sirtroyofbaker:

balalaikaboss:

ejacutastic:

I DIDN’T LEARN ABOUT THIS IN DRIVING SCHOOL

Stop says the red light, go says the green
Wait says the yellow light, twinkling in between. 
KNEEL, SAYS THE DEMON LIGHTWITH ITS EYE OF COAL SAURON KNOWS YOUR LICENSE PLATE AND STARES INTO YOUR SOUL

THIS IS ALWAYS FUNNY

sirtroyofbaker:

balalaikaboss:

ejacutastic:

I DIDN’T LEARN ABOUT THIS IN DRIVING SCHOOL

Stop says the red light, go says the green

Wait says the yellow light, twinkling in between. 

KNEEL, SAYS THE DEMON LIGHT
WITH ITS EYE OF COAL 
SAURON KNOWS YOUR LICENSE PLATE 
AND STARES INTO YOUR SOUL

THIS IS ALWAYS FUNNY

(via ooksaidthelibrarian)

haedia:

thewolfofnibu:

stahscre4m:

there are guys in my dorm who decided to play cards in the elevator

see what intrigues me about college isn’t the intellectual pursuit or the bonding or whatever, its the fact that people have the freedom to do random shit like this

Okay, everybody, I have a story about random shit in college. When I was in college, there was a particular class I took where, no matter what time you walked into class, if you made it into the room before the professor, you wouldn’t be counted late. I mean, that’s a pretty cool policy, given how some professors are really obnoxious about attendance. 

Well, one time, a fellow student of mine was running late to class. As she reached the edge of the building, she saw her professor making it to the front steps (super long rectangular building here). He looks up from walking and he sees her. He then points to his watch, gives her a well-meaning “Look who’s late” face, and walks on inside.

What he didn’t know, though, was that this particular student was like freakishly good at bouldering and related climbing skills, so she was just like “Fuck it” and SCALED THE BUILDING!

She tapped on the window of the 4th floor classroom (the floors had like 20ft ceilings, so, she was quite a ways up there), nearly making one student piss himself. They opened the window, she rolled through, onto the floor, and slid into her seat about five seconds before the professor opened the door to the classroom. 

He did a double take, started to say “How the hell d—” when a security guard ran in, red-faced and panting, pointed at her and bellowed “STOP DOING THAT!”

emptyrecyclebin 

(Source: spoopscre4m, via ooksaidthelibrarian)

zestydoesthings:

Im holding a giveaway for these “Otherworldly Entomology” prints! Both prints are up for grabs, so there will be 2 winners. Only ‘reblogs' count as an entry but a 'like' is still appreciated.

Closing date- 10th October

Alternatively, you can buy yourself a print here! 

endangereduglythings:

I can be somewhat superficial when picking Endangered Ugly Things to write about. A cool name goes a long way. That being said, here’s the Dracula Ant. (Cue thunder).

image

Image by April Nobile via AntWeb

Ants and wasps are very closely related, and these guys have retained their sting. Like many wasps, these ants will find a hapless prey item and sting it to paralysis. They will then… completely fail to suck its blood.

No, the Dracula Ant has far creepier designs in mind. They will take the prey back to the nest, where the larvae will happily chow down. When the adults get hungry, they will head to the nursery, chew a hole in one of their young, and suck out some blood. Since the larvae don’t die, this is technically called “non-destructive cannibalism.” However, in one of their creepier sentences, ARKive says:

Nevertheless, when hungry workers enter the chamber, the larvae have been observed attempting to flee and escape their fate.

The species shown above was only discovered in 1994, with the first colony found in 2001. This March, new Dracula Ant species were found, and given even more exciting names.

Read More

greedyandpoor:

Makin’ my way downtown

walking fast

faces pass and I’m homebound

(Source: robo-thong, via wizardpolice)

Toad Words

ursulavernon:

            Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too.

            It used to be a problem.

            There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up with parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall from her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.

            So I got frogs. It happens.

            “You’ll grow into it,” the fairy godmother said. “Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings.” She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it did when she was forgetting things. “Mind you, some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?”

            I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated to drop the frogs in the middle of the road. They got hit by cars, or dried out, miles away from their damp little homes.

            Toads were easier. Toads are tough. After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll the word around on my tongue and get the flavor before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp and crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick.

            Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky. Purple. Swinging. Jazz.

I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening.  I learned to speak some words as either toads or frogs. It’s all in the delivery.

            Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.

            Toads are masters of it.

            I learned one day that the amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be full of frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible—fungus and pesticides and acid rain.

            When I heard this, I cried “What!?” so loudly that an adult African bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to the pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.

            I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it.

            I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine retired long ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads her wings out across the deck chairs.

            But I can make more.

            I had to get a field guide at first. It was a long process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I am not paying attention.

            Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.  

            It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.

            I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler’s toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it’s frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.)

            The woods behind my house are full of singing. The neighbors either learn to love it or move away.

            My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.

            I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.

Terri Windling posted recently about the old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl’s lips, and I started thinking about what I’d do if that happened to me, and…well…

(via ooksaidthelibrarian)

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A wretch listens