Ask me how you can switch from short king to tall king with nothing but a hex wrench.

Limb Loss Boss

I think my favourite concept in Dunmeshi is that... There is an urgency in most of us to sacrifice our peace of mind when push comes to shove. Perhaps to worry means that you care about the emergency at hand (whatever level of emergency that is subjectively) and we pinpoint focus on the task and everything else disappears. Our sleep and diet patterns change even though these activities are pivotal for our dopamine systems and functionally make us feel healthier and help us think clearer. It's self-punishing; the "grind" so to speak — to persevere we have to forget the self and think solely of the object.

But Dunmeshi doesn't let you get away with that. These people's friend is captive in a monster's body, their world is literally ending, and still they sit down to eat. To eat is to live. Only living things eat and it is the privilege of the living. Yes, there is a crisis. Yes they are upset and heartbroken and distressed. But they still focus on the food: the very thing that sustains you and gives you energy to think, to move, to keep going. A moment of gratitude offered to life by actually, consciously indulging in it. They aren't bad people for eating while Falin's suffering, no. It is simply unfeasible to give parts of yourself to a situation while hoping to gain twice as much back. Just take the time to make food, think about how delicious it looks, and eat. Even if you fail, you need to eat. Even if you succeed, you need to eat. You need to live life no matter what. You need to enjoy it no matter what. It is never "inappropriate" to just live your life.

not only are the players doing sidequests so are the audience members

My train was late. AGAIN.

By popular request from my fellow opossum loving soup brains I have turned these into sticker and you can get them from my site over here.

The pre-order discount is up for 4 more days, after that it goes up to 3.50 GBP

Little City Gods

Bobby wasn’t sure why the special dumpster diver targeted his restaurant. Maybe it was because they were finally packed on weekends. Maybe because he forgot to close the lid properly one night. Maybe because life is a bitch and then you die.

After a week of this, the owner, Barb, had them clamp spikes around the lip of the metal like a medieval torture device. Those were snapped off. The next day the manager put a padlock on the lid. That was gnawed through and left on the ground covered in spit, glowing softly golden. The day staff poured cooking oil around the base of the dumpster like a looney tunes cartoon where they hoped it would slip and fall. Bobby had to assume that was lapped up, because the next day only shimmering three-toed paw prints were left and the lake of oil was gone.

And was it too much to ask for a break? Two months sober and Bobby wasn’t paid enough to defend an oil spill with his life, much less a dumpster. The only thing stopping him from walking the other direction was his mom’s voice. You get a prize for just a day? She laughed when she saw his first AA chip, her breath smelling of her favorite Patrón. Is it supposed to be some kind of good luck charm? Bobby, you’re a pickle now, you’re never going to be a cucumber again, baby.

“It’s not rats,” the exterminator said and Bobby would have gladly thrown his hands in the air and be done with it. The older man frowned. “You’re gonna need a shrine.”

“You sure?” Barb, the owner, put her hands on her hips, meaning she meant business.

“Look at the prints.” The exterminator’s eyes were already on the door. “Glowing like a disco party.”

Bobby ran a hand through his hair. “This is the city.” And it was THE city too, concrete and bricks and bad air. “Middle of the city.”

The big man shrugged. “Call a priest about it.”

Both the owner and the manager of Barb’s Restaurant were the good sort, probably gave them all too many breaks and sent everyone home loaded with food. You wanted old Corey in your corner if nothing else. So, Bobby did look up building shrines in his free time. Afterall, having an alleyway destroyed every morning–eggshells, plastics, noodles, spread out like a bomb exploded, it wouldn’t do.

Plus, as the main busboy slash kitchen help slash charity case, Bobby knew the dumpster was kind of his responsibility. He was lousy with a kitchen knife and even worse with waiter smalltalk.

The shrine looked like a doghouse when he was done. A cardboard square with a fake candle inside and fake roses pinned to the top.

“There.” He dusted off his hands and called to the darkening sky. “I worship you or whatever.” That day he went home early, turned the TV up high, and texted everyone back in his messages.

Bobby got a call in the morning, and he wasn’t even due in for another few hours. He picked up his phone and a part of him missed being hungover. Hungover-Bobby would never have answered a morning phone call and would have felt fine about that.

“Lou?” Bobby answered his manager sleepily.

Lou grunted. “You do this?”

“Oh.” Bobby’s heart sank. “Is the dumpster still standing?”

The manager snorted. “Not sure we’re targeting the right god.”

Bobby let his head fall back and closed his eyes. “Think there’s a god of trash cans? But like, a vengeful one.” “Inventing new damn gods to give me a migraine.”

“Our lady of rancid lettuce. Hater of cardboard and eater of fucking take out boxes.”

Lou chuckled and Bobby could imagine him doing his slow head-shake. “You piss off any deities lately?”

Maybe the fake roses weren’t a good idea. “Not that I know of.” “Well. You might’ve just started.”

The shrine hadn’t lasted the night. Apparently, plastic roses were the opposite of a good offering. Bobby dressed like he was headed to a funeral and found his latest project was a puddle on the ground. The thing had licked up the oil like it was a buffet but apparently plastic roses were a step too far. They twisted in a bubbling black puddle, shifting and oozing in place. Bobby’s heart squeezed painfully and he leaned over the tiny tar pit.

The puddle bubbled and when he put his head over it, it hissed at him. He screamed loud enough his mother probably heard that too. Probably said he was a baby, and never gonna be a man again.

They really did need a priest after that. The damned plastic roses were turned into a gross tar thing that hissed at you. They needed back-up.

“Isn’t the point of the city to get out of dealing with stuff like this?” Bobby asked, hands crossed over his chest. The priest was young, fair, and had dark circles under his eyes. They probably sent their rookiest guy, barely holy, to handle restaurants with dumpster-divers of an unusual sort.

The young man leaned over the sparkling paw prints and oozy little tar part on the ground. He grimaced.

“Who said they don’t come to cities?” His accent was surprisingly thick. Bobby backed off when he smelled the strong liquor on his breath. Typical. Priests.

“Just what I heard,” he said, not meeting the priest's dark gaze.

“The whole world’s sacred. Up to the corners,” he said, surprisingly reverently and cracked his back like an old man when he stood. “I’ll get the traps.”

The priest set-up No Kill Snares. Real candles burning on long milky wicks and smelling of lavender. Sticky strings soaked in holy water poised overhead. A ring of pearls with an inscription in the middle, written on real parchment and good ink. A little talisman on the lip of the dumpster, warding. Barb must have paid a real penny to buy a ward.

Bobby was the most skeptical of the little tricks. If spikes weren’t going to deter it, then the talisman of a back-alley priest was just going to get in the way. 

Late Saturday rush, sweating his t-shirt, running around like a chicken with his head cut off, and Bobby went to dump a nice big bag of trash. He sees it then. He sees with his own two eyes.

Glowing like a small sun, eyes burning gold, and body bursting with waves of dusty light. Unmistakable. A small god. It was in a bad way too, light shifting like a kaleidoscope, and falling off it in heaps. It seemed to lose more rays of sun than shine them, and its mouth dripped with glittery black oil.

The little god jerked its head back from the trash and snarled at him. Bobby put his hands together in prayer.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” The little god bared its dripping teeth and let out a sound like rusty bells. Bobby dropped the trash and got down on his knees. “Easy now.” His eyes softened, clumps of light falling off the miscreant. It was shivering. He put a hand out like you did at a church offering.

The creature sneezed, whole body seizing up, and whatever god it was, it was a dying one.

“Do you know where you are?”

The little god chimed and backed away. Bobby shook his head. Was there a tree that used to grow here? A well of clear water? Did gods remember what they lost? 

Their trash was saved for the night and Bobby tried not to let on that he was a goddamn hero. Lou gave him the next day off though. Bobby, however, came in. He liked work. Needed it. Less time for drinking or thinking about drinking. The old Bobby would have never needed work. The old Bobby wasn’t full of craving on craving, not just the hot burn of drink or the oblivion. The despair. The panic. The knife’s edge. How good it felt to ruin yourself.

This Bobby came into work. He sat on the ledge by the dumpster, and tossed breadcrumbs to the ground. What did a little god need from a back-alley restaurant? He watched the clouds pass overhead and the little god did not show up. 

The next night he played a little game with the customers when they walked in. “Write down the best thing you ever gave up.” He passed out strips of paper. Guilty, he checked them at the end of the night. A good number of them were someone’s name: George, Juan, Sylvie. A wistful heart was drawn on a few of them, and Bobby included those. More than a few were jokes: “Gave up your mom.” “Gave up being bad at sex.” “Gave up handwritten notes up until today. Thanks for nothing.”

The wait staff helped pick out twenty perfectly good wishes among them at the end of the night. Many people were game for a passing group activity–including prompts from restaurant strangers. They were lucky like that.

Bobby decided it was a tree, he felt a little bad, making assumptions like that. But no other alleyway in the neighborhood had to deal with an exploded refuse every morning. He bent the shape of the tree out of chicken wire and bits of twine. Fastening every single person’s half-decent answers to the ends of the branches.

He sat, long into midnight, writing his own answer on the wish paper. Gave up the drink. No. He had scratched that out. Gave up having fun. That one was also tossed out. Bobby thought, in the end, he wrote something serviceable. Gave up on giving up on myself.

A couple weeks later, Bobby ran into the young priest at an AA meeting. He found it kind of sweet, seeing the other young guy there, figuring it all out. He still had the deep shadows under his eyes and the look of a hunted man. That was probably why Bobby stopped him after the meeting.

“Did you ever figure out your pest situation?” The young priest asked, tired.

Bobby grinned. “Eventually, yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Someone had to.” “Did one of the traps work? Those usually do.” He snorted. “Even the city gods get conceited and will run into a trap.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Let’s get coffee, huh?”

He told the young priest a story: the little city god was never going to be worshipped as a tree or a sun or a source of happiness again. Had become a Problem Eater. But if you fed it right, little bits of what it used to be, new kinds of offerings in the old style, you might get a perfectly serviceable back alley.

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You might think your anime opening is cool, but is it “seamlessly put a ‘previously on…’ segment in the MIDDLE of the opening and have it kick ass every time” cool?

bet your ass he is

Hello, if you have not seen Baccano!, and want to see a BEAUTIFULLY constricted anime with an incredible soundtrack and some of the best characters of all time, watch Baccano!.

It’s 26 long-run episodes and you need to be paying attention because it’s played out-of-order ala pulp fiction, and it kicks So. Much. Ass.

Documenting what is quite possibly the best exchange I have ever seen on this website.

He will not be exiled again

I enjoy all parts of this post. The trans leash, the confusion, the heartfelt display of affection we give to our pets. The biography, the history lesson, and the morality of keeping cats indoors are all bonuses.

Hey thats me again.

Anyway guess whos 18 now!!!

Frank

This post has EVERYTHING...

As the puppy on the end of the leash I like the pattern

Happy Leland Melvin Day!!!

Happy Leland Melvin Day!

Happy Leland Melvin Day!

Happy Leland Melvin Day!!!

Happy Leland Melvin Day!!!!

An old Italian man lived alone in New Jersey. He wanted to plant his annual tomato garden; but it was very difficult work as the ground was hard. His only son, Vincent, who used to help him, was in prison. The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament:

Dear Vincent,

I am feeling pretty sad, because it looks like wont be able to plant my tomato garden this year. I'm just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot. know if you were here my troubles would be over. I know you would be happy to dig the plot for me, like in the old days. Love, Papa

A few days later he received this letter from his son:

Dear Pop, Don't dig up that garden. That's where the bodies are buried. Love, Vinnie

At 6 am the next morning, FBl agents and local police arrived and dug up the entire area without finding any bodies. They apologized to the old man and left. That same day the old man received another letter from his son:

Dear Pop, Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now. That's the best could do under the circumstances. Love, Vinnie

Jeff I am BEGGING YOU to change your name

Bear Selfies Captured By Camera Traps

@greenwitching

Weird and wonderful compilation of strange bird noises.

Hello sir would you like your bird sounds today in Siren, Machinery, or Ghost

As I grow older I feel my capacity to understand that Miss Piggy is not a real person reached a peak in my adolescence and is now on a steady decline. I watched a Wendy Williams interview and there's this part that's like "can we get a ring cam!" and Miss Piggy shows her bling and I'm just like fuck she's so iconic. Miss Piggy who are you wearing? Miss Piggy have you ever considered running for office??

Like literally every time I see Miss Piggy there's a period where I need to readjust to the fact that it's not a person, and I feel that period is getting longer and longer with every instance

now all my Youtube recommendations are filled with Miss Piggy interviews. I’m not complaining. Miss Piggy what’s your secret to ageing so graciously

It's not just the audience; professional journalists, hosts, and actors report it is legitimately difficult to not see the Muppet as a person, and it is, in fact, incredibly easy to interview or act with them once the performer gets properly set up.

Like that one time they couldn't figure out why Kermit's audio was so garbage... then realized they'd put the mic on him instead of the performer.

this has been a very longstanding issue - before the muppet show was even a thing some muppets appeared in commercials, such as rolf the dog they had a continual problem where when people directing/shooting the dogfood commercial would give dirrection to rolf that they would be speaking to the muppet, to which rolf REPEATEDLY had to tell them ‘i cant hear you, you have to talk to him’ and point at the performer underneath him rolf is one of the most embarrassing muppets to need this direction as the performer is this, damn, obvious when not on camera

‘sir, i am a bathroom mat, the man you need to talk to is back there’

I did an interview with Gonzo one time, and when I got into the Zoom call, it was the actor on screen trying to figure out his audio. And then once he did, he went like “OKAY!” and then just like dove to the floor and it was Gonzo and there was never a moment when I doubted that the dude was just Gonzo’s tech guy 

I have met a muppet-like puppet in real life and when I tell you that my brain was hacked FUCKING INSTANTLY..... It was a person, I swear it was a person. I asked it for a hug (no i was not 5 years old, i was like 28 at this time). i genuinely don't know what came over me, it was just. It was a person???? Witchcraft

A couple years ago, I was invited to the birthday party of one of my former preschool students. I decided to bring my teaching puppet (a big rat) along because I knew several other kids from that class would be there, and she was always a huge hit with them.

They were, of course, very excited to see her. But what surprised me was that after the kids ran off to play in the sprinkler, the parents around me struck up conversation with the puppet. They continued for at least fifteen minutes, asking her questions like, "how long have you been teaching?" and "eaten out of any good dumpsters lately?" until one dad exclaimed "why have I been talking to a rat puppet this whole time!"

I’d like to live through a week that’s not a whole new verse of “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”

#dated three four years ago is really what makes this one#sorry op if you still have notifications on for this one#but hoo-wee did you hit on the sentiment of the decade

I do have notifications still on for this post because I love the sense of community it gives me. We're all just staring at each other blankly and occasionally screaming.

Also for the people who have post dates turned on and just go JESUS CHRIST FOUR YEARS AGO?!