Nerds Unite

I know things aren’t very Fergalicious right now dude but hang in there

oh shit, it's 3/21/23, 32123, palindrome day

oh shit, it's 3/22/23, 32223, palindrome day

oh shit, it's 3/23/23, 32323, palindrome day

oh shit, it's 3/24/23, 32423, palindrome day

oh shit, it's 3/25/23, 32523, palindrome day

oh shit, it's 3/26/23, 32623, palindrome day

oh shit, it's 3/27/23, 32723, palindrome day

oh shit, it's 3,28/23, 32823, palindrome day

well folks, we did it. we survived to day 9 of palindrome. 3/29/23, 32923, palindrome day the last.

I want to thank you all for being here when it happened.

my first post to go viral was the one where we all celebrated palindromes.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

peace and love on planet earth.

It's 2023 can we please figure out that asexuality isn't synonymous with sex repulsion already. Lack of attraction and lack of libido are not the same thing, aces can be "hell yes" about sex itself, and a lack of "hell yes" is not the same as active repulsion. I'm not a big movie watcher, but if someone I care about wants to share a movie with me I'll do it for them and very likely enjoy myself even if it doesn't turn me into someone who actively likes movies. It's not difficult.

I will say, I saw a lot of people who had no idea who Cecil was, or who were indignant that someone who doesn’t even have a canon appearance could be “sexy”, and all I could think is we don’t need a face, flesh or bone, to find someone sexy.

Cecil was more than a voice. For so many people, he was their first voice. Someone who was like them who was not hidden, not silenced. He was a voice who loved who he wanted, without fear or shame. And who was still loved by his community. He faced off against a smiling god who burned away what it considered imperfect, challenged the station management in his own way, and cheerfully ignored what he wasn’t supposed to talk about and talked about it anyway.

A lot were confused why they weren’t finding the votes they expect for Sans, because he has a huge fanbase. And he does. But so many of those people were also people who discovered a voice from the desert, who wished us warnings and news, who taught us to understand the lights above the Arby’s, but also to accept we cannot know the partially stars but mostly void beyond them.

It makes me happy to see new people interested in Night Vale. Because for so many of us who voted, it was, truly, our first community radio that heard us as much as we heard it. Because Tumblr was not the other platforms that developed into the social media giants that exist today.

Tumblr was odd, strange. Too much so for a lot of people. And a lot of us saw that in Cecil. In Night Vale. In the dog park nobody can enter, and the house that does’t exist.

We don’t need a face for someone to be sexy on Tumblr. We need someone who hears us and speaks the strangeness that we all love.

Someone to say “Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”

never thought i’d see the day where a faceless man from an older mystery podcast beat sans undertale but you know what, him and his husband deserve every bit of it.

CECIL SWEEP 2023, FOLKS !!! CONGRADS CECIL !!

The urges of drawing him loosing his degree and getting fired because of rocko is strong

brennan lee mulligan is great because he will without breaking a sweat narrate the most horrifying scene you've ever heard in your entire life complete with gore, cannibalism, and reality shattering, and then in adventuring party will just be like "shucks gang! :D"

Fantasy stories should have more "what do you mean you don't do X" things in compare and contrast of cultures. Like the differences between peoples aren't the stuff they show off as "These Are Our Culture :)" things, fucking everyone has food and music and folk tales, but the things they've always assumed that everyone has, and are baffled to discover that they don't.

The people who are always barefoot are baffled that humans don't have a wash basin at their front door where people can wash their feet before stepping inside?? Do they just walk in with their dirty feet? The fuck do you mean you take your shoes off?

Humans don't have small baby-sized spellbooks for toddlers who just learned to read, so they can safely learn to practice tiny cute and harmless, age-appropriate magic spells before progressing to more mature and demanding spells? What, do they just throw teenagers completely unprepared into the arcane - hold the fuck up, is that why human sorceror mortality is so fucking high?

Dwarves who have always wondered why the entrance to human residences is so fucking big, why do you need to take up such a large area for a door that's just there to lead downstairs to the underground halls? Are the timber walls really as thick as a human is tall? What for? And once one of them gets invited to a human house to stay and rest, nobody ever fucking believes her: That's not the entrance, that's the whole fucking house. 100% of the human house is aboveground, there is no tunnel to the underground levels. They might have a single storage room down there, but the aboveground section is so fucking big because that's the whole house.

This post was brought to you by: People who butter their bread and who had no idea that there are people who put mayonnaise on their bread, and people who put mayo on their bread and had no idea about people who put butter on their bread discovering that the other kind of people exist.

i post mostly original content on this blog but I just learned about a creature I need to immediately spread awareness of.

Its a type of harvestman from New Zealand called Acropsopilio. It has similar relatives elsewhere in the world (such as Caddo sp. from N.A) but they don’t quite rival its incredible form

i promise nothing could prepare you for what this beast looks like:

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(photo credit: Gonzalo Giribet on inaturalist)

@cellarspider A new friend!

TOMORROW IS HALLOWEEN!!!

WHAT THE FUCK IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE WHY DID SOMEONE REBLOG THIS

TOMORROW IS HALLOWEEN!!!

SERIOUSLY?! THIS IS CHRISTMAS EVE WHY WOULD YOU REBLOG THIS?!

TOMORROW IS HALLOWEEN!!!

now that’s what i call foreshadowing

he defeneslayed his hologram ass out

For the last decade or so, I’ve been routinely attending a ride-on lawnmower race. I’ve always wanted to participate, but the high cost of used mowers is better spent on more practical vehicles, like literally anything else. Sometimes, though, the universe sends you a message. And in my case, that message came in the form of an awkward leg of a huge trade-in scam.

Picture, if you will, the humble redneck. They await the approach of big, fast domestic mowers. John Deeres, Cub Cadets, even weird modified Chinese stuff they looted from Aliexpress. There is jubilance, but that soon comes to an awkward hush. An unfamiliar engine note approaches.

My International 1480 combine harvester, all ten tons of it, is barrelling down the highway at a clip somewhere between “tepid” and “jaunty.” Even though I have shown up for a race, I am sandbagging a little bit, making sure that the bets get settled against my vehicle before I show them the might of a fully operational monster such as mine.

Technically, there is no violation. I had looked at the rulebook from every angle in the previous year: it has the correct number of wheels, the proper agricultural intent, and with precise work on the tiller, it can even (poorly) mow a suburban lawn. Is it modified? Oh yes, yes indeed, but I see the nitrous bottles poking out from the rows of Kubotas at the starting line.

And when I leave the starting line, it is a thing of beauty. At least for a few milliseconds. It seems that the wizards at International Harvester simply did not comprehend of a situation in which the frame of their combine would be launched into the air by means of one thousand eight hundred foot-pounds of supercharger-bolstered torque. I had erroneously believed that the loose soil of the rural community would let the wheels dip in, but now I am facing directly into the sky, having twelve o’ clocked hard on my wheelie, shooting flames from my exhaust and whirling vertical blades of death towards the grandstand.

It’s not about whether you win or lose. Sometimes it’s about how many pages you add to the rulebook.

“It’s not about whether you win or lose. Sometimes it’s about how many pages you add to the rulebook. “

I am but a mild-mannered urban being and have no idea what happened in this story, but with all the Gods as my witness I am getting the above text put on a plaque and hanging it in my living room.

Legendary quote

so homie brought this:

to a mower race

and made all 20k lbs of it do this:

Can combine races be a thing now? There are lawnmower races and tractor pulls, kinetic sculpture races and point-to-point rallies where the point is doing it in a vehicle vastly unsuited to the purpose, at least one annual outhouse race in the universe and something called a Flugtag which involves launching homemade attempts at aircraft into the river via a ski jump. The world needs more excellent and harmless bullshit.

You are constantly mocked for having such a weird superpower by all the other heroes. “The power to make anything into perfectly cooked soup”… One day, a massive meteor is barreling towards earth. As all the other heroes are panicking, you wait perfectly calm, at the impact zone, bowl in hand.

My ancestors, watching me dump an entire stick of cinnamon, two cloves, an allspice berry, and a generous grating of nutmeg into my tea, sweetened with white sugar and loaded with cream, while I sit in my clean warm house surrounded by books, 25+ outfits for different occasions, and 6 pairs of shoes, in a building heated so well I have the windows open in mid-autumn:

Our daughter prospers. We are proud of her. She has never labored in a field but knows riches we could not have imagined.

I like this so much better than the idea that our ancestors would be embarrassed or ashamed of us for being “soft” or some crap like that.

My ancestors, watching me stuff my face with fried chicken while studying: She eats like an imperial concubine and can afford to study like am imperial scholar. WE MADE IT

She eats like an imperial concubine and can afford to study like am imperial scholar

My ancestors watching me use my stand mixer while living in a small apartment and attending university: Thou hast kneadeth bread in FOUR hail marys??? FOUR??? And thou ist poor as a churchmouse, yet liveth in a fine cottage with four pounds butter and fresh berries in thy larder!! And two featherbeds! And thou attendeth the King’s college, as a lord!!

My ancestors being like:

Look at this fine young lady! She can paint she can sew and embrody, she sings and read

And without a wealthy father to pay for that, plus she is florid in the body! She doesn’t know hunger!

We did it!

Me: /wearily studying/

My Ancestors: TRULY SH— what? They? A little unorthodox, but reasonable I suppose. TRULY THEY PROSPER, FOR THEY LIVE IN A DWELLING WITH MANY ROOMS AND ONLY THEIR SPOUSE TO SHARE IT WITH! THEY HAVE DOGS WHO DO NOT PERFORM A FUNCTION! THEY HAVE MANY BOOKS AND DO NOT HAVE TO SPIN THEIR OWN YARN! THEY BATHE AT A WHIM WITH GENTLE SOAP FREE OF LYE! OUR DESCENDANT BRINGS HONOR AND PRIDE TO OUR LINEAGE!

Me: /yawns and sips my coffee/

My Ancestors: /cheer wildly/

Me: *hunched over at my desk nursing a headache.*

My Ancestors: “Truly, we prosper; see here, our infirm descendant need not even work on her poor days, but has the luxury to rest as she sees need! A doctor attends to her illnesses; her clothes are warm and free of pests; she cares for exotic and dangerous animals within her own home! We have found the height of luxury!”

Me: *treats myself to a pineapple and a bunch of bananas*

My Georgian ancestors: ZOOTH SHE HAS BOUGHT A PINEAPPLE! NOT MERELY BORROWED ONE! TRULY SHE HAS ACHIEVED FAR MORE THAN WE COULD KNOW!

me: [puts on warm socks and a blanket, is now warm regardless of the weather outside]

My impoverished Russian Jewish ancestors:

Me: [learns to knit from youtube videos]

My ancestors: Our descendant, the heir to all our hopes and fears for a far-off future… She can buy fine clothes woven and knit by automatons, with but a fraction of a day’s earnings… and she does… she has so much free time to do as she pleases… and she uses some of that time to do what we did.

One woman from rural Poland, who died from smallpox in 1717 CE, a grandmother at 35: I knit roses and peonies into my and my children’s gloves… it wasn’t much extra work to dye the red, once I had already cleaned the wool and spun the yarn, and to knit in the designs… and I wasn’t a gifted knitter but I was a good knitter, and I thought, well, it might not make a difference to how warm the glove is, but it made the children happy and it made me happy. I liked to make things beautiful when I could.

Another woman, a peasant from what’s now France, who died from getting kicked by a mammoth in 8995 BCE: [Patting her on the back] I made my family’s clothes too. Every day my sister and I wove and wove and tended our children. We went out of our way to make the cloth lovely. Not a trace of it remains anywhere on earth now… But it mattered to us. And she might not know our names, or know it was us, but evidently, it matters to her too. She has so much beauty available to her, in every direction, and she wants to make it where we once made it.

[everyone sobbing and high-fiving each other.]

A man from Britain, 1104 CE, sitting at the trans-temporal telescope, reporting on my doings: She’s stopped knitting and now she’s playing minecraft.

The other ancestors: Ah, yes, the dream of building. We know this one well. What vision doth she design now?

Telescope man: Looks like… Some kind of floating temple?

Everyone: [Goes completely apeshit]

Me: studying Marine Biology, out in the middle of the Elkhorn slough absolutely fucking covered in the most foul-smelling mud and swamp scum you can imagine, deliriously happy as I spot a tell-tale bubbling in the mud. I jump off the small dock and drive my entire arm into the mud like a Mortal Kombat Character ripping someone’s heart out of their chest, and pull out a 4lb, two-foot long Geoduck Clam and hold it aloft, triumphant.

My Homminid ancestors, who were doing exactly this with much smaller clams 900,000 years ago: *going absolutely literally apeshit over my flawless technique and the marvelous size of my quarry* CLAM! CLAM! CLAM! CLAM! CLAM! CLAM! CLAM! WHOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Well guess who went and made their 9th class! This guy! It's an amalgamation of all sorts of horrific inspiration for this holiday season! Been listening to a lot of the NoSleep Podcast while making it to get in the headspace and more inspiration! Hope you enjoy!

[PDF]

why did you people come up with russian names for what is supposed to be a movie set in italy. what was the thought process here. why does she sound like she walked out of a tolstoy novel

an insane response, but i can't fight this. carry on

Goncharov is a fake movie that does not exist, but now the line "if we really were in love you wouldn't have missed" will live rent free in my mind until I die.

ID: A tweet from @rad_milk, which reads "when someone offers me a scrumptious morsel, you know i'm on my 'don't mind if i do' type shit" /end ID.