Elephants have learned highway robbery
Elephants have taken it upon themselves to set up an impromptu toll booth.

Elephants have learned highway robbery
Elephants have taken it upon themselves to set up an impromptu toll booth.
Gerard P Donelan
I love the notes saying this femme knows exactly what she's doing and it's all part of her flirting technique. You get it.
More of his stuff and about him
My absolute favorite of his work
this bra makes it hard to breathe but it makes my tits look banging - a story by me
official boob post
quick do a version about binders
I think it’s funny how Mormon God was like “look polygamy is super important and I am telling you my followers to practice it even in the face of persecution” and then 40 years later Congress said Utah wouldn’t be given statehood as long as the LDS practiced polygamy and Mormon God was like “Ok tell everyone I changed my mind”
For Sas, another story about helping.
#
There is a statue on the cliffs overlooking the harbour, of a man shading his eyes with one hand and looking out over the sea.
They say that when invaders came, a man went up to the cliffs, and prayed to the gods. He offered them his own life to save his people. The gods accepted his sacrifice, and a great fire burned across the water, sinking all the ships. The man became stone, and ever since then he has stood on the cliffs, looking out at ships that sank long ago.
There is a statue that stands in the center of the town, of an old woman with both hands held up before her, palm out.
They say that when invaders came again, a woman stood in the middle of the square, and ordered them to halt. She reminded them of the great fire that sank the ships years before, and called on the gods to strike down any man who took one more step, though it cost her life. The gods accepted her sacrifice, and the invaders who stepped forward became water, running back down the hill towards the sea and soaking the boots of the men behind them. The survivors fled in fear, and the woman became stone, her feet set among the cobbles, her hands raised to stop invaders long gone.
There is a statue that stands by the road that runs past our village, of a young woman holding a basket.
They say that when brigands came upon the village in the teeth of a hard winter, starving and desperate, a woman saw them coming and offered them the food in her basket. They mocked her, saying that so little would not feed them for a day. She, too, called on the gods, and she, too, was answered. She made a bargain with their leader, that every man would turn back when he had all the food he could carry. From that one basket, she filled every bandit’s hands and sacks with food until he could carry no more. When she had filled even the leader’s hands, she bowed her head and became stone, her basket empty at last. The bandits kept to their bargain, and never troubled the village again.
We all know these stories. We all know why those people became stone, stone that does not weather.
I love drawing cute scenes.
I know I don’t usually reblog things here but please more people look at this amazing thing.
Panels 1 - 10
I found this on twitter by user Kingfisher & Wombat. https://twitter.com/UrsulaV/status/1568685612168892423?cxt=HHwWjsC-2ZjQi8UrAAAA Thought it was too good not to share. First comic in quite a while that’s got me in tears, ‘cos it felt like hope, and, well, what with everything…
Of course, it’s from @ursula-vernon. I should have recognized.
Thank you.
Here’s a story about changelings:
Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch.
She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage.
Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings.
“Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child.
Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin.
“I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.”
“I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.”
“Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.”
Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine.
“We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…”
“Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.”
Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has.
“Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.”
Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project.
She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still.
“Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once.
Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.”
Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.
They all live happily ever after.
*
Here’s another story:
Times are troubling and hard right now-but never forget, your Beet loving Grandmother loves you very very much and wants you to be safe.
And for you to eat your vegetables.
This is the funniest thing I’ve seen in weeks. Literally, I’ve never been this funny in my entire goddamn life
I had him, I fucking had him till he pulled the third card and I’m like “Ahhhh fuck.”
I have been looking for this clip for SO LONG
“You owe me seven dollars now”
I’m paying to force seven thousand strangers to see a photo of my late husband having fun with his dog. Tumblr Blaze is totally worth it. XD
Thank-you to all of my new Internet stranger friends for being so gracious about having my post shoved onto your dashboards. I loved reading all of your kind tags and comments! Both Martin and Bosco have been gone for several years now but for 24 hours, they felt very present in my life. I greatly appreciate this gift. ❤️
Reblog to have your dashboard be visited by the spirit of joy that death can end but not erase.
Love how tumblr has its own folk stories. Yeah the God of Arepo we’ve all heard the story and we all still cry about it. Yeah that one about the woman locked up for centuries finally getting free. That one about the witch who would marry anyone who could get her house key from her cat and it’s revealed she IS the cat after the narrator befriends the cat.
Might I add:
The defeat of the wizard who made people choose how they’d be to be executed
The woman who raised the changeling alongside her biological child
The human who died of radiation poisoning after repairing the spaceship
The adventures of a space roomba
Cinderella finding Araura (and falling in love)
I don’t know a snappy description but the my nemesis cynthia story certainly lives in my head
hilariously, these are almost all in my fic tag. so, a compiled list from the notes (and some extras):
I am in love with you /p
adding the Doctors Without Borders one
I LOVE tumblr storytime, so here’s a bunch more your weekend reading. Enjoy!
26. Haunted house
33. Narrative Town
35. Robot Apocalypse
37. Kushiel
38. Tooth Fairy
39. Alien abduction
42. Space cousins
“available with premium subscription” “will be removed on the 31st” “available free with ads” “rent 4.99 buy 20.00″ “not available in your country” “not available on this device” what if every streaming service fucking killed itself and films ran around their fields free and organic in their natural state
1337x.to
chaotic muppets interview
These are the words of puppeteers who should not be up this early
Meme news: The Brazilian actress Renata Sorrah came out as bisexual at the age of 76
That's her, btw
She's an icon and also very talented. We Stan.
The article says that the guidelines have been updated. Instead of asking if you’re a man that’s had sex with another man in the past 3 months it asks everyone regardless of gender if they’ve had anal sex with a new partner or if they’ve had anal sex with multiple partners in the past 3 months.
This both opens up blood donation to msm in exclusive relationships or who don’t have anal sex and more accurately identifies hiv risk from people who aren’t msm. This is exactly the sort of guidelines we’ve been fighting for for years. This is a major win for both gay rights and blood donation in the US. Now a bunch of people who couldn’t donate before can donate now.
esp the people who did it alone
humans are GREAT
PLAY MORE
The little celebrations, though, of the people who watched someone do the game - very human, very kind