Neito posted:

I absolutely, positively refuse to believe that that wasn't some masterful trolling attempt.

animist posted:

i believe in the abrahamic god only because i dream of one day killing him

Giga Gaia posted:

big jrpg energy

Hodgepodge posted:

if on your path you should meet the buddha, cast vanish and then doom on him

Milo and POTUS posted:

Where is this. It has to be Musk

Sleeveless posted:

R/relationships is almost entirely fiction and it's genuinely depressing that like a third of this site's posts by volume are just people reposting stuff from it and bickering about it as if it were real.

Lovely Joe Stalin posted:

I remember reading something in here about there being multiple version of Midsommar. Which is the best?

John Wick of Dogs posted:

They stream different versions at different times of day. You'll want the Misommar's night stream

Solitair posted:

The Iliad, as translated by Stephen Mitchell, was also somewhat frustrating. I'd heard that the text took time out to name and describe the past of someone who only shows up to get killed by one of the more prominent characters, but I didn't expect that to be a significant chunk of the book. This did make me wish Achilles would break his vow to stay out of fighting and make something different happen, end the cycle of bit players dying, gods arguing, and plans that go nowhere, which is what the other Achaeans felt at the time as well. I wasn't expecting the scope to be smaller than the entire Trojan War, either. I went with Mitchell's translation because I thought it would be easier to read, so I probably missed out on some of the more carefully crafted verses that someone like Lattimore would put in (as well as all of book 10, which Mitchell deemed apocryphal). Next comes The Odyssey, which I hope will prove less tedious.

Burning Rain posted:

Pittsburgh Fentanyl Cloud posted:

A couple years back an Adsense ad told me I could click to find the best brain damage in Pittsburgh

PIZZA.BAT posted:

ah the classic, 'advertise to the user something they already bought' routine. never gets old

Krankenstyle posted:

Serf posted:

if your argument against nuclear power is that we end up building it on native land, i have some bad news about the rest of the land

Sleeveless posted:

like a third of this site's posts by volume are just people reposting stuff from it

Blue Footed Booby posted:

I had no idea how social vultures are.

Phy posted:

Well, they are known for cracking open a cold one with the boys

Inceltown posted:

jesus WEP posted:

Ngl I was really pleased that that article really exists

Biplane posted:

How could she turn down a hosed up troop though

What a steal!

Veni Vidi Ameche! posted:

That's one of the few things still manufactured in the USA. She'll find another.

Charles posted:

tittiekisser69

TITTIEKISSER69 posted:

Milo and POTUS posted:

Where is this. It has to be Musk

Johnny Aztec posted:

So, honestly. I only have a vague notion of Leonard Cohen as " this guy that wrote some movies?"

I couldn't even tell you WHAT movies they were. Though, I've probably seen them.

Tree Goat posted:

i've heard there was a secret coin
flipped by a man, anton chigurgh
but you don't really care for movies, do you?

a false posted:

it goes like this, hail caesar sixth
no country first
lebowski fifth
and llewyn davis in at number 2 yeah

Admiral Bosch posted:

Jon Joe posted:

What is the bottom message from?

Time Cowboy posted:

Grimes.

Son of Thunderbeast posted:

quote:

I've never seen a Juggalo or heard of this band until I started reading Something Awful. Discovered them was like finding a hidden, secret, timeless treasure.

It's like checking behind your water heater in the basement, and discovering that a small group of friendly, sentient bipedal mice are building a village there. They're not scared of you, in fact, they welcome you into their tiny town with open arms.

During the hot summer days, you find yourself making excuses to sneak down there, to escape the heat. You bring gifts of cheese and small bits of wood and metal, and spend the evenings giggling as your secret tiny mouse friends scamper playfully across your belly and whisper in your ears... In the winter, you bring snug little felt blankets and heating elements and small candles to keep them warm and well lit. Sometimes, you'll spend hours down there, dozing, your very body heat keeping your mousefriends warm. Hours later, you wake up and make your way upstairs. Gilnathan, leader of the mice, tugs on your pantleg as you walk away. You kneel down slowly. He says, in his tiny squeaky voice, "Daniel...we all love you." Then he scurries away.

Weeks later, your wife begins to catch on. HEADIN' ON DOWN TO TINKER WITH THAT CARBURATOR AGAIN you'll half shout as you make your way down the basement stairs. "Dan. Please," she'll say, a foreign look on her face. Your blood turns ice cold. She knows. "Why don't you spend some time up here? With me?" She gives you a small sad smile, a silently pleading smile. She fixes her eyes on the large paper bag in your hands. "Ange. I can't just now. This is important." You avert her gaze and shuffle down stairs. You wait down there, silently. It's a few minutes before she finally walks back to the living room. Finally you can go back to your safe, magical mouse world, free from strife and stress.

As you step carefully into the space behind the water heater, placing your feet carefully, Gilnathan and his lieutenant Watson approach. They salute you smartly; "At ease, good friends," you whisper heartily. You crouch. "I have come bearing gifts. Has progress been great in the past week?" Gilnathan defers to Watson. "We have had marked progress on key areas," Watson announces. He's shouting at nearly the top of his lungs, but his voice is still very small. "Well," you say eagerly, "Let me see!"

The mouse town is coming along nicely! When you first discovered it, it was a rugged frontier town of cardboard and splinters, and small bits of foam. With your help, it has grown considerably. Over there is the town water tower. Rigged from a large water bottle, surgical tubing, and sturdy aluminum piping, it has enough water to last the hardy micefolk a few weeks. Alfred, an engineer friend at your firm, was puzzled with the request to built it, but you compensated him fairly. Every week or so you fill it via a funnel from the top; the mice can squeeze out choice drops from the small bladder rigged at the base. Nearby is the village. The buildings are made of sturdy double ply cardboard that the mice cut themselves with keen teeth. Toothpicks and pipe cleaners add structure and fabric scraps add comfort. You helped apply the glue at certain key points--wouldn't want your tiny friends to get caught! Near the water heater is the mushroom farms. They built a wooden frame to accept the potting soil you stole (in small amounts) from your wife's begonias. The heat, moisture and dark have allowed a decent crop of edible mushrooms to flourish there. The garden is tended to by Ratsputin, that wizened old mouse veteran. He can be ornery, but he takes his job seriously and that's all that matters. The mice's diet is supplemented by hunting small insects and arachnids that scuttle around in the dark basement. The hunting parties, always five or more mice strong, don small plastic shields you got from a Lego set and cocktail drink swords. As you arrive, one hunting party departs. You wish the huntmaster, Riolcaven, a safe and successful hunt.

The townsfolk gather around you quickly. The children in particular clamor around the paper bags. "Presents! Presents!" they squeak. You hush them gently, and produce sizable block of cheese. They all cheer. Heloverin, the female mouse scholar, approaches. She studies the huge blocky letters printed on the cheese's rind. "Goba?" she says hesitantly. "Very close!" you whisper excitedly. "Gouda". Heloverin bows her head shyly and melds back into the crown. She is the first to become literate. Soon, a schoolhouse for the youngsters will be built. You produce a few more objects, each time hearing your friends cheer. A small light that can be operated by one or two stout micefolk. Some assorted bits of hardware and metal springs, etc. A sheet of scratch and sniff stickers for blind old Shitdagger, bless her heart. The cheering subsides momentarily as footsteps on the floor above you move towards the kitchen. You glance up grimly. You hear the oven door open, and then the footsteps recede back into the living room. "Angie's just checking on dinner. We're ok." You whisper. You spend a few more hours down there, advising them and telling stories to the youngster. Afterwards, you spend a quiet, awkward evening with your wife. "Daniel. Is everything alright?" she asks, worry knotting around her eyes. You never answer. You gaze blandly at the TV, all the while wishing you were with them.

A week later, you come home early. Angie's home early too. Waiting for you as you step through the door. Sitting at the table, mug of cold coffee in her hands. Your fingers clench around the bag of miniaturized supplies you have in your hand. Your very loving rear end in a top hat clenches so tight it could shatter granite. Angie looks at you evenly, almost mildly, and says, "I went down to the basement today." Your heart sags to the bottom of your chest. You mouth flaps open wordlessly. Say something, you ponce! An excuse, a diversion! Maybe your micefriends recognized her footsteps and hid away. Hell, maybe she didn't even SEE the town, it's so well hidden...

Her next words shatter your thoughts. "I saw it. The little village. The tiny little town." You grin stupidly so your teeth don't loving chatter. "H-Honey. It's just a dumb little project I've been--It's for Drew's kid, really. I--I."

She cuts you off. "Dan, I found them too. Them." For a moment pure mortal fear ruptures through your brain. Images of dead mice, exterminated, smashed by a fearful, misunderstanding woman blaze through the visual centers in your cowardly brain. Twisted, ruined corpses of mice everywhere, bloated dead children mice, the stink of poison on their lips....Severed mouse heads mounted on pikes. Pools of blood. Dark Prince Satan laughing coldly in the blackest night... The look of terror is plain on your face. There is no hiding it. "Angela, please!"

She grins maniacally. "I just wanted to tell you that I..."

"...That I love it!"

You are astonished. "WHAT??"

Suddenly Gilnathan crawls out of her shirt pocket. "Daniel!" he waves. You are stupefied. As you step forward to take your wife and true love into your arms, Gilnathan says, "Daniel, it seems we have found yet another friend on this day. Let us be a family together." You cry an inarticulate yelp of joy, weeping like a child on Christmas. Gilnathan hops down and scurries through the new doggy door your wife installed on the basement access door. You and Angela make passionate, sweet love right there on the kitchen floor for what seems like hours. When you feel like you are ready emotionally, the two of you descend downstairs.

Soon the town expands. No longer needing to remain hidden, the mice flourish under the love of their twin caretakers. Your personal relationship problems melt away. Clan patriach Gilnathan rules fairly and wisely, and eventually retires. Watson accepts the role shortly thereafter.

On most days you and your wife step downstairs for short period of time. It is a hidden secret between only you two. You can hear the triumphant bugling of Riolcaven's successful hunt. Sometimes the two of you watch over Heloverin as she teaches her first class. You occasionally correct her, much to the delight of her students. Luckily mean old Ratsputin has volunteered his free time to help keep the students in line for shy Heloverin.

As the years pass you and Angela find yourself coming down less and less. The mice are becoming more independent. Klaus has even informed you secretly that they have sent small expeditionary groups to other houses in the neighborhood. "Mrs Bronson across the street divorced her husband years back," you advise. "The tool shed in their back year is all but untouched. She never goes back there." Klaus studies a small parchment map carefully. "We can get there easily through this pipe, day or night!" he squeaks excitedly, pointing. "Yes, but do be careful," you caution.

Angela celebrates her 57th birthday in a week. The mice have come upstairs in a rare kitchen visit. They have somehow obtained a small cheese danish for her to serve as a cake. She accepts it gracefully, eating only small bites in front of them. "While you are up her, mousefriends..." she starts. Martini, the newest clan patriarch (and a good, just mouse), listens raptly. "Daniel and I are getting old. It will be hard for us to visit you regularly. However, know that we both love you dearly. If you ever need anything, do not hesitate to to pop up topside and ask." A tear rolls down her face. "You are like children to us."

There is silence. Then--"And we all love you too!" It's Gilnathan, hunched in the back of the crowd. "Gil!" you cry, "How goes retirement?"

"Well, old friend. It goes well."

You and the mice and all their colonies live out the rest of your lives in peace and comfort and mutual love.

And that's what finding out about Juggalos is like.

purple death ray posted:

Luvcow posted:

A prehensile penis is the penis of an american that has adapted to grasp or hold objects.[1] Fully prehensile penises can be used to hold and manipulate objects, and in particular to aid americans in finding and eating food in the trees. If the penis cannot be used for this it is considered only partially prehensile - such penises are often used to anchor an americans body to dangle from a branch, or as an aid for climbing. The term prehensile means "able to grasp" (from the Latin prehendere, to take hold of, to grasp).[2]

Lastgirl posted:

https://twitter.com/Forbes/status/1197979317885636609

net worth~

also get a load of this galaxy brain

https://twitter.com/adbean1/status/1198314436529774592

Shalebridge Cradle posted:

You see people all laughed when I poo poo myself on stage in front of millions of people, but actually it was a brilliant bit of viral marketing.

gschmidl posted:

Shalebridge Cradle posted:

You see people all laughed when I poo poo myself on stage in front of millions of people, but actually it was a brilliant bit of bacterial marketing.

Elfface posted:

Ranma is gender fluid, those fluids being hot and cold water.

Jay_Zombie posted:

Do you have more? Please make a thread documenting the crazy poo poo you've been making. It's actually quite interesting.

Literally A Person posted:

Seriously, we need more "I MADE A DUMB THING" threads in GBS.

Sunswipe posted:

Great idea, tell your parents to sign up now.

Byzantine posted:

It's kind of a shame the Legion is so poo poo,

Vavrek posted:

Look, you don't need to beat yourself up like this. You had a good run there for a millennium!

mischief posted:

I had one in 3rd grade that was fierce. It was one of those dry razzing types, but I was sitting on the floor with my legs crossed... So it was incredibly loud, like tearing paper.

Then there was that kid that shat his pants farting during a prayer at youth group.

I think I got off easy, really.

Ornamental Dingbat posted:

I have a cousin who lived with me who would frequently get fall-down/ pass out drunk to the point where we would start putting him into a friend's dresses and dump him into his bed. It wasn't until the 3rd time this happened that he worked up the nerve the next day to ask if we were dressing him or he was doing it himself.

Heath posted:

Chargin' my chakras, gripping my re-creation Hitler youth knife and wizard skullpture

Devonaut posted:

chakkkras

doctorfrog posted:

slice through the cold cuts and
dice through the pork butts and
slam with the pommel of my
tacula-aaah

5er posted:

High speed, low dragula.

Mr. Sunshine posted:

What kind of American puritan cornflakes eating nonsense is this washcloth/loofah bullshit? If you're too prudish to finger your own rear end in a top hat, you're too prudish to finger someone else's rear end in a top hat, and that ain't no way to live your life.

Spanish Manlove posted:

cool

Spanish Manlove posted:

No culo

Mr. Sunshine posted:

What kind of American puritan cornflakes eating nonsense is this washcloth/loofah bullshit? If you're too prudish to finger your own rear end in a top hat, you're too prudish to finger someone else's rear end in a top hat, and that ain't no way to live your life.

Mr. Sunshine posted:

What kind of American puritan cornflakes eating nonsense is this washcloth/loofah bullshit? If you're too prudish to finger your own rear end in a top hat, you're too prudish to finger someone else's rear end in a top hat, and that ain't no way to live your life.