words of power do exist…. i can walk out of my apartment wearing the most fuck shit, e.g. swim trunks as shorts w a zipped up hoodie and no shirt underneath, and just say the words “laundry day” and suddenly it’s way less weird
“laundry day” spell: decreases target’s judgment of outfit by 80%
I picked up a banana print shirt in Vietnam - were talkin LOUD - and the first time someone commented on it I said “It’s banana shirt friday” which stunlocked them and blocked any followup questions.
Turns out that saying “it’s banana shirt friday” enough actually created a holiday at my office where everyone would wear fruit print clothes on fridays! So yes, words of power exist. :)
@cryptotheism relevant to your interests
Spell of Banana Shirt Friday
future archaeologist: these people must have done this for ritual purposes
the ritual in question: banana shirt friday
found the artist's name in the notes and went looking because this slaps (it's called A Place Where I'll Dance) and its not even their best song. check this shit out:
Oh this slaps actually
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ALTYou love to see it. (Not the destruction of trees, obvs, but shitheads meeting their oncoming comeuppance at the hands of trees.)
Okay, as someone with their doctorate in plant health (specifically trees and landscape plants), I'm frothing at the mouth livid.
Pollarding is a type of pruning done where you remove the upper branches of a tree with the intent of forcing it to grow more branches. Historically, it was used to produce fodder for livestock and wood for fencing, crafting, etc. but now is more of an aesthetic choice - it creates dense shade and reduces the risk of heavy branches becoming safety concerns later.
However, that pruning is something that occurs in January - March, when the tree is dormant. Not in the peak of summer, when there's a heat wave expected. By doing it during dormancy, the tree has already stored all of the nutrients and sugars the leaves held in the roots and trunk, ready for use in spring.
By pruning these trees now, they've severely damaged them, if not outright sentenced them to death. Leaves provide a tremendous amount of shade to the trunk, actively cool the area through respiration (pulling water through the tree and into the air around it), and provide sugars and nutrients necessary for growth through photosynthesis. These trees now have to work overtime to compensate and re-grow and entire canopy of leaves with reduced resources.
These trees are in what are sometimes affectionately known as "hell strips" - there's a concrete sidewalk on one side, asphalt on the other, and they get hot. Not just upwardly hot, but they heat the soil underneath them as well. The root zone of these trees don't get a lot of water to begin with (concrete and asphalt don't let water in well) and it doesn't seem like there's a lot of soil around the tree to begin with.
Trees in hell strips already have the heat and restricted root zones working against them - you can't have healthy trees if you don't have room for roots. Now these have to compensate and draw resources to push out new growth.
In addition, all of those pruning cuts are open wounds - places where infections and insects can enter into the tree. Usually mature trees can manage minor infections or infestations with no issue. But these trees are now extra susceptible because their immune response is weakened - all the extra energy available is going to new growth, not fighting off infections.
So there's a bunch of factors here that have put these trees at a disadvantage: the removal of most photosynthetic plant material, an increase in surrounding temperature, a restricted root zone, the potential for increased infection, and a heat wave expected in the next week. These trees are going to struggle the rest of their lives because of the decision to prune these trees like this now - all over a desire to break a strike so the studios don't have to pay their actors and writers and editors fairly.
I hope they get the book thrown at them with tree law. And then some.
i desperately need like a canopy bed or a tent bed or an in-wall bed or something i need to be tucked in i need to be protected from the elements i need to be in a little hole in a den in a nest im just a prey animal trying to get by
do you get it or do you not know anything
call out post now
really funny that every website is in an arms race to make itself as bad as possible and immediately someone makes a firefox extension to fix it
“average person eats 3 spiders a year” factoid actualy just statistical error. average person eats 0 spiders per year. Spiders Georg, who lives in cave & eats over 10,000 each day, is an outlier adn should not have been counted
An actual World Heritage Post
how does this post not have a million notes but anyone online can quote it
one week until ten years of Spiders Georg
happy Thursday the 20th
I’d have to wait months or even years for another chance to reblog this, so why the fuck not?
next days you can reblog this on a Thursday the 20th
August 2015
October 2016
April 2017
July 2017
September 2018
December 2018
June 2019
February 2020
August 2020
You know, just in case you wanted to set your queue for the next 6 years
TODAY
Since it’s now August 20, 2020… The next days you can reblog this on a Thursday the 20th:
If you wanted to set your queue for the next six years.
I gotta take my chances
after inputting some complex algorithms into my super computer i’ve determined what tumblr will look like in the year 2020
i love how this comes back after every shitty update staff makes
At first Netflix said, come write for us. We’ll save your cancelled shows and write about whatever niche story you want. Our algorithm says people will watch it!
Then a few years later they said, regardless of our promises or contract obligations we are cancelling shows after two seasons without telling anyone. Turns out no matter how loved a show is, we get less subscriptions after the second season.
How many subscriptions did we bring you? Netflix won’t say.
So writers started writing two season shows. Just give us two seasons, Netflix. Like you promised.
Then Netflix said, oops sorry! Turns out your show didn’t premiere at #1 and the views in the first day weren’t what we wanted so we’re cancelling your second season.
What were the numbers? How many people watched our show? Netflix doesn’t say.
Then, they did something extra special. They started taking shows and splitting their first season into two halves. Inside Job was not two seasons. It was one season split in half.
Oops! Sorry! The second half of your first season didn’t do as well as the first half, so now your show is cancelled!
Why? How many people? How much money? These companies are making cash hand over fist and they refuse to tell people the truth: people loved your show. Loved it. But some corpo exec wanted an infinite money making machine. Do you know how long shows are in production for before you watch them? Years. Like, 5+, even 10+ years. And Netflix gives it less than a week before they decide whether you’re getting cancelled.
Support #WGA Support #SAGAFTRA
Last week I accidentally took an edible at 10x my usual dose. I say “accidentally” but it was really more of a “my friend held it out to my face and I impulsively swallowed it like a python”, which was technically on purpose but still an accident in that my squamate instincts acted faster than my ability to assess the situation and ask myself if I really wanted to get Atreides high or not.
Anyway. I was painting the wall when it hit. My friend heard me make a noise and asked what was wrong—I explained that I had just fallen through several portals. I realized that painting the wall fulfilled my entire hierarchy of needs, and was absolutely sure that I was on track to escaping the cycle of samsara if I just kept at it a little longer. I was thwarted on my journey towards nirvana only by the fact that I ran out of paint.
Seeking a surrogate act of humble service through which I might be redeemed and made human, I turned to unwashed dishes in the sink and took up the holy weapon of the sponge. I was partway through cleaning the blender when it REALLY hit.
You ever clean a blender? It’s a shockingly intimate act. They are complex tools. One of the most complicated denizens of the kitchen. Glass and steel and rubber and plastic. Fuck! They’ve got gaskets. You can’t just scrub ‘em and rinse them down like any other piece of shit dish. You’ve got to dissemble them piece by piece, groove by sensitive groove, taking care to lavish the spinning blades with cautious attention. There’s something sensual about it. Something strangely vulnerable.
As I stood there, turning the pieces over in my hands, I thought about all the things we ask of blenders. They don’t have an easy job. They are hard laborers taking on a thankless task. I have used them so roughly in my haste for high-density smoothies, pushing them to their limits and occasionally breaking them. I remembered the smell of acrid smoke and decaying rubber that filled the kitchen in the break room the last time I tried to make a smoothie at work—the motor overtaxed and melted, the gasket cracked and brittle. Strawberry slurry leaked out of it like the blood of a slain animal.
Was this blender built to last? Or was it doomed to an early grave in some distant landfill by the genetic disorder of planned obsolescence? I didn’t know, and was far too high to make an educated guess. But I knew that whatever care and tenderness and empathy I put into it, the more respect for the partnership of man and machine, the better it would perform for me.
This thought filled me with a surge of affection. However long its lifespan, I wanted it to be filled with dignity and love and understanding. I thought: I bet no one has hugged this blender before. And so I lifted it from its base.
A blender is roughly the size and shape of a human baby. Cradling one in your arms satisfies a primal need. A month ago I was permitted to hold an infant for the first time in my life, an experience which was physically and psychologically healing. I felt an echo of that satisfaction holding my friend the blender, and the thought of parting with it felt even more ridiculous than bringing it with me to hang out on my friend’s bed.
player1thunderstruck
ghost-mantis
Beat our guest, beat our guest, Slam a bat into their chest
Stuff a rock into a sock and turn their face into a mess
Poke their eyes, hit their nose, drop a hammer on their toes
Hack their hand off with a hatchet
Or just grab a brick and smash it
Break their arms, break their face, pop a socket out of place
unleash all the hidden fury you’ve suppressed!
They’ll find it hard to plead, when they profusely bleed
all down their vest-
I don’t jest!
They’re too toothless to protest!
Beat our guest, beat our guest, beat our guest!
