plastic hat

Maurice Flitcroft was not exactly what you’d call a seasoned golf professional. He was a 46-year-old crane operator from Northern England who had never once played a full 18-hole round of golf – he just happened to pick up a club one day and, after whacking a ball at some scraggly local field a few times, decided “Screw it, I’m a professional now.” So he entered the tournament, artfully dodging questions about his handicap and professional status by either lying or just not fucking answering. And that’s how the 1976 Open got all sorts of rough.

Clad in plastic shoes, a fishing hat, false teeth, and playing with an incomplete set of cheap mail-order clubs, Flitcroft took the tee amidst a sea of immaculately dressed pros with perfect swings. He attacked the ball like he’d heard that it would reveal his darkest secret if he didn’t kill it, and yet he barely got it off the tee. His ultimate score – a ridiculous 49-over-par 121 – is still the worst in tournament history, and no one has even come close to performing more badly. Immediately after he was done playing, they changed the rules so that Maurice Flitcroft, specifically, would never again be able to compete anywhere in the country.

Not that Maurice gave a single fuck. He had decided that he liked the game, lords and ladies be damned. For the next 20 years, he would attempt to enter the Open and several other competitions, using various plots that even Wile E. Coyote would deem impractical. What’s more, he succeeded.

5 Pro Athletes Who Are Hilariously Bad At Sports

so here is your throne.
here are the prejudices that you call home.
here are the eyes of young girls closing,
locker room doors opening, 
patchwork pulled from the seams,
skin pulled from the seams
to hang up as curtains.

so here is what you didn’t care about:
new york city, a hand down my pants in the subway
and me, not wanting to upset him.
my grandmother with her back bent over an ancestry,
trying to carry it home.

look her in the eye, she’s engaged to her girlfriend,
tell her that she matters
with yesterday’s facebook status “lol not going to vote.”

so here is your future,
a room full of red hats and plastic masks
using skin color as curse words,
using “she” as a symptom,
using hate in a hailstorm as shelter.

turn off the television
and look in the mirror.
there is his throne.

—  great again // naiche lizzette
5

See that cute little shoulder shrug/head bob thing Jasper does right before he says, “You will.” ?

It’s another Jasper Puppy Dog Gesture for sure but with something extra. And it cracks me up every time. It’s a gesture my recently departed 4 foot 10 inches Aunt Mimi would make about 100 times a month. She was little and old forever , but she was tough and she’d hit you with her shopping bag if you acted up.

It’s just a little different when Tom Austen does it. Maybe because he doesn’t have a plastic rain bonnet somewhere on his person, at all times, as Aunt Mimi did, that he just can’t strike that note of terror Miss Miriam Steinberg, of some god-forsaken-area in Odessa, Russia or thereabouts and then on to the Lower East Side of New York, did.


from The Royals - S03E8: “In the Same Figure, Like the King That’s Dead

Story Time

So at some point I was taken on a trip with my college class to my country’s capital to see all the art museums and shit. The entire morning was spent looking at mostly friggin pretentious as shit artworks like hats, plastic bags, paintings of the planet earth slitting it’s wrists (i’m serious) and other shit.

when we got to the portrait exhibit that was nearby there was a series of all these deep looking portraits of people looking all thoughtful and introspective and shit.

BUT THEN

BUT FUCKING THEN

THIS BEAUTY

This smug as fuck looking guy just in the friggin bathtub. You got all these highly rendered shit you’d see in either dracula’s castle or in a modern museum, and then you got this lenny face fucker sitting in a bath, as if he fucking knows that his mere presence there is basically shitposting.

I’ll never forget you, wonky smug man in bathtub.

Weekly Word Count

Weekly Goal: 5k for one week (7 days)

Word Count for January 30-February 5 2017:  5234

Total Word Count: 25, 277

Chapters: Chapter 3 

Notes:  This chapter feels…better. Like I feel happier writing it. But it’s not done yet, but this feels easier. Maybe I just know the characters better, and the more important plot lines are becoming more visible. I don’t know. 

Exert:   Chad shrugged as Max jogged down the path, looking at his phone.  Jack grabbed Max’s phone, ignoring Max’s grunt of protest.  The background of Max’s phone was a photo of him and Leah from a St. Patrick’s Day party years ago, back when Eve managed to convince Leah that she needed to try alcohol at least once.  Leah was on Max’s back, with a green feathered boa and shuttershades. Max’s had a green plastic hat and a wide smile. It was adorable. Jack had taken the photo four years ago maybe. He wasn’t sure how old Max and Leah were, but it was Leah’s first year in Ottawa. 

general admission - lh

a/n: this is me living my post concert sadness through words. enjoy :-)

Word Count: 1, 413

~

To the commoner entering the queue line for the venue, your presence among the thousands of jittery teenage girls would go virtually unnoticed. After all, your attire blended in with the majority of outfits there; jean shorts and some sort of colored converse, a flannel around your waist and a mentally dating luke hemmings shirt loose across your torso, and finally a darkened maroon snap back perched over your tousled hair.

Except the flannel around your waist and the snap back that was two inches two big for your head belonged to the Luke Hemmings, and you were not only mentally but physically dating him. 

Keep reading

Aoi Shouta S album bromide

My album arrived today! ^_^

I ordered from Comic Toranoana and here are the tokuten~

It’s a huuuge poster O.O

@aishiteruitsumo6