Near as I can figure, the Republican field looks like this: Romney has no platform, Gingrich has no sanity, Santorum has no brain, and Paul has no following. Is that about right?
please watch this and don’t click “like”, click “reblog”.
I had to pause this a couple times to cry for 5 minutes. You need to watch this. It’s beyond important.
as much as i may make fun of tumblr, if this site has shown me anything its that people know how to spread the word effectively
so reblog if you can, dudes
Gave me a strong case of the “Paladin Rage”.
But no, in all seriousness, this is important.
This is important viewing for everybody. Many of us focus primarily on what goes on in our personal sphere and forget there are serious problems in the world that just aren’t talked about every day. Guilty as charged, here. At the very least, it’s good for our worldliness and sense of humanity to take a moment and educate ourselves once in a while. This is a very worthy moment for a very worthy cause.
I’m putting this on my primary blog rather than my personal blog, not only because I feel it is an important cause, but because I would like to appeal to the Homestuck community. We’ll be celebrating global friendship on the comic’s third anniversary this April, the same month the Kony 2012 campaign culminates its awareness efforts. We come together all the time to help our fandom family, the children and family of acquaintances, and teenagers we don’t even know who are struggling with their sense of self-worth. With our numbers and compassion, I think we can contribute a lot to a movement like this.
Take a few minutes to watch the video. It’s well-made, informative, and non-confrontational. Check out the website for more information if you’re interested in getting involved, but you can actively help just by reblogging and spreading the word.Thanks for watching <3
Here’s a well done video piece that’s been getting some attention today around the web. It’s worth watching.
Consider reblogging if you have not already.
I know I don’t have a lot of followers, but guys, if you haven’t watched and reblogged this already, please do. Get the word out, Tumblrites. Let’s do this.
16,655 notes (via mspandrew & steveagee)
A little something something I wrote for the school paper. Tell me what you think (or don’t, no pressure).
I brush my teeth. A menthol-laced foam accumulates amongst masses of soft tissue and hard enamel. Plastic bristles shuffle to and fro, sweeping aside particles, chemicals, and organisms, among other things. I brush a sensitive patch of gum too hard, and my spit comes out tinged with pink. Someone dies from exposure to industrial wastes. I look out the bathroom window. It feels like something is coming.
I sit in early morning traffic. The heater hums quietly, sapping heat from the cooling system to keep me comfortable. A cheerful stream of inoffensive music pours forth from the speakers. Somewhere far ahead, the flow of electricity changes, and the light turns green. My compatriots and I inch forward. An ancient mass of ice larger than an office building slides into the ocean. I gaze through the windshield. It feels like something is coming.
I take my seat in class. Markers in numerous colors glide over a white plastic plane, articulating the finer points of some obscure subject. A cell phone buzzes, heralding the arrival of a message from some far-off place. Lengths of carbon and ink-soaked spheres of metal sweep across sheets of wood pulp, duplicating the characters projected onto the screen. There is nothing left to keep the medicine cool—many will perish today. I tug the blinds aside for a moment. It feels like something is coming.
I fill my tray up with products of grass and tree, mammal and reptile. Delicate arms of steam beckon from under the heating lamps like the pale, experienced fingers of an exotic courtesan. Speech without cessation shoves the molecules of air in every direction; slight changes in atmospheric gas concentrations will be the only long-term effect rendered by the dialogue. I lift a forkful of some plant I have never seen alive. An organ whose name and function he will never know fails; he won’t survive the night. I glance through the large panes of glass. It feels like something is coming.
I slip under the sheets, sinking into the cushioned surface with a sigh. Switching off the light, I am immersed in darkness, that primordial force which came before and shall return after. Thoughts of oblivion and purpose, meaning and hope, weakness and failure flit through my head like fish in a pond. Beneath me, the world turns ever onward, taking me further and further from the nuclear fusion furnace that makes it all possible. They plot the downfall of their government—they know not what they will do after it happens, only that it must happen. I stare between the flimsy blinds. It feels like something is coming.
I have a simple question, Tumblrites: are most people really put-off by expressions of sociopathy and misanthropy? I ask because I’m occasionally consumed by a deep sense of anger and disappointment towards humanity as a whole, and myself in particular. I assumed everyone feels this way, but every time I express these feelings, people around me act troubled and disturbed. What’s the deal?
Also, is it true that most people can’t understand the motivation behind suicide? I’ve contemplated the possibility once or twice, but most people seem utterly mystified by the notion of self-harm and -destruction.
With the rising religious fervor, increased presence of the police and military, contempt towards politicians, and mistrust of those who are different, the United States is starting to look an awful lot like the image of Iran painted by the movie Persepolis. We have seen the enemy and he is us?
At home, on the couch, when I’m comfy and cozy-2%
At home, at 2 AM on a school night-18%
At home, when I have to be at work in like half an hour-30%
At work, in class, visiting family, or literally any other time when I don’t have access to my laptop-50%
DAMMIT MUSE, YOU FICKLE BITCH.
No explanation. Just gonna post it.
*
Harold flipped the sizzling patty, and most of the Netherlands slid into the sea. “How’s the headache?”
Nigel massaged his forehead. “Better. The cognitive interference isn’t nearly as bad now.”
“That’s good.” The ground beef settled out a little as the ice caps turned to slush. “How’re the wife and kids?”
“Gone by now, probably. But they were doing well, last I checked. Cheryl had just gotten a new dress.”
“Ah. Well, they might still be around:North America doesn’t go until I get the pickle.” Harold slid the hissing meat off the range and onto a lightly toasted wheat bun; no sooner had cow met grain than every nuclear missile and power plant on Earth suffered catastrophic meltdowns.
“Ah,” Nigel sighed, easing back into his chair and taking a sip of cola. “That’s much better.” He could feel originality and honesty flowing through every neuron.
Harold mutely laid hand-sliced cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes on the steaming patty, and the lakes, rivers, and oceans evaporated in an instant, coating the planet in a dense layer of scalding steam. Nigel glanced out the window as Harold poured out some ketchup and mustard, smiling himself as the cars rapidly piled up, their owners stumbling out into a hazy white oblivion; he hadn’t felt this good in years.
The top half of the bun plopped into place just as the first volley of meteors fell.
A serrated knife slid smoothly through the expertly crafted burger, touching the plate a few milliseconds before every volcano and fault line on the planet tore itself apart, exposing the Earth’s hot, molten flesh.
The sun exploded and blew away the atmosphere as two toothpicks slid into place, holding the masterpiece together.
Nigel admired the sight of the ground slipping away into oblivion as Harold fished out a dill pickle spear, placed it on the plate, and slid the whole thing across the counter.
“Smells amazing.”
“Wait until you taste it.” Harold began putting away his supplies, then idly remarked, “That’ll be five ninety-five, by the way.”
Nigel ran his hands over his pants, then leaned on the counter, chuckling a little. “Well, this is awkward.”
“Hm?”
“I left my wallet out in my car.”
Harold glanced at the starry nothingness beyond the glass doors, shrugged, and picked up the burger. “Your loss.” He took a bite.
And every star in the universe exploded.
“Hey there, little lady.”
“Hey! How you been?”
“Eh, been better. You?”
“First time in my life I’ve gotten front row seats to something. This great big theater, and I got it all to my self. Well, had.”
“About that: what are you doing hanging around the zero point?”
“What’s the point in running? Everyone goes eventually. Might as well make a spectacle of it. Beats dying one cell at a time on some hospital bed like my granddad did.”
“I suppose. But didn’t the government say there were some safe houses on the far side of the planet? Might’ve been room for you.”
“You honestly believe that load of crap? That’s just politicians being politicians. Got to keep the masses compliant to their dying breaths, y’know? Hope for a better tomorrow, rebuild, repopulate, keep the torch of society burning, all that hokey jazz. Besides, if anyone does survive this, I’ll just slow them down. It’s better this way. I feel like I’m finally doing my duty to the world.”
“If you say so.”
“What about you? You could’ve gone.”
“Well, the whole thing promises to be a real spectacle, and if I’m only going to get one chance to see it, and I’m likely to die either way, well, I might as well get up-close and personal with it. Anyways, I’ve never really feared death. It’s just one more adventure.”
“Amen to that.”
“So. No regrets?”
“Just wish I’d told my mother I hate her one more time before I left. You?”
“Well, I never got the chance to try black truffles. Or foie gras, for that matter.”
“Amazing.”
“What?”
“The world’s about to end—Armageddon is about to literally rain down on us from on high—and you’re thinking about food?”
“What can I say? I’m a guy, right down to the bitter end.”
“Hey…was that?”
“Yeah. Yeah! Quick, got any last words?”
“Here’s a few: hey! You! If you’re gonna leave some alive, at least kill all the dumb ones!”
“And make it quick, I told Saint Peter to save me a seat on the next bus!”
“Heh. Oh…oh wow. It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah. It really is.”
“Think it’ll hurt?”
“Maybe. But not for long.”
“It’s so hot, and bright. Feels…kinda like home.”
“Yeah. It really do—”
A pseudo-successor to my wildly popular (for reasons I’ll never fathom) story “Hambone Rocket.” It takes place in the same universe, but it’s significantly less outright bizarre. Hope you like it!
*
“How long has this piece of shit been open, Stan?”
The man checked some figures on his AbsoTech™ Auto-Updating Dynamic Digital Clipboard Information Storage, Organization, and Access Device©, flipping between several mildly radioactive plasma sheets. “About an hour and twenty-two minutes. Current rate of output is three objects per second, down from forty-two and a half per second when it first appeared.”
Wanda brought what looked like a purple metal cigar to her lips, inhaled with a sound like an RC car revving up, and exhaled a stream of bright blue smoke filled with motes of silver light. “Jesus piss-blasting Christ. It’s got to be the work of that fuck-munching witch and her ass-grabbing broomstick Tito.”
“What makes you say that, ma’am?”
“Who the fuck-fucking fuck else would lead the Chimera Squad out to Boxbeetle Canyon, then open a portal to a planet made of teddy bears and bury the lot of them under fifty assloads of cotton and fluff?”
“A valid point, ma’am.”
Wanda strode over to a staircase and descended two steps at a time, her clipboard-toting assistant hustling after. “Where in the gnome-shitting hell is the Interdimensional Anomaly Containment and Disposal Task Force Platoon? Don’t they have a division on this skull-fucking shit stain of a planet?”
“Yes, ma’am, but they’re all currently occupied: eight of them are rounding up a flock of non-Euclidean seagulls that have been stealing tourist’s sanity, six of them are negotiating a hostage situation involving a sapient bowl of butterscotch pudding, three of them are contending with a convection oven whose interior occasionally becomes a wormhole connected to the heart of a red giant star, and one of them is trying to get an Eldritch abomination to move his car out of a handicapped space.”
Wanda huffed out another cloud of smoke, continuing on toward a small wooden building that stood a short way from the precipitous drop into the canyon. “Typical, just fucking typical. I’m staring at a goddamn portal to another dimension that’s spewing a waterfall of mother-fucking teddy bears, and the people whose job it is to deal with portals to other fucking dimensions are playing at being animal control, handymen, and traffic cops. Why am I not horse-cocking surprised?” She threw the door open and crossed to a counter that ran along the far side of the room, the short heels on her shoes going clomp clomp clomp on the floorboards.
The eight-foot-tall anteater-man behind the counter flicked his sticky tongue in and out of a bag of roasted termites, crunching each spicy mouthful for a few seconds before lapping up another dozen or so. He paused in his snacking long enough to say, “Any luck with the portal?” chuckling a bit as he did. He had a thick Socari accent, and the word “portal” came out “pah-tul.”
“Stick it up your phallic nose, you shit-spewing son of an ass-herder. The interdimensional cleanup crew will get here when they get here, and in the meantime there’s not a whole dick-shitting lot I can do about the situation.”
“No need for vulgar language, I’s just asking.”
“I fucking know that, shit-kicker. But the same witch who called up this portal put a whore-cocking curse on me that forces me to swear at least once per sentence, and even that’s tit-fiddling hard.”
“Witch?”
“Don’t act like you didn’t see the little cunt-busting fart-swallower.”
Stan peeled a plasma sheet off the clipboard and held it up for the man to see. It contained a picture of a woman with dark skin, light hair, an orange robe, a tall hat made of cheese, a belt made from a banner from some festival, and a clamshell bra that she wore on the outside. “She goes by numerous fake names, including Dorothy Pigskinner, Maryanne von Douchenheimer, Agent Five-Four-Three-Eight-Point-Two-Two-Zero, and Jennifer. We’ve been referring to her primarily as ‘The Witch,’ ‘Interplanetary Level Twelve Criminal Threat Number Eighty-Two,’ and ‘That One Bitch Whore with that Motherfucking Broom.’”
“That last one’s only for use around the damn-fucking office and in meetings, Stan.”
“Sorry.” He suddenly perked up and pulled out his phone, a sleek, black, featureless ellipsoid that was covered in colorful stickers of cartoon kittens.
“Got any idea when this mess’ll be cleaned up?” The anteater idly slurped up a single termite encrusted in orange powder as he eyed up the steady trickle of teddies.
“Could be a few goddamned hours, could be a fucking week or so.” Wanda shrugged and took a puff off the metal cigar. “The Task Force Platoon is about as consistent as a golgophant’s shit-bursting bowel movements, and an even bigger pain in the ass. But they’re the only ones with the right tit-whoring equipment, so we’re kind of stuck hurrying up and waiting for their sorry asses.”
“It’s not like I really care. If anything, the teddy bear falls of Boxbeetle Canyon could become my new biggest attraction. Plus, as long as it’s there, I can stock the gift shop for real cheap!”
“Gift shitting shop?” The anteater pointed to a display stand that took up one whole wall of the building, shelves filled with perfectly identical brown bodies eight deep. Wanda walked over to the stand and snatched up a single bear. “You can’t fucking sell these!”
“What? Why not?”
“They’re mother-arseing evidence! The moment something comes through a portal to another piss-cunting dimension, it’s government property!”
“You’re saying my business, which is all about interesting sights and events in this here canyon, isn’t allowed to turn a profit on what is probably the mostinteresting thing to ever happen here?”
“You can mention it on tours, but if we let private individuals lay claim to every prostate-hugging thing that popped out of a shit-munching portal, we run the risk of some kid getting eaten by a lycanthropic soccer ball or some shit!”
“Good news, guys!” Stan tucked the kitten-coated phone back in his pocket. “Agents Winston, Howard, and Gabraspartax are on their way! They should be here in about half an hour, they said.”
“Well, there you butt-fucking have it, then. Issue cock-blocking resolved. Now, if you’ll excuse us, the scrotum-screwing agents will be here shortly to deal with the incident, as well as collect any fuck-ducking evidence related to it.”
The anteater slurped up a large mouthful of termites and chewed them furiously. “Fine, yeah, sure, whatever. Do what you have to do, and all that.” Another half-cup of insects disappeared into his narrow maw, and he grumbled, “Government types.”
Wanda clomped her way across the store, flung the creaky old door aside, and found herself face-to-face with That One Bitch Whore with the Motherfucking Broom.
“Shit-shitting shit shitters!” Wanda stumbled back into Stan, who fell heavily onto the pocket that held his phone. Said phone emitted a sad mewling noise, and he scrambled to check on it while Wanda drew her hadron decaying radiation gun, a late Christmas gift from her very kind ex-husband. “Stay where you fucking are, you cock-whoring testicle chewer!”
The witch drew her wand, apparently unperturbed by the idea of having the majority of her body reduced to a cloud of quarks, waved the length of pasta about and said, “Fix!”
Wanda looked puzzled for a moment, touched her throat, opened her mouth, and said, “Piss?”
The witch winced. “Oops.”
Wanda reddened, brought up her ray gun, and began firing wildly. Fortunately, Tito the broomstick was present and relatively sober, and whisked the witch away before she was disintegrated. “Cunt-fucking ass whore! Goddamn shit cock tit bitch!”
“Sorry!” The witch waved cheerily as Tito’s hyperdrive charged up, and then, with a sound like ten thousand drunkards belching in unison, she was gone.
Wanda stood there shouting profanities at the empty sky until she was thoroughly winded, at which point she and Stan hopped into their superluminal interstellar transportation device (known colloquially as a car) and headed back to their headquarters on Magellan IV to file their formal report. Shortly thereafter, around one hundred and twelve identical teddy bears found their way into a secluded root cellar, just in time for the owner of the Boxbeetle Canyon Tours Company to greet three members of the Interdimensional Anomaly Containment and Disposal Task Force Platoon.
Good day, Tumblrites! In honor of the start of a new year, I wrote a story about starting over. Hope you like it!
*
Colin struck the match smartly against the rough strip, and a tiny ball of light hissed into existence in a puff of sulfur. He cupped his hand over the flickering teardrop of heat and held it to the end of a cigarette, puffing a few times, inviting the flame into a new home. Once the fire had gotten settled in amongst the paper and tobacco, he waved the match through the warm night air and carefully set the half-burnt stick on the metal railing of his back porch.
A gentle breeze tugged at the stream of smoke that slipped from between Colin’s lips, and he watched it sail away, twisting and winding and fading into nothing, until he was alone once more with the endless fields of grass, the silent dome of starry sky, and the little town at his back.
Except he wasn’t alone.
“What’re you doing out here, city slicker?” The half-resolved shape of a man dressed all in black emerged from the darkness of the field, crushing stalks of dead prairie grass underfoot. “Never figured you for the grasslands type. Thought you liked the energy, the life,” he smiled, pure white teeth glowing in the dark, “the heat.”
Colin steadied himself with a long pull from the cancer stick before addressing his companion. “Doctor said it might do me some good to get away from all that. Settle down some. Simplify.”
The man glanced left, then right, then settled his luminous eyes back on Colin. “Well, it don’t get much simpler than this, I guess. But what are you hoping to accomplish here, exactly?”
“I’m starting over. Turning over a new leaf. Getting away from…”
“From what? From your job? From me?” A low, rough chuckle rolled through the autumn air. “And yet you tempt fate with that.”
Colin examined the lit cigarette, its end glowing a dim orange, and shrugged. “You know what they say about old habits.”
“Yeah, I do.” The wind picked up again, and the man turned his face into it, eyes closed in a contented expression. The breeze picked at his coat, exposing a red jacket and, beneath that, a yellow shirt. “It’d be a good night for it. Warm and dry, not too much wind, and not a cloud in sight. Beg pardon?”
“I said ‘You’re not real’.”
*
The man fixed his ash-gray eyes on Colin once more. “Says who?”
“Says the doctor.”
“And you believe him?”
“…”
“I’m as real as I need to be, get it?”
“They said it was just a visual and auditory hallucination—”
“I gave you a job.”
“—combined with an existing case of pyromania—”
“I gave you a purpose.”
“—that fed on natural sadistic and destructive tendencies stemming from—”
Fingers dug into Colin’s arms, lines of heat as hard as iron, and his world narrowed to two circles of gray and black, sun-blocking ash clouds writ small and made flesh. “You are free when I am free! You will suffer as long as I suffer! And no matter how far you run or how many times you ‘start over’, you will never escape who you are!”
Colin crushed the cigarette into the cool metal railing, and the man vanished into the night, twisting and winding and fading into nothing.
Colin sat on a wooden step and tried to collect himself, but his mind was in pieces. The night air suddenly seemed too cold, too damp, and too empty. He stood, paced about, shoved his hands into his pockets…and pulled out a box of matches.
Colin walked through the field with purpose, the heat at his back seeming to drive him forward. He afforded the town one final backward glance, then turned and continued on his way, muttering, “Maybe the next one.”
