spiderine:

tielan:

reconditarmonia:

lannamichaels:

rhube:

bastardlybrendan:

fuckingrecipes:

facts-i-just-made-up:

I spent like 15 hours on this.

*impressed slow clap*

This was ridiculously pleasing to read out loud. 

This is a legitimately fine poem. I say so with my BA in English and Philosophy and my PhD. It’s DAMN HARD to write something like this. Be impressed, yo.

Mr. Fox, sir, I won’t do it. I can’t say it. I won’t chew it.

Thank you W.S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan for my ability to cold-read this at high speed

DED OF LAFF

*standing ovation*

I came up with a “humans as aliens” scenario on the bus and now I’m writing a story snippet.

tchy:

Karikki was sitting in the ship’s mess when the most recent addition to the crew stumbled into the room and collapsed into a chair with a relieved groan, dropping her head onto the table.

“Rough shift?” ie said, making a sympathetic noise as ie broke off another piece of ir food pack.

Melanie Dupré, recently hired on as a ship’s mechanic and as of one month ago the only human crewmember of the Xanaki Star, mumbled something into the table before lifting her head so that her translator could actually be of use.

“I could swear the ventilation ducts actually hate me personally,” she said. “I’ve been running around all day.” A look of horror crossed her features then, and she groaned again, dragging her hand across her eyes. “And I left my food packs in my room. Goddamn it.”

Karikki churred soothingly. “Don’t worry about it, you can have one of ours,” ie said, getting to ir feet and digging one of the vacuum-sealed silver packs out of the pantry.

Melanie made a noise that Karikki had learned to interpret as grateful and peeled the pack open, looking down at it dubiously. “You’re sure this is okay?”

“We’re nutritionally compatible!” Karikki said. “The captain checked, before we hired you on. Just in case you ran out of your own supplies. It should be fine.”

“Okay. Thanks,” she said, breaking off a square of the compressed nutrition block and popping it into her mouth.

A look crossed her face then that it took Karikki a moment to identify: disgust, ie realized. That was disgust–which was made all the clearer when Melanie gagged and grabbed a napkin, spitting the square out into her hand. “Oh my god,” she said.

Karikki could feel ir antennae fluttering anxiously. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is that a bad texture for humans?”

Melanie wiped her mouth, scrubbing at her tongue with the side of her hand. She shook her head. “No, the texture’s fine, it’s just like one of our protein blocks. It’s the [——], I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend you, but it’s awful! How can you eat that?”

Karikki flicked ir ear. “Sorry, say that again? I think your translator cut out in the middle. It’s the what?”

“The [——]. It [——] awful. I’m so sorry.”

Keep reading

pipistrellus:

feynites:

minesottafatspoollegend:

i love in fantasy when its like “king galamir the mighty golden eagle and his most trusted advisor who would never betray him, gruelworm bloodeye the treacherous”

When my sister and I were kids we had this one action figure, who was actually a brutalized batman doll without his cape (the dog chewed half his head, too), who we dubbed ‘Evil Chancellor Traytor’. The idea was that in the fictional society of our toys, ‘chancellor’ just came with the word ‘evil’ in front of it, as a matter of ancient tradition. Like ‘grand’ or ‘high’ or something along those lines.

Anyway, the running gag was that the king (an old Power Rangers knock-off doll) had absolute and unwavering faith in Evil Chancellor Traytor, who basically comported himself like a mix between Grima Wormtongue and Jafar from the Aladdin movies. Everyone was always sure that Evil Chancellor Traytor had something to do with the nefarious scheme of the day. The dude even carried around a poisoned knife called ‘the kingslayer’.

The additional twist on the joke, though, was that he never was behind anything. The king was actually right. Evil Chancellor Traytor was the most devoted civil servant in the entire Action Figure Dystopia. He spent his nights working on writing up new legislature to ensure that broken toys had access to mobility devices, was always on the lookout to acquire new shoeboxes for expanding city infrastructure, and drafted a proposal that once got half the ‘settlement’ in my sister and I’s closet moved to the upper shelf so that vulnerable toys were less likely to be snatched up by the dog.

The knife, as it turned out, was as symbolic as the ‘evil’ in his name. See, Action Figure Dystopia had a long history of corrupted monarchs getting too big for their thrones and exploiting the underclasses. The job of the Evil Chancellor was to always remain vigilant, and loyally serve a good ruler – or, if the regent should became a despot, to slay them on behalf of the people.

But since killing the king would be a terrible crime, the Evil Chancellor had to be the kind of person who would willingly die to spare the people from the plight of a wicked leader; because the murder would be pinned on them, in order to keep the ‘machinery of politics’ working as smoothly as ever.

Anyway, Evil Chancellor Traytor had a diary, in which my sister I would take turns writing out the most over-the-top good shit he’d done behind the scenes. Usually after everyone else had finished talking shit about him. I don’t know why but we got the biggest kick out of being like:

Barbie With the Unfortunate Haircut: Oh that Evil Chancellor Traytor! Why can’t the king see how wicked he is?!

Charmander From the Vending Machine: Char!

Jurassic Park Toy of Jeff Goldblum With Disturbingly Realistic Face: At least if someone puts a knife in the king’s back, we’ll know where to look!

Evil Chancellor Traytor’s Diary: Today I was feeding ducks at the park when I noticed another legless action figure sitting by the benches. I put a hundred dollars into his bag while he wasn’t looking. I really need to increase budgeting to the medical treatment centers. If only we had enough glue, I think we would see far fewer toys trying to get by without limbs… *insert iconic evil laugh*

Anyway, Evil Chancellor Traytor eventually fell victim to one of my mom’s cleaning sprees, and she decided he was too busted up to keep and tossed him out. My littler brother, who tended to follow my sister and I’s games like he was watching a daily soap opera, cried so hard that we had to do a special ‘episode’ where one of the toys found the Evil Chancellor’s diary, and so he got a big huge memorial and the king threw himself into the empty grave and then ordered the toys driving the toy bulldozer to bury him so that ‘Traytor’s grave would have a body’ (this seemed very important for some reason).

And then we had the Quest For a New King. Somehow or another that ended up being a giant rubber snake called ‘Tyrant King Cobra’.

#i love this discworld novel

darchildre:

kindlecoverdisasters:

Well, so long as you’re going mushroom picking, you might as well dress up for it. And carry a trombone.

Buy it HERE.

No, for serious, you guys.  You need to find a copy of this book.  It is amazing.  My coworkers and I tell everybody about it.

Every picture in the book is like this.  They are all inexplicable, full of exactly the kind of people you expect to be in a book with this cover, wearing clothing that is either entirely inappropriate for mushrooming or exactly the clothes you wear mushrooming (which are eccentric), and doing strange and silly things with fungs.

It is amazing.

Probably it is also informative about mushrooms, as our local mushroomers do check it out a lot, but mostly the pictures are just great.

“I’m Bored!”

yourplayersaidwhat:

…and after the 50th time my little cousin said that at today’s family get-together, I went to the car and got the dice.  Three small children between the ages of 6 and 10 got to play (a very loose, impromptu, anything-goes version of) D&D for the first time ever.  I titled it, “Save the Princess.”

My niece played a wizard, while the bored cousin played a fighter, who gradually evolved into the equivalent of a rogue/eldritch knight, and the other cousin played a cleric. These are the ensuing things my young players said.

DM: You are all staying at an inn tonight.  It’s like a hotel.
Wizard: Is there a pool?!
DM: … why not.
Wizard: I’ll get my bathing suit!
—————-

DM: The man who was reading the book in the lobby last night comes up to you guys.
NPC-Druid: I’m going to get to the dragon first, turn into a bear, and kill him! 
Fighter: There’s going to be bear traps!
DM: Roll to persuade him there’s going to be traps.
NPC rolls a 3, and the Fighter rolls a 7.
DM: The guy with the book starts crying and goes back to his room.
—————-

DM: A pony is 20 dollars, a horse is 50 dollars, and an invisible horse is 70 dollars.
Wizard: Ooooo! Let’s buy a pony!
Cleric: YEAH!
Wizard: It’s white with polka dots, okay!
Cleric: YEAH!

—————-

Fighter: I want to put a bottomless hole under the wolf! (rolls too low).
DM: You put a hole next to the wolf.
Cleric: I want to put the wolf to sleep. (rolls high enough).
DM: Alright, he’s asleep now.
Wizard: I’m going to push the wolf into the bottomless hole. 

—————–

Wizard: I want to cast a spell to put bugs in his shirt… Is the dragon wearing a shirt?
—————-

The saddest part about the campaign was that the dragon didn’t get one hit off on the players.  The wizard, however: poisoned it, burned it, summoned a rock that fell on its head, summoned a swarm of insects that got in its scales and bit it a lot, and the fighter made it incapable of breathing fire.  This is how the dice fell, and this is how the dragon died.