quote:

Slavoj is wearing mostly fur. To his right, on the floor, is the headpiece of a dog costume, which is upturned and rather pungent.

Slavoj’s face is a blinking slab of clay looking out through thickets of drenched grey hair. His mouth is moving rapidly, but he has not spoken in several minutes. His immense mind is swelling palpably.

At some point, a sound like a stalled car engine echoes through the elevator, and the whole scene slips down several feet. One of the men in the corner screams. Slavoj, in a kind of perversely hygienic zen state, is unperturbed. The intercom crackles and buzzes, then clicks off. A set of emergency strip lights perks up.

One of the smartly dressed people steps cautiously toward the center of the elevator to try and peer through the doors. Slavoj quickly grabs the man with one paw and his own nose with the other. “Birds,” he spits.


The man gasps and slaps hysterically at Zizek’s thick fur arm.

“We say, you know, like animals, like this, birds,” Zizek says. His grip is jaw-like. “Oh we are animals, we are animals. We are birds trapped. This is vulgar.”

Zizek lets go in order to swat at his own eyeball and tug his own nose simultaneously. The liberated man tumbles backward into his smartly-dressed fellows, who are now stacked more tightly than before. “Obscene,” Zizek notes, squinting at the carpet.

“Of course in this film, the Dark Knight Ascending or whatever, you know, you have this wealthy industrialist, stockholder, whatever, who dresses up in an obscene costume, to look like a bat. And then you have a cat woman, and so on, and so on.” Zizek is interrupted by a pen that somebody has thrown at his face.

“Don’t, no,” one of the persons whispers.

“Violence,” Zizek conjectures. He is gathering fresh thoughts and chewing on them.

“Is he talking about the new Batman movie?” one of them asks. Nobody answers.

“But the mainstream you know critical response is that this is a very serious film. It is such bull poo poo. But this, I claim, is ideology. That we do not notice that our characters are dressed like animals, doing, you know, insane things, with violence and technology and so forth, and we applaud, say, yes, this is real, this is the real world, finally, thank god.”

Zizek is creeping toward the corner. The three smartly-dressed persons are keeping pace, sliding across the elevator wall to another corner. One of the persons stretches out and slaps the emergency alarm bell one more time, just before it is out of reach.

“Why not? Why do we not see it? The world that Christopher Nolan, who has made this film, wants to paint for us, he does not hide it at all. The background is the centerpiece, you know, the lower classes and criminals and so on, fighting the plutocracy, this is not simply the world that the animal people live in. It is actually their story, they talk about it, so we cannot see it except as they do. Very stupid.”

Zizek’s head suddenly shakes left and right very rapidly. Swarms of baby sweat beads burst off his facial hair and float away.

“I think that, you know,” Zizek continues, excitedly plucking at his nose, “a tension between the characters, you know, living their own lives, and so on, and the world that they do not notice. This is the world as it really is, you know, these are stories that happen. The stories about us cannot exist without the world we live in, but we don’t worry about so much. We worry about, my god, my wife, you know, she cheats on me with the senator, or whatever.” Zizek laughs.

“Is he… married?” one of the smartly-dressed persons asks, their hand raised to their mouth.

“So this grand operatic play, drama, film, where the hero is one society and the villain is another society, you know, but really they are a bat person and some kind of robot man, my god, give me a break. It is disgusting. But there is another irony, you know. This Bruce Wayne, the philanthropist playboy et cetera with such business acumen, he is not real to the film. He is like a ruse. And really it is when he is unmasked, when you know the situation gets bad, that he puts on a simple physical mask but becomes what we really already know of ourselves. He is then this violent,” Zizek pauses here to ruffle his own hair madly, “insensate, raving lunatic who climbs buildings and frightens criminals and whatever. This I claim. Let me start, with, an example, which may surprise you.”

But Zizek is interrupted as the elevator creaks again and seems to very slowly lurch sideways. Then, with a terrible whipcrack, everything drops another ten feet or so. The elevator stops again with a deafening clang, then settles, groaning. Zizek has lost his balance while the three smartly-dressed persons lean on one another for theirs. Seeing an opportunity, one of the smartly dressed persons kicks Zizek squarely in his tan dog belly, and Zizek tumbles backward, yelling “barbarians!”

“Quick!” yells one of the smartly dressed persons. “The maintenance hatch!” And they point to the hatch which, indeed, seems to have come loose.With frankly impressive unspoken coordination, they hoist one another up through the new aperture and on top of the elevator. Two of them make it out. The third man, left in the elevator, is beaten senseless by the force of Zizek’s random kicks and flails. His suit wrecked and ruined, the man collapses backwards, mumbling about indecency. After the other two have reached the top, they spot a ladder that runs some endless length up the shaft.

No sooner have they all begun to climb the ladder, however, when they hear a tremendous bang behind them. The elevator has not started to fall again. But, looking back, they see a horrifying dog head peeking out from the top of the elevator, one terrible dog eye fixed on them, the other staring wildly into the dark. Zizek has begun to extricate himself with awful strength.

Transfixed, the two smartly dressed persons watch as Zizek pulls himself fully upward, stands triumphantly atop the elevator, and places the dog head over his own shoulders. Now fully costumed, he shakes his entire body. His tail whips at his legs and he begins coughing.

“It’s not possible,” one of the smartly dressed persons gasps.

Zizek resumes speaking, but his voice is transformed by the dog head. What comes out instead is an absurd, menacing growl, made louder by his desperation to be heard. His hands shoot out from him like the snapping mouths of blind coyotes. “RAGGH BAGGHH GAGHHH,” he bellows. The two smartly dressed persons nearly kick one another in their desperation to climb away.

Zizek too leaps onto the ladder, and not a moment too soon. As soon as he bounds off of it, the elevator finally gives way, scraping down the seemingly infinite shaft and screaming the entire way. Zizek is kicked in the face, and his dog head flies off. Its gaze does not relent as it disappears into the shaft’s inscrutable pit.

“I think I cannot imagine a better example of ideology,” Zizek explains, completely undeterred. The two smartly-dressed persons are nearly choked by the toxic odor that rises from Zizek. “Rise, rise,” Zizek mimics, “and so on. But what does this mean, rise.”

Somewhere far up the ladder, a short burst of light cracks the tunnel.

“So when the film presents its own ideology, and of course, is so awful that it makes a mockery of itself and of the audience, we are most noble as animals, and so on, how do you stand even further back and say, what is the real ideology that the film is based on. And I say then, look at how the characters are rewarded for their actions, the archetypes they embody, and so on.”

The smartly dressed person at the top stops and clutches his stomach. “I can’t breathe,” he says. “I can’t breathe. We’ve got to slow down.” Zizek refuses to stop, although he does not address the complaint. When he meets the second person down, who has also stopped, he simply reaches out and grasps the person’s ankle with his terrible dog hand. Then he yanks hard on it, and the second person’s trousers are ripped off. “Degenerates,” Zizek belches. The second man, now pantsed, pauses to examine himself. In his embarrassment, he loses his grip on the ladder and falls, tumbling down the naked pit, still horrified by the loss of his trousers.

The remaining smartly dressed person redoubles their efforts and climbs ever harder. Zizek’s pace remains constant, and with a dancer’s grace, he has incorporated nose tugs and beard slaps into the spaces between steps.

“Nolan tries to do something that I think he cannot do, which is to say something by remaining silent. There are a lot of arguments on these degenerate websites you know, newspapers and Huffington Post and so on, about whether the villain is the Occupy Wall Street or the, my god, Mitt Romney’s old company, I mean. Who thinks of these things, I don’t know. But in the film, Nolan leaves it open, what he thinks, he does not say it explicitly, so you know we are left thinking that maybe he is saying something through the story itself, instead of having Batman stand up at the end and say ‘OK, I believe this and this and so on and so on.’”

“Have you even seen the movie yet?” asks the smartly-dressed person. “I don’t think it’s been released.”

“Vulgar,” Zizek remarks.

He continues: “But it is precisely because everything in the film has already been recognized, given significance, by the moral actors in the film, that he cannot do this, because their judgments must then be his, which he hands to us. So either he is saying the obvious, you know, that it is necessary to dress like an animal and beat back the savages, my god, for Nolan, these poor and imprisoned or whatever. Or he is trying to distance himself from that statement by remaining ambiguous, but then only saying nothing.”

“My god,” Zizek laughs. “Either it is a disgusting film or it is a very bad film.”

The smartly-dressed person pauses to argue with him. “You haven’t seen the loving movie,” he shouts, turning around and hanging onto the ladder with one hand. But Zizek merely tugs at the person’s tie, pulling their face down to Zizek’s. An enormous furry paw caps the man’s head and pulls down what appears to be a toupee until it is obscuring the man’s eyes. Blind, flailing, the man drops off the ladder and hurtles into the pitch-black abyss, still complaining that nobody has seen the movie.

“Idiots,” Zizek explains.

As he continues to climb the ladder, he speaks at length about the stupidity of Commissioner Gordon, the feminist inversion of the Catwoman, and so on, and so on. Some untold distance down the pit, a dog’s head with long powerful ears nods and blinks and sniffs at the impenetrable air.

Wedemeyer posted:

Dr. Gitmo Moneyson posted:

I saved a screenshot of the review.

wiffle ball bat posted:

*cracks knuckles* time to bust out the anecdotes


my ex gf left me for a dude she's been in a stable "polyamorous" relationship with for almost a decade. they're both hot and they both like to gently caress hot chicks so they party all the time and gently caress lots of hot chicks together. they're both happy. im happy for them. im way too weird and uptight to play with something as volatile as that but they seem to have whatever weird alchemy it is people require to live lives of a porny kind.

Nude Bog Lurker posted:

i'm imagining two pieces of poo poo-coloured playdough mushed together into a ball rolling over other lovely pieces of playdough

DOWN JACKET FETISH posted:

http://myhateispure.org/2012/07/20/slavoj-zizek-talks-about-the-dark-knight-rises/

e:

oh

Sham bam bamina! posted:

CobiWann posted:

amityville anus posted:

Dabir posted:

Dr. Gitmo Moneyson posted:

So he's imaging two brown people?

Dr. Gitmo Moneyson posted:

So he's imaging two brown people?

H.H posted:

just remembered a funny story:

i first tried out facebook in 2007. i opened a dummy account under the name Raging Boner to see the interface etc.
I clicked to many "continue"s without looking and accidentally sent all of my gmail contacts facebook invites for raging boner.
some accepted my friend request.

Volume posted:

Dr. Gitmo Moneyson posted:

I read a review for an onion blossom maker on Amazon where the guy said he and his wife tried to use it as a sex toy. I don't know how that would work but I saved a screenshot of the review.

Faux-rear end Nonsense posted:

according to a thing I read on Cracked years ago

echinopsis posted:

my wife and i have been "playing tinder" and omg its such a different game. she has to ruthlessly swipe no or else she almost always gets a match whereas I have to swipe yes on virtually everyone but the least desirable humans in order to get a few matches.

its a numbers game, its a game of tower defence. its like fuckin half life two mate

Subjunctive posted:

http://www.cracked.com/blog/4-ridiculous-sex-machines-amazon-with-hilarious-reviews/

Cracked guy posted:

Also, here's a tip for all you ladies, and I'll leave you with this: If you start a conversation with me with the words, "I'm a woman who can take a beating," I am immediately afraid of you. You have cracked a door into the terrifying, haunted trauma house of your life and then immediately shut it, leaving me to guess at everything inside.

ekuNNN posted:

Craptacular posted:

I wonder what that is. It looks like styrofoam, but styrofoam wouldn't have nearly enough mass to crack a windshield, and snow wouldn't hold together that well, would it?

canyoneer posted:

See all the snow around? The only thing that makes sense is that the cold weather has made the Styrofoam more firm and that's why it broke the windshield

Bloody Hedgehog posted:

Chinatown posted:

dreezy posted:

i used to mock people who fell in love with celebrities or anime characters or what have you, until i first saw this picture. that pizza loving chick is my waifu.

kalstrams posted:

w00tmonger posted:

Why would it be anything but snow?

w00tmonger posted:

Why would it be anything but snow?

Minarch posted:

"Bay of pigs in a blanket"
"Abu bhraised short ribs"
"Tacos with guantanamole"
"Drone strike on a civilian hospital (this is a ham sandwich btw)"

Seat Safety Switch posted:

14 looked the doctor in the eyes. In many ways, they were a similar beast. Flat-rate techs, bent on repairing intricate machines when their owners had failed. He shuffled his feet and turned his gaze to the floor, considering the ramifications of his lifestyle. Surely this qualified as abuse, he figured. It's the new year. I should turn over a new leaf.

The doctor left the room, sized up a colleague in the hall, started a conversation that had tones of levity. He could hear them talking through the paper-thin CDC-approved interior drywall.

Both doctors re-entered the room, their faces grave. Oh, this isn't good, thought 14. Now you have to split the labour hours.

Super Waffle posted:

Abu bhraised

Solice Kirsk posted:

Eh, I guess that's no different than how I keep my fleshlight in my stemware cupboard.

Buttmeister posted:

shutup and post rare stallmans



ah yes the elusive "machu pichu stallman", a collectors treasure



here we see the uncommon "cave stallman no. 7", complete with sacrificial dog head



the "enemies abode stallman" in which stallman is in the domicile of a member of the other gender



this is the "favela stallman", probably where he lives since the houses are open source or something idk



here is the first evidence of the "laptop strap"



and finally definitive evidence of a laptop strap/suspender hahhaha what the fukc

quote:

Major Laurier had picked the wrong day to change meth dealers.

The sharp pounding in his head had started just as the scramble alert came on. A Russian Tupolev Tu-95 bomber had blatantly violated Canada's northern sovereignity and was headed for the strategic city of Yellowknife. It was up to his squadron, No. 420 Harper's Harriers to show those Slav bastards what-for with their state-of-the-art C-35 war machines... and peacefully escort them out of Canada's airspace.

Now, he was alone. Captain Fraiser's C-35 had flown through a butt and the moisture had torn its skin from its fuselage. The rookie, Lieutenant Dorian, had attempted a gentle banked turn and the strain on his engine was too great. His plane exploded in a hail of fire, cheap steel and packing peanuts. He didn't even have time to scream. loving hotshot, thought the Major.

The Tupolev was zooming southeast at a blistering Mach 0.3 but he was slowly closing in on his prey. He had already dropped his external fuel tanks, all four of his bullets and his missile to stay airborne, and the airframe was shuddering like his Chevy Cavalier on the Trans-Canada Highway. The radar app had crashed an hour ago and OnStar was useless. No, I don't want to find a loving gas station, I'm trying to intercept a warplane! Nonetheless, he had followed the contrails left by the bomber in the northern sky. He knew he was close. And then there! On the edge of his horizon, a vast twenty miles away, were the Russians. He clenched his jaw and punched up the afterburners. The plane kicked and lurched like a mechanical bull with half the gears broken. He set course to ram his plane into the hulking turboprop. I knew I wasn't coming back from this mission, he thought. I'm a C-35 pilot. We don't come back. But at least I'll take these assholes with me. His squadron's motto, gently caress EVERYONE AND PISS ON THEIR ASHES, rang in his ears as his HUD flashed a 404 error.

Meanwhile, on the Russian plane...

The Major was five miles from the bomber when he heard a new and unfamiliar bang. He tried in vain to look behind him, but from the corner of his eye, he could see a great crack forming on his left wing. He knew at once what it meant. The epoxy that kept the plane together was never meant for such extreme temperatures. His plane was literally coming apart at the seams. How he wished he was in an Avro Arrow now. With a sickening CRRRACK the wing tore itself free from the plane and the C-35 went into a death spin. The Tupolev continued on, oblivious.

Amidst the alarms, klaxons and spontaneous fire, Frasier bit his lip and thought of Maverick. Then suddenly he remembered his training. One of the Powerpoint slides had mentioned that the ejection seat was NOT made by Lockheed, but by a British company! Hope sprung in his breast; perhaps he might survive this ordeal, and achieve his dream of becoming a cyberathelete! In desperation he lunged at the ejector handle. The seat roared upward into the void and while the canopy didn't deploy, it didn't matter; the cheap glass was shattered easily by his hundred thousand dollar helmet.

The Major breathed a sigh of relief as the chute deployed and slowed his descent. He took one last glance at his plane, which plummeted like a meteor into the ground and exploded. It was a bittersweet sight. At the very least, he thought, he had saved half a billion dollars from the clutches of the poor, the needy, the nonwhite and Quebec. The thought made him smile.

The ejector seat landed with a soft thud on a river bank, narrowly missing some pine trees. He looked around at the bright sky, the green grass and river teeming with fish. This unfamiliar hellscape sent chills of fear down his spine. If I liked the outdoors, he thought, I would've joined in the army.

Thus began Major Laurier's desperate bid for survival in the harsh subarctic summer, where temperatures could drop to nearly below freezing. In the distance, a beaver roared.

quote:

I'll give it a shot:

"Delta One, be advised we're sending in three f-35s for close air support. ETA, twelve minutes."

The knot in Warrant Officer Brown's stomach tightened. The Ford Pinto of the skies was coming to their rescue. They were dead men.

Delta Platoon had formed a perimeter in the town square, winning the hearts and minds of half the Taliban in the province. A routine smash-and-grab for Al-Qaeda's No.2 in Afghanistan du jour had gone wrong when their Black Hawks were shot out from under them. The insurgents had Block 2 Stinger missiles, courtesy of Uncle Sam and the Syrians. The Allies were sending what reinforcements it could, but were held up by IEDs and roadside ambushes. Attempts to send in helicopters were met with the shriek of MANPADS. It was clear Delta wasn't going anywhere unless those Stingers were taken out.

Brown's men had sighted the Taliban with their MANPADS on the roof of a nearby house. "This is Red One, Bombs Away!" crackled Brown's radio. He could hear Danger Zone in the background. He peeked out of cover and scanned the horizon amidst the whizzing bullets and explosions. Where the hell was Red One? An interminable minute passed as the Taliban with their missiles fled into a nearby shop. Moments later an explosion demolished the now-empty building.

"Delta One, this is Red One, executing turn manoeuvre, back in five minutes."

"Red squadron, this is Delta One! Priority targets have moved southeast into a shop."

"Delta One, Red Two here, please give a description of the shop."

"Red Two, It's a brown square building... green sign... it's a bakery!"

"Delta One, how the gently caress am I supposed to find a bakery at thirty thousand feet?!"

Close air support, my rear end, thought Brown. "Look, just bomb the drat intersection, will you?"

A minute later another dull thud and a puff of smoke erupted near the shop.

"Delta One, please confirm target hit."

"Negative, you bombed a school. Full of Canadians."

"YEEE-HAH! Secondary objectives achieved! Returning to base for re-arming, re-fuelling and 2 weeks of maintenance."

A mortar round landed nearby and sent several of his men reeling. Warrant Officer Brown had enough. He screamed into his mike.

"Red Three, listen the gently caress up, you worthless shitheel! You're our last hope here! We are taking CASUALTIES! You NEED to get in closer and KILL these fuckers!"

"OOHRAH OOHRAH OOHRAH 10-4 SEMPER FI THESE COLORS DON'T RUN!"

Oh God. Oh God! I just assumed they were--! I didn't know!

"Negative, negative! Stand down, Marine! Disengage! Remember your training, padawan!" The panic in his voice set his men even farther on edge.

"OOHRAH OOHRAH LEMME SEE YOUR WAR FACE REMEMBER GUADALCANAL gently caress YOU YOU HADJI MOTHERFUCKERS!!"

His commanders tried to talk him down, but it was too late. He was now the few and the proud, fighting the fire golems in his mind. His programming activated, Red Three started down towards the biggest battle he could find - the square Delta Platoon was defending. The Taliban with the missiles held back; this wasn't the first Marine pilot they'd encountered.

"EVERYBODY DOWN! INCOMING MARINE!" shouted Brown. The men that weren't frozen in place dived for the ground with whispered prayers on their lips. They looked up frightfully to see the grim spectre of death bearing down on them, the red veins in his eyes, the KA-BAR in his teeth, the rifle firing wildly from the plane's gunport.

"THIS IS FOR SOAP OOHRAH OOHRAH YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH WE ARE STILL IN THE DESERT" The F-35B slowed and activated its vertical flight system. The wash from the turbine and engine was an encompassing, scorching maelstrom that swept away all the crumbling buildings and unlucky people in its path. It was the finger of God, if God was a psychopathic fuckwit.

Before this grunt-nado there was no escape. The fruits of corporate decadence, military blood-lust and imperial hubris were about to be given to Delta Platoon in their full measure. "Thanks, Obama" muttered Warrant Officer Brown. His world filled with fire and debris, and then he knew no more.

Kavak posted:

Both by Trochanter

quote:

Captain Fraiser's C-35 had flown through a butt and the moisture had torn its skin from its fuselage.

Enourmo posted:

someone's running butt-to-butt extension and this line is now hilarious.

whoflungpoop posted:

Monkey Fracas posted:

the guy across the street with the sign that simply says "DONUTS" throws his hat on the ground and stomps on it

Dr. Gitmo Moneyson posted:

I did not know there was a cloud-to-butt extension. But now I do.