make cd cases for your

anonymous asked:

Do you know the best way I can get a regional at best cd?

aaaaaaaas in a physical copy? 

step one: date everyone who works at every second hand cd store in the vicinity so that they keep an eye out for someone who doesn’t realize their gem.

step two: don a black ski mask and creep round the black market, offering love, affection, dope, and $$$.

step three: when you see a random cd in the trash or on the sidewalk, get outta ur car and inspect carefully.

step four: haunt eBay and every cd site on the world wide web. do not pay 2100 bucks. do not buy from singapore. lotsa fakes going round out there, watch out, mate.

step five: cry softly into your pillow every night. 

alternate option: steal your own car radio and throw it out the window when your low quality download of kitchen sink comes on your shuffle. because if you can’t listen to your cd, then why listen at all…. *looks out the window as if in a movie*

step six: befriend an artsy clique member, get them to like you very much, and who knows, maybe they’ll burn a copy onto a blank cd, paint the cd and a case to make you a mock copy for your birthday (*whispers* or christmas.)

step seven: hunt down tyler and josh and hold ‘em up. 

step eight: make sure to get a copy for me too okay sharing is caring.

this has been: Obtaining Physical RAB’s With TylersOldTweets

Cult of the Unending Hymn

Based on this ask from earlier.

“Dip-dop, It’ll be fiiiine!”

“Mabel, no! You’re already slurring, this is the third bar, and -”

“Dipper. Dipper. You- you don’t understaannnd.”

“Oh really.”

“Yeah. The last two bars… didn’t have karaoke!”

“Mabel, really? That’s even worse! If people didn’t recognize you before, then-”

“Dippinsause I’ve got it cov-*hic!*-cov’rd. We’re like, all the way acros’th’town from that convention. Nooooobody will notice!” And before her demonic brother could get another word in, she ‘booped!’ his nose and danced up on stage. Dipper sighed from his spot, floating invisible in a booth.

This could only end poorly.

Fred was the leader of a very unsuccessful cult. It was partially his fault. He was in his mid thirties, but the other five in the group he had recruited were all in their early twenties, eager to make deals with demons to secure a place in the future. As such, there was a… bit, of a generational gap between them. He could still remember a time when it wasn’t normal to be making deals with demons. Most of them couldn’t. There were often disputes on how to proceed as a result. He was glad that they always came to a group consensus, and he really did love the rest of his group (they had become like a second family to him, and he appreciated that), but it did slow them down.

The other part was not his fault, and that was that they had only ever managed to get the answering machine of the demon they tried to summon. Nina and Jeremy, their research specialists, had once been part of several forum sites for demonology. They both quit when, after the 16th attempt with nothing but renditions of “Don’t Start Un-believing” and a rendition of “Devil went up to Iceland” with Alcor replacing the devil, they became the laughingstock of the community. Their cult had gained a reputation, yes, but not the one they had hoped for.

The Cult of Unending Hymns. A mockery.

It would have been better if they had reformed as a cult to another demon. But they all agreed that Alcor was the best choice, and on top of that… well, it was embarassing to admit, but the songs on Alcor’s answering machine were actually starting to grow on them.

“Its the passion that she has when she sings,” Janine said once as they sat around the circle, hoods down and listening to the third rendition of “Don’t Start Un-believing” that night. “The words really mean something to her.

“Nah, she just likes to have fun,” Jeremy had shot back as it became BABBA’s “Disco Girl.”

But regardless, they didn’t mind sitting through a couple rounds of the answering machine, unlike some cults. You’d think that would work to their advantage, but no. Apparently Alcor’s form of cruelty was forcing people who could sit through three rounds to sit through six instead. It was really killing morale.

So, Fred had saved and scrimped and splurged, and bought the six of them tickets to a Demonology convention. The twins, Elenore and Adam, had been ecstatic, and designed new cult hoods for them all to wear. After getting recognized and laughed at several times, however, the group had uncomfortably taken them off and continued in civilian clothing.

Which led to their current situation. Sitting in a bar as far away from the convention as they could get, with Fred trying to keep everyone’s spirits up, listening to awful renditions of karaoke.

“It’s just not fair!” Jeremy snapped, slamming his bottle down for emphasis. “We’ve done everything everyone else has, it’s just bad luck!”

“And yet we’re the laughingstock,” Nina sighed, slumped over the table and flicking her drink stirrer back and forth in the glass. “Its hopeless. Maybe we should just give up the cult business.”

“We can’t give up now!” Elenore cried, looking around at her fellows. “We’ve gotten so far, and -”

“El, we’ve gotten nowhere with how far we-we’vvv…” her twin mumbled into the table.

“Guys…” Fred searched for something to say, but before he could start, the intolerable mess that was currently butchering “Motel CA” stumbled off the stage, and the announcer picked up the mic.

“Next on the stage, we have… Miss Mabel!”

The opening for “Don’t Start Un-believing” rang out in the bar as a bouncy woman in a bright pink sweater approached the mic. The entire cult groaned.

“Great, just kill me now,” Janine moaned. “I can’t stand to hear this song butchered.”

“This is ridiculous! The universe is just mocking us now!” Jeremy complained, making Fred duck as he swung his drink in exaggerated gestures. “There’s literally nothing we can do that doesn’t end with us being embarrassed or REMINDED of our embarrassments!”


“And it’s not our fault! It’s just stupid dumb stinkin’ luck, it’s not like we’re blood sacrifice cults or anything!”

“Uh, guys?”

“Heck, maybe it would be better if we *did* sacrifice someone! Then at LEAST we’d get something other than the machine! Ugh, I’m just-


Jeremy dropped his (thankfully empty) bottle in surprise, and the cult turned to look at Fred, who simply pointed to the stage.


“Don’t start, un-beLIEVING!” the woman belted into the microphone. “Never don’t not FEEL YOUR FEEEEELINGS!”


“That isn’t…”

“No freaking way!”



“Guys!” Five wide pairs of eyes turned to Fred. “Hoods on, we’ll meet her offstage. Janine?”

“Yeah Fred?”

“Here are my keys. Go get it. You know where it is.”

“Right boss.”

“Dipdip, I still think you should have done it with me.”

“Mabel, nobody but you can see me like this.”
“Yeah, but I would have appreciated you!”

Dipper sighed. “Okay, but…” he trailed off abruptly. Mabel raised an eyebrow.


“Yeah. I need to take this, it’s… it feels bad. Will you…?”

Mabel waved a hand. “I’ll be fine, brobro. You do what you gotta do. I’ll be right here.”

“Okay…” He started to fade. “Don’t try to get back to the hotel alone, ok? I’ll be back soon and we can teleport there.” And he vanished.

Mabel smiled, but her eyebrows drew together with worry. There were so many cults trying ridiculously awful things to get her brother’s attention, and it really took a toll on him. Hopefully, this one wouldn’t be a big deal, but…

“Mizar the Gleeful.”

Oh shit.

“Who’s askin’?” she replied nonchalantly, turning to face the newcomers. A quick count revealed six, all wearing deep maroon robes with a surprisingly lovely trim of olive green. In the middle of their hoods were bars of music, with notes that formed the big dipper. Despite the potential danger, her crafty self won out.  “Wow, nice robes, who made those?”

“We did!” piped up two near identical voices in the back. The remaining members shushed them.

“So… you are, in fact, Mizar the Gleeful?” the leader asked again, sounding more hesitant this time.

“Again, who’s asking?”

“We are…” the leader hesitated, then coughed. One of his underlings gave his leg a little kick. “Um, yes… We are the… cult of unending hymns,” he muttered.

“Uh-huhhh… And, what can I do for you?”

There was some muttering, and something was handed up to the front. Mabel slid one hand casually into her pocket, fingering the needle she had in there. It wouldn’t be a lot of blood, but it would certainly get Dipper’s attention, and she hoped he wasn’t in a bad way when he got here, but -

A shoddy CD case was shoved into her face.

“Could you, uh… could you sign this, for us?” A green sharpie was held up alongside it.

“Uh… what?”

“The CD, it’s, it’s got the entirety of Alcor’s answering machine, separated into songs. We recognized your wonderful rendition of “Don’t Start Un-Believing,” and we thought maybe… maybe you’d sign it?”

Mabel just stared at the CD. “You - you’ve listened to the whole answering machine?”

“Multiple times,” one answered dryly.

“That’s like, three hours of music!”

“We know,” the whole cult chorused.

Realizing that she ought to do something, she took the CD case and sharpie. “Uh, should I make it out to your cult, or…?”

“Make it out to Fred!” a woman’s voice called out. The leader jumped.

“Janine!” Presumably Fred hissed.

“What? You deserve it.”


One very drunk member, a young man standing next to Elenore, started a very offkey round of “For he’s a jolly good fellow!” and was quickly silenced by someone named Jeremy.

“Adam, knock it off.”

“Jeremy be nice, he can’t hold his booze.”

“You guys know you’ve given out all our names, right?”

“No, nobody’s said yours yet Nina!” There was a brief silence. “…sorry.”

By this point, Mabel was biting her lip trying not to laugh. “Okay, so I’ll make it out to Fred, Janine, Elenore, Adam, Jeremy and Nina. The Cult of Unending Hymns.” It took her a moment to get that all down, but shortly she was handing the CD and marker back. “How’d you guys get that name, anyways?”

Fred shuffled his feet. “We’ve only ever gotten the answering machine, Mizar the Gleeful.”

“No matter what we do.”

“Thankfully, we have a healthy appreciation for good music.”

Mabel grinned. “You certainly do.” A thought struck her. “You guys don’t do human sacrifice, do you?”


“Absolutely not!”


“Okay… well, what do you want from Alcor so badly then?” The group shuffled their feet again, muttering to themselves. Finally, Fred cleared his throat.

“We, uh… we want help being successful. Most of us are just getting out of college and such, and it’s hard to get started… especially with the world being what it is today.”

There were muted agreements among the group. Mabel reached into her other pocket, and pulled out a small knitted circle.

“Alright. Well, you seem like a pretty nice group, all in all. Here.” She tossed it to Fred, who almost dropped the CD in his haste to catch it. He looked at it in surprise, then back at Mabel.


“Approved by Mizar. Put that in your circle next time. I guarantee you’ll get him.” She wrinkled her nose. “Just uh… just don’t get blood on it, okay? That stuff doesn’t wash out of knit easilly.”

“Uh… oh! Yes! Of course!” Fred bowed, and the rest of the group followed in suite. “Thank you, Mizar the Gleeful! Thank you!”

She waved a hand. “Just Mizar’s fine, Fred. Hope to hear about you soon!” She looked to her left, where a shadow with gold brickline was starting to form, and grinned. “My ride’s here.”

“Your… ride?”

“Alcor, three chocolate bars and one of anything you want in the hotel vending machine to get me to my room.”

The cult gaped in amazement as Alcor the Dreambender himself materialized next to Mizar, hands ablaze with blue fire, grinning. “Deal.”

The last Mabel saw of the cult was their gaping faces, lit by Dipper’s fire.


Later, Mabel was starting to regret her wording.

“I meant you could choose which snack you wanted, and I’d get you one!”

“But you *said* one of anything I wanted from the vending machine. And I want that, and that, and that, and - ooh, I haven’t had THAT in a long time!”

“I said one of anything, not one of everything.”

“Technically, those could be nearly the same.”

Mabel snorted, but fed the machine more money. “You’re going to get sick as a dog.”

“I don’t care.”