tape-it-down

7

“Ghosts? Ha! I ain’t afraid of no ghosts. Every sailor knows a ghost won’t come near a fella as long as he’s wearing his spotted neckerchief. And his dried-up sea leprechaun. And a bit of gold never hurt. 

But to be on the safe side, I’m also wearing me pants in a melvin knot, got me shivering timber brace, and the hairs on the back of me neck are taped down. And I’m all wrapped up in a suit of anti-ghost armor. 

And if none of this stuff works, I’ve got me secret weapon—the specter deflector. So just try and get me, you ghosts. Bring it on!”

My experiences in TF2:

Scout

Baby scouts:

-Forget they have double jumps

-Run at heavies with their bats from like 30 feet away

-Fail really bat at parkour

-Use all their amo trying to kill the enemy sniper

-Gets headshot by said enemy sniper constantly

-Never stops yelling for medic

-Easily backstabbed

-Runs into walls

Decent Scouts:

- Double jumps everywhere

-Shoots at heavies instead

-Decent at parkour

-Only gets hit by snipers half the time

-Still calls for medic

Advanced Scouts:

-Neon everything

-You will always know where this player is because they’re like a damn beacon

-Is the one player playing the really bad quality beyonce music through their mic, has taped down their V key

-Parkous everything. Parkours his teammates. Parkours the objective. 

-Calls for medic every second of the game

God Scouts:

-Jaded as fuck

-Can take out a sentry single handedly

-Your team will never know where he is but he’s at the top of the leaderboard at all times

-Can switch direction midair like a cheetah

-Doesn’t even know what a medic is 

-He’ll take on a heavy with 25 and walk out with 24

-Never gets backstabbed

-Sniper’s better not even try hitting this guy

Sniper

Baby Snipers:

-Constantly scoped

-Don’t check for spies

-Get backstabbed a whole lot

-Gibus hat and pyrovision goggles

-Huntsman bows in mvm

-Caps points

-Trying his best

-Calls for medic a lot

Decent Snipers:

-Can headshot with the huntsman sometimes

-Goes out of his scope only to run around to a new spot

-Thinks about capping, leaves it to his team

-No cosmetics

-Tries to take on advanced snipers and fails

-Stands in obvious sniper nests

Advanced Snipers:

-Can headshot scouts

-Can play sniper in mvm and no one will really mind

-Spychecks himself often 

-Stays in unexpected locations, moves often

God Snipers:

-Can snipe a tin can in outer space

-Doesn’t miss shots

-Fear him

-Accused of hacking, just good

-Never moves the entire round, no one can even get close enough to kill him

-Top scores

-His own team doesn’t know where he is

-They don’t even see him leave the spawn room

-Probably doesn’t even blink

-Can hear spies decloaking 500 miles away

-Has xray vision

Medic

Baby Medic:

-Runs to the other side of the map to heal someone with 10% loss of health

-Pockets when he’s the only medic on the team

-Excited to heal and do good!

-Caps and fights with his syringe gun

-The team is happy he’s there, at least

God Medic:

-There is no type of medic other than baby and god

-Hates the medic class so much

-Wants to murder his teammates

-He’s absolutely everywhere

-You never see him healing anyone, but he’s top scoring and none of your teammates have died

-Can hit running scouts with a crusader’s crossbow

-Full of hellish rage 

-If you don’t thank him he WILL be in your room that night

Be Kind, Rewind

Peridot discovers the ultra-rare Camp Pining Hearts miniseries, Summer in Saskatoon, but there’s just one catch: it was only released on VHS. Luckily, she tracks the tapes down to a local video store where she can rent them one at a time. After making it through the fourth of five tapes, which ends in a major cliffhanger that could affect the relationships of every character on the show (even camp counselors Larry and Liz), Peridot is stunned to learn that she has been banned from the video store for not rewinding the previous tapes before returning them. Can Peridot fool the store’s manager by sending in Amethyst to rent the final tape for her, or will she never know what happens?

ben_scrivensDown in Australia for the Wayne Gretzky Ice Hockey Challenge. I’m taping all my sticks with Pride Tape so it’s clear for all to see, if you can play, you can play. Hockey is for everyone. Aussies, LGBTQ players, guys, girls, young and old. If you treat others with respect, you’ll always have a spot on my team. #pridetape #canvusachallenge #scrivensdownunder

Anons: 

“ Poor little Edd~ Is Tord planing on digesting his little toy or is he gonna spit him back out? “    He would, but look at Matt’s face. (”B3 Matt?”)

“ Could you please draw tord forcing tons of hot sauce down tiny toms throat? “

Hot, hot.

 ‘ Where has this blog been all my life? Can we have Tord torture a taped down and chubby Edd with a feather? That chub must be ticklish! Also it’s a great way to tire out his pray.” & “ Do you think Tord would ever tickle his lil toys? Just to hear them uncontrollably laugh and even sob a little. “

Day 18-Gift Wrap-Stiles Stilinski

Teen Wolf Imagine:#80 Prompt:#…None

Word Count: 586

Warnings: None that I can think of.

A/n: Cute little stiles thing going on here. I hope you like it.

Originally posted by itsagirlthingbae

Masterlist

Coming Soon

Last Imagine

Keep reading

i honestly like the idea of a brutal fighter!luke training in the gym until late in the evening - another day of split knuckles, purpled and red flesh, swollen lips and limbs, and the occasional dried blood caked that was caked onto his taped wrists - before collapsing face down on your bed, the serious, hard-hitting brawler now softly whimpering for your touch, so you’d straddle his lower back and carefully knead the sore, knotted muscles on his shoulders and his back - which left him groaning now beneath you, first out of pleasure, then in an attempt of humor with over-exaggerated sexual moans that left him snickering and you simply rolling your eyes.

Toilet paper pill box.

Another small fun project for recycling!
These are perfect for little gifts and a cute way to send
your jewelry to customers… it not only give a nice shell of
protection to the treasures you put inside, its cost free, customizable
and keeps recycling on the mind <3

All you need are
- toilet paper rolls
- decor ( i used stamps)
- Tape or glue

Step one: decorate your roll.
I used some of my stamps, but don’t limit yourself to just that… you can
use old paper, photographs, tissue paper, paint,sharpie and whatever else you
have laying around to decorate. Mod podge and some pattered paper would
be fun!

Step two:
Once your roll is decorated to your liking, fold down the corners on one end,
making it look like little cat ears. Make sure they fold over each other so there is no
open gap, and tape down  ( you can also glue the end down)
* side note… if you dont like the look of regular tape, they sell something called washi tape? that comes in all sorts of amazing patterns!

-Step three:
When you have some side sealed and taped down, wrap and place your item/treasures inside the box ( i wrapped up some earrings)
and seal the other end, again making sure they fold over one another so there are no gaps.

- Step four… your done!

Again these are wonderful for gift giving and product packaging.
Small, sturdy, cheap, recycled pill boxes…. you can use old paper towel rolls
too! those are larger and can fit a bit more than TP rolls.

Misanthropology

Ted Carpenter, 1976. (My comments below.)

Some years ago, Oliver LaFarge published a short story about an ethnologist who, as a young man, financed his studies among American Indians by collecting their treasures for museums. Over the years, his love of subject deepened to the point of identity, and towards the end of his life, he devoted much cunning to removing these pieces from museum storage and sending them back to their heirs. His actions came to light after his death when the Indian heirs again offered these pieces for sale.

The story is true. I knew him well. The dilemma he faced, anthropologists are only beginning to acknowledge. The truth is, though native informants may have liked anthropologists personally, they often distrusted their motives. Some suspected profits from books; others noted it was a paid job.

But what disturbed most was the feeling that when their dances and tales were filmed, taped, and written down, they were stolen from them as surely as their lands and furs were taken away. When they saw their sacred treasures under glass, heard their songs on the radio, watched their dances on TV, they not only objected to errors they spotted, they felt robbed. None of this had anything to do with them. They felt used. And they were.

The world’s largest collection of primitive art was put together by a man of great wealth and acquisitiveness who personally inked catalogue numbers on every specimen he bought, then stored these treasures in an inaccessible warehouse. The moment he catalogued a piece, it became his.

Anthropology, as an offspring of colonialism, reflects what Lévi-Strauss calls ‘a state of affairs in which one part of mankind treats the other as object’. The search for self-knowledge, which Montaigne linked to the annihilation of prejudice, has never been a dominant theme in twentieth-century anthropology. Not really. The trend has been towards the manipulation of peoples in the very course of studying them.

I don’t refer to the close link between British anthropologists and the Colonial Office, or to the American anthropologists working on CIA counter-insurgency projects. That was mere Winnie-the-Pooh.

I refer to the anthropologist’s role as a translator. Humane translation preserves and presents. Paul Radin insisted that the only acceptable ethnology was the life history, self told by members of indigenous society. But those who undertook such effort found themselves far removed from the mainstream of anthropology.

Even the concept of relativism has become, in the words of Stanley Diamond, ‘a perspective congenial in an imperial civilization convinced of its power. Every primitive or archaic culture is conceived as a human possibility that can be “tasted”; it is, after all, harmless. We, at our leisure, convert the experience of other cultures into a kind of sport, just as Thorstein Veblen’s modern hunter mimics, and trivializes, what was once a way of life. Relativism is the bad faith of the conqueror, who has become secure enough to travel anywhere.’

Clothing themselves in liberal platitudes and employing what they called ‘scientific methodologies’, anthropologists translated other cultures into unreadable jargon and statistics, almost none of it translatable back into life energy. They erased cultures with irrelevancy and dullness. A few ended up talking to each other in a language known only to themselves, about subjects having no existence outside their closed circle. Little wonder informants felt shut out.

This was not true of a handful of reports published around the turn of the century. Publications of the Bureau of American Ethnology contained detailed, matter-of-fact, accurate descriptions of Zuni ceremonies, Hopi pottery designs, etc. These are used today as reference works by the Zuni and Hopi in their efforts to keep alive their heritage.

Almost nothing published in the last fifty years could serve that end. These later reports aren’t repositories of knowledge; they’re graves. No retrieval from them is possible.

Between 1946 and 1965, a typical research project began with a government grant and the assembly of an interdisciplinary team. Ideally, this included a psychologist, economist, etc., that is, representatives of categories meaningful to our culture, though alien to the culture studied. Generally no one was invited to participate who had shown prior interest in the subject, say someone who had learned the language of the subject group. The thought of including someone from the subject group itself never occurred.

If it was American Indians, reservations were taken as geographical locales, though for many Indians, social drinking-dancing clubs, which cut across reservation lines and centered in cities, were primary. Time categories were based on government budgets, not indigenous calendars.

Every category came from the dominant culture. The indigenous culture wasn’t preserved and presented: it was swallowed.

By the time administrators, missionaries, social workers, and anthropologists got through with indigenous peoples, most were eager to forget their pasts. When ‘Dead Birds’, a superb film on tribal warfare in New Guinea, was shown at the Administrative College, Boroko, one student angrily turned off the project: ‘What right does anyone have to record what we choose to forget?’ His statement was applauded.

The dilemma I faced in New Guinea was this: I had been asked to find more effective uses for electronic media, yet I viewed these media with distrust. I had been employed by government administrators, who, well-intentioned, sought to use these media for human control. They viewed media as neutral tools and they viewed themselves as men who could be trusted to use them humanely. I saw the problem otherwise.

I think media are so powerful they swallow cultures. I think of them as invisible environments which surround and destroy old environments. Sensitivity to problems of culture conflict and conquest becomes meaningless here, for media play no favourites: they conquer all cultures. One may pretend that media preserve and present the old by recording it on film and tape, but that is mere distraction, a sleight-of-hand possible when people keep their eyes focused on content.

I felt like an environmentalist hired to discover more effective uses of DDT. There seemed no way to reach those who needed this information most. Even students at the University of Papua and New Guinea, though often sophisticated about the uses of media for political ends, still naively though that when their images and words appeared within media, this gave them public identity and power. They failed to grasp that this merely acknowledged their existence within these new environments; it in no way guaranteed them creative roles there. What was everywhere needed was the sort of media sophistication which comes only with detachment, dislocation, study. Such sophistication is not easily achieved.

I therefore decided that both the written report and film I produced would be addressed to no particular audience. Like the cry, ‘Fire!’ I hoped they would received the widest possible circulation and not just be heard by arsonists. This meant shunning ‘scholarly’ publications, which have long since become a means of information control; it also meant avoiding conventional formats, another means of neutralizing information. Hence the format of this book.

-Edmund Snow Carpenter, 1976 - Oh, What A Blow That Phantom Gave Me!




This is the last chapter of a book written in 1976 about the effects of electricity, printed books, and other media services on tribal cultures who have never had them. Carpenter’s words call to us from 40 years ago with the same urgency.

Carpenter lived in a world governed by the path-of-least-resistance offered by electric current, guided aimlessly wherever new circuits were grafted. His friend and colleague Marshall McLuhan called this network an extension of the human nervous system. Our world is different now, as digital technology is a true transformation to this entire system. The Internet introduces for the first time: memory

Memory is at the absolute crux of the issue as we navigate through the identity crisis of our time. The Internet allows us to retrieve any aspect of human history that has been recorded on this format, on demand. Every bit is stored and given an immutable address. This means the infinite torrent of our mental garbage is equally accessible at any given point, from political ideas, to music, to pornography, to specific pornography suited to your exact taste.

Our call as human beings of the 21st century global network is to reverse the common wisdom into it’s true form: Think Local, Act Global.

Thinking global is the path of least resistance. It puts the entire weight of human information, empathy (lit: shared suffering), and ethics on your shoulders. The result of thinking global and acting locally is familiar to us: it is the opening of a Chipotle, a cupcake store, a tribute band, a Hollywood production - it is quite simply taking personal life cues from a vast social thermometer of algorithmic statistics, and Americans have been invited to take this thinking as gospel for almost a century. This is the world of applied knowledge, of conceptual thought, of dreams-come-true.

Thinking local deals exclusively with percepts. That is, the loose inference-based induction of the total environment that is adaptable, mutable, ready for sudden change, without the hardening & petrification of these patterns. It is impossible to maintain in isolation, that is: thinking local requires dialogue. It also requires ground, and recognition of the formal cause in any given situation.

What is needed in a world of instantaneous connection and service environments beyond the scope of any-before-seen in human history, is the ability to be grounded. We must be grounded in memory to measure experiences against an example.

We risk forfeiting our personal memories to our collective imagination. 

The wonderful nature of our dreams is that they aren’t true, or false.

eleven - wrapping presents

//time got away from me and i forgot to post this yesterday. sorry! 

sasusaku - december eleventh - K


“What the hell is that?”

Her face quickly scrunched up in disgusted and confused manner, and Sasuke frowned at her. He let go of the box that he had been wrapping and simply stared at her, waiting for her to say something that would counter the rude comment that fell from her lips.

“I mean, do you know what you’re doing?”

He inhaled deeply before pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes, “no, Sakura. Apparently I don’t.”

His comment towards her was short and snappy, and she began to return the frown back. The wrapping paper in her hand was now crumpled from the tight squeeze she had on it and as she took a piece of tape from the dispenser, she taped the piece down and slid the box across the floor.

“Why is it that you get all grumpy when it comes to wrapping presents?” She asks.

He looks to her now and raises a brow before pushing his hand through his hair.

“It just stresses me out.”

Sakura smiled at him before taking the box that was laid out in front of him. She examined the wrapping paper that surrounded it, and giggled to herself. In a wrinkled mess, she began removing each piece of tape and laid the paper out in between her and Sasuke and placed the box down on top of it gently.

“Okay, so this is how you do it,” Sakura cleared her throat, “first, take this side of the paper, and fold it over the box. It should stop in the middle of the box. Tape that piece down.”

He followed her instructions and removed a piece of tape from the dispenser and placed it where she held her finger against the paper and box, “now we fold the opposite side over, and tape that down as well.”

Again, he taped the paper down and watched as she spun the box towards him. The paper now engulfed the box in its shining surface, decorated in gold patterns and swirls. Sakura made quick work of the next step, but explained the process to him. Sasuke, on the other hand, felt his mind begin to wander.

This is lame, he thought as he watched Sakura fold the paper against the box, holding it in place with her slender fingers and waiting for him to tape the paper against the box. He figured this was better than wrapping presents himself, and having Sakura insult his wrap job.

“Now, we’re going to do the same on this side… tuck the paper against the box.. And fold this piece over this,” she looked to Sasuke as she anchored the wrapping paper and waited for his tape. Sasuke soon let out a groan before flopping onto his back.

“My way is better, Sak.”

Sakura snorted before flopping on her back beside him. She rolled onto her side and laid her arm across his chest, nuzzling her face into his neck and inhaling his scent in. His skin was warm against her, and she couldn’t help the smile that appeared on her face.

“Then wrap them your way,” she offered a small kiss against his neck, feeling the tips of his hair tickle her nose. The goosebumps that appeared on his skin sent a shiver down his spine. He was turning his head to look at her.

“But ‘I have no idea what I’m doing.’”

Sakura giggled at his mocking voice. He always made his voice high and squeaky when it came to mocking her, and it was something that she loved about him. After all this time together, and they could still tease one another in a playful manner. She pushed away from him and went back to finishing the wrap job on the present.

“Whatever, Sasuke Uchiha.

“Whatever, Sakura Uchiha.

Force of Feeling - CS Fanfic: Modern AU

Synopsis:  Emma Swan is scared of opening her heart up to any man ever again. Love only brings pain as far as she’s concerned but then she meets someone who could prove her wrong…if only she has the courage to let him in.

Read from the beginning on FF.Net or AO3

Rated: T

CHAPTER THREE

Emma picked up the royal blue coloured scarf and placed it onto the silver wrapping paper.

Christmas was in a week and she just had these last two presents to wrap. They were for James and Killian.

Folding the paper neatly, she taped down the edges and added a small tag. ‘To Killian, Best wishes, Emma and Henry’, she wrote. Nothing that could be taken as anything other than it was – just giving a gift to a friend at this festive time of year.

She didn’t care to dwell on all the hours she’d spent searching for just the right colour to match his eyes. Especially since they’d only ever spoken of getting the boys gifts and not each other.

With an irritated huff at herself, she moved on to wrapping the second gift to James.

Killian had confided that he’d bought his nephew a new games console for Christmas, so she’d decided to buy the boy a game. With Henry’s help, they’d picked something out and, once it was wrapped, they were going to the park to give it to him.

She attached the tag and, trying hard not to second guess herself, she picked up Killian’s present then called out to Henry to let him know she was ready. Her son came out of his bedroom and once they’d donned their coats, hats and gloves, they headed out of their apartment.

The late morning air was crisp as they made their way to the park. Up above, the clouds looked heavy with more snow and a few flakes were just beginning to fall by the time they arrived.

As usual, Killian and James were already there and getting started on one of their snowy creative efforts. Over the weeks they’d made a dog, attempted a horse, built an army of snowmen and even tried to construct a car – hers - life size.

“Swan! You and Henry are just in time to help us make a snow bear,” Killian called out, having seen her almost as soon as she’d entered the park.

“Awesome,” the young boy enthused before shooting a grin at his mother and running off.

Emma watched him go, then her gaze shifted and finally settled on Killian as he stood waiting for her to join them, a soft smile on his face.

Suddenly, she felt flutter of trepidation stir in her gut.

What had she been thinking buying him a gift?

What if he took it to mean more?

Maybe she actually wanted it to mean more…

Keep reading