- Jamie: If it's us being terrorists, it doesn't get covered.
- Allison: Exactly, and we would certainly never call it terrorism.
- Jamie: Even though, I bet the people of Iraq are *really* afraid when they see America.
- Allison: Well, what you were just saying, about how you don't retaliate by killing innocent civilians. That's exactly what the US military did after September 11. We were like, "You don't kill civilians, WE kill civilians!".
- Jamie: And then we're like, "We're rebuilding! By replacing people.... with nothing."
- Allison: "No, no, hear us out... We hired a really shady company named Halliburton that isn't *really* good at construction but we're going to give them BILLIONS of dollars."
- Jamie: "Oh there's no room to build? We're going to like, remove the women and children, with bullets, so then like 'Oh where are we going to put that building? How about where that kid was?'"
- Allison: Right, right. "But, I know you're mad... hear us out... we're going to leave... before anything's accomplished."
- Jamie: Now, you're probably going to be like, "Why did they just come in, fuck everything up and leave?" Well that's because you don't understand democracy.
- Allison: BOOM.
- Jamie: All done.
- Allison: And of course the boom would actually be a cluster bomb going off.
"What a pleasure it is to degrade a woman."
Robin Thicke (no, really)
oh but he’s white so it’s harmless instead of those *gasp* rappers
seriously there’s a huge fucking deal about misogyny in hip hop and R&B, but it only focuses on artists who are PoC, yet some fucking gangrenous white boy can get away with this shit and nobody speaks up, he gets to perform on national television and there is no backlash
People say, “Hey, do you think this is degrading to women?” I’m like, “Of course it is. What a pleasure it is to degrade a woman. I’ve never gotten to do that before. I’ve always respected women.”
IF DEGRADING A WOMAN IS SUCH A FORBIDDEN PLEASURE THAT YOU’RE GLAD TO ENGAGE IN BECAUSE YOU’RE SUCH A NICE GUY, YOU ARE NOT ACTUALLY A NICE GUY. YOU’RE A HYPOCRITE AND A NASTY, NASTY INDIVIDUAL.
and people were complaining about miley cyrus
let that sink in
the young woman (who is admittedly very problematic in other areas) being treated like an object gets criticism and ire, but the man old enough to be her father who is grinding her and using her and probably knows a whole lot better than she does how shitty his behavior is, he just gets ignored.
Spend weeks working on new tools, learning new programming languages, double and triple checking that senior librarians are all good with the new tools and using Google Analytics. Implement the tools. Roll them out across the websites. Promote them heavily. Get told they’re no good because Google Analytics isn’t good enough, and to use the old, shitty, bad UI rubbish they had before. Accept decision graciously, do “fix”, bitch about it on Tumblr.
What the fuck, Tumblr? Why are fucking sponsored posts in my feed??
funrotobiey asked: Lolololol. I liked that like 2 hours ago and just went to paint my face over yours then I realised IT WAS YOU then poked myself in the eye and now I'm crying. So good.
Do I know you?
I wrote this today while I was cleaning. It’s my friend Holly, who’s running a flash fiction comp over at her blog, Confessions of a Stuffed Olive.
The rules are:
250 words max
Zombies must be in it
It must be funny
Now, I’m not sure if this is particularly funny, and I know it doesn’t scan, but it’s been ages since I’ve written anything. So here goes.
The band were dead,
But how could you tell?
Blank staring eyes,
Slack, open mouths - well,
They looked like every other band
Who’d played that venue’s stage,
And they were better than most,
Talent is rare in this town, I’m afraid.
When the drummer caught fire,
Which isn’t as strange as it sounds,
They just kept on playing,
Their decent cover of ‘Old London Town’.
Some of us at the bar
Cottoned on then,
And snuck suspicious glances
Between us, and them.
The barman stared blankly,
As some bar staff do,
Some of us gripped glasses,
Not sure what to do.
The drummer kept burning,
But the lead singer stopped,
He let go of his mic,
The PA went POCK!
With yellow teeth bared,
He lurched into the crowd,
And started chomping away
On the first groupie he found.
The groupie’s back arched,
As the singer’s hands clawed
Into his skull and
Pulled out his spinal cord.
And with that act of transgression,
The crowd started to flee,
Getting stuck in the exits,
Which were not meant for three.
Some of us stayed;
We knew what was up
The undead had risen,
It was time to get tough.
The drummer had set fire
To most of the stage;
The bass player’s Fender
was covered in flames.
I cracked my knuckles,
Grabbed two bottles of Jack,
And threw them directly
At the amp stack.
The amp stack exploded,
With a predictable bang,
And that was when
Our battle began.