six fingered hand

It bothers me to see how many people are saying stuff like “I thought Bill Nye was supposed to be the science guy, he’s buying into this SJW cuck libtard stuff! Science says there are only two genders!” in response to Bill Nye covering gender and sexuality on Bill Nye Saves the World.

…Like, did they even listen to what he said? Have they read any peer-reviewed literature about the subject? Is their understanding of “gender” limited to a middle school understanding of X and Y chromosomes? Bill Nye addressed chromosomes, hormones, genitalia and secondary sex characteristics when talking about how some of us don’t fit into the male/female sex dichotomy, and brought up psychology and neuroscience when talking about gender and its difference from sex, and also sexuality. The actual science of sex, gender and sexuality across the animal kingdom and across human behaviour is far more interesting than “lol nope science says there are only two genders.” 

It honestly makes me angry when people say “lol I thought this was about science” whenever a scientist says something about topics like gender, sexuality, climate change or evolution that annoys someone. You can’t just pretend science is on your side when your understanding of science is based on a grade school textbook.

Also, why is it only gender people seem to have a problem with? Yeah, basic school textbooks will talk about XX and XY chromosomes and the male and female reproductive system, but they’ll also talk about how humans have five fingers on each hand and how the eye works when everyone knows some humans are born with six fingers on each hand or born blind. Textbooks will talk about how our body metabolises fats, but nobody would say “lol no sorry science says otherwise” at someone (like one of my secondary school classmates) who had a rare disorder who couldn’t metabolise fats. We accept that sweeping statements about human biology are generalisations. Sure, there are limits - no humans have wings or feathers, that would go against science - but we all accept some level of human diversity outside the basic-level textbooks - diversity that’s described well in the advanced medical textbooks. So why is it people only apply this logic to gender and not other differences in human biology?

I think part of it could be the backlash against postmodern nonsense which suggests everything is opinion and science is no more objective than art, which is a blatantly anti-science attitude. But the idea that sex, gender and sexuality aren’t totally binary isn’t just postmodern gender theory, it’s actual science with empirical evidence to back it up. 

Anonymous said: Could you maybe write something with the smiths and pines families for #26(thanksgiving)

I wasn’t really sure what to write so I opted for illustrating this prompt instead. Happy Thanksgiving to my fellow Canadians!

the princess bride; starter sentences.

  • ❛ Hello. My name is _____. You killed my father. Prepare to die. ❜
  • ❛ You mock my pain. ❜
  • ❛ Life is pain, _____. Anyone who says differently is selling something. ❜
  • ❛ You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means. ❜
  • ❛ We’ll never survive. ❜
  • ❛ Nonsense. You’re only saying that because no one ever has. ❜
  • ❛ Get used to disappointment. ❜
  • ❛ I’ll explain and I’ll use small words so that you’ll be sure to understand, you warthog faced buffoon. ❜
  • ❛ That may be the first time in my life a man has dared insult me. ❜
  • ❛ The battle of wits has begun. ❜
  • ❛ Truly, you have a dizzying intellect. ❜
  • ❛ You mean you wish to surrender to me? Very well, I accept. ❜
  • ❛ Is very strange. I have been in the revenge business so long, now that it’s over, I don’t know what to do with the rest of my life. ❜
  • ❛ Have you ever considered piracy? ❜
  • ❛ Mawage. Mawage is wot bwings us togeder today. Mawage, that bwessed awangment, that dweam wifin a dweam… ❜
  • ❛ I can’t compete with you physically, and you’re no match for my brains. ❜
  • ❛ Good work. Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning. ❜
  • ❛ Hear this now: I will always come for you. ❜
  • ❛ This is true love - you think this happens every day? ❜
  • ❛ That does put a damper on our relationship. ❜
  • ❛ I’ve seen worse. ❜
  • ❛ We’ll never succeed. We may as well die here. ❜
  • ❛ I do not mean to pry, but you don’t by any chance happen to have six fingers on your right hand? ❜
  • ❛ Do you always begin conversations this way? ❜
  • ❛ I would sooner destroy a stained glass window than an artist like yourself. ❜
  • ❛ Please understand I hold you in the highest respect. ❜
  • ❛ You’ve done nothing but study swordplay? ❜
  • ❛ You seem a decent fellow… I hate to kill you. ❜
  • ❛ You seem a decent fellow… I hate to die. ❜
  • ❛ Well, I’m not saying I’d like to build a summer home here, but the trees are actually quite lovely. ❜
  • ❛ Go through his clothes and look for loose change. ❜
  • ❛ Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while. ❜
  • ❛ You can die slowly, cut into a thousand pieces. ❜
  • ❛ You killed my love. ❜
  • ❛ You rush a miracle man, you get rotten miracles. ❜
  • ❛ I do not envy the headache you will have when you awake. But for now, rest well and dream of large women. ❜
  • ❛ There’s a shortage of perfect breasts in this world. It would be a pity to damage yours. ❜
  • ❛ I’m not a witch, I’m your wife. But after what you just said, I’m not even sure I want to be that any more. ❜
  • ❛ Look, are you just fiddling around with me or what? ❜
  • ❛ When I was your age, television was called books. ❜
  • ❛ Oh, well, thank you very much, very nice of you. Your vote of confidence is overwhelming. ❜
  • ❛ You mean, you’ll put down your rock and I’ll put down my sword, and we’ll try and kill each other like civilized people? ❜
  • ❛ Why do you wear a mask? Were you burned by acid, or something like that? ❜
  • ❛ Oh no, it’s just that they’re terribly comfortable. I think everyone will be wearing them in the future. ❜
  • ❛ For the last time, surrender! ❜
  • ❛ You’re trying to kidnap what I’ve rightfully stolen. ❜
  • ❛ I challenge you to a battle of wits. ❜
  • ❛ I died that day! ❜
  • ❛ Beautiful isn’t it? It took me half a lifetime to invent it. ❜
  • ❛ Look, I don’t mean to be rude but this is not as easy as it looks, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t distract me. ❜
  • ❛ There will be blood tonight! ❜
  • ❛ Is this a kissing book? ❜
  • ❛ That’s a miracle pill? ❜
  • ❛ The chocolate coating makes it go down easier. ❜
  • ❛ Please consider me as an alternative to suicide. ❜
  • ❛ They’re kissing again. Do we have to read the kissing parts? ❜
  • ❛ You’ve got an overdeveloped sense of vengeance. It’s going to get you into trouble one of these days. ❜
  • ❛ I suppose you think you’re brave, don’t you? ❜
  • ❛ I will never love again. ❜
  • ❛ You be careful. People in masks cannot be trusted. ❜
  • ❛ I’d rather eat lint! ❜
  • ❛ As you wish. ❜
  • ❛ While you’re at it, why don’t you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it? ❜
  • ❛ I can cope with torture. ❜
  • ❛ Am I going mad, or did the word “think” escape your lips? ❜
  • ❛ Australia is entirely peopled with criminals! ❜
  • ❛ Frankly, I think the odds are slightly in your favor at hand fighting. ❜
  • ❛ Anybody want a peanut? ❜
  • ❛ Do you hear that? That is the sound of ultimate suffering. ❜
  • ❛ Where I come from, there are penalties when a woman lies. ❜
  • ❛ Yes, you’re very smart. Shut up. ❜
  • ❛ That doesn’t leave much time for dilly-dallying. ❜
  • ❛ You’re trying to trick me into giving away something. It won’t work. ❜

I love how the theory of alternate realities implies that a reality in which literally any possibility has happened somewhere, no matter how stupid or random the variation.

There is a reality somewhere where everything is exactly the same except Bill Murray has six fingers on his left hand, and nobody, including him, noticed until 2013.

There is a reality where a single tree in Oregon has a genetic quirk making its leaves blue.

There’s a reality where all societies collectively had a brain-glitch and skipped over the year 1973. Not to say that they forgot that year, just that they were dating their papers as 1972, and then all just thought that the following year was 1974 and never wrote down 1973 on anything. 

There’s a reality in which Twitter was invented in the 90s but smartphones weren’t 

There’s a reality where every human has a frog companion that just shows up at your door after you’re born. These specific frogs live as long as you do but other frogs don’t

There’s a reality where everyone’s first word is “alpine”. 

There’s a reality where on one day in 2009, everyone burped at exactly the same moment and a new religion spawned from the experience. 

Basically any possible combination of atoms can just happen in any random way and that’s so wild to me

Tumblr freaking DELETED THE ASK for no reason, but to the anon who asked “What is Hunkle Ford”, here’s what I was GOING to say:


First, take a lovely stroll through this magical tag on my blog!

And maybe take a look through my blog, hunklefordpines

And read this post.

Just, please love this man. Please.


Smaller Than He Seems (one-shot)

Based on an AU concept where Ford was REALLY unlucky during his short stint in the Do-Over Dimension and had his biological clock turned backward until he was a kid again. He still, however, remembers every bit of his life up to that point. This is the initial reaction of everyone when he returns through the portal. I have approximately five angst/fluff fic ramble ideas to share with you later on this whole concept.

“Who is that??” Dipper asked, his brow knitting together as he gawked at the short, compact figure that- only seconds ago- crossed through the glowing maw of the wrecked portal.

“I- I don’t know,” Stan sputtered. “This isn’t- wasn’t who I thought would…”

The figure was dressed in all black, a thick scarf and a small pair of metallic goggles entirely obscuring the face. Thick, wild brown hair poked out from the front of the jacket’s hood. They began to walk towards him and the rest of his family as the shimmering blue light from the portal began to die out.

“I dunno ‘bout you, but that looks like a kid to me, dudes,” Soos whispered to Dipper and Mabel probably a little louder than intended, hand cupped against his lips like a megaphone.

The four watched in uncomfortable silence as this mysterious fifth person crossed to their side of the basement, their heavy boots forming clear footprints in the dirt. They stopped in front of the red leather journal. The first of the author’s journals, the journal Stan had kept in secret down here all this time. Slowly, the figure reached their pale hand towards the cover. They splayed their fingers out over the gold foil six-fingered hand, revealing…

That they had six fingers as well.

Dipper’s mouth went slack. “What..?”

“The author?” Mabel whispered. “That’s the author??”

The two glanced at Stan, searching for answers, but their Grunkle’s expression was close to unreadable. What they could tell was that he appeared just as surprised and confused as they did, his eyes blown wide and his mouth screwed into that sort of anxious frown he got whenever he couldn’t figure something out.

The small figure (the author??) picked up the journal, hugged it to their chest with one hand, and then used the other to pull back their scarf and goggles. Instantly Dipper saw that Soos was right. This mysterious person was a kid. A young boy, probably right around his age. He wore thick glasses. Untamed brown waves- just a little longer than a usual boy’s haircut- framed his face. Oddly, Dipper found that the shape of the boy’s nose reminded him a lot of the Pines family nose. At first a part of him just dialed that to coincidence, but the more he thought about it the resemblance he found within this boy’s face to his own was quite interesting. His small mouth was set into a scowl as he looked around the basement, to the wrecked portal, and finally towards Grunkle Stan.

“Ford…?” Stan whispered, breaking the thick sheet of silence. “Wha… what ha-“

“What happened?” the boy- Ford- said in a clipped manner. “Time. Mistakes. Years of my life, stolen away. It’s a long story, Stanley, and frankly, I’m not sure I’m in the mood to relive it at this time.”

Dipper, Mabel, and Soos watched in utter confusion as the two continued to converse in familiarity.

“So like… Mr. Pines knows him?” Soos wondered out loud.

“It looks like it,” Dipper replied, continuing to watch the pair talk. The kid seemed really upset with Stan, and from what he could hear was chastising him for activating something. Activating the portal, maybe?

Mabel pulled at her brother’s arm. “But this makes no sense! If he’s the author,” she said, jabbing her finger towards the black clothed kid, “then why is he so young? The journal was from the eighties, Dipper. The roarin’ eighties!”

They watched as Stan opened his arms, as if desiring to hug the child. Ford hesitated for a moment, scowl returning to his face, but soon it softened and he accepted the affection. Their Grunkle wrapped his hands around the kid’s small frame as tightly as he could.

“I know you’re still angry with me and everythin’, but I really missed ya’,” he said. Dipper could swear he could see a stray tear in his eye.

The corner of Ford’s mouth tilted into a smile, just for a second, but it was there. “I don’t like the risky move you made, restarting the portal,” he said, shooting a slight glare towards Stan, “but I… I am glad to be home.”

“Sorry Sixer, ‘m not apologizing for that. Never would, never will.”

“You always were a stubborn ass,” the kid said with a short chuckle.

Stan’s face froze. He pulled away from the hug, his expression twisted into pure horror.

“Whoa, whoa, Ford! Watch your language! Not around the- oh,” he interjected himself suddenly, scratching awkwardly at the nape of his neck. “I, uh… I guess I never thought ta’ introduce everyone.”

Now it was Ford’s turn to panic. His eyes shot wide open, finally noticing the other three people standing around the basement. “Stan, you didn’t tell me there were children down here!” he replied, his voice raising into a slightly higher register.

You’re a child now, Poindexter. It takes one to know one,” he said matter-of-factly, and ruffled the disgruntled kid’s hair. 

Ford swatted his hand away in indignation. “Please don’t patronize me.”

Stan rubbed his hands together, and then gestured towards the boy. “Anyways. Kids, Soos, this is- well, this is my twin brother. Ford. He’s kinda, eh… smaller. Than usual. Ford, this is your family. Shermie’s grandkids…”

Please Come

PREVIOUSLY TITLED: Colder Than This Home

Words: 1566 || CW: Brief Injury Mention CW: Near Death Scenario || In Which Stan takes a few days after Ford’s postcard to head towards Oregon. He quickly regrets waiting at all to leave.

Based off a reALLY angsty idea @nour386 mentioned.

‘Please Come,’ the letter said.

The immediate feeling was something hopeful, but more than that – worried. Stan pushed down the feeling with an embittered thought.

Guy lives up in some fancy house with his research money, and after what? 13 years? He FINALLY has something to say to Stan and he only spares him two words. Two words that, he realizes, is just some plea just asking him to come to wherever he’s at. Like Stan is just going to drop everything he’s got going on because he spent five minutes to drop him a post card. Psh, whatever! Granted… he doesn’t have anything actively going on here and now besides laying low, but that wasn’t the point!

The point was you don’t just send someone two words and expect them to come to your place, no explanation, nothing. Just, please come.

Stan scoffed, setting the letter onto the nightstand of the hotel room before resolutely sitting right back at the end of the bed again. There was some gnawing instinct to pack everything and head off, but Stan just shoved it to the back of his mind, focusing back on the game show currently on TV.

He keeps ignoring the post card for another 3 days, letting it gather dust on the nightstand, untouched. That’s when he picks it up and looks at it again though. The lettering wasn’t exactly neat… it looked pretty rushed if anything… Like the nerd could barely stop to even just write out the simple pl- the simple request.

What does he owe him though? If Ford really needed help then… come on, he wouldn’t ask Stan of all people. Why would he ask Stan? After a decade and going through college, he had more resources than an estranged twin he refused to even send a word to before.

Stan holds up for a few more days, he’s got this hotel for the week after all. However, a thought finally hits him. How desperate would Ford have to be to contact him of all people?

He packs what he cares to bring and gets on the highway to Oregon, using the cash that was owed to the hotel for gas money.

Ice and snow slicks up the roads once he gets far enough north making his attention split between paying attention to the road and pushing back worried thoughts. If it was that urgent Ford would have called him. There’s no way he was expecting him to leave the second he got the letter. It’d probably take most people a couple days to just up and leave on some road trip. Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been too time important.

Still, Stan is anxious as he drives into the woods – tired from the drive he barely took breaks from. He spots something when he’s about to park the car. It’s several yards away from the actual shack, but a barely snowed over form makes him pull his car to a quick stop and turn it off, hopping out of the car.

Even through the flurry of snow he can see snow-dusted brown hair and Stan sprints, leaving his car door open. “Ford?!”

He messily slides to a stop near the body near Ford. It’s Ford and he’s just barely shifting, an unmistakably six-fingered hand near his head, straining very slightly.  There’s heavy impressions in the snow by him, like he’d fallen twenty feet back and had just- started crawling across the ground. There’s a couple of items back there too, but Stan spends no time even bother registering what they are right now. He’s already pulling Ford up by his arm, trying to pick him up.

“Ford!” He turns his head just slightly towards him, and he mumbles something, but it’s too shaky for Stan to make it out. His whole body is giving trembles every few seconds, which is more worrisome than if he’d just been shivering the whole time. “Okay- okay, I’m getting you inside.” He tells him, his own voice shaking a bit.

Stan roughly starts to pull Ford along, his feet dragging on the snowy ground, only weakly cycling – he should probably just pick him up entirely, but Stan doesn’t dare to waste a second to even see if Ford can walk.

It still takes far too long in his mind for them to reach the porch – and Stan is repeatedly muttering curses and half assurances under his breath the whole time.  

He hefts Ford over to one arm and tries the door which is locked. “Damnit!” He curses, and tries to shove against the door to no avail, of course.

Ford is hazily looking over at the shack, and his breath is coming out shallow and god damn it Stan hopes like hell the key is in one of the pockets on him because the alternative is going back to his car to grab the crowbar from the back and breaking in that window.

“YES!” Stan pulls out a key- “Oh, fucking of course.” It’s a ring of a few keys which means more time to find the RIGHT key. He shoves one key in, trying it, before the next one – fumbling to use it with one hand. Quickly enough though, he finally has the door and he’s carrying Ford inside to a house with messes pressed against the walls.

The house – is nearly as cold as the outside which just makes the situation worse because how is he going to get Ford warm?

He stops when he sees a room with an unlit fireplace and a chair – it’s no couch, but it’s the best thing he’s found so far. Stan sets Ford into the chair. “Stay here,” he says before he’s flat out running back through the house.

He has to run up to the damn second floor to actually find a bedroom. There’s a mirror partially covered, a ton of junk just piled on top of the bed itself, and a thin layer of dust on everything in the room.

Grabbing the edge of the blankets he holds tight and pulls it off, everything loudly clattering to the wooden floor. Thankfully there’s a few blankets and at least one of them is a heavy duvet.

Stan barely stops when he’s jogging on his way back as he notices the thermostat on the wall – it’s switched off. “Seriously?!” He flicks the switch for the air and turns the dial to the highest temperature, hearing a shudder of the vents turning on in the walls.

When he reaches the room again, Ford is, thankfully, still in the chair and he notices for a brief second how his fingers are barely flexing the slightest bit. “Okay, okay,” he says setting the blankets down, “clothes and shoes. They’re all drenched.”

Ford is responsive, but it’s so delayed. At the very least though, Ford nods slightly and he moves as much as it seems he’s able in order to help.

Stan is tossing aside the ice-encrusted coat and boots, but he pauses briefly after he’s chucked the shirt because even despite the red of Ford’s skin he can see various wounds across much of it – some bandaged, others seeming only recently ‘healed’ or even just scabbed over. He’s got his own scars, but the worrisome thing is how NEW every one of these looks.

He continues. “When you’re not dying you are telling me what the Hell is going on.” Stan says, continuing, tossing boots and more into the wet pile before he’s quickly wrapping Ford in layers of blankets, cocooning him in. Stan’s own hands are shaking, making it difficult.

He’s tucking the third blanket around his brother when he says something, voice slurring.

“What? What is it?” Stan looks back up at Ford’s face. There’s a concentrated effort along with a desperate urgency.

He takes a few normal sized breaths, which sounds like it’s taking him most of his effort. Then he tries again. “D-Door. Lock the… door.”

Stan feels a creep of cold over his skin. He wants to ask a million questions about what the hell is going on and who is he in trouble with, but Ford can barely talk as is. “I got it.” He tells him, finishing tucking the blanket in before he does walk off. He goes to shut the door which he hadn’t even bothered closing before, glancing out into the snowy landscape for someone as he does. There’s nobody. That doesn’t mean there won’t be someone later though.

He locks the door… and sees the several other locks adorning the door as well. All of which he uses too.

Back in the room, there’s thankfully wood already in the fireplace and some fire starters nearby. Stan gets a fire started, then pushes the chair Ford is in close to it.

Finally, Stan sits against the wall beside the fireplace, rubbing his hands together before putting them up against his forehead. He glances over and over at Ford who seems to be on the bare edge of consciousness – and Stan can’t relax. He can’t.

If he had waited another day Ford would be dead. Frozen to death because for some reason his body couldn’t make it just half a minute longer to reach the door. He doesn’t know what’s going on and Ford almost died. Ford could still die.

Stan’s not cold, but he’s shaking so bad that it’s past pathetic now.