it’s that simple
this is cool. (Don’t read the comments; they’re just heartbreaking evidence why this is so fucking necessary)
IT IS THIS FUCKING SIMPLE.
My favorite part about 1931 Dracula is that there are armadillos running around Dracula’s castle.
Look at this it’s like they couldn’t find any rats so they just were like “eh close enough no one will notice”. But I noticed. I noticed.
“WE NAILED IT BOYS”
Apparently in the 20s and 30s, armadillos weren’t very commonly known, so moviemakers would use them wherever they needed some creepy, ‘demonic’ animal running around. So there were a lot of armadillos in early filmmaking, and it was often people’s only source of reference for armadillos.
Fast forward twenty years to when the father of the biology professor who told me this is driving out from the east coast to see his son in California. Crossing the southwest at night.
An armadillo runs across the road.
He comes to a screeching halt and the Thing Of Evil, which he never knew was actually a real animal, trots the rest of the way across the road and vanishes into the desert.
Apparently it shook him up rather a bit.
apparently the first bird field guide was written by a woman who was rallying against the fashion of turning birds into hats. she tried lobbying against the practice, she tried writing angry newspaper articles about it, she tried holding informative classes about why people should like live birds instead, but no dice! no-one cared that someone hated what they liked, no matter how many letters to the editor she wrote
so instead she wrote a funny little book that people could carry around with them, encouraging them to look at the birds that lived around the area and describing them not in dry textbook terms but instead as flashy young men and somber old grumps and sweet little housewives working hard to feed their children, something entertaining and fun to read that turned birds into interesting little feathery people worthy of sympathy instead of just a resource
it worked and her effort in changing the public’s opinions on birds was credited as part of the reason why the practice was eventually outlawed
this is the most ruthlessly perfect execution of more flies with honey than vinegar i’ve seen, i’m so impressed
black beauty was also written like that, in hopes of changing people’s minds about the contemporary, widespread abuse of horses! it worked, too, tons of people loved the books, lots of them joined or became more sympathetic to animal rights groups, some particularly damaging control methods fell out of fashion.
humans can be enormously shitty to animals, but we’re capable of genuine compassion. so that’s cool.
follow for more gentle cat petting
I am not, in any way, endorsing this.
All I can think of is that tweet about how we aren’t a species designed to last
Actually, I'm pretty sure it means you're a good citizen who watches iZombie regularly.
It means “I have no new ideas and I don’t want anyone to figure that out and fire me.”
White Lives Matter, which conducted a Confederate flag-waving protest outside the headquarters of the Houston NAACP, is led in part by Rebecca Barnette who is “also the vice president of the women’s division of the skinhead group Aryan Strikeforce.” Heidi Beirich, who runs the SPLC’s Intelligence Report, explained why “White Lives Matter” is not a real movement.
For those on the right, including former president Nicolas Sarkozy, the burkini is a “provocation,” a symbol of radical Islam in a country still reeling from the terrorist attacks in Paris last fall and in Nice in July. For those on the left, such as Prime Minister Manuel Valls, the burkini is a means of “enslavement,” the subjugation of women to a patriarchal religion.
But in France, that type of secularism, which is common in countries around the world, soon became a creed in its own right. The initial prohibition against the state — or any of its representatives — showing religious preference eventually became a prohibition against private citizens showing any religious preference in public.Here's one counterpoint:
The women who wear burkinis, she said, cannot be called oppressed. They are not the women subservient to a conservative Islam; they are the women who sit on beaches unsupervised by men, enjoying their leisure time in mixed social company.And here's an image posted by an Italian imam who suggested that these women will not be asked to remove their beach clothing:
According to several sources (Techdirt, Fault Lines, Idaho Statesman, CNS), an Idaho woman is suing police for trashing her home in 2014 during what they thought was a standoff with a suspect holed up inside. Police allegedly spent about 10 hours shooting tear gas into the home, smashing windows, and doing other stuff they’ve probably seen TV cops do. Turns out the only one inside was a dog.
While the problem is sometimes that police barge in without a warrant, here it was kind of the opposite: the tenant had not only given them permission to go in to look for her ex-boyfriend, she had actually given them the keys. But instead of just using them, they called out the SWAT team and softened the place up for half a day before smashing in about midnight.
The dog they found in a back bedroom was arrested without incident.
One of the officers apparently attempted to obtain ingress from above, but that turns out to be harder to do than it looks on TV:
He would have lost the element of surprise when he fell through the ceiling, had there been anybody inside other than the dog.
The article in the Statesman (the source of these pictures) says the guy they were looking for was suspected of stealing some guns, but it doesn’t say they had any reason to think he was armed at the time or that he was especially dangerous. He may well have been. But given that according to the article, the police report took the trouble to note that “officers were told [the suspect] might have had a BB gun on him,” I would guess they didn’t have strong evidence he posed a really serious risk. By all means, be careful; I’m just not sure calling in artillery was really necessary. Then there is also, of course, the question of why it took 10 hours to figure out the place was empty.
It should also be said that the plaintiff’s demand for $350,000 seems excessive, since she was not the owner—she was renting the place—and neither she nor her children were in the place at the time. If dogs could recover for emotional distress, I’d be fine with that number, I think. But sadly, they can’t.
Previous standoff-related tales have included the New Jersey case where police were held at bay for 90 minutes by a life-size cardboard cutout, the one where a guy fled into a waist-deep pond and he and the cops then just stared at each other for a while (with one of my favorite images ever), and of course the “burrito-triggered spree” in San Antonio that ended peacefully after a three-hour standoff. No casualties in any of these, thankfully.
Newark police chased 10-year-old Legend Preston because they thought he was an adult.
Ten-year-old Legend Preston’s mother said on Facebook that her “fun loving child is forever changed” after being chased by armed police who reportedly mistook him for an adult robbery suspect.
Preston was playing basketball near his home in Newark, New Jersey, when his ball rolled into the street. He ran to retrieve it, and that’s when he saw the police officers.
“Some police started coming this way with guns pointed at me, and then I ran into the backyard,” Legend said. The cops only let up when witnesses stepped in.
...I'm pretty sure Super ButtButt judges me for watching cat videos.
Sometimes i think about the idea of Common as a language in fantasy settings.
On the one hand, it’s a nice convenient narrative device that doesn’t necessarily need to be explored, but if you do take a moment to think about where it came from or what it might look like, you find that there’s really only 2 possible origins.
In settings where humans speak common and only Common, while every other race has its own language and also speaks Common, the implication is rather clear: at some point in the setting’s history, humans did the imperialism thing, and while their empire has crumbled, the only reason everyone speaks Human is that way back when, they had to, and since everyone speaks it, the humans rebranded their language as Common and painted themselves as the default race in a not-so-subtle parallel of real-world whiteness.
In settings where Human and Common are separate languages, though (and I haven’t seen nearly as many of these as I’d like), Common would have developed communally between at least three or four races who needed to communicate all together. With only two races trying to communicate, no one would need to learn more than one new language, but if, say, a marketplace became a trading hub for humans, dwarves, orcs, and elves, then either any given trader would need to learn three new languages to be sure that they could talk to every potential customer, OR a pidgin could spring up around that marketplace that eventually spreads as the traders travel the world.
Drop your concept of Common meaning “english, but in middle earth” for a moment and imagine a language where everyone uses human words for produce, farming, and carpentry; dwarven words for gemstones, masonry, and construction; elven words for textiles, magic, and music; and orcish words for smithing weaponry/armor, and livestock. Imagine that it’s all tied together with a mishmash of grammatical structures where some words conjugate and others don’t, some adjectives go before the noun and some go after, and plurals and tenses vary wildly based on what you’re talking about.
Now try to tell me that’s not infinitely more interesting.
I really want a science fiction story where aliens come to invade earth and effortlessly wipe out humanity, only to be fought off by the wildlife.
They were expecting military resistance. They weren’t counting on bears.
Imagine coming to a hostile alien world and being attacked by a horde of creatures that can weigh up to 3 tons, run at 30 km/h (19 mph), and bite with a force of 8,100 newtons (1,800 lbf).
By the time you realise that they can traverse water, it’s too late. The surviving members of your unit manage to make it back by shedding their excess gear and running for their lives; the slower ones were crushed to death within minutes.
You later describe the creature to one of the humans you captured, wanting to know the name of the monstrosity that will haunt your nightmares for cycles to come.
The human smiles as it speaks a single word, slowly and distinctly, in its barbaric tongue.
This is giving me the biggest, creepiest grin I might have ever grinned
Imagine being the next crew to go down to earth and thinking “it’s fine, we got this. We have the weapons and equipment necessary to deal with bears and *shudders* hippopotamuses. We’ll be fine.”
And at first you are, you’ve learned how to dodge. You’ve learned where their territories are. You know how to defend yourself.
But then one night you are sleeping in your shelter. You’re in a tree covered temperate part of earth. It seems benign. There are been no sightings of the dreaded “hippos” around. Not even any bears. But there is a slight rustle of the undergrowth. You try and ignore it telling yourself it is just the wind.
Then you hear the rustle again. closer this time.
You peer out into the darkness but see nothing amongst the trees.
The rustle again and now you realise you can smell something. It’s musky and slightly foul. It’s the smell of an omen, a warning. But what of? Where is this smell coming from.
You sit up, but it’s too late. The foul smelling creature is on you. You are hit with 17kg of coarse fur and vicious bites. Long dark claws tear in to you and you are pinned down white the striped creature tries to bite your throat.
It takes some doing but you manage to wrestle free. Blood drips from your wounds and already they itch with the sign of infection. The creature has a bloodied snout, rust rad, mingling with the black and white hairs. It lets out a terrifying growl from the back of its throat and looks to attack again. It’s between you and your knife, so your only choice is to back away.
Eventually the creature gives up and snuffles off in to the undergrowth, down a hole near your shelter you hadn’t noticed before.
When you make it back to your base you once again consult the captive human.
“Badger.” they say, with a solemn nod.
One word: Moose
“Our vehicles are far superior to the local human models, in range, speed, armament, and any other metric you care to name! Nothing could possibly-”
“That’s called a moose.”
The invasion is going slowly. The humans have caught on and are actively destroying information on the planet’s flora and fauna before Intelligence can capture and process it. All that they have are survivors’ accounts. Bears. Hippos. Badgers. Moose. It is becoming obvious this mudball planet is a full-on Death World to the unprepared, and you are so very unprepared.
You lost Jaxurn to a plant. Not even a mobile or carnivorous plant, just one that caused a vicious allergic reaction on contact that killed him in less than a rai'kor. Commander Vura'ko died to an insect bite, a tiny local pest that sucked a tiny bit of her blood and apparently replaced it with a bit of its last meal, which was full of disease. Backwash. She died to bug backwash. And yet you honestly envy them after that… thing you encountered…
When you got back to base the quarantine officer refused to let you inside. They had to roll a containment tank outside to put you in, because you all knew there would be no chance of eliminating the smell if it got into the ship’s air ducts. Smell. You wonder if your nasal slit will ever recover from this stench.
And the smell would. Not. Leave. After incinerating your gear the Q.O. had you use every cleansing agent they could think of, including a few janitorial ones, and still everyone fled the stench if they were downwind of your tank. Desperate to protect everyone’s nasal slits from the smell the quarantine officer interrogated the humans. From them, a glimmer of hope: there was a cure. Somehow the juice of a certain fruit on this mudball was the only thing that could break up the chemicals in the little horror’s spray. Immediately the Q.O. sent a team to recover buckets of the stuff and made you bathe in it. That was hours ago and it didn’t seem to be working, though. All it was doing was turning your blue skin an interesting shade of purple.
Sighing in frustration you wave the med-assist on duty over, who only approaches after checking the wind direction. Annoyed, you flip on the tank`s vox speaker.
“The humans did say it was “grape” juice that removed “skunk” stench, right?“
It came for someone almost every night.
Any soldier alone was a viable target for this native monster that moved unseen by any but the security viewers, usually only spotted in hindsight. They were taken as silently as this earth-monster moved. Sometimes they’d find the remains in the morning taken up a tree and hung there, mostly eaten, as if it were a grisly reminder that the monster was still there, waiting unseen, to strike again.
What little they saw of the monster on the vidfeed showed true horror. Yellow eyes that shone with all the light it could gather. It had fangs as long as his grasping digits. Claws half that size formed curved hooks that allowed it to climb up their fortifications with impunity. And in the underbrush, its spots made it almost impossible to see clearly in the undergrowth, if it could be seen at all.
Even the native sentients, the humans, had a healthy respect and fear for it.
The earth natives called the monster a leopard.
It was a constant fear that muddied the senses, and let the monster hunt even more effectively as the soldiers were always on edge. Sleep deprived with fear, it made them even better targets for the monster.
But rumor was that there was worse on this planet. Rumors of a monster like a leopard but larger, and bigger in every imaginable sense. Stripped instead of spotted, which leaped from the underbrush with a sound.
A sound that burst eardrums, paralyzed entire units, and let the monster kill with impunity. While the Leopard wrestled soldiers down and ripped their throats out. This other monster, the Tiger, killed with its pounce alone.
“We’ve been through this,” Group Leader 455 snapped. “The dissection of an Earth life form will help the scientists make weapons to combat the rest of this planet’s hellbeasts. And these are domesticated. Harmless.”
The troops were not-quite-looking at her in the way troops do when they don’t want to be seen to contradict a ranking officer, but can’t quite muster a correct Expression of Enthusiastic Assent. “The name of this species,” she pointed out, “is synonymous with dullness and slowness in the language of the Earth barbarians.” Well, one language out of several thousand—these creatures needed Imperial guidance more than any other world on record—but there was no point in confusing the rank and file.
More not-quite-looking. 455 bubbled a sigh and consulted her scanner. “That one,” she decided. “Alone in the separate pasture. Scans suggest that it’s a male, which means it’s probably weaker. Possibly it’s kept isolated so that the females don’t eat it before mating season. And yes, I know some of you are here on punishment detail, but you’re still soldiers of the Imperium. This squad is perfectly capable of handling a lone, helpless, pathetic male cow.”
I’m enjoying this immensely. Wait until the aliens try Australia for size…
It was a strange creature Tar'van glimpsed at on the vast island known to the humans as ‘Australia’.
“I would warn you not to fuck with us, mate.” Their forced guide, a prisoner, had warned with a chilling grin upon capture. “If you think a moose is bad, wait until you tango with a red back.” To this day Tar'van fears the creature known as the red back, and what horrors it would bring.
The prisoner turned out to be of little help, the stubborness of his people causing them to refuse the danger that the captured human warned of. Tar'van recalls a moment when one of his squad members approached a creature know as a dingo, insistent they had seen these creatures before and they were tame. They barely escaped with 5 of the original 7 members of his squad.
Another moment Tar'van recalls was the brutal mauling they witnessed by the hands of a creature called an ‘Emu’
“Don’t feel too bad,” the prisoner mocked. “We lost a war to the Emu’s as well.”
Now with only 4 members of their squad left, including themself, Tar'van had learned to listen to the prisoner, to be wary of the simplest of creatures. This human was of the sub-species of ‘Zookeeper’ after all.
The ‘Zookeeper’ looks off to the distance, where the creature is.
“It’s a kangaroo, leave it be and you’ll be fine.” Tar'van nods, a human signal of acknowledgement if they are correct. The human smiles a bit.
“That creature cannot possibly harm us.” Tar'van’s squadleader protests. “It is so docile. I will approach it and bring back it’s head to show this human is a fearmongering liar.”
The human reels back, a look of disgust crosses their face and anger passes through their eyes.
“Fucking do it mate, I dare ya.” The human hisses. The squad leader puffs up their hoinn gland, a sign of pride to their species, and approached the so called ‘Kangaroo’.
“This will be unpleasant.” A squadmate mutters as they watch their leader raise their fist and bring it down on the creature. The ‘Kangaroo’ looks a little stunned by the impact, before it raises itself upon its strong tail and uses its powerful hind legs to launch their squadleader backwards through the air.
Their squadleader lands upon the ground, unmoving with black blooded oozing from them. It appears Tar'van is the squads leader now.
“I don’t know what they expected.” the human says, smugness filling their tone. “Kangaroos are fucking shredded. 8-pack and all.”
Tar'van steps forward to the human, whom inches back in a sign of fear as Tar'van pulls their blade from its holster, and in their first act as leader, frees the human of the bonds around their hands.
“Please,” Tar'van begs. “Get us back safely.”
“That white creature on the water.” Norild points. “What is it?”
Gena glances. “A bird.”
“What do birds eat?”
“Worms.” Gena tugs uselessly at her bindings. “It’s harmless, really.”
Norild’s eyes narrow. “We are in no danger from this bird?”
“None at all. They have tasty eggs. Those white orb things? Go get some; you can cook them.” Gena isn’t sure what these aliens have planned, but she’s feeling surly.
And it’s really, really satisfying to see the trumpeter swan absolutely destroy Norild’s stupid green face.
“You know how long it took me to save that money?”
“Exactly! Which is why a little woman of your background would have had her hands full, trying to run a big business like that. No, you’re better off where you’re at.”
What Tiana has taught me, quite sadly (and probably what Disney didn’t really intend) was that hard work wasn’t good enough to overcome systemic racism. Tiana got a feel good ending, but I feel like her story has been told many times in real life without a happy ending. There are people who work extremely hard, but never being able to catch up due to the color of their skin.
So here is Tiana, muscles tense with labor, tired and contemplative, and struggling against the system that prevents her success.
This is probably the most symbolic of all the Disney paintings I’ve done so far - the verticality of the walls, the position of her shadow looming over the segregation signs, Tiana sitting right between the divide, and the nearly imperceptible lean of her body to the right.
Honestly don't know how I feel about legally preventing people from VOLUNTARILY sharing who they have voted for.
When exercising your right to vote for the next President of the United States it might be tempting to document the once-every-four-years event with a selfie. But before you hit the camera button, you should know your state laws, because in some areas of the U.S. the now-popular voting booth selfie is illegal.
The laws governing voting booth selfies vary from state to state: California recently sent a bill to Gov. Jerry Brown’s desk legalizing the election day photos, while states like New Hampshire have banned the pictures, Ars Technica reports.
The rise of selfies, and social media in general, has put the age-old idea of ballot secrecy into question, with companies like Snapchat creating specific voter-centric frames so consumers can share their experience with the rest of the world — or at least their “friends.”
The fight between preserving the secret nature of voting and finding ways to embrace younger voters’ social behaviors has created a showdown of sorts for social networks and states.
In New Hampshire, Snapchat has filed a lawsuit challenging the state’s ban on voting booth selfies.
The company contended that “ballot selfies and similar digital information-sharing are important ways that younger voters participate in the political process and make their voices heard.”
For its part, the state claims in a filing that the law — which was created to reduce voter buying and coercion — was made to “preserve the integrity of New Hampshire elections.”
“The statute secures voter’s right to vote their conscience while in the voting booth,” the state wrote, noting that the 2014 law doesn’t explicitly prohibit voters from expressing who they voted for by any other means.
In the end, the court sided with Snapchat, but the state has appealed the decision, and arguments are scheduled for mid-September.
On the opposite side of the spectrum is California, where a recent bill amends a law that prohibited voters from showing ballots to anyone in a way that reveals who they voted for.
The amendment, which was sent to the governor’s desk Friday, allows voters to “voluntarily disclose he or she voted if that voluntary act does not violate any other law.”
While the future of New Hampshire’s voter booth photo law is in question, The Digital Media Law Project has a guide detailing where Election Day selfies are allowed.Take Our Poll
Imgur-er nanotinker posted this fantastic example of Jawas being Jawas. Honestly, we’d disappointed if they didn’t pilfer stuff from the Con…
one day, hollywood will cast a reasonable, down-to-earth person to play the joker. just a normal guy with a sensible separation between his identities on and off the screen
“yeah, it’s a fun role. I really get to chew the scenery, which is not the kind of part that I normally do, so I enjoy the change of pace”, he opines, probably while holding a cute dog
That is the greatest picture of Mark Hamill ever.