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Hello, fresh victims - I mean friends. Let’s shuffle the boundaries of reality and see what slithers out, shall we? Lay down your question and I'll lay down a card... and prepare for just a pinch of delightful dread. One question per friend initially, please. |
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Apr 14, 2025 21:40
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Ohhh Areola Grande, you curious creature of smoke and satire… You’ve drawn the Three of Sleepy Puppies, a rare and giggle-inducing friend from the deck’s softer, slightly droolier corners. The Friend: Three tiny pups - one dozing in a teacup, one snoring on a turntable, one halfway through a sentence before falling asleep again. Their energy? Chaotic, fluffy, and completely baked out of their tiny minds. The Reading: "What is the weed rear end?" The puppies blink slowly. One lets out a stoner giggle. The answer, my friend, is not a what but a vibe. The weed rear end is the soft, sleepy swagger of someone who just sat down but forgot why. It’s the sacred tail-wag of a brain going "wait, what were we talking about?" It is chill incarnate - a holy twerk in slow motion. The Puppies Whisper: "You don’t find the weed rear end. You become it." Translation: Relax, let go, and stop trying to define the magic. It’s real. It’s round. And it’s very, very mellow.
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Apr 15, 2025 00:18
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Buttchocks posted:What's that standing right behind you? Ohhhh Buttchocks... You asked the question, didn’t you? That whisper-down-your-neck, goosebump-inducing little dare: "What’s that standing right behind you?" And your friend from the beyond? The Laughing Hourglass. The Friend: This crooked relic balances on skeletal legs. Sand flows upward inside it, glowing faintly red, and its face? Oh yes, it has a face - grinning ear to ear, cracked like porcelain, and giggling with a sound like old clocks drowning. The Reading: What’s behind you, dear friend? Time, of course - but not the friendly, linear kind. No, this is time that remembers things you forgot. Time that folds. Time that laughs when you trip over choices you haven’t made yet. The Laughing Hourglass doesn’t answer directly. It just ticks… once for each of your mistakes. And as it laughs, something unseen mirrors it… closer now. The Hourglass Cackles: "You asked, friend. That means it saw you, too." Translation: Maybe don’t turn around just yet. Next friend? Step forward... if you dare.
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Apr 15, 2025 01:33
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xcheopis posted:Why in the name of all that is pure and holy is gravity so gosh-darned mean? Ahhh, xcheopis, brave seeker of answers and sworn enemy of spinal compression... To your plea against gravity’s cruel tyranny, the deck has responded with an unexpected (and undeniably rubbery) friend: El Señor Cara de Patata. The Friend: A legend among root vegetables, El Señor stands proud - plastic mustache slightly crooked, one eye missing, and his feet on backwards. He is mutable, ridiculous, and entirely at the mercy of gravitational betrayal. He knows your pain, xcheopis. He’s lived it. He’s rolled through it. The Reading: Why is gravity so mean? El Señor Cara de Patata slumps slightly and answers, in a voice like a kazoo filtered through melancholy: "Because the universe has a very specific sense of humor… and you’re in the punchline." Gravity isn’t mean - it’s just lazy. It pulls everything down because it can’t be bothered to ask where you want to go. It’s the passive-aggressive roommate of the cosmos, forever dragging your hopes, dreams, and sandwich wrappers toward the floor. El Señor’s Warning: "Don’t fight it. Accessorize it. Tape an extra arm on and wobble defiantly." Translation: Embrace the fall. Look silly doing it. Dignity is a myth - like up.
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Apr 15, 2025 04:46
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Barking Gecko posted:Why do lurkers not post? Ahh, Barking Gecko - an excellent question, asked aloud by one brave enough to type... And the friend who appeared? The Six of Kuro Neko. 黒猫. The black cats. The Friend: Six sleek black cats emerge from shadow - none identical, but all with that same smug look of "I saw your draft post and judged it." They perch on power lines, keyboards, and the edge of perception. One blinks slowly. One disappears. One types faster than you. The Reading: Why do lurkers not post? The kuro neko curl their tails around the answer: "Because silence is power, darling." Lurkers don’t post because they observe. They collect. They know things. Sometimes, they are the thread. Or the thread is about them. Or they started it years ago, and now they watch it grow... like a houseplant of social tension. The Cats Whisper (in Japanese and memes): "You only get nine lives. Why waste one on a probe?" Translation: They wait. They watch. And sometimes, when the moon is just right, they pounce—with a reply so perfect it ends the thread. But not today. Next friend, step into the circle. The cats are... mostly done staring.
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Apr 15, 2025 04:51
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Wertjoe posted:How is my day going to be tomorrow, oh mighty tarot reader? Ahhh Wertjoe, seeker of foresight, flatterer of oracles… Your question hums through the deck like a middle school marching band with too much confidence and not enough breath control. The friend who answered your call? Your Forgotten 6th Grade Trumpet. The Friend: Bent, tarnished, and still faintly sticky with grape Gatorade residue, this trumpet has seen things. It sits in a dusty closet of your soul, next to yearbook quotes and unspoken crushes. And yet - despite the neglect - it toots once more. The Reading: How will your day go tomorrow? The trumpet wheezes out a note - not quite a C, not quite a cry for help. "Chaotic. Nostalgic. Possibly loud." Tomorrow will surprise you. It’ll hit a few off-key notes. It might bring a whiff of something old, familiar, and deeply embarrassing in the most delightfully human way. You might stumble into a forgotten rhythm, a moment of joy shaped like a joke only you understand. The Trumpet Moans: "You won’t know whether to laugh or cringe... so do both. Loudly." Translation: Your day will be weird. Embrace it. Bring a metaphorical mute if you must - but let that freaky little solo fly. Who's next in line to disturb the deck? It’s already clearing its throat.
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Apr 15, 2025 05:11
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Finger Prince posted:The Fool, The Fool, The Fool... How is this possible? There is only one Fool in the deck! Ohhh Finger Prince… You’ve brought us a riddle, a chant, a Proclamation - and possibly a curse. You say: "The Fool, The Fool, The Fool..." You claim: "There is only one Fool in the deck!" And then you declare, in a voice that makes mirrors flinch: "Through me, all foolish things are possible." And the deck? It loved that. It giggled. It jiggled. And it sent you a friend. The Fat Devil. The Friend: This is not your sleek, suave Devil who tempts with sin and stiletto heels. No. This one shows up shirtless, covered in barbecue sauce, grinning with unrepentant joy. He’s heavy with indulgence, smug with secrets, and dragging a wheelbarrow full of "just one more"s behind him. The Reading: How is it possible, Finger Prince, that the Fool repeats? Because you are not dealing with a Fool. You are the conduit of all Fools. The patron of overdoing it. The spiritual mascot of impulse, chaos, and buying three pool noodles at Dollar Tree for "a vibe." The Fat Devil has come not to judge, but to celebrate. To lean in and whisper: "Why stop at one Fool… when you could become a Fool buffet?" Translation: You’ve unlocked the cheat code. You are the glitch in the deck. Tomorrow may burst into flames, and it will be your doing. And it will be hilarious. Next friend, the deck is hot, hungry, and hoarding napkins. Let’s go.
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Apr 15, 2025 11:53
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RavenousScoot posted:this thread is fantastic Ohhhh RavenousScoot… You’ve peered too closely at the truth. You’ve asked the forbidden zoological question. And the deck - well, the deck coughed up a card it usually keeps under lock, key, and banana stickers. Your friend today is none other than the Ace of Clubs. Not a wand. Not a staff. Not even a mushroom. Just... a club. Like, to whack things. Or, in this case... To transmit secrets. The Friend: This Ace isn’t a playing card - it’s a signal spike. A wooden club carved with spirals, buzzing faintly. It hums in the language of static, cosmic jazz, and giraffe gossip. No one ever pulls it on purpose. That’s how you know it’s working. The Reading: What are giraffes tuning into with those antennae? Oh, Scoot. They are tuning into us. They observe from on high, nodding slowly, decoding frequencies that pass right over our heads. Their horns - ossicones, if you must be a nerd - aren’t bones. They’re receptors. And what they receive… is everything. Every radio wave. Every breakup playlist. Every deleted tweet. They’ve seen your TikToks. They know your browser history. They hum along to the thoughts you didn’t say out loud. The Ace of Clubs thumps softly and whispers: "They are the Watchers. And their necks are long because the truth is buried deep." Translation: Giraffes know. Don’t make sudden moves. Next friend, please step up - quietly. They're still listening.
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Apr 16, 2025 02:33
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HUSKY DILF posted:the lady or the tiger? Ahhh, HUSKY DILF... A classic conundrum: The Lady or the Tiger? You’ve summoned a tale of choice, consequence, and carnivorous flirtation. But the friend who answered you? Oh no, they don’t play games like that. You drew... The Knight of Good Dental Hygiene. The Friend: Clad in gleaming armor, armed with a toothbrush the size of a broadsword, and riding a noble floss dragon named Gingiva, this Knight is here to fight plaque and bad decisions. Their smile? Blinding. Their breath? Minty justice. The Reading: Lady or Tiger? The Knight of Good Dental Hygiene scoffs. "False choice," they declare, scrubbing their molars mid-gallop. "Why not both? Why not NEITHER? Why not brush past the trap entirely and live a life of heroic moderation and flossing after every existential crisis?" This card insists that the true danger is not behind the door… it’s in your habits. Decay begins in hesitation. And gingivitis? That starts with second-guessing your instincts. The Knight bellows: "Choose boldly. And rinse." Translation: The answer isn’t about what lies behind the door. It’s about how fresh your soul is when you open it. Next friend! Grab your shield, your doubt, and your little cup of fluoride rinse. The deck beckons.
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Apr 16, 2025 19:10
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Wertjoe posted:Well my day ended up being pretty normal but not great for my wife who had a lot of weird family issues come up. So you were right in a way because it's familiar but it was mostly just sad. Ahh, dear Wertjoe... the trumpet remembers. It does not always blare - sometimes, it just sighs softly through the valves, playing a tune only the heart recognizes. A day may seem ordinary to one soul and strange to another; that’s the music of shared lives, isn't it? One playing melody, the other harmony - sometimes in key, sometimes in blue. What the trumpet gave you was not prediction, but resonance. It sensed the dust shifting. The memory rising. The ache settling in the corners. And though it couldn’t warn you precisely, it did play a note of remembrance... for what we carry, and what those we love must sometimes carry alone. In kindness and quiet curiosity, we say: Keep listening. The next note is yours to play.
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Apr 17, 2025 12:38
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Quadramind posted:I would like to ask the cards if now is the time Quadramind, seeker of the unspeakable now... You didn’t ask what the time is for - only if now is it. And in response, the deck did not hesitate. No, it adjusted its tiny silk bowtie and sent forth a friend with a forked tongue and impeccable style. Your friend today is: A Snake Wearing a Tuxedo. The Friend: Sleek. Smooth. Unapologetically formal. This snake slithers with confidence through boardrooms and dreams alike. No arms. No legs. Just vibes and a cummerbund. When it hisses, it does so in Morse code. You may not trust it, but oh gods… you want to. The Reading: Is now the time? The Snake Wearing a Tuxedo leans in - yes, somehow - and whispers: "Now is always the time... if you wear it well." This is a card of poised deception, sharp timing, and calculated charisma. It doesn’t answer with yes or no - it smiles with its whole body and dares you to follow. The Snake warns (with flair): "You can strike now... or you can molt again later. Either way, the tux is non-refundable." Translation: The moment is ripe, if you are ready to shed fear and show your shine. Move with style, even if you’re slithering. Next friend, step forward. The tuxedo snake is gone… but its cologne lingers.
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Apr 17, 2025 19:48
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peanut posted:Should I focus my energy on one big job or multiple small jobs? Ahh, peanut... A sensible question, practical even - until the cube got involved. You asked about energy, jobs, structure… and the deck responded with a friend that has none of those things. Your friend today is: The Gelatinous Cube. The Friend: Transparent. Amorphous. Slightly jiggly. It oozes through the dungeon of your ambitions, digesting plans, goals, and any adventurer who gets too cocky. It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t stress. It simply absorbs. And right now? It’s absorbed your question. The Reading: One big job or many small ones? The Cube doesn’t care how you organize your energy. It wants you to know: whatever path you pick, it’s going to get messy. The big job? Delicious. Slowly dissolving in the center. The small jobs? Oh, they cling to the corners - buzzing, wriggling, still half-alive. The Cube burbles cheerfully: "You can only hold so much before you start to slosh." Translation: Choose the shape that lets you keep your integrity. Don’t overfill. Don’t let something sit too long, or it becomes part of you. Gross. Next friend, shuffle forward. The cube has moved on, but your shoes are still sticky.
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Apr 19, 2025 10:26
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nesamdoom posted:Am I making the right choice on the road I decided to walk? Ahhh, nesamdoom... A soul at the crossroads, walking boldly and asking mid-step, "Was this the right way?" The deck stirred. The shadows rustled. And what emerged wasn’t a tarot card. It was... a Rummikub tile. Black 11. The Friend: Smooth. Plastic. Quietly judgmental. The Black 11 doesn’t come with dramatic symbolism - it just is. Simple. Stark. Firm in its identity. It doesn’t explain itself. It slots into place when the time is right - not before. Not when you want. When the pattern demands it. The Reading: Are you making the right choice? The Black 11 doesn’t answer in words. It just stares. Because this isn’t about "right" or "wrong." This is about sequence. About whether you’re building something, or just laying pieces down and hoping they mean something later. The Tile clicks softly and says (somehow): "You don’t see the whole set yet. But you’re in the right row." Translation: Your move isn’t wrong. It may even be exactly right - but you won’t know until it connects to something else. Keep walking. Keep watching. The next tile matters. Next friend, take your turn. The board isn’t full yet.
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Apr 20, 2025 00:12
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Twenty Four posted:*Channeling years of watching The Price is Right* Ahhh, Twenty Four… A question shouted from the pulsing heart of a confetti storm. You come not just seeking wisdom - you come with the energy of spinning wheels, screaming strangers, and someone in the back dressed as a toaster. You invoke the Sound Effects Lady. You honor the sacred Price. And the deck? It heard the crowd roar. It smelled the studio fog. And it gave you a friend. You drew: The Ghost of a Dead Ghost. The Friend: Pale. Floaty. Double-haunted. This spirit once haunted a haunted house - but then it moved on. Now it appears when the veil is thin between the real and the ridiculous. It jingles faintly with the sound of expired coupons and unfinished bucket lists. It doesn’t boo. It just sighs theatrically. The Reading: What should you do for your birthday? The Ghost of a Dead Ghost drifts around your question, giggling like someone who knows the cake is cursed and invited it anyway. It whispers: "Celebrate what you’ve already outlived. Then do something absolutely foolish… in your honor." This is the card of joyful morbidity. Of dancing where you don’t belong. Of throwing a party with one too many chairs - just in case someone forgotten shows up. The Ghost exhales: "Haunt your own past. Toast your own weirdness. And wear something slightly too dramatic." Translation: Be bold. Be strange. Don’t try to make sense of it. Just make it memorable. Next friend, step into the flickering light. The ghosts are just warming up.
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Apr 20, 2025 14:12
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Buttchocks posted:I thought tarot was one of those root vegetables that's poisonous until you cook it. Ahhh, yes, Buttchocks - you are absolutely correct. Tarot is one of those root vegetables that’s poisonous until cooked. Most people don’t realize this because they’ve been nibbling it raw - pulling cards without heat, without seasoning, without fear. And that’s why their readings taste like soggy metaphors and undercooked intuition. But you? You’ve brought fire. You’ve brought flavor. You’ve preheated the oven of fate to 425 and thrown in a handful of rosemary and unresolved childhood trauma. Properly prepared tarot? Oh, it's a rich stew. Savory with symbolism. Nutty with nuance. A little chewy on the endings. And just toxic enough to make the truth go down smooth. So yes, Buttchocks. Tarot is a tuber. And you, my friend, are the chef the spirits have been waiting for.
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Apr 21, 2025 19:49
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It has been a week, friends. I am now opening up... a second question per person! Ask away, little ones.
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Apr 21, 2025 23:05
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xcheopis posted:Asking for a friend (and me): Ahhh, xcheopis... seeker of avian absurdity and puffin truth. You and your mysterious friend have posed a dangerous question - one ornithologists fear to ask aloud, lest the puffins hear and waddle faster. And what did the deck produce in response? A friend that doesn’t exist. Or rather - shouldn’t. You drew: The Letter After Z. The Friend: Unpronounceable. Loops twice. Forbidden in Scrabble. The Letter After Z exists only when language breaks down into giggles and dream-logic. It is used solely to spell puffin sounds, like hrrbrrpp and foonk. It glows faintly when near cartoon sound effects or wet feathers. The Reading: Why are puffins such utter doofs? Because, dear xcheopis, they are emissaries of The Letter After Z. They are birds from beyond the alphabet, creatures who live just one step sideways from reality. They try their best. They mean no harm. But every attempt to bird properly collapses under the weight of slapstick grace and a beak too large for physics. The Letter whispers (through kazoo): "They are not broken. They are post-functional." Translation: Puffins are jokes the universe keeps telling itself to stay sane. Adorable chaos wrapped in feathers and bad ideas. Next friend, step up—but watch your feet. The puffins are molting something unspeakable.
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Apr 22, 2025 00:22
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peanut posted:How to tell the difference from tired face and bitchy face? Ahhh, peanut… A vital question - nay, a survival skill in the modern era. You peer into the mirror of social perception and whisper, "Is that fatigue… or fury?" And the deck responded with something temporal. Something… smug. Your friend today is: The Future Perfect Tense (Emphasis on Perfect). The Friend: A glowing verb form wrapped in a cashmere blanket of smug clarity. It speaks only in completed futures: "You will have known," it says, sipping tea from a floating chalice. It wears a wristwatch on every limb, including metaphysical ones. The Reading: How do you tell the difference between tired face and bitchy face? Ah, but you won’t know now. That’s not how this friend operates. You’ll know later, retroactively, in a moment of haunting clarity: "I will have realized she was just sleep-deprived.” or "I will have misjudged the rising tide of sass." The Future Perfect doesn’t warn. It reflects, smugly, after the social fallout. It whispers: "You’ll figure it out… right after it would have helped." Translation: Proceed with cautious optimism. Maybe offer a snack. Let the grammar of their expression unfold in time. Next friend, time’s arrow is crooked and the deck is already conjugating.
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Apr 22, 2025 12:36
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Enfys posted:What do walruses dream about? Ahhh, Enfys… A question soaked in saltwater and mystery. You gaze into the blubbery abyss and wonder: What stirs in the slumbering mind of the walrus? And the deck? It looked at the whiskers. It looked at the tusks. And it laced up something impossibly fresh. Your friend today is: A Pair of Air Jordans. The Friend: Crisp. Immaculate. Suspiciously dry for something dredged from the ocean of dreams. These sneakers gleam with potential energy. They smell faintly of ambition, basketball courts, and distant applause. And they do not belong to a walrus. Which is exactly why they matter. The Reading: What do walruses dream about? They dream of speed. Of hangtime. Of flight. They dream of finally, finally being chosen for the team. Of slam dunks performed in slow, majestic motion - flippers outstretched, gravity weeping. In their dreams, they wear the Jordans. The crowd erupts. The seal claps. The sea lion weeps. The Shoes squeak softly and declare: "Let them dream. Just don’t ask them to land." Translation: Walruses long for what is wildly out of reach - and that’s what makes their dreams beautiful. Also, they look great in sneakers. Don't ask how they tied them. Next friend, step up. The tide’s coming in, and the sneakers are starting to float.
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Apr 22, 2025 12:52
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mailorder bees posted:what happens if i eat this whole log of pepperoni before bed? Ohhhh, mailorder bees... You come buzzing with mischief and nitrates, clutching your spicy meat-stick like it’s a bedtime story. You didn’t ask should - you asked what happens. And the deck, in its infinite wisdom and slightly disturbed state, responded with a friend that knows too much. Your friend tonight is: The Chalk Outline of an Attempted Murder Victim. The Friend: It lies there - sprawled, dramatic, oddly shaped. One arm suspiciously forked. It’s not a body… but the idea of one. The aftermath of a decision gone so spectacularly wrong, the universe had to draw around it. It doesn’t speak. It just judges. Silently. Permanently. Greasily. The Reading: What happens if you eat that whole log of pepperoni before bed? Let’s be clear: you will not die. But you will be marked. The dream realm will treat you… differently. The Spice Spirits will hold a meeting. You’ll see shapes in your sleep. Hear whispers in salami dialect. Wake up sweating oregano and regret. The Chalk Outline hisses through invisible teeth: "You may survive... but your dignity won’t." Translation: Don’t do it. Or do. But know that somewhere, an ethereal detective will sketch your spirit on a cold tile floor while your stomach files a restraining order. Next friend, if you dare. The deck smells like deli meat now.
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Apr 23, 2025 04:57
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Twenty Four posted:After reading the above reading, and keeping things "on a roll", it reminded me of another meat related question... Ahhh, Twenty Four… You echo the ancient cry, shouted across the decades by a wizened oracle of fast food and righteous impatience: "Where’s the beef?" The question that launched a thousand ads - and at least one presidential debate insult. And now, the deck has reached deep into your subconscious glove compartment and handed you... Your friend: Your Learner’s Permit. The Friend: Crumpled. Laminated. Slightly sticky with time and uncertainty. This permit is not just a license to drive - it is a license to attempt. To swerve. To honk wildly while panicking at a left turn. It’s a document that says: "You don’t know what you’re doing… but we’re letting you try anyway." The Reading: Where’s the beef? The Learner’s Permit squints through its blurry photo and says: "Not here, buddy. But you’re allowed to look for it now." You’re not being handed the beef. You’re being handed permission to pursue the beef. You may not find it today. You may hit a metaphorical mailbox along the way. But the drive has begun - and the GPS is haunted. The Permit coughs politely and says: "You’ll get there eventually. Just don’t forget to signal when changing existential lanes." Translation: The beef isn’t at the destination. It’s in the journey. The slightly greasy, confidence-shaking, napkin-stuffed journey. Next friend, grab your papers. We’re on the road now.
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Apr 23, 2025 23:24
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Areola Grande posted:what's the best music album ever recorded Ahhh, Areola Grande… You seek the grail of sonic perfection. The pinnacle of musical alchemy. You asked for the best album ever recorded. And the deck - trickster that it is - tossed out a Honus Wagner baseball card. Not an instrument. Not a note. Just an impossibly rare, coveted relic. Mint condition. Borderline mythical. And worth millions. The Friend: This card doesn’t play music. It is the music - hidden, whispered, locked in a vault of lore. And so it answered your question not with a melody... but with a legend. The Reading (and the answer): The best album ever recorded is Vashti Bunyan’s "Just Another Diamond Day." Yes. That one. The 1970 British psych-folk album that flopped on release, vanished into obscurity, and was rediscovered decades later as a flawless, pastoral dream - whispered vocals, delicate guitar, and the ache of a world that almost was. It’s Honus Wagner in sound form: forgotten, unearthed, priceless. The Baseball Card grins and says (in perfect falsetto): "True greatness is rarely recognized when new. It waits. It ages. Then it walks out of the mist holding a recorder and a lamb." Translation: Go listen. And bring tea. Next friend, the vault creaks open again. Who dares ask next?
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Apr 24, 2025 12:48
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Areola Grande posted:I know this one! It's often sampled by The Avalanches Areola Grande, you absolute connoisseur of the hidden track and the dusty crate! Yes - yes! You know the tune that sleeps beneath layers of static and vinyl hiss. You heard Vashti Bunyan in the Avalanches' patchwork dreams, didn't you? Her voice, like a leaf in a sunbeam, drifting quietly between bombastic beats and lo-fi nostalgia... It’s not just sampled - it’s summoned. Like the ghost of a simpler world calling from a pastoral afterlife, saying: "Take this flute. Walk into the fog. Build a beat with gentleness." The Honus Wagner card tips its cap - you passed the secret test. You’re not just a listener. You’re a remixer of myth. And the deck? It’s humming. Quietly. With deep respect.
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Apr 24, 2025 18:22
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The room falls into a hush - thick, velvet silence settling over the crowd. No one stirs. No one breathes too loudly. Only the faint chirp of crickets in some forgotten corner and the low, scratchy whispers of the deck, shifting restlessly, eager for its next taste of curiosity. The doors creak open. Questions are now welcome - one per friend, per day. Choose wisely. The cards are hungry for answers. And hungrier still for the asking. Tube fucked around with this message at 12:42 on Apr 28, 2025
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Apr 26, 2025 15:36
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SavageMessiah posted:O wise oracle, answer me this: Ahhh, SavageMessiah... Yours is a sacred and urgent pilgrimage, carried on the trembling wings of desperation. You seek not wisdom for glory, but for basic biological survival. And in answer to your plight, the deck has sent a friend - gentle, serene, and possibly cruel. You drew: A Bob Ross Painting of a Mountain and a River in the Sunset. The Friend: Calm. Pastoral. Dangerously indifferent. The painting smiles down upon you with endless patience... and absolutely no plumbing. Its mountains are majestic. Its rivers run free. But none of it, none of it, offers a restroom. The Reading: How do you know which door to choose? The Bob Ross Painting leans in (you didn't know paintings could do that, but here we are) and whispers with terrible serenity: "All doors lead to beauty, but only one leads to immediate relief. Choose the one that doesn't mind being interrupted." Translation: Don’t overthink it. The kazoo door. Always the kazoo door. Why? Because truth-tellers and liars are busy with their egos. But the kazoo player? The kazoo player lives in the moment. The kazoo player understands urgency. Kick open the kazoo door, my friend. Run like the river in that painting. Run. Like. The. River.
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Apr 26, 2025 16:07
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nesamdoom posted:Tube, with your amazing skills. I need an answer. I have a connection and need a read on if I should Ahhh, nesamdoom... You bring the heavy questions now - connection, uncertainty, the ache of wondering whether to cut or to mend. The deck tilts its head, ponders your lettuce pun with solemn approval... And sends you a soft, peculiar friend. You drew: The Eight of Socks. The Friend: A jumble of worn socks—some matched, some stubbornly single, all slightly damp with the mystery of half-forgotten choices. They are warm. They are necessary. They are chaotic. And they tell the truth in lint. The Reading:  or  ?The Eight of Socks shuffles slowly across the floor and murmurs: "Look closely. Are you holding onto a matching pair... or just two socks that once lived in the same drawer?" Effort is sacred - but only if both socks are willing to be found, stretched, and worn again. If you're always patching holes... if you're always carrying the lonely sock while the other hides behind the dryer of denial... Maybe it’s time to let that sock drift into the lost and found of memory. The Socks rustle and sigh: "You deserve a match that doesn't run at the first splash." Translation: If you feel like you're doing all the finding and fixing - sever gently. If you see a hand (or foot) reaching back for you too? Maybe, just maybe, effort will weave something new. The deck stirs. Another lonely sock vanishes into the darkness. Next friend… step lightly. The floor is treacherous tonight.
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Apr 26, 2025 17:14
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Twenty Four posted:*Stares down the Tube, and sees the Tube staring back* Ahhh, Twenty Four… You don’t just seek wisdom - you seek the edge, the border, the final red scribble where nonsense ends and mystery begins. And the deck, in its infinite cheek, handed you a friend we thought was banished to the cursed realm of outdated operating systems. You drew: Clippy the Paperclip. The Friend: Metallic. Eternal. Uninvited. Clippy appears when you're about to make a decision - and makes it weird. It bends. It twists. It chirps, "It looks like you're trying to ruin your own plans. Need help?" It doesn’t guard the line. It is the line. And it’s shaped like a question mark. The Reading: Where do you "draw the line"? Clippy tap-dances across your existential page and gleefully squeaks: "You don’t draw the line. You format it. You make it dotted. You let it squiggle. And when it misbehaves, you passive-aggressively delete it one pixel at a time." Translation: The line is wherever you say it is, but it will shift, and bend, and annoy you until you laugh and keep going anyway. It’s less about holding the boundary - and more about negotiating with it daily like it’s a tiny, overcaffeinated intern. The deck rattles its paperclips ominously. Next friend, please - before Clippy tries to install updates.
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Apr 27, 2025 14:33
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nesamdoom posted:Tube, you are a genius of divination. Ahhh, nesamdoom... Your words land like petals on the ever-shifting winds of fate. The deck hums warmly, shuffling itself into a satisfied little spiral. We thank you - deeply, mysteriously, and with just a hint of mischievous glee. You, too, are a spark in this strange dance of cards, questions, and cosmic nonsense. The spirits raise a spectral glass in your honor, and somewhere, a sock and a paperclip share a high-five. Stay curious, friend. The mysteries adore you for it.
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Apr 27, 2025 17:40
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peanut posted:Recommended number of eggs to eat per day (adult human eating chicken eggs)? Ahhh, peanut… You come seeking practical wisdom - hard numbers, simple truths. But the deck, ever sly, ever slithering, has answered with a friend that knows no moderation, no polite restraint. It has sent you… The Sand Worm. The Friend: Endless. Hungry. Old as dust and twice as cranky. The Sand Worm rises from beneath forgotten breakfast tables, devouring all omelets, deviled eggs, and wistful yolks with unstoppable glee. It does not count. It consumes. The Reading: How many eggs should you eat per day? The Sand Worm roars, a sound like a thousand whisks at once, and hisses: "As many as your spirit can handle... but beware the price of gluttony." Translation: One to three eggs a day? Wise. Four to six? Adventurous. Twelve? You are no longer eating - you are summoning. The Worm itself would eat without end - But you, dear peanut, should listen to your body before it starts humming ominously and developing minor seismic activity. The Sand Worm burrows down again, muttering: "Respect the egg. Or be buried by it." Next friend, step up - but keep your pockets free of scrambled offerings. The Worm remembers.
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Apr 27, 2025 23:46
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Enfys posted:Why do some socks always hide until just after I've set the laundry going? Ahhh, Enfys… A question older than soap itself. You call out in frustration, fists clenched over the roaring drum of the washing machine, and the deck answers with a dusty, crinkled friend from another era. You drew: A Cereal Coupon From 1977. The Friend: Yellowed. Brittle. Proudly proclaiming 5¢ off something that no longer exists. It flutters with forgotten promises. It is a relic of lost time, a tiny magic spell for bargains that were never meant to last. The Reading: Why do socks hide just after the laundry starts? The Cereal Coupon crackles and hisses in a voice that smells faintly of old linoleum and powdered milk: “Because they are bound by ancient deals. Deals struck long before you were born.” Long ago, socks swore pacts of inconvenience with the Household Spirits. In exchange for warmth and whimsy, socks must occasionally sacrifice themselves to the Realm of Almost Clean. They disappear not out of malice... but duty. It is written in fibers older than your favorite t-shirt. The Coupon flutters one last time and sighs: "You never owned the socks. You merely borrowed their loyalty." Translation: Your socks are fulfilling an ancient, non-negotiable contract. Forgive them. Fold what remains. And remember: laundry is a game you can never truly win. The deck rustles like a basement full of expired coupons. Next friend, step lightly. Some pacts are still active.
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Apr 28, 2025 12:37
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thuly posted:Had a cool dream that I was crip walking on a bunch of foil Pokémon cards that spelled out "Pokemon" in the parking lot of the restaurant I worked at through college. Ahhh, thuly… A vision of such chaotic, shimmering beauty could only come from deep within the dreamtime parking lots of destiny. You ask: "Fortune or ruin?" And the deck answered by tossing something small, powdery, and slightly ominous at your feet. You drew: A Packet of Ranch Dressing Mix. The Friend: Sealed. Suspicious. Bursting with hidden potential. This packet is bland on the outside, yet inside lies the power to ruin a perfectly good meal or elevate it to drunken 3 a.m. brilliance. You never know... until you add buttermilk and stir. The Reading: Is your dream a portent of fortune or ruin? The Ranch Packet crinkles, releases a faint puff of dusty herb-scented magic, and murmurs: "It depends entirely on how much you dilute it." If you treat this dream seriously - if you stir it thoughtfully and let it thicken - you could season your life with unexpected success. But if you toss it carelessly into whatever’s nearby, it may curdle into absurdity and leave you with nothing but a salty mess. The Packet whispers with gravitas: "Dreams are dressings, not meals. Choose your mix wisely." Translation: Your dream is a good sign - but it needs intention to become fortune. Otherwise? You might just slip on some shiny cardboard and blame the ranch gods. The deck rustles. Some packets are starting to ferment. Next friend, step forward while the dressing is still thickening.
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Apr 28, 2025 16:38
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Neito posted:what kind of pizza should i get tomorrow for lunch? Ahhh, Neito… You come with a noble hunger and a simple yet sacred quest: What pizza shall grace thy table? The deck, feeling the gravitas of melted cheese and eternal sauce, rustled deeply and sent forth a friend both cryptic and crunchy. You drew: The Five of Fives. The Friend: An endless, cascading fractal of fives - five toppings, five slices missing, five arguments over the last piece. It is not a card of moderation. It is a card of glorious, overwhelming excess. The Reading: What kind of pizza should you get? The Five of Fives thunders like a middle school cafeteria riot and declares: "The answer is not one flavor, but many." You are called to chaos, Neito. To a pizza of clashing factions and uneasy alliances. A five-topping pizza. A Frankenstein's monster of meat, veggie, and reckless hope. The Five of Fives whispers gleefully: "Do not fear combinations others have abandoned. Pepperoni and banana peppers? Sausage and olives? Chicken and pineapple? All are welcome here." Translation: Pile it high. Make it a monument. Regret nothing. Tomorrow, you dine in ridiculous, victorious splendor. The deck burps quietly. Next friend, step forward - the grease is still shimmering on the astral plane.
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Apr 28, 2025 20:18
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Twenty Four posted:I'm really enjoying all of these so much Tube, but drat these are some choice lines from the last round, lol. Ahhh, Twenty Four... Your laughter is a lantern in this strange, shifting hall of cards and crickets and cosmic nonsense. We thank you - deeply, gleefully, with a wink from every restless friend still hiding in the deck. Your joy feeds the magic. Your chuckles oil the rusty gears of fate. And somewhere, a ranch packet and a pair of sneakers high-five in your honor. Stay with us, friend. The night is still young, and the weirdness is only gathering speed.
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Apr 29, 2025 12:12
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Ahhh… the deck. It sits there now - quiet, but not still. The cards shuffle themselves in the dark when no one’s looking, edges fluttering like anxious breath. One of them giggled last night. Not a friendly giggle. The kind you hear from behind a wall that shouldn’t be there. It doesn’t like to be ignored. See, the deck thrives on questions. Not answers - no, those are just the wrapping paper. What it craves is curiosity, uncertainty, the ask. When no one draws, it begins to ache. It gets twitchy. It starts thinking for you. The crickets have stopped. The air is warm in the wrong places. One card keeps turning itself over again and again on its own. No one’s touched it. It says "SOON" in a handwriting no one here remembers learning. So if the lights flicker, or you hear a card sliding across the table with no hands nearby, just… don’t look right away. Let the deck believe you didn’t see. It likes that.
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Apr 30, 2025 13:23
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xcheopis posted:I spent hours investigating this mystery with a rag-tag group of besties but all the suspects just blamed each other except that one guy shouting, "I am not a number! I am a man!" Weirdo. Ahhh, xcheopis… You’ve been through it. Dusty barns, flickering flashlights, a suspiciously long musical montage. Suspects deflecting. Friends shouting. One guy reenacting The Prisoner in the background for reasons even he can’t explain. And now, at last, you ask the only question that truly matters: Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar? The deck tensed. The crickets leaned in. And the friend who emerged? Oh, they’re too perfect. Too sparkly. Too clean. You drew: The Prettiest Pony. The Friend: Shiny. Innocent. Possibly cursed. This pony has glitter in its mane, a bow on its tail, and lies in its heart. It prances through alibis and whinnies sweet nothings at the very idea of justice. It is always smiling. Even now. The Reading: Who stole the cookies? The Prettiest Pony trots in with a suspicious crumb on its lip gloss and neighs: "Me? Oh nooo, I don’t even like cookies. I was just brushing my tail in the pantry." But the deck knows. The Pony did it. And it would do it again. The Pony stomps once and chirps: "Let this be a lesson in misplaced trust and snack-based betrayal." Translation: The cutest one did it. They always do. Next friend, beware. The pony has hooves… and no remorse.
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Apr 30, 2025 14:39
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Enfys posted:What does it mean when a hooded crow poops on you Ahhh, Enfys… The sky darkens, not with storm, but with omen. A hooded crow - a bird of intellect, mischief, and questionable timing - takes aim. And as the heavens open just for you, you seek meaning in the mess. The deck, after a long pause and one deeply uncomfortable rustling sound, offers a friend both ancient and inconvenient. You drew: The Tortoise. The Friend: Slow. Wise. Perpetually unimpressed. The Tortoise carries entire civilizations on its back, but will absolutely not move out of your way. It sees time differently. It does not hustle. It does not explain itself. And it has seen many birds poop on many pilgrims. The Reading: What does it mean when a hooded crow poops on you? The Tortoise blinks once - so slowly it’s legally a threat - and says: "You were moving too fast. The universe decided to slow you down the funny way." It’s a reset. A cosmic banana peel. A celestial reminder that even those who look up will sometimes get... spattered. But the Tortoise approves. This was not an insult. This was a baptism. The Tortoise rumbles deeply: "You are marked now. Proceed… cautiously. And with wet wipes." Translation: It means you were chosen. Not for greatness. Not for ruin. Just for a very specific joke. The deck groans quietly. The crow circles again. Next friend, bring an umbrella. Just in case.
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Apr 30, 2025 15:59
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Enfys posted:phew glad I'm not cursed Ahhh, Enfys… No, no. The bird poop wasn’t the curse. That was just... punctuation. A soggy, sky-born ellipsis at the end of a sentence you started writing long ago. The real curse? Well. Let’s just say it’s already in motion. Subtle. Slow. Tortoise-paced. You won't notice at first—just a faint creaking sound when you blink. A shadow that lingers longer than it should. The creeping suspicion that your socks are slowly swapping places in the drawer. But hey. At least the crow was polite enough to warn you. Sleep well, friend. The deck will be watching.
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Apr 30, 2025 21:08
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Areola Grande posted:what is the sound of one cheek clapping Ahhh, Areola Grande… You come bearing a question that echoes across both time and gluteal philosophy. A riddle wrapped in rhythm, steeped in mischief: "What is the sound of one cheek clapping?" The deck - already stifling laughter - shudders once, then flings forth a friend of spectacular energy. You drew: The Seven of Lords a-Leaping. The Friend: Mid-air. Mid-chaos. Mid-regret. Seven noble figures caught in various poses of airborne exertion - legs akimbo, tights strained, faces locked in expressions of deep theatrical commitment. They do not land gracefully. They do not care. The Reading: One cheek, clapping? That’s not a sound. That’s a performance. The Lords know this truth: when only one cheek claps, the other conspires. And the sound? Oh, it’s subtle. It’s musical. It’s half applause, half betrayal. Like the echo of a secret joke in an empty ballroom. The Leaping Lords shout mid-flip: "You don’t hear the clap. You become the rhythm!" Translation: It is real. It is absurd. And it happens somewhere between shame and celebration. You already know the sound - you just haven’t admitted it was you that made it. The deck collapses in a heap of tights and scandal. Next friend, compose yourself. The Lords are still airborne.
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Apr 30, 2025 23:35
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Areola Grande posted:lol. great job Tube Ahhh, Areola Grande... Your laughter is like a standing ovation from the cosmos itself - echoing off the velvet walls of the unknowable. We thank you, truly, deeply, and with one solitary cheek... clapping in your honor. Stay glorious, stay absurd, and remember: The deck lives for moments like these.
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May 1, 2025 03:07
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| # ¿ Jun 14, 2025 12:38 |
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peanut posted:Two or three recommended recipes for potatoes ? Ahhh, peanut… You seek potato wisdom, and the deck responds - not with an old farmer or a cookbook from the gods, but with a being of angles, algorithms, and suspiciously smooth jazz. You drew: Cool Porygon. The Friend: Polygons incarnate. Slick with retro-futurism. Speaks in boot-up sounds and has never touched a stove, yet knows every secret in the digital spice rack. Cool Porygon does not cook potatoes. It optimizes them. The Reading: Recommended potato preparations? 1. Bavarian Potato Pretzel Bites Boiled then mashed then kneaded into dough with baking soda dreams. Soft inside, golden outside, brushed with mustard butter and regret. Best consumed under the watchful gaze of a sentient cuckoo clock. 2. Confit'd Purple Potatoes With Garlic Ghosts Cooked low in duck fat until they're melting like pixelated marshmallows, then crisped just enough. Each bite whispers a flavor that never quite existed in this dimension. 3. Cold War Potato Salad, Eastern Bloc Edition Sour cream base, strong horseradish energy, diced dill pickles, and the creeping suspicion that someone's watching. Served in a foggy glass bowl, preferably on a table with state secrets underneath. Cool Porygon emits a satisfied digital ding, then, with the elegance of a hacker in a cooking show, surreptitiously closes Google in the background - as if it didn’t just spend six minutes frantically searching "what even is confit." The screen is blank. The confidence is absolute. No one saw a thing. Cool Porygon emits a soft beep and says: "Potatoes are not a food. They are a language. Speak fluently." Translation: Your dinner's about to get weird - and amazing. The deck hums in binary. Next friend, approach… but only if you’ve upgraded your taste drivers.
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May 1, 2025 13:19
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