NOT A DRILL WERE RALPH IS DEAD
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@boguscheesecake
NOT A DRILL WERE RALPH IS DEAD

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Too bad they don't really make this. They're so cute.
So Obvious Plant *does* actually make everything you see in the photos, they're just super limited runs. You can buy things directly from their website or sign up for their email list to get notified of new releases. This is incredibly dangerous and damaging to the wallet.
I think on the broad scale of the game's history, the decision to design directly for commander is maybe the worst thing that's happened to mtg as a game
60 card formats are worse off for it, obviously, but honestly commander is also worse off for it

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Text of tweet under the cut because it is loooong.
But... Stochastic Parrots.
The problem with trying to revitalize your local economy by farming mimics in the nearest lakebed. Is that they will never stop breeding.
“Subverting” Catholic art? Oh, okay. I see, you think this has nothing to do with you. You log onto the internet and you post about how “Wound of Christ” from Psalter and Prayer Book of Bonne de Luxembourg, attributed to Jean le Noir, c.1349, for instance, looks like a vulva because you're trying to tell the world that you enjoy Catholic art and imagery in an alternative, queer, risqué way that challenges Christian beliefs. But what you don't know is that that stigma isn’t just a vulva. It's not just a mandorla. It's not just yonic. It's actually intentionally erotic. And you're also blithely unaware of the fact that around 1297, Saint Angela of Foligno experienced a vision of Christ himself, who called her to put her mouth to the wound in his side and lick the freshly flowing blood. And then I think it was Saint Catherine of Siena who drank blood and a clear liquid from the wound before receiving a ring made from Christ’s foreskin? And then graphically erotic encounters with the side wound of Christ quickly showed up in the writings of eight different mystics. And then the yonic interpretation of the stigmata filtered down through the illuminated manuscripts and then trickled on down into some pseudo-intellectual corner of the internet…where you, no doubt, fished it out of some Pinterest board. However, that interpretation represents hundreds of years and countless visions of religious ecstasy. And it's sort of comical how you think that you've come up with an idea that exempts you from Christian theology when, in fact…you're posting an image that was sexualized for you by the very Medieval saints you think you’re so different than…from “subverted” Catholic art.
Hi. It's been a while so I made something.

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Girls with swords are great but there aren't enough girls with flanged maces or morning stars to go around. Give me a woman who does bludgeoning damage
I think the biphobic misconception that bisexual women only date men and bisexual men only date men may have a correlation to the fact that there is always a man freaky and horny in your DMs no matter what. It isn’t that bisexual women are secretly straight or that bisexual men are secretly gay, it’s that men are out there behaving like starving dogs and you feel so bad you end up feeding one, you know? Anyway, this coffee is a medium and I ordered a large. It’s okay, it’s busy in here, I get it.
The iron hook slid free from his shoulder with a wet metallic shriek. Something black and arterial splashed across the stones between them.
The torturer stepped back instinctively. Not out of mercy. Out of surprise. The prisoner laughed. Not loudly. Worse than loudly. Softly. Like he had just remembered a private joke older than civilization.
“You still think pain is a language,” he said.
Another blow. This time across the mouth. Teeth cracked. Blood sheeted down his chin in long ribbons.
The interrogator hissed through clenched teeth. “Tell me where God went.”
The prisoner turned his head slowly. There was blood in his smile now.
“There are organisms,” he said, “living beneath Antarctic ice that have never seen the sun and have still learned how to eat.”
The room had gone very still. Somewhere in the dark, machinery groaned.
The interrogator grabbed him by the jaw hard enough to bruise bone.
“You think this makes you immortal?”
The prisoner spat a clot of red onto the floor between them.
“No,” he whispered.
“I think it makes you temporary.”
The torches flickered.
For one impossible second, the interrogator became aware of his own pulse. The heat in his veins. The soft wetness of his eyes. The damp animal electricity inside every living thing. The prisoner watched realization bloom across his face and smiled wider, blood running between his teeth.
“You cannot threaten a creature from the dirt,” he said, “with returning to the dirt.”
— excerpt from Shit I Just Made Up To Exemplify How All This Tumblr Prose Sounds
Four more company logos for my mech game, Screaming Metal.

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Four more company logos for my mech game, Screaming Metal.
A beautiful gothic style Mace, probably German, ca. 1450-1500, housed at the Fitzwilliam Musuem, Cambridge.