Favorite badass pirate mom!
I really want to get around to doing more Gentleman Bastards fanart because these books are amazing.
Squee. That is all.
Female accomplishments are too often overlooked in our history books, but this photo looks to change that by celebrating one of history's coolest ladies. Read the rest
Okay, laughing SO HARD right now. I believe I will be using her cleaning metric from now on.
So, here's the deal. I'm living in a world of shit right now, and I don't mean this metaphorically. My world is so full of poo, so heaping with excrement, that I've all but given up on ever feeling clean again.
Aidan and I switched up the cats' dry food, which usually isn't too big a deal. We weather a few kitty farts and we're good to go. This time, though, I accidentally fed the kitties piles of the rich food we were supposed to reserve for treats instead of their regular kind in a new flavour. Oops.
"But they look so cute," you say. "Why would you even joke about cutting off their legs so that they can't crawl through your stash of coats to heave a pound of poo onto the satin linings?"
Since that fateful feeding frenzy through Sunday and Monday, I have found gooey stashes of poo:
They basically shot poo through four different rooms.
In an effort to keep the ordure to a lesser level, I have been throwing things out, washing what I love, and scrubbing my hands repeatedly. The windows are all open despite the cold, just to keep the air breathable. I keep vigil near their litter boxes, hoping for some nice, solid excrement each time one of them squats. I lean in and hold my breath, chanting please please please please please in my mind. And I have been washing everything I can at least twice in the washing machine with hot water and vinegar, because the stench is both tenacious and pernicious.
On top of tenacious and pernicious, mind you, this tide is also vile, putrid, eye-watering, and unrelenting. You can taste it.
While Aidan and I were carrying two garbage bags of our personal horror story down to the dumpster last night, we realized something, though: Poomageddon is actually a blessing in disguise. No, seriously. Not only are we decluttering, but we have found a new metric to help us get rid of our stuff. We call it the Would We Try to Save It If the Cats Shit On It Metric. I'm going to package this bit of brilliance up and sell it as an e-book.
In the future, I think we're going to have a lot less stuff. And maybe less cats.
Anybody want a cat or three?
PS. Don't worry. The cats are fine. They're back to eating their normal food, drinking lots of water, and playing and fighting as though they haven't firehosed poo onto every soft surface.
PPS. My cats: now more comfortable with being horrific than ever before. Yippee.
PPPS. I just saw semi-lumpy poo! This is the most disgusting piece of hope I've ever panned in a slotted shovel.
I'd take a Jean any day.
They have an army.
He has a Jean.
Just I can't even!
I still can't believe this isn't a Roland Emmerich movie.
I'm sharing my just-published open-access article. I'm so geeked-out happy :)
“SHIT! THERE’S TIN FOIL ON THE RUNWAY!” (more…)
I was surprised by my own mild reaction when I woke today and saw the first of many subtle tweets about Terry, though I guessed immediately what they meant. I was surprised by just how many of those tweets were also some flavor of subtle or mild or restrained. I didn’t see many all-caps primal screams or 140-character duets for Emoji and exclamation point.
Of course, I peer out at the universe through a knothole as tiny as anyone else’s and the plural of “Twitter stream anecdote” is surely not “data,” nor even a distant relation to data, nor even a part-time and barely convincing cosplay of data.
And yet I think there’s something natural and inevitable about this quiet reaction. It’s not merely that we’ve all known for some time that Terry had to be passing soon, that we’ve been forced to think about it, that he had the chance to say so much about it.
When some people die, they leave the rest of us with a sense that they’ve packed their words and warmth and hauled them along like luggage for the trip, that we can never hear from them again. Terry gave us so much of himself, though, so damned MUCH— seventy books, just for starters, and a world and its inhabitants that might as well be a religion for millions. A good religion, a useful religion. The sort where there’s always a little golden light flickering behind one of the church windows at any hour of the night, so you know there’s someone there to talk to you about anything, and they won’t have locked the doors. They won’t even have put locks on the doors. Some asshole suggested putting locks on the doors once, many years ago, and everyone else in the church carried that person out of town and threw them into a pond. That’s a Terry Pratchett sort of church. That’s a Terry Pratchett book. And he walled us in with them. He stacked them high all around us, and they’re all him, they’re all still here, and they’re going to be here so very long after you and I and everyone else reading this have gone off for a last walk WITH THE ONLY PERSON IN THE UNIVERSE WHO SPEAKS NATURALLY IN ALL CAPS AND WE DON’T REALLY MIND AT ALL, IT’S JUST THE WAY THINGS HAVE TO BE.
Terry Pratchett can die, and fuck everything for that sentence. Fuck those four words. I am feeling the cracks starting to appear in me now. I’ve lost the mildness and quiet I had this morning. But here’s the point. Terry Pratchett can die, but he can never go away.
Any hapless twit with sufficient fortitude of ass and typing fingers can leave a pile of books to the world, but too many of those books will be disconnected and unrevealing. Too many of those writers will leave nothing but layers of affect and encipherment between themselves and the reader. Terry didn’t leave us anything (despite the obvious depth and subtlety of his work) that needs Bletchley Park to decode. Terry wrote himself… Terry’s books are Terry. They are full of his everything. All his keen wonderment, all his flaying sarcasm, all his brimming love for the cracked vessels we are as individuals and as a whole.
Sixty-six is a good span of years, but Terry Pratchett was walking proof that we can have a world and a society where sixty-six is too young to go, too impossibly unfairly fucking young by far. All around us, people are trying to destroy the very possibility of that world. Some of them work with machine guns and some of them work with balance sheets, but Terry Pratchett was visible evidence that they all have to be mocked and scorned and hunted and fought. There can’t be Terry Pratchetts in the world they intend for the rest of us, which is proof enough that their world is a pile of shit.
So even though there are things now rolling down my cheeks as I write this, I think my initial reaction was inevitable. What he gave us was just so big, so rich, and so real. It’s hard to feel a chill when none of the warmth has vanished.
You’re not really going anywhere, you know.
(Cross-posted from my blog. Fear not, Tumblr, I’m just trying to turn the lights back on at my own place. I don’t know how to quit you.)
Pretty much every pet ever...
February 02, 2015
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I’m just gonna leave this here for y’all.
Mine too, Leela. Mine too.
I think I've said before that science is just non-fiction for your imagination. So science is just boring imagination, and thus math is boring boring imagination. No wonder so many kids drop out of STEM related courses.
Missed yesterday (again), so there'll be a day with two comics sometime this week. Thanks.
PHD UNKNOWN: New page up! A glorious splash page!
Explains so much!
"Well, we finally chased the human race back to a few scattered caves and threw down their puny civilization. What do we do now?"
"Let’s build giant indestructible glass dicks literally everywhere!"
Sarah, #TeamRickman! And totes!
I was talking to a girlfriend about how you could divide everyone in the world into people who do or do not have a crush on Alan Rickman and she agreed, saying, “Oh he’s hot. I would totes swipe right for him.”
And I was like, “Ew. You should already be wiping right. Do you not wipe unless you think you’re going to get lucky? Because that’s how you get a urinary tract infection.”
Turns out that she said she’d “swipe right” which is apparently what you do on the Tinder dating app when you like someone’s picture and are interested in them. That made more sense but I can’t help but think that maybe some of these people are single because of communication issues like this where you never have a second date because the person thinks you don’t wipe correctly. Long story short, I think Tinder is trying to keep people single in order to keep up demand for their product.
PS. Please wipe correctly.
PPS. Also, stop using the word “totes.” Unless you’re using it ironically. Or you’re talking about plural tote bags.
I'm so there!
ALL HAIL HYPNOCAT
HYPNOCAT THANKS YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT BUT ORDERS YOU TO TEMPORARILY FORGET ABOUT REGAL
That iguana is waaay nicer than that a**hole one we had at McWane.
I WENT TO THE CAFE DOWN THE STREET AND THERE WERE A BUNCH OF PEOPLE THERE CELEBRATING THIS LIZARDS BIRTHDAY
HE HAS A LITTLE PARTY HAT
You and my girlfriend think alike. There was a… disagreement on whether or not the book should contain even more Regal.
A few days ago we posted about science trying to understand the "if I fits" mentality of cats.
We agreed that cats are weird and you all submitted some awesome memes on the subject.
Here are some of the best.
"Dancing Pyres of Igneous Doom" is the name of my next band.
Yeah, I like magma cones much better. In my head they’ll always be dancing pyres of igneous doom.
Sharing for 1) the lyrics, and 2) Lynch's comments. Love both!
Us Camorri Girls
Fancy skirts, with daggers on top
Long red hair, so hot
We’ll melt your popsicle
Now put your hands up.
No, seriously, put your hands up. Now give me your money. Good.
Okay, I recognize the Katy Perry costume, and the sharks, no problem. I recognize the dancing surfboards. But what the shmeckity-hell are those scaly red things? Are they meant to be crabs? Another masterpiece, Picasso. Are they shrimp? Are they… magma cones? Is this whole dance number about how the ocean is thick with cruel and indifferent predators, and how even that is meaningless in the face of inevitable geothermal upheaval? That would be pretty amazing, and significantly more lyrically challenging than “Firework,” I gotta say.
Dragons burn, coffee burns. I figure caffeine headaches are equivalent to being impaled on a dragon. I could be wrong but do you have a dragon nearby to allow me to scientifically test my theory?
WIRED: I was asked a few months ago to join a group that is contributing to WIRED magazine for their Chartgeist segment, and I got a chart accepted for their April issue. It is quite possibly the dumbest chart I have ever come up with, but I now will have had my work in a national publication. So there's that!