Les Misérables (2012) but every time someone dies it cuts to a one hour documentary about the battle of Waterloo and every time Javert and Valjean meet it cuts to a one hour documentary about sewage systems and every time those candlesticks appear on screen it cuts to a one hour documentary about priesthood in the late 18th-early 19th century
Harass my daughter on Minecraft? You can't hide from me.
So, my daughter, who was about 8 at the time, was REALLY into Minecraft (as most kids are these days). Also desperately wanting to join the Youtube/Let’s Play culture, I had installed some screen recording software that would let her make videos of the games she was playing so she could later upload them to Youtube.
Anyways, one day I’m minding my own business when I hear her quietly sniffling over on the computer. I asked her what was wrong, but she didn’t want to tell me so I let it go, but decided to keep on eye on her. A few minutes later I discovered what was happening; someone was harassing not only her, but also all the other kids playing on whatever server she was on. This kid (we’ll call him Little Sh*thead, or LS) was saying sh*t about how he was going to rape my 8 year old daughter (she told him how old she was hoping he would stop), how he was going to hack into her IP and steal all her info, swearing profusely (remember, this is a game for kids), etc etc. By this time I had gotten my fiance involved, and she was also obviously quite upset at what a little sh*t this kid was being. We realized that our daughter had been recording the entire incident, and a plan began to form.
I started by googling LS’s username. There were several hits immediately, the most interesting of which involved a page where he was publicly applying to be a mod for a server on Minecraft. I was able to learn a lot about this little POS: he claimed to be 15, likes hockey, used to live in Toronto but now lives in Florida. But the bombshell was easily his skype contact info; it was literally firstname.lastname. I know your name now, you little sh*t.
So I head over to Facebook and search for the name. Nothing. Hmmmm. On a hunch I searched for just the last name, while narrowing my results to only the state of Florida. Several dozen hits. Hmmm. So I have to start combing through each one, until I find what I was looking for: a middle aged man with the same last name, whose profile indicates he was born in Toronto and now lives in Florida. I FOUND YOUR DAD, YOU LITTLE SH*T.
So I sent him a message on Facebook, asking if he had a son named firstname who goes by his username on Minecraft. Dad confirmed I had the right guy. So my wife begins telling the dad everything that LS was saying to my daughter, and we sent him the recorded video as proof. Radio silence for a few days.
Then we got the message back: LS had his computer taken away from him for the entire summer, and had also been lying about his age (he was only 11, I think). His parents were f*cking livid with him, and he surely hated the next few months of his life.
It's not wise to be rude to your ride to the airport.
This was around Thanksgiving 2015.
My family gets together at a rural-ish cabin. I had agreed to give my younger sister a ride to the airport on Sunday, since she was on a short break from college. and had important classes and tests to get back to after Thanksgiving. I’d also agreed to lock up the cabin for my parents, since they had to leave on Saturday to get back to pressing work matters.
During the post-dinner bullshitting on Thanksgiving, my sister decided to give me sh*t about the bad couple months I’d had. A long-term girlfriend of mine and I had broken up and the company I worked for folded. This went beyond normal sibling sh*t-flinging, including her saying something to the effect of “Who’d date or hire a worthless failure loser like you anyway, b*tch? Your girlfriend was probably f*cking your boss and dumped you both when she learned you were both failures.”
She was called out on her crude remarks by several family members, but refused to apologize. I seemingly let it slide. I had plenty of emergency funds, had a few job prospects lined up (was hired shortly after and got a nice salary bump, actually) and was okay with being single. Her vehemence was out of left field though, and uncalled for.
Sunday morning, I waited for her in the kitchen with a bottle of Jack Daniels.
“Hey, Heather.” I said when she entered the kitchen. “Wanna apologize for your sh*tty comments the other night?”
she laughed. “About your being a d*ckless failure? Nope. Now let’s get going I have a flight to catch.”
“Fair enough!” I responded, and poured myself a double, then knocked it back.
“What the f*ck are you doing?” she screamed. “*I have a plane to catch!”
“You sure do!” I responded, cheerfully. I paused, and repeated the pour-and-slam. “Well, f*ck, it looks like I’ve had too much to drink to drive! I guess we’ll have to wait until you’re f*cking civil, won’t we?”
She pulled put her phone and screwed with it for a few seconds before I said: “There aren’t any cab companies or ubers around here. I’m your only ride. So you can apologize for being a b*tch, or you can miss your flight.”
I grinned and took another shot.
In short: I got absolutely sh*tfaced, she missed her flight, missed some tests, and her GPA plummeted. It was f*cking hilarious.
no but aldertree sent raj to fetch a change of clothes and a cup of tea for clary aka raj probably stood in clary`s room going oh this shirt will go nicely with those jeans and i would like to personally thank him for that because clary looked fly
Concept: Les Misérables (1862) but if Lemony Snicket was the author
Example: to Enjolras–darling, dearest, dead.
If you’re seeking a story whose tragic beginning is followed by a less-tragic middle and an inevitably uplifting denouement, this book should be avoided at all costs. The approximately six hundred and fifty-five thousand words that are about to follow contain the tales of several bright and brave young people who each meet an unfortunate end and several less-bright, less-young people, including myself, who unfortunately survive to recount the events. “Unfortunate” is a word which here means “luckless” and “miserable”, the latter definition having been used for the title of this novel, designed to dissuade you, the misguided reader, from continuing past the cover page.
There are other techniques I have employed in this book that are designed to stop you from yourself becoming miserable by reading this story in its entirety. Firstly, the physical novel, which as you may notice shares the same dimensions and weight as a standard housing brick, for the utmost inconvenience. Secondly, I have included several hundred pages of information which are both uninteresting and have little bearing on the grander story in the meager hope that you will come to your senses and place this novel back on your shelf or better, in a lit fireplace, where I solemnly believe it belongs.
For example, the use of candlesticks. The word “candlestick” is derived from the purpose of the item itself, that is an object, most often metal, commonly silver, in which one can stick a candle. Many dictionaries define “candlestick” as
“an often ornamental holder for securing a candle or candles”. “Candleholder” is another, less commonly used word for “candlestick”. Candlesticks come in a variety of forms and sizes, and can contain a variety of numbers of candles often demarcated by their names-a “trikirion” contains three candles and a “menorah” contains seven. If you have had the fortitude-a word which here means “strength of mind”-to make it this far through this dull paragraph, it may be of some note to say that the candlesticks with which we concern ourselves in this story are single candlesticks, that may each contain one candle.
Thirdly, not only have I named the main character in a redundant manner-Jean Valjean-I have decided to tell you here that Jean Valjean perishes on the final page of this novel. That is my story’s conclusion.
With all this information in mind, and having the ending already known, I now give you my final warning and pleading suggestion to forget about this book. Put it down. Hide it away. Bury it in a cemetery late at night with the assistance of a man named Fauchelevant. Forget it ever existed. For now the story must begin.
It begins in a town called Digne, on a grey and dreary night under the roof of a very kind but elderly and poor man, the bishop of the town, whose name was Myriel.