dirk pony

theyre thousands of feet above the sea, and this is all i could think of

im love this au thanks arc for the heart attack at sea :)

testifyds  asked:

Holy shit so you won't see the tags on my reblog for a while bc it's queued but I wanted to say rn that art of Dirk on a horse? Holy FUCK, first of all, oh my god?????????? I am HEART EYES- Dirk's body language AND THE ANATOMY ON THAT HORSE HOLY FUCK!!!! YOUR ART IS SO FANTASTIC THANK YOU SO MCUH I CAN'T GET OVER IT

Have another teenage Dirk with a nice pony!

I think the thing that gets me the most about Detective Pony is the fact that there are three Pony Pals.

Dirk has three friends.

One Pony Pal (Pawnee) is implicitly identified with one of Dirk’s RL friends (and his guilt about his relationship with said friend) through the alcoholism schtick.

Dirk’s Detective Pony is the story of three innocent children being corrupted by Dirk’s insidious influence… and the happy ending is one in which Dirk and his influence are entirely removed from their lives.

Ask Dirk and Jake

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TT: Oh man…naughty kid

TT: well okay, i’ll give you all the details….

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TT: we spend the nights playing some video games and with my pink little pony, yeah~~ that sounds so fucking hot.

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[sorry…XDDDDDDDDDDD i really needed to do that </3]

Remember Longcat, Jane? I remember Longcat. Fuck the picture on this page, I want to talk about Longcat. Memes were simpler back then, in 2006. They stood for something. And that something was nothing. Memes just were. “Longcat is long.” An undeniably true, self- reflexive statement. Water is wet, fire is hot, Longcat is long. Memes were floating signifiers without signifieds, meaningful in hteir meaninglessness. Nobody made memes, they just arose through spontaneous generation; Athena being birthed, fully formed, from her own skull. You could talk about them around the proverbial water cooler, taking comfort in their absurdity. “Hey,Johnston, have you seen the picture of that cat? They call it Longcat because it’s long!” “Ha ha,sounds like good fun, Stevenson! That reminds me, I need to show you this webpage I found the other day; it contains numerous animated dancing hamsters. It’s called — you’ll never believe this — hamsterdance!” And then johnston and Stevenson went on to have a wonderful friendship based on the comfortable banality of self-evident digitized animals. But then 2007 came, and along with it came I Can Has, and everything was forever ruined. It was hubris, Jane. We did it to ourselves. The minute we added written language, it all went to shit. Suddenly memes had an excess of information to be parsed. It wasn’t just a picture of a cat, perhaps with a simple description appended to it; now the cat spoke to us via a written caption on the picture itself. It referred to an item of food that existed in our world but not in the world of the meme, rupturing the boundary between the two. The cat wanted something. Which forced us to recgonize that what it wanted was us, was our attention. WE are the cheezburger, Jane, and we always were. But by the time we realized this, it was too late. We were slaves to the very memes that we had created. We toiled to earn the privilege of being distracted by them. They fiddled while Rome burned, and we threw ourselves into the fire so that we might listen to te music. The memes had us. Or, rather, they could has us. And it just got worse from there. Soon the cats had invisible bicycles and played keyboards. They gained complex identities, and so we hollowed out our own identities to accomodate them. We prayed to return to the simple days when we could admire a cat for its exceptional length alone, the days when the cat itself was the meme and not merely a vehicle for the complex memetic text. And the face that this text was so sparse, informal, and broken ironically made it even more demanding. The intentional grammatical and syntactial flaws drew attention to themselves, making the meme even more about the captioning words and less about the pictures. Words, words, words. Wurds werds wordz. Stumbling through a crooked, dead-end hallway of a mangled clause describing a simple feline sentiment was a torture that we inflicted on ourselves daily. Let’s not forget wehre the word “caption” itself comes from: capio, Latin for both “I understand” and “I capture.” We thought that by captioning the memes, we were understanding them. Instead, our captions allowed them to capture us. The memes that had been a cure for our cultural ills were now the illness itself. It goes right back to Pheadrus, really. The plato dialouge. (You’ve read it, right?) Back in the innocent days of 2006 we naievely thought that the grapheme and subjugated the phoneme, that the belief of primacy of the spoken word was an ancient and backwards folly on par with burning witches or practicing phrenology or thinking that Smash Mouth was good. Fucking Smash Mouth. But we were wrong. About the phoneme, I mean. The trickster god Theuth came to us again, this time in the guise of a grinning grey cat. The cat hungered, and so did Theuth. We’d already taken writing from him, so this time he offered us a new choice disguised as a gift. And we greedily took it, again oblivious to the consequences. To borrow the parlance of a comtemporary meme, he made us a pharmakon, and we eated it. Pharmakon, the greek word that means both “poison” and “cure,” but, because of the limitations of the English language, can only be translated one way or the other depending on the context and hte translator’s whims. No possible translation can capture the full implications of a Greek text including this word. In the pheadrus, writing is the pharmakon that the trickster god Theuth offers, the toxin and remedy in one. With writing, man will no longer forget; but he will also no longer think. A double-edged (s)word, if you will. But the new iteration of the pharmakon is the meme. Specifically, the post-I-Can-Has memescape of 2007 onwad. And it was the language that did it,Jane. The addition of written language twisted the remedy to a poison, flipped the pharmakon on its invisible axis. In retrospect., it was in front of our eyes all along. Meme. The noxious word was given to us by who else but those wily ancient Greeks themselves. mimema. Defined as an imitation, a copy. The exact thing Plato warned us against the Republic. Remember? The simulacrum that is two steps removed from the perfection of the original by the proecess of — note the root of the word — mimesis. The Platonic ideal of an object is the source: the father, the sun, the ghostly whole. The corporeal manifestation of the object is one step removed from perfection. The image of the object (be it in letter or pigments) is two steps removed. The author is inferior to the craftsnan is inferior to God. Fuck, out of space. Okay, the illustration on page 46 is fucking useless; I’ll see you there.

baby dirk: monotone, faux-southern accent that’s mostly affected but slowly becoming real

young adult dirk: Detective Pony Audiobook Dirk

older dirk: straight up Sword Boyfriend from Transistor

No points for guessing who Dirk’s favorite pony is.

Your name is DIRK. 

Holy SHIT do you love PUPPETS. 

You possess the extreme dexterity to operate your FALSE FRIENDS UNSEEN, that is, when they are not pre-ambulatory through your LOVINGLY IMBUED MECHANIZATION. You dig writing COGNITIVE ALGORITHMS FOR SAID APOCRYPHAL MEN, and you think maybe that’s FUCKIN’ DOPE. Guess what else is dope? Everything ELSE YOU DO. You’re a sickwicked autodidact on ANCIENT CIVILIZATIONS, a selfmade MASTER OF MYTHOLOGUE, and a PRETERNATURAL POPCULTURE ACADEME. 

With a list of talents like that, Renaissance Ninja does indeed sound like a fitting title.

You’re cool with dabbling in the FINE SEQUENTIAL ARTS, and your work could be viewed by some as BORDERLINE PORNOGRAPHIC. And to those philistines you’ll be heard wondering, what the fuck do you mean BORDERLINE? 

Dirk is insulted that you’re not more insulted!

Against the better judgment of one your age, you BUILD ROBOTS, SET THEM TO KILL MODE, AND SPAR WITH THEM TO DEATH. That is, when you’re not SENDIFICATING THEM TO FRIENDS, or DUELING THEM WITH RAP LYRICS. 

Well clearly he keeps winning those death matches, so I can’t object too strongly.

But you try to cool it on the deathmatch stuff when your BRO is looking, which is virtually NEVER. And considering he’s had a reputation staked on some order of MARTIAL NOBILITY, this strikes you as a STAGGERING OVERSIGHT IN BROTHERLY VIGILANCE. You don’t have the HEART to hold it against him, though. 

Whether you’re a Knight or a ninja, Martial Nobility apparently runs in the Strider family.