y’know sometimes I really think about how Fallout New Vegas was an actual game that happened 

like, this was a game in a series that’s about a post-apocalyptic wasteland with a 50′s esque setting. The main character is usually from a vault or has a connection to a vault and has some goal that mostly involved saving someone, you tend to run around a shithole filled with mutated abominations and bloodthirsty raiders

and then you get this game that just 

like Fallout New Vegas was a game that included: 

  • mass murdering roman legionary cosplayers 
  • post apocalyptic cowboys and cowboy robots 
  • a dominatrix zombie 
  • a sexbot called ‘Fisto’ that you can test-fuck 
  • an entire clan of Elvis impersonators 
  • Chandler from Friends 
  • fucking giant killer wasps twice the size of a person
  • a bunch of Genghis Khan cosplayers 
  • old ladies that try to mug you with rolling pins
  • a casino that’s secretly a bunch of cannibals 

And the main character, well

Fallout 1: Your from a Vault and you have to find a water chip to save your vault.
Fallout 2: you’re from a tribe descended from a vault and you have to find a GECK to save you village.
Fallout 3: your from a vault and you have to find your dad and save the wasteland. 

Fallout New Vegas: You’re a fucking mailman from christ knows where and you have to find the asshole who shot you and then fuck up the mojave two ways from sunday. 

I dunno I just think this game was a wondrous masterpiece 

Marilyn Manson CDs

Random safety tip

So a customer or bank teller told me some pretty interesting advice on safety. I mentioned my pepper spray has uv track ligjt so if I spray you then a cop shines a uv liget over your face or hands itll glow. And the person who I was talking to said the best thing for home safety is keep a can of raid or wasp killer next to the bed. The bug killer shoots a stream up to several feet and itll burn like hell. Its better security because you dont have to be close to spray the intruder.

Just a random but helpful safety tip


Hi. I’m john. We had a football sized yellow jacket nest hanging from our roof. Our neighbors have access to extremely flattering full body suits. 4 cans of wasp killer out of the second story window later, I’m hoping to knock the nest itself down tomorrow.

Considering that the hands of the wall clock are semaphoring five-thirty in the morning, there really should not be so much noise coming from the balcony.

Steve fancies himself a reasonable, tolerant person. Now that he’s no longer living alone, there are always noises coming from one odd corner of the house or another, noises that ought to make him jump but don’t. The hiss and slither of Natasha’s ball python, Therapy Snake, whom she refuses to rename. The bang of the door as Natasha herself returns from one of her mysterious after-dark errands. (”I’m not a spy today, Steve, I can make noise if I want to, and what do you mean you were asleep? You’re an artist, you’re supposed to keep artist hours, not go to bed at ten-thirty.”) The beat of metallic wings, followed by the thud of running feet on the roof, punctuated by the occasional loud curse. (”I was being chased by killer wasps, Steve, stop laughing and help me oh my god.”)

The trouble is that Sam and Natasha are supposed to be in Bangkok this week, having a belated kind-of-honeymoon-but-not-really-I-mean-is-it-a-honeymoon-if-we’re-not-actually-married? And when Steve pads into his bathroom, thinking he might as well brush his teeth and go for an early run now that he’s already up, he realises that his toothbrush has vanished.

This would be annoying in the daytime. At an ungodly hour like right now, it’s preposterous.

Steve storms towards the balcony. “Sam, have you seen my toothbrush? Or Nat, or whoever you guys invited into my house, because I sure as hell didn’t say you could borrow my–”

He stops dead on the threshold of the balcony door. Then, with all his ex-showman eloquence, he says, “Oh.”

Bucky Barnes, dead man and occasional ghost, is crouched on the balcony, sniper rifle set up on its tripod and pointed somewhere down the street. What Steve can see of him is approximately one part unwashed hair to three parts menacing shadow. It would be an alarming sight, if Bucky wasn’t also contorted into some sort of odd yoga pose in an attempt to reach the grooves on the back of his cybernetic bicep. With Steve’s toothbrush.

“Awkward,” says Steve. Because, really, the last time they’d met, Bucky had been trying to beat his face in. While crying.

Bucky doesn’t so much as blink. Neither does he relinquish the toothbrush. “I need to shoot the guy that lives across the street,” he says in his creaky, disturbingly uninflected rasp. “HYDRA. I promise. So I need your balcony. And later you gotta help me bury the body.”

“O… kay?”

“And my arm’s got sand in it. So.”

Bucky waves the toothbrush in an almost-sheepish, almost-apologetic gesture. Steve knuckes the bridge of his nose. He wants to cry, or laugh, or do both at the same time, but it’s far too early in the morning for hysterical reunions. For heaven’s sake, he hasn’t even gone for his run.

“You better buy me a new ‘brush,” he says at last. He stomps over and plops himself down beside the rifle scope. “Shove over, lemme see this HYDRA neighbour.”

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