ayn rand failing to understand that sesame street is for young children
god this is missing the best part JIM HENSON I think Ms. Rand and my character Oscar the Grouch would have a lot to talk about actually. I am laughing out loud at this idea.
AYN RAND Why would I want to talk to him. What has he achieved or trying to achieve.
JIM HENSON He has achieved what I think is the ultimate goal of your way of thinking.
AYN RAND I am not isolated. I have no contempt for others. Millions of people read my books and find my thoughts inspirational. I hardly spend my time on the sidelines in a trash can grumping.
there’s nothing actually stopping disney from adding Kermit to infinity war
I love you all. You know that. But I had a terrible day yesterday (scary medical news, got stabbed three times in a failed effort to draw blood, missed out on picking up meds by five minutes because the vet’s office closed).
Would someone please write Missy Piggy and Agent Carter foiling spy rings and kicking bad guys in the balls? PLEASE?
Peggy Carter kicked down the flimsy door. The two Soviet spies she’d been tracking for the last month looked up from their bomb assembly line. One grabbed for the Luger on the table as he snarled Russian curses. Peggy–wary of firing a gun in the fume-filled, tiny room–glanced to the side, saw the blocky radio they’d been using to communicate with Moscow, picked it up, and hurled it at the man’s head. He let out a startled cry and raised his arms to fend off the projectile; it crashed to the ground, its delicate transistors shattering. Before he could fire the gun he still clutched, Peggy was on him, delivering a half dozen punishing blows before he could even rise from his chair.
As Peggy vented her fury, the spy with a more highly developed sense of self-preservation snatched a completed bomb from the table and dashed through the door. Peggy pulled away from her one-sided fight, but not quickly enough to catch the second spy, who was halfway down the rickety wooden steps that led to the shut-down factory floor. She retrieved the portable radio she’d tucked in her jacket and keyed it to transmit.
“All agents, I have a runner. Close on the factory and do not let him escape–he has one of the stolen Stark bombs and he must not be allowed to use it.”
The first spy staggered from his chair, fists raised. “You Leviathan fellows certainly seem to have more guts than sense,” she commented, and decked him with a perfect roundhouse punch before turning her back on the bomb-makers’ lair. “I need men on the workshop,” she said into her radio. “Secure those bombs and get them to Stark, I want them defused immediately.”
As the SSR agents closed in, the remaining spy surveyed the situation. Quickly and coolly, he ducked into the shadow of a hulking press and waited. When the nearest SSR agent passed, gun at the ready, the spy slipped from his hiding spot and padded silently past him. He slid through the doors and crossed through the factory gates; once outside, he assumed a normal (if brisk) gait to walk by the assembled black SSR Fords. The lethal bomb waited invisibly in his jacket pocket as he planned his route toward the sidewalks of Broadway, crowded with tourists and theater-goers. Perhaps Leviathan’s original plan could not be accomplished, but he could still strike a blow against the blackened heart of the imperialist American regime …
As he plotted, a diminutive figure stepped from an alley into his path.
“Not so fast, buster.”
The man’s steps faltered as he squinted. The orange security light mounted to the side of the building behind the figure left its face mostly in shadow, but he could see … a snout? He touched his jacket pocket to make sure the bomb was still there, then reached for the gun tucked at the small of his back.
“I don’t know who you are, little pig, but you’d better move,” he said, then drew the gun and aimed it. “Or I’ll send you squealing back to the farm.”
The tiny figure didn’t flinch from the gun; instead, she seemed almost to vibrate with anger.
“Don’t. Call. Me. PIG!” she cried and leaped forward. “HIII-YAH!”
The man hardly had time to react as the little pig’s high kick landed directly on his crotch. He gasped in pain.
“HIIII-YAH!” she cried again and delivered a precise and devastating karate chop to the hand still clutching the gun, sending it flying. A flurry of follow-up blows soon had the man stretched insensible on the sidewalk.
“Agent Piggy, come in,” her radio crackled. The deadly and beautiful agent flipped her hair out of her face before retrieving her radio.
“Agent Carter, I have the miserable miscreant at my feet,” she said. She bent and searched his pockets. “AND I have the bomb, too.”
“Good work, Agent Piggy. I’ll send a team to retrieve the spy and the bomb to your location.”
“No hurry,” she said. “He’s not going anywhere.”
—later that night—
“I’m sorry to see you go, Agent Piggy,” Peggy said. “It’s been … refreshing to work with you.”
“Please, call me Miss Piggy,” she said, shaking Peggy’s hand. “I’m not an agent. Just a humble citizen keeping her Kermie safe.”
Peggy’s eyes turned sad. “As we all try to do, Miss Piggy. I wish you good luck.” She looked up. “Mr. Jarvis?”
“This way, ma’am,” Jarvis said to the pig, gesturing toward the Packard. “Mr. Stark will be flying you back himself, in gratitude for the role you played in foiling this dastardly plot.”
“If he hits on you, punch him,” Peggy advised, smiling. Miss Piggy smiled.
“And what if I hit on him?”
“I wouldn’t advise it,” she said. “But I’ve heard he does an excellent fondue.”
The two women laughed, but their amusement was short-lived. “If you ever need me to kick someone in the tennis balls, just let me know, Agent Carter,” Miss Piggy said.
“Peggy,” she replied. “Call me Peggy. And thank you. I may very well do so.”
“Peggy,” Miss Piggy said, and they shook hands once more before Miss Piggy climbed into the Packard. Jarvis shut the door, nodded at Peggy, and climbed inside. Peggy watched them drive toward their airfield and wondered if Miss Piggy would have made the same offer if she knew quite how soon Peggy might have to ask for her aid again. It didn’t matter now, she supposed; she would never shadow Miss Piggy’s reunion with her beloved Kermit by mentioning the dark threat that yet loomed over them. But the time would come, soon, that Agent Peggy Carter would need to call on Miss Piggy again; and when she did, it would be more than New York City at stake.
In a Season 43 episode, Cookie Monster is offered vegetables to eat while waiting for a batch of cookies to finish baking. At every instance, Mario Lopez, appearing as a news reporter, claims that Cookie has become the Veggie Monster. Cookie sings “Me Am What Me Am“ to explain that he is still Cookie Monster, even though he does love to occasionally eat vegetables. However, after Cookie eats part of the Sesame Street lamppost, Lopez comes back to report that Cookie is now “The Lamppost Monster.”
I can’t breathe…
YESSSSSS the backstory. It’s all become so clear.
Also people have tagged it as “bisexual anthem” and so that’s it. I’m done. I’ve completed my mission in life. I can now transcend physical existence and rise to the halls of Bihalla to live an eternal life of free of biphobia and hatred among my fellow bi people.
Kimchi and Justice 