I’ve been seeing a lot of Scooby Doo on my dash lately. My friend discovered what he describes as “Shaggy eviscerating an ape”
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if i look back, i am lost
macklin celebrini has autism
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@entropyrogue
I’ve been seeing a lot of Scooby Doo on my dash lately. My friend discovered what he describes as “Shaggy eviscerating an ape”

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My blood sugar app has this horrific mascot that "giggles" when you press it??? It's on the main screen and I tapped it today and scared myself shitless LMAO (AWFUL AUDIO BTW)
when she touch my thing in a sexual capacity
Fortuneteller, turning over the Death card: Don't worry. It isn't literal. It simply refers to some form of change. Me: Phew Fortuneteller; turning over the Gets Eaten by the Fortuneteller While Trying to Leave card: That can also mean many things
The Treachery of Images (This is Not a Pipe) René Magritte Belgium, 1929
SCROLL BACK UP, THIS IS A PAINTING

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Do furries have chasers?
In the same way a guy with a maga hat and sunglasses pfp reaches out to me on grindr are there guys with curly mustaches and cartoonish double barrel shotguns who go up to Wil E Coyote asking to ride his big red rocket
Big Jack
Pet Foolery, #93
i reference this all the time i forget it’s not a meme online but a children’s drawing i saw on the sidewalk once
a game director calls the studio's lead composer into their office. the composer opens with a jovial & familiar greeting before reading on the director's face that the tenor of this meeting will be grim. "is something wrong?" the composer asks. the director maintains eye contact for a few seconds before sighing deeply and turning to their computer. they bring up an audio file & play it. it's an exceptional high-tempo music track with a pulse-pounding rhythm & a layered, complex polytonality that both excites & satisfies the listener. it's easily the sort of song you could dance to. the director lets it play for about twenty seconds before hitting pause. "that was the track you composed for the final boss," they say quietly. the composer, shoulders bunched inward, licks their lips. "i, um..." they stammer, "is, um, is there an issue with the track?" the director leans forward and says--practically hisses, upset yet desperate-- "you did not need to go this hard."
the composer tries to come up with a response while avoiding eye contact with their evidently offended boss. "im sorry, i dont--" the director interrupts them. "nobody asked you to go this hard. i did not ask you to go this hard. who do you think you are, going behind my back like this?!" the composer, trying not to shrink any deeper into their chair, sputters: "i didnt mean any harm! i just thought that our players would enjoy an exciting music track for the final battle-!!" the director points an accusatory finger and practically spits, "you should know better. we dont make games with music that goes hard--certainly not this hard!" at this point the composer is starting to tear up, but the director doesnt back down. "players know that video game soundtracks dont need to go hard. by composing this track youve put the success of this entire project in jeopardy." breaths shallow, the composer croaks, "im so sorry. i didnt intend any harm."
the director stands up hastily and turns away from the desk, fists balled and quivering. after a second they straighten their shirt and ease their shoulders: when they turn back toward the composer, their expression and demeanour have returned to neutrality. the composer is hunched & pallid, gripping their knees with trembling hands and staring straight down. "take a few minutes to compose yourself," the director says in a frigid tone, "ive got to try and placate the board. investors are already jumping ship. depending on how things go, we may need to meet again in the next several days to discuss your future with this company." the director exits the room without a second glance, leaving the composer to cry alone, gutted by the knowledge that they have not merely failed at their job but betrayed the faith of the one person who ever loved them

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if i met a genie and fixed the world and all its ills with my first two wishes, my third wish would be that sabrina carpenter would get gradually taller. she'd be in on it and think it was hilarious. we'd have a strong cap at 7 feet here, maybe an inch a week so people have time to theorize--let's not be ridiculous. but she'd still keep up the "ooh! im so little and small!" schtick. but shed be gradually getting taller. she'd be like 6'1" and still jumping for the microphone. and she'd never say anything about it. and if anyone asked shed act like she had no idea what they were talking about. and shed cheekily play into it a little bit but mostly still keep up the "ooh im so little and small" schtick. do you see my vision. do you get it
ok and so if i met a genie and fixed the world and all its ills in one wish i would do the sabrina carpenter thing second and third i would wish for all evidence of one random taylor swift song to disappear from the world once every month or so. taylor would have no memory of it. her fans would remember it and there would be an outcry over where it went (it's not even in concert videos anymore!) but taylor would have no memory of it
instead, all her brainspace spent on that song would be replaced with the vivid memories of roman gladiator, taylaurius velox. she's able to hide this at first, but her music begins to take on a gradually romaner and romaner tint. at first, people are like "damn, she's getting REALLY conservative, huh" and other people are like "wow, she's so deep, she knows what a rubicon is" but eventually travis kelce leaves her out of nowhere (he wasn't sure if dating someone possessed by a roman gladiator made him gay or not and anyway he was getting sick of being like "we're going to play the lions" and taylor being like "LIONS? WHERE?") and taylor publishes an entire brutus themed album about this betrayal and it's beginning to weird people out
and so eventually travis kelce is getting like, bomb threats sent to his family for leaving taylor and eventually he's like "okay, okay, i left her because she kept having all these vivid nightmares of gladatorial combat and she kept saying that football was giving her the ick because we never actually killed anybody for the glory of rome" and then he just gets more bomb threats because he left a struggling woman during a mental health crisis
and eventually taylor is writing music about her forbidden roman senator lover and her fanbase is either whittled WAY down or WAY up because people want to watch this trainwreck happen (or maybe she influences culture so hard that we're just all really into rome now) but she's being super cagey about the name of this roman senator. until. and now here's the twist:
weird al has been getting all of the same vivid memories of taylaurius velox. and he still has all his memories of her old songs. so he's writing all these detailed song parodies of taylor swift songs that don't exist anymore including specific details about their shared gladiatorial reality that taylor has never shared with anybody else. including that her lover's name was publius, and she's been calling him Poob for short
at this point a lot of original swifties are leaving. they could do the brutus stuff, but they really can't survive poob. taylor makes a clapping back at the haters song including the lyric "these bitches don't know publius" and it ends up all over all sorts of merch. there's a renewed archaeological interest in roman gladatorial combat
most importantly, the internet discourse is the best it's ever been. does this make taylor swift transmasc? is travis kelce problematic for leaving his fiancee while she gradually morphs into a roman gladiator? is this good queer representation? if taylaurius velox was a gay man, does that mean the gaylors were technically correct? is weird al morally wrong for capitalizing off of her music if she cant remember it anymore? was weird al sent by god to torment taylor swift?
anyway thats what id do if i met a genie
if you work with kids 80% of your job is just this
I refuse to let you leave this in the tags. fly. be free
in elementary school i figured out how to customize the classroom desktop's autocorrect to make Word change whole sentences. this made it appear almost like the computer was responding to you. you could, for example, type in "where did i put my keys", hit enter, and watch it switch to "you put them under the couch". this was before chatbots, and we were all 9 so i considered it closer to a magic trick than a tech one.
i immediately scripted out a dialogue exchange between me and a girl who had died by the swings (classic). i invited another student over and told them i had found a ghost, then proceeded to type out the pre-scripted exchange. i was immediately pulled into the counselors office. the kicker was that none of the adults could figure out how i did it. i had to show them the menu and everything.
important detail i forgot to add: the swing ghost wanted blood sacrifices from the students. in my defense it was "only a few drops".
Shout out to Linda. The he/him asexual woman from my psychology quiz from a few years ago
queer discourse final boss
went to the dentist today, they told me im gonna die in 3 hours

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in a prestigious lecture hall with cherrywood walls a professor presents this tweet to their class. the students pass it around, each taking their chance to hold the tweet, to feel its weight in their hands. some students use their microscopes to study the tweet closely, others auscultate it with stethoscopes. once each student has had the opportunity to inspect it, the professor asks if there are any questions. the first several questions are the expected requests for clarification-- examples of chumpfuckery, inquiries as to the role of B*rnie in the production cycle of fuckcrustables, etc. the class falls silent again until a student in the back raises a hand and says "had the day not been a cromulent fuckcrustable, would tommy still needy drinky?" the professor's smile is wry yet impressed: this line of inquiry does not occur to every student. the professor says: "tell me what you think." the student ponders for a second, acutely aware that everyone in the room is watching them. "well," they finally say, "i've had days that were fuckcrustables before, some of them cromulent, and ive never needy drinky. wanty, sure, but not needy." the professor prompts them to keep going. "my theory is that... either tommy is lying or... maybe fuckcrustability doesnt actually correlate with drinky requisites?" so what does, another student asks. "i believe the key variables are the ex-wife and the tenant from hell. they generate the needy in question." the professor presses: "how can you be sure that tommy would not needy drinky otherwise?" the student replies, "because we are not talking about chumpfuckery or fuckcrustability in the abstract, we're talking about a confluence of variables producing an intersection of chumpfuckery, fuckcrustability, and cromulence that is greater than the sum of its parts. anyone would needy drinky in those circumstances, and im willing to wager that we could prove it mathematically using the drinky formula." a brief silence ensues before the classroom erupts into applause. that student goes on to graduate at the top of their class and become a leading figure in the field of tweet exegesis. the professor? that was tommy. and the student? that was You.
ice cream truck blasting gymnopedie no. 1 while a bunch of really forlorn children chase after it