the way people talk about nudity is insane to me. the fuck do you mean nudity is “depraved” friend we were all born naked.
damn what added stat bonuses does this guy have
you can't really place all the blame for bad female character design on artists because a lot of that comes from higher up the chain of command, which is something I learned the hard way when a client had me draw breasts and eyelashes on a wasp so that it was obvious she's a girl wasp
prayer to whichever dead catholic person is most appropriate: may I not have to run a whole week of surprise camps on crutches. in a knee brace.
Im agnostic raised liberal protestant, but absolutely the catholics got saints right. Sometimes your problem is so fucking specific you need Some Guy. If you're listening, Guy of Workers Who Have Strain Injuries,
No fucking WAY, there's actually a knee injury Guy? Catholicism accidentally reinventing the medical specialty system......
I know you're wondering: are there slutty pictures of him revealing his knees?
Saint Roch, by Francesco Ribalta, c. 1625, Museo de Bellas Artes, Valencia
[image id: st. Roch staring soulfully and hiking up his robe to show that his thigh has a bubo on it, also sluttily revealing his knees]
what the dog doin
Big news from Tartarus I'm just so proud of him
guys ive j gotten some horrible news
no offense but some of you should be earning your chippy hike badges instead of whatever it is you're doing on here
Item: Badge of the Chippy Hike; allows the wearer to proudly inform the world that they once walked to a nearby chip shop and ate some chips. It’s like those Pilgrim Badges that Medieval travelers would wear
rotsuko
is this even funny i dont think its funny im not putting it in the tags
How has this comic made such a groundbreaking cultural impact without getting over 40k notes
y’all are NOT ready for the juxtaposition of the sun to result in the northern and southern hemispheres splitting in climate one hot one cold that will cause the manifestation of chilly willy and chilli billi in the north and south pole and it shows
None of you are prepared
It is 1880s America, you are about to spawn as a Historically Significant White Guy. Choose a class:
TROUBLEMAKING FRONTIER PREACHER
- Special Power: Good Christian. Your vague adherence to American protestantism will ensure that law enforcement does not bother you whatsoever.
- Victory condition: Fuck enough of your followers wives to start an inbred theofascist micronation.
MANICALLY AMBITIOUS CON ARTIST
- Special Power: Basic Literacy. You're poor, but you know how to read. They'll never expect it. You may forge literally any document and it will be believed 100% of the time.
- Victory Condition: Steal enough money to fuck off to Latin America. A Spanish speaking nation might as well be the moon to your debtors.
EUROPEAN NOBLE FAILSON
- Special Power: Colonial Wealth. Your funny accent, foppish dress, and noble title, will make any American think you are totally good to buy it on credit.
- Victory Condition: Become the boytoy to the wife of some borderline-gangster politician and save up enough political capital to run for office and get addicted to opium.
DOOMED FRONTIER EXPLORER
- Special Power: How The Fuck Are You Alive. Your freakish diet of pork, whiskey, and maple syrup, makes you entirely immune to all physical injury and disease. Somehow.
- Victory Condition: You have one mission, and one mission only. You need to piss off some completely friendly natives. You need to piss them off so bad they leave your stupid ass to starve in a food forest they've been cultivating for literally thousands of years.
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.
