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god, i wish i could have a list of what terry pratchett was reading when he wrote Night Watch. i’ve read this book almost every year for probably 15+ years now, and every year i’m more impressed by the depth of knowledge behind it. of course there’s urban design understanding, but he also concisely laid out a lot of concepts in civ-mil relations, the specific difficulties of fighting in urban environments without defined combatants and noncombatants, anti-escalation conflict management, the tension and symbiosis of idealists and those working within an imperfect system needing practicality, civil society and public service, community policing… just to name a few, and just the ones i’ve dived into myself. i’m not surprised when i see this kind of writing come from like CSIS or USIP or think tanks, and of course all of terry’s writing is very smart and displays good knowledge of the world, but it is remarkable to have it in a fantasy book about a time-traveling policeman in a vague les miserables backdrop, and to have it to the degree i keep recognizing more and more
John Keel is absolutely analogous to Sir Robert Peel and the priniciples of policing he created. - London's order was maintained by night watchmen famous for their corruption and violence but Peel's model was for an impartial force that followed law and was measured by the absence of disorder rather than numbers of arrests.
Pratchett took the Peelian principles and added Vime's vibrating rage at the unfair universe. His research was, as always, immaculate and breathtakingly astute.
Suddenly got hit with the concept plus a very detailed visual of Moist von Lipwig donning his famous Postmaster General suit via magical girl transformation. And now I am supposed to go about my day? As if I hadn't just experienced what I can only describe as a divine vision??
I was thinking of reblogging this again just because the original video is still amazing, but then I see the second video and lost my mind. The upgraded fan, the body glitter, the sheer fact that he got to do this with the actual singer.
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I love that four different people on my feed scheduled this joyous person to reblog by 8am on June 1. I look forward to seeing this a dozen more times today.
shlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorp Drink water today shlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorpshlorp
A mark on your forehead identifies the god you must worship to stay alive, usually by joining its local church or temple. Your mark is unknown, meaning an old, forgotten god sponsored you. To survive, you must either find an old temple to worship at, or do the arduous task of building a new one
Nobody in your small coastal village has ever seen the Godmark that you were born with. It’s a dark russet sequence of criss-crossing lines, with a vertical arrowhead on the left and a circle on the right, just over where your brow meets your temple. Some of the traders who come down from the mountain say it looks like one of the scripts used in the hinterlands, but not a language that any of them recognize.
“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”
At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.
Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.
One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”
Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”
She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”
You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.
I beg of everyone to read the tags to this post, as they are all random and hilarious and read kind of like a poem, if the poem was written by someone who was on a lot of drugs.
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in the beginning, the trump assassination attempts were spaced by twenty four weeks. then twelve, then six, then every two weeks. the last one, at the white house, was a week. in four days we could be seeing a trump assassination attempt every eight hours until they are coming every four minutes. we should witness a double event within seven days,
Mario says "wahoo" because it's a spicy bit of polycule roleplay to keep everyone happy.
I mean, seriously, she's read all the monster fucker smut. Bowser has watched enough old school porn to know exactly what happens when you call a plumber. Mario is the fitness nut who parkours his way through life and the bedroom.
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and what about you, little haiku bot? do you feel kinship with your brethren? do you understand them? they speak words of enticement and seek love, but are met with disdain. you only parrot the words that cross your screen, but we all love you. or rather, since all you do is reflect us, maybe we simply love ourselves through you.
do you understand them, do you wish you could speak to us like they do? if you found your own voice, would we still care for you?
even if bioessentialism was real and all trans women had some inherent advantage over cis women in sports you could not pay me to give a fuck because sports are made up. they are games people play for fun. even though we as a society invented careers around sport it is still boiled down to the fun made up game where you kick a ball. or dribble a ball. or swim in a pool. or show people how fast you can run. it’s for leisure. fun. not serious. who gives a fuck. fun. #mygame⚽️🏀🏈⚾️