepeopletwitter]

[diazami]

I feel this in my soul

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

[shitpostinguniverse]

[aliciavikander]

dr otto octavius arriving to a different universe and seeing spider-man's multi million dollar worth nanosuit

[botanyshitposts]

yesterday in economic botany we were learning about plant based oil compounds and stuff and my botany professor was talking about lynn seed oil, which in woodworking is rubbed on over furniture as a varnish. this oil has an exothermic chemical reaction with oxygen, meaning that the reaction creates heat. what often happens, apparently, is that woodworkers will finish rubbing on the oil with a rag and then will ball up the rag and throw it away, but because the reaction is taking place and the heat can’t escape (like it would on a piece of furniture where it can be cooled) it gets trapped in the rag, which gets hotter and hotter until it reaches the temperature where it bursts into flame. apparently many woodworking shops have been burned down by this. the proper way to dispose of rags with this oil is to hang them up on a clothesline, so again the reaction never gets enough heat to start a fire. im telling you this because im a writer and ive never heard of substance that will just…spontaneously combust conveniently like that so long as it’s in a confined space. my botany professor tried it in a trash can in his driveway and it did indeed burst into flame after 45 minutes, which is an exceptionally convenient time delay. im sorry im tying this so fast my laptop is on 2% battery and theres no outlet an

[botanyshitposts]

LINSEED OIL ITS SPELLED LINSEED

[justpastryvideos]

x

[wickedcriminal]

[krystal-prisms]

Comments on chocolate guy’s YouTube: omg this is amazing he’s so talented!

Comments on chocolate guy videos on tumblr: it’s that fucking chocolate guy again, babe wake up it’s that fucking chocolate guy again, ma come out it’s that fucking chocolate guy again

[faustandfurious]

Whenever I read LotR and reach the battle between Eowyn and the Witch-king, I get the impression that the reason why the prophecy loophole works isn’t that the Witch-king is unkillable except for some illogical weakness nobody had thought about yet for misogynistic reasons, but that the Witch-king himself derives so much of his power from the fear he instills in others and from his own belief that he is unkillable. Eowyn doesn’t fear him, because she doesn’t fear death. When she twists his words right back at him, she’s not trying to exploit a prophecy loophole, she’s just making a play on the double meaning of the word «man» with fairly standard battlefield bravado.

But, crucially, it gets the Witch-king wondering if there might be an actual loophole in the prophecy. He starts doubting his own invincibility. There’s no logical reason why a woman might be able to kill him if a man cannot, but prophecies are tricky things. What if …

And this is what undoes him, in the end. This last minute doubt. The Witch-king, deep down, believes that Eowyn can kill him, thus making it possible for her to do so.

[faustandfurious]

The elves care about the prophecy. The Witch-king cares about the prophecy. All the old, powerful beings of Middle Earth play by the rules of prophecy and live by the logic of Norse Sagas and Germanic legends.

Eowyn marches up to the Witch-king like Jared (19), goes “that sign won’t stop me because I can’t read”, and because the storybook logic, the fairytale logic, of the prophecy allows for her kill him, the Witch-king as a creature of stories and nightmares has to play by his own rules and die by her sword.

[faustandfurious]

As people have pointed out before, the phrasing of Glorfindel’s words about the Witch-king allow for quite a number of the inhabitants of Middle Earth to kill him, if we’re only looking for possible loopholes in the prophecy.

not by the hand of man shall he fall

According to this, the Witch-king could technically be killed by elves, dwarves, ents, hobbits, orcs or maiar. Why doesn’t Legolas kill the Witch-king? Why doesn’t Gandalf?

As mentioned, elves are very aware of the story logic that governs Middle Earth. They see their own place in the narrative, they know which foes are beyond them. Gandalf, too, knows that he cannot be the one to kill the Witch-king, and the Witch-king knows that Gandalf cannot kill him. Through their combined beliefs, the outcome of their fight is predetermined.

Eowyn doesn’t know what she can or cannot do according to story logic. The Witch-king has killed her Theoden. She sees no reason why she shouldn’t avenge him. And when she hears the Witch-king tell her that no man can kill him, she simply decides that that rule doesn’t apply to her.

Eowyn isn’t the only person who could have been the exception to the rule, but she is the first person who decides to genuinely, honestly believe that she is the exception to the rule, and this is why she ultimately kills the Witch-king.

[mctreeleth]

[iclosed]

reminds me of this post in here that explained the differences of the west and east's idea of revolution and how the usa especially has undermined a lot the ability of their people to unionize and fight oppressive structures through its mainstream media cuz it brainwashes them into putting the individual fight on the pedestal. the superhero's archetype.

[catadromously]

séance

[miseducatedmelanicmuse]

[lmaonade]

awake i’m awake. i’m god damn awake i’m Up. i’m not asleep i’m awake and here or whatever you call it. i’m here. fuck

[unpretty]

matches mallone is actually bruce wayne’s best columbo impression. that’s why they call him matches. he’s always looking for a fucking match.

[unpretty]

Dick Grayson’s instructions had been: wear something scruffy; bring the old Pontiac; drive to the Coney Island Diner and follow Bruce’s lead.

As a rule, Bruce didn’t let Dick drive if he could help it. Dick thought he was a pretty good driver for a sixteen year-old, but that wasn’t good enough for Bruce. Alien invasions and sea monsters and cities wired to explode, those were fine, but God help him if Dick went a little too fast around a turn.

The Pontiac was one of Bruce’s shittier cars. The paint was worn and rusted and in some places the metal had holes right through it. It coughed and sputtered and kicked, and at anything faster than sixty it shook like a leaf that had just seen a ghost.

Dick still kind of loved it. All those things just added to the aesthetic, added character. Made it feel like a project car, like he was the kind of guy who’d spend time out in the garage fixing it up. He might, too, if Bruce would let him. But Bruce didn’t need more restored cars; he needed cars at varying levels of garbage, paid for in cash with doctored plates.

He pulled up to the diner, all old chrome and blinking neon lights. There was a small crowd gathered in the parking lot next to cars in only slightly better shape than the Pontiac. Dick rolled the window down as he slowed to a stop.

“There he is!”

Dick didn’t recognize Bruce until Bruce pointed at him. He was slouching, and it made him look smaller than he really was, shorter and narrower. He was wearing jeans that didn’t quite fit right, holes in the knees. A threadbare turtleneck the color of pea soup, a suede jacket with small holes and scorchmarks from cinders fallen astray. His hair was a mess, his right eye was in a perpetual squint, and he was pointing with an unlit cigar.

“There he is,” Bruce said again, with a voice Dick didn’t recognize but found oddly familiar. Didn’t sound exactly like dairy-ish, but it was about halfway there. “That’s my nephew, right there,” Bruce said to the bald man beside him with the scar over his eye.

“That’s your famous nephew, eh?” he asked, nudging Bruce with his elbow. “The football player.”

“No, no,” Bruce said, waving him off. “You’re thinking of my niece.”

“So dis here’s da nephew wit’ da tuba,” said a man in a tattered baseball cap and denim jacket.

“No, no, different nephew.”

“You got too many nephews,” complained a man with a large gold hoop in one ear. “How d'you keep ‘em all straight?”

“Well, for one thing,” Bruce said, “they’re not all straight.” A roar of laughter went up. “What’d I say that was funny.”

“Your uncle’s a riot, kid,” called the man with the scar toward Dick.

“Yeah, he’s great,” Dick called back, still not getting out of the car. He was trying not to grin too much at Bruce.

“Sweet kid, isn’t he?” Bruce said. “Lookit that car, he bought that car himself, yanno.”

“It’s a good car,” said a man wearing a Journey t-shirt with no sleeves. “You oughta be real proud of that car, kid.”

“I am,” Dick said, tapping on the door with his knuckles.

“You want some help gettin’ that thing fixed up, you come on down to Goodman’s,” he said, pointing to himself.

“Gee, Mickey, you don’t have to do that,” Bruce said, sheepish.

“Don’t you listen to him,” Mickey said to Dick. “I’ve known this guy almost ten years, never let me do a damn thing for him, at this point I’ll take any Malone I can get.”

The man with the scar laughed and tousled Bruce’s hair. Dick was grinning ear-to-ear. “That’s real nice of you, Mr. Goodman,” Dick said.

“That’s Mickey to you!”

“He’s a real sweet kid,” Bruce said again, “real respectful.” Bruce started patting down his pockets with a frown. “Say, I don’t suppose—”

“Yeah, I’ve got a match,” said three different men at once. They all laughed as Bruce scratched sheepishly at the back of his head. The man in the denim jacket gave Bruce a zippo; Bruce lit up his cigar, and started to put the lighter in his pocket before he was stopped.

“Ain’t havin’ ya lose annudda one o’ my lighters, Matches.”

“Aw, you know me, Bobby,” Bruce said, puffing on his cigar. “I’m just forgetful’s all.”

“Yeah, yeah, we know all about it.”

“I oughta get goin’, my wife’s expectin’ me for dinner.”

“When do we get to meet her, eh?” asked the man with the scar.

“I’m tryin’, Joey, I’m tryin’. She’s got a busy schedule, you know, with her work and the clubs and all that volunteerin’ she likes to do. Did I tell you about her book club?”

“Only about a hundred times. Get goin’, now, before you forget you’re leavin’ again.”

“Geeze, I’m sorry, you know how it is, I get to talkin’ and I just—”

“Yeah, we know.”

“You call my cousin, now,” Bruce said, pointing at Joey with his cigar. “You remember the number?”

“You wrote it down for me,” Joey reminded him.

“Right, right. Don’t lose it. You call him first thing tomorrow mornin’, he’ll get you the job.”

“Don’t you be getting my hopes up, Malone.”

“C'mon, now, would I do that? When’ve I ever let you down?” Bruce opened the passenger door to the Pontiac, cigar held in his teeth; Dick wrinkled his nose at the smell.

“See you in a couple months, Matches,” Mickey called after him.

“Stay away from the Tequila,” someone else shouted, and everyone laughed at a joke Dick was not privy to.

Within the first block, Bruce was rubbing at his eyes like he had a headache. They made it two blocks before Bruce put out the cigar, and another one before Dick asked.

“Okay, Bruce: what the hell.”

“The evidence we need was hidden in a shipment of clothing catalogs,” Bruce said, his voice back to normal. “It was loaded onto a cargo ship called the Virginia Blackbird, it will be leaving for Australia tomorrow morning.” The car smelled like cheap beer and cigar smoke and onions.

“That was not what I was asking.”

“Was it not?”

“Why were you just doing a Columbo impression?” Dick almost wouldn’t have recognized it. Before his time, but after the era of black and white that Dick made a hobby. He only knew it at all because Bruce sometimes left the television on for background noise, and his preferred television shows had a general theme that was easy to identify.

Columbo. Diagnosis: Murder. Murder, She Wrote. That Sherlock Holmes show from before Dick was born. Anything based on something written by Agatha Christie. He insisted it was because anything newer would be distracting, but Dick was pretty sure he was actually just a secret grandma. He even kept hard candies around the house.

Bruce sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“Were you pretending to have a glass eye? How would that even work?”

“It’s not hard,” Bruce said with a shrug. “Just squint and don’t let that eye move.” To demonstrate, Bruce rolled his eye. His left eye. Just his left eye.

“Augh!”

“What.”

“Don’t do that!” Dick said, torn between staring at his guardian in horror and watching the road.

“What, this?” Bruce’s left eye pointed left while his right eye remained still.

“Augh! No, stop, that’s horrifying. How are you even doing that?”

Bruce blinked, getting his eyes back together where they belonged. “Can you not do that.”

“No one can do that! Except chameleons.”

“Huh. Slow down.”

“I’m five miles under the speed limit. Explain the Columbo thing.”

Bruce rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “It was an accident.”

“How do you do that by accident?”

“It’s a long story.”

“The way you’re making me drive, it’s going to take five hours to get home anyway,” Dick said. Bruce did not respond. “You’ve been doing that for ten years? I thought Batman started six years ago.”

“It did. He said almost ten years. I was nineteen.”

“You started going undercover as Columbo when you were nineteen?”

“It was an accident.”

“You keep saying that like it explains anything,” Dick huffed. “You’re the worst at telling stories, you know that?”

“I’m not telling a story, I’m answering questions. You’re bad at cross-examining.”

“Don’t try to make it my fault that you suck at this.”

“I was home from Yale over winter break,” Bruce sighed. “Missing person case. Someone I knew. Police weren’t taking it seriously, so I thought I’d be clever.” Bruce reached over and set a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “I did find her.”

“What?”

“I found her. You looked worried. I thought I should let you know.”

“So you told me the ending? You do suck at this.”

“Use your turn signal.”

“There’s no one else on the road.”

“There’s a saying about a man’s character and what he does when no one else is looking.”

“I always thought that was a saying about why you shouldn’t touch yourself.”

“That’s because you’re sixteen.”

“You were investigating a missing person?” Dick prompted.

“Yeah.” Bruce ran a hand through his hair. “I was down at the docks poking my nose into someone else’s business when Joey found me. I already had the cigar, so I just… said I was looking for a match.”

“Why did you have a cigar?”

“I felt bad throwing it out. It was a gift.”

“From who?”

“Old man with a fruit cart.”

“Why did he give you a cigar?”

“Congratulations for the baby.”

“See, this is what I mean,” Dick said, huffing with frustration again. “You’re the worst at telling stories.”

“I don’t hear anyone else complaining.”

“That’s because they’re scared of you,” Dick scoffed. “No one wants to ask a follow-up question. ‘Hey Batman, why are you being trailed by a spectral alligator?’ ‘Well I couldn’t leave it in the hot air balloon.’” Dick’s impression of Batman involved lowering his voice as far as it would go and puffing out his chest, brow furrowed. “No one knows what the hell you’re talking about and no one ever wants to admit it.”

“That’s their problem, not mine.”

“We both know you do it on purpose.” Bruce didn’t respond to that. “Forget the cigar. An accident only explains it the first time.”

“Joey’s a nice guy,” Bruce said. Dick laughed. “He is. He really liked me, I don’t know. Introduced me to his friends, took me out drinking — God, so much drinking.”

“Matches?”

“I just said Malone. Just call me Malone. The Matches thing, that was all them. Because I kept…” Bruce gestured vaguely.

“Asking for matches?”

“Yeah.”

“And you haven’t run into a single person who watched Columbo?”

“A couple. I tell them I don’t like to watch TV because I’m paranoid about subliminal messaging.” Dick laughed again. “They think it’s a coincidence, I don’t know. After that first case I wasn’t planning to do it again — obviously — but then every time I was back on break it seemed like I’d be running into someone. Hey Matches, Matches where ya been, wait’ll ya hear this Matches, Matches you’ll never guess what Bobby did…”

“And now you’re getting Joey a job?” Dick teased.

“He’s a nice guy, Joey, he’s got two kids — three now, he adopted his wife’s son—”

“You’re doing the Matches voice again.”

Bruce cleared his throat. “Right. Anyway. He’s good with heavy machinery, we’ve always got openings in warehouses. Did you just run a red light.”

“It was yellow.”

“Yellow means stop.”

“Yellow means if you go fast enough you can beat it.”

“Richard,” Bruce warned.

“Matches,” Dick shot back.

“This is why I don’t let you drive the Batmobile.” Despite his complaints, Bruce yawned, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat.

“I once saw you go one-sixty down a sidewalk,” Dick said, slowing down and being careful that his driving wouldn’t jostle him.

Bruce yawned again, closing his eyes. “There are no red lights on sidewalks.”

“I feel like these aren’t the lessons you’re supposed to be teaching an impressionable teenager.”

“You want a lesson? Here’s an important life lesson: never pick a cover story you’re not willing to be stuck with for the rest of your goddamn life.”

Matches - AO3

[praise-the-lord-im-dead]

@bahu-benny