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You wouldn’t think that flamingoes are extremophiles just from looking at them. It’s like somebody tried to build the vertebrate equivalent of that fungus that lives inside nuclear reactors, and ended up with a gangly pink dinosaur with a spoon for a face.
For everyone in the comments asking how flamingos are extremophiles:
Flamingos can survive in low oxygen, high altitude, high temperatures, low temperatures, high alkaline, they can and will drink boiling water and they can be completely frozen at night and still get up the next morning
Oh yeah, this leaves out what I *did* know about them–they can also survive hypersalinity. That is, water so salty it kills practically everything else–water so salty it burns your skin.
(animal death) this is a real undoctored photograph (*though the body was stood up for the shot) of a dead flamingo on the surface of lake natron, a lake so salty and so alkaline that it’s naturally carbonated like soda and would eat through your stomach lining if you drank from it.
When this photo went viral years ago, most people assumed this poor flamingo must have been killed by the lake.
It is actually the lake where 75% of its global population are hatched. This is a photo from the same lake:
Some species of flamingo actually subsist almost entirely on a diet of bacteria! In other words, there is a species of dinosaur that eats only bacteria and lives in lakes so toxic they would kill almost anything else—and it is best known to the average person as a kitschy lawn decoration.
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Piedmont will have absolutely no clue how to handle Post-Weirdmaggedon Dipper and Mabel.
The neighborhood kids play hide and seek and they’re hanging out on some random roof. You can’t beat them if you can’t reach them, suckas.
They’re outside every hour of the day. Literally. If you happen to be outside at two in the morning you might find them mid-magic hunt. Why not? Ford always said to take advantage of your insomnia for science.
Once some teenagers performing some weird Halloween hazing the Pines kids absolutely wrecked them. They literally have no chill.
For that matter, if you look Mabel in the eye, rumors say, you immediately have to play a game of cards with her. Never take pocket change anywhere near their street.
The pig goes with them. That’s final.
They say Dipper Pines has a six pack. They say he’s shredded. They saw he’s got a scar across the belly from fighting off a pack of wolves with his fists.
All the doors in the world are open if you know how to pick locks… Not that they’re saying they can. That’s implementing themselves in multiple unsolved crimes, and that would be stupid.
Mabel starts leaving handmade jewelry around their school, their neighborhood, the local grocery store. People who know her are afraid to touch them but strangers pick up these little wire and yarn doodads and find themselves having some very good luck.
There’s a rumor that that kid who always falls asleep in class couldn’t sleep at night because a ghost was haunting him. One night they find out that Dipper got in trouble for breaking into his house in the dead of night. That kid stops falling asleep in class.
On all their homework and tests, they leave behind red ink eyes crossed out with an X. One of Mabel’s classmates asked her why and she looked up front, at their Trigonometry teacher and said, just in case.
Dipper listens to a death metal band called Robbie V and the Tombstones. No one can find their songs anywhere, but if you ask he’s happy to lend you his CDs.
Mabel remembers everything, about everyone. She’s the only one who remembers the birthdays of the kids with no friends and she shares happy memories when her peers are upset about a grade or family stuff. She writes down little details in a pink glittery notebook, so that no one will ever forget.
Dipper and a group of his classmates went on a field trip in the woods. When Dipper disappeared for several hours, the teachers panicked, but he appeared at their bus a few hours later, having collected all the data he needed for his bio lab and toting a jar filled with multicolored moths. He’s banged up, but he doesn’t seem to notice. When someone asks where he got them, he says “Mothman” and doesn’t answer any more questions.
Mabel makes a tidy profit off of Mabel Juice during final exam season. Half their graduating class will swear by it all through high school even if it does taste terrible. (The arrest rate for stimulant drug use drops close to zero.)
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As if claiming the seat meant winning some grand prize, Penny launched herself at the over-ripened banana Rippen called a car.
The sight alone made him stiffen mid-step, inched off the curb. Admittedly, the car wasn’t as valuable as gold, despite it’s color. The appearance alone would tell you that. But the only thing he could focus on was the loose steel hinge trembling like a freezing animal as the youthful redhead rattled the door handle with not a lick of patience in her eyes.
That shitty metal box already had a number of problems, and a missing handle was soon to be another if he didn’t unlock the door faster.
And the second it was, Penny threw herself onto the passenger seat. The inside was nose-wrinkling, if not ghostly familiar; the air smelled vaguely of old plastic, despair, and whatever air freshener Rippen had bought five years ago and simply never replaced.
“You really do drive this thing everywhere..?” she muttered, her white sole adjusting a crooked vent that snapped back out of place immediately.
“Yes,” Rippen hissed through gritted teeth, sliding in himself. “...Because, unlike some people, I don’t have the luxury of being chauffeured around like a– Hold on a tick! Should I even allow you in the front?” he blurted, concerned less with human legalities, and more reluctant to deal with a teenager having full reins to his dashboard. “You’re like a paper clip. I don’t want you flying out when the window decides to roll down on its own again.”
Penny's eyes slid toward him, her head dropping sharply at tilt; “Oh, gee. Gee. Ol’ Rip, since when did you become a wet blanket, on top of being a stick shoved somewhere dark and undignified?” She answered, noodle legs folding into awkward angles as she tried and failed to arrange herself comfortably among the questionable springs and the fossilized gum under the glove box; eventually, she resorted to kicking her legs up, only for her heels to be sourly swept off the dashboard posthaste. "It's probably fine!"
“...You know what?” He jabbed an ombre claw to the car ceiling. “Sit wherever you like! If you shoot out the front, it’s no longer my problem!”
“Sure,” With a breezy dismissal, it was obvious she wasn't going to move either way. Penny made herself as comfy as those lumpy cushions would let her. "...Uncle Chuck’s car isn’t much better, fur in a lot of weird places actually.” she added, picking at a frayed seat thread. “It’s not that bad but they’re just,” Penny paused, fishing for something charitable or witty, but her comment landed flatly as her eyes escaped to the window.
“They’re them.”
Rippen gave a curt, disinterested nod. He didn’t care about her domestic peculiarities, not really. But there was a faint tug somewhere under his ribs. Unwelcome, uninvited, characteristically itchy; A nasty, sickly warm hint of sympathy.
But before the thought could travel somewhere sentimental, he forced the key into the ignition.
And the car re-animated with a legally concerning noise; Somewhere between a dying 1900’s lawnmower and serious whooping cough, the death rattle was enough for both of them to buckle their seatbelts with a sudden, very integellient sense of urgency.
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