A little thing called blog @peacehammer - Tumblr Blog

“Is snorting someone’s ashes considered a form of cannibalism?”

(via outofcontextdnd)

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drumandmirror-deactivated201603

Properly organized fox storage

the-last-teabender

Please refill left fox at earliest convenience.

abkvs

for those who like a little quirkiness in their office setup, try replacing your boring in/out desk trays with an infox and an outfox instead! #lifehacks

peacehammer

Well that is a fox of tricks.

fuckyeahfluiddynamics

A fluidic oscillator is a device with no moving parts that sprays a fluid from side to side. The animations above illustrate how they work. A nozzle funnels a fluid jet through a chamber with two feedback channels. When the jet sweeps close to one side of the chamber, part of the fluid is directed along the feedback channel and back toward the inlet. That flow feeds into a recirculating separation bubble in the middle of the chamber. As that bubble grows, it pushes the jet back toward the other feedback channel, continuing the cycle. Many automobiles use fluidic oscillators in their windshield washer sprays. Check out the award-winning full video from the Gallery of Fluid Motion. (Image credit: M. Sieber et al., source)

#movement in stillness #fluid dynamics

When One Door Shuts - writing group

For the latest writing group thing, the stimulus was "When one door shuts". When One Door Shuts What is the sound of one door shutting? For a physical door, this is an easy question to answer. For a metaphorical one - not so much. Nigel pondered this question as he nursed a hangover after waking up in a jail cell. Yesterday, he had just walked out of a successful interview with a formal offer to a higher level job in an exciting industry. To celebrate, he got a few of his friends together and went on a pub crawl. Drinks aplenty, the night was young, and much fun was had. Chatting to all and sundry, the tale of him acing the interview, and the size of the resultant job, got bigger as the night went on. Emboldened by the alcohol in his bloodstream and the attention, he showed off acts which no sane person would do cold sober. Out came the monkey impressions, rude jokes, and culminating in his piece d’resistance: fart lighting. Taking advantage of the beans eaten earlier, like a true showman, he built up the act to the group, who his drink addled brain told him were figuratively on the edge of their seats. His back to the door, he bent over, lighter at the ready, let rip. In the field of buttock based performance art, this particular example of gaseous conflagration would score highly from any judge… …Were it not for the consequences. No risk assessment had been done, no health and safety executive was present, but had they of been, the following might not have happened. With disastrous timing, a lady walked into the bar just as the small explosion was billowing out. Wearing a somewhat filmy garment, parts of it caught fire, and the smell of burning hair and nylon filled the room. Quick thinking from one of his companions saved the lady from harm, as the contents of a pint glass were splashed over her, dousing the flames. The lady: still in shock. Moments later, as people gathered round from the rest of the bar, a somewhat familiar voice from behind him jostled him and said “You will pay for my girlfriend’s clothes”. Still believing himself to be invincible, he raised out a battle cry of “Shut up you tosser!”, and swung round and threw a fist at the speaker. It turned out that the speaker was one of his interviewers from earlier. In this moment, time slowed to a crawl. The nature of fate was being observed. While it is true that a person can choose their destiny, there are times when you lock yourself in a particular course. Setting the girlfriend on fire could be regarded as an accident; one which could possibly be talked out of, however punching the interviewer, could not. As his fist arced towards his interviewer, in this second which lasted an eon, he was powerless to alter its direction. Nigel reflected that the sound of his fist hitting the man’s jaw; that was the sound of a door shutting.

#writing group #when one door shuts #fart joke

popthirdworld

“When I was 26, I went to Indonesia and the Philippines to do research for my first book, No Logo. I had a simple goal: to meet the workers making the clothes and electronics that my friends and I purchased. And I did. I spent evenings on concrete floors in squalid dorm rooms where teenage girls—sweet and giggly—spent their scarce nonworking hours. Eight or even 10 to a room. They told me stories about not being able to leave their machines to pee. About bosses who hit. About not having enough money to buy dried fish to go with their rice.

They knew they were being badly exploited—that the garments they were making were being sold for more than they would make in a month. One 17-year-old said to me: “We make computers, but we don’t know how to use them.”

So one thing I found slightly jarring was that some of these same workers wore clothing festooned with knockoff trademarks of the very multinationals that were responsible for these conditions: Disney characters or Nike check marks. At one point, I asked a local labor organizer about this. Wasn’t it strange—a contradiction?

It took a very long time for him to understand the question. When he finally did, he looked at me like I was nuts. You see, for him and his colleagues, individual consumption wasn’t considered to be in the realm of politics at all. Power rested not in what you did as one person, but what you did as many people, as one part of a large, organized, and focused movement. For him, this meant organizing workers to go on strike for better conditions, and eventually it meant winning the right to unionize. What you ate for lunch or happened to be wearing was of absolutely no concern whatsoever.

This was striking to me, because it was the mirror opposite of my culture back home in Canada. Where I came from, you expressed your political beliefs—firstly and very often lastly—through personal lifestyle choices. By loudly proclaiming your vegetarianism. By shopping fair trade and local and boycotting big, evil brands.

These very different understandings of social change came up again and again a couple of years later, once my book came out. I would give talks about the need for international protections for the right to unionize. About the need to change our global trading system so it didn’t encourage a race to the bottom. And yet at the end of those talks, the first question from the audience was: “What kind of sneakers are OK to buy?” “What brands are ethical?” “Where do you buy your clothes?” “What can I do, as an individual, to change the world?”

Fifteen years after I published No Logo, I still find myself facing very similar questions. These days, I give talks about how the same economic model that superpowered multinationals to seek out cheap labor in Indonesia and China also supercharged global greenhouse-gas emissions. And, invariably, the hand goes up: “Tell me what I can do as an individual.” Or maybe “as a business owner.”

The hard truth is that the answer to the question “What can I, as an individual, do to stop climate change?” is: nothing. You can’t do anything. In fact, the very idea that we—as atomized individuals, even lots of atomized individuals—could play a significant part in stabilizing the planet’s climate system, or changing the global economy, is objectively nuts. We can only meet this tremendous challenge together. As part of a massive and organized global movement.

The irony is that people with relatively little power tend to understand this far better than those with a great deal more power. The workers I met in Indonesia and the Philippines knew all too well that governments and corporations did not value their voice or even their lives as individuals. And because of this, they were driven to act not only together, but to act on a rather large political canvas. To try to change the policies in factories that employ thousands of workers, or in export zones that employ tens of thousands. Or the labor laws in an entire country of millions. Their sense of individual powerlessness pushed them to be politically ambitious, to demand structural changes.

In contrast, here in wealthy countries, we are told how powerful we are as individuals all the time. As consumers. Even individual activists. And the result is that, despite our power and privilege, we often end up acting on canvases that are unnecessarily small—the canvas of our own lifestyle, or maybe our neighborhood or town. Meanwhile, we abandon the structural changes—the policy and legal work—to others.”

- Naomi Klein

#no logo #change the world

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peacehammer

This is a really good artist who takes familiar things, and shows them in different ways, making them into something different. Really like this - check it out.

#art #makes-you-think #conceptual #optical illusion #cat #drawing #awesome

Expedition: another creative writing thing

So, I am part of a writing group, this is the latest submission. The stimulus for the piece is "Strange bedfellows". Also; it should be read with the voice of an upperclass Brit.

Expedition

This document is composed of extracts from the diary of Sir Reginald Smythe, Explorer, from his expedition to observe and photograph the lesser striped mountain lion.

Day 1

The preparations for the expedition are complete. I was joined at the airport in Brazil by the photographer, Clive Davis, who shall be my companion for the journey. He seems a rough sort of fellow, but his reviews show him to be capable. His lady wife however seemed entirely unsuitably dressed, clad as she was in some sort of bikini affair. Fortunately, she will not be coming; as such attire is unsuitable for hard mountain trekking.

Much of the rest of the day was spent travelling and discussing functional things about the trip. Davis seemed somewhat distracted, most likely by the scenery.

Day 2

We set up base camp in a location where we have been told the lesser striped lion is said to frequent. While lacking the basic amenities of a comfortable hotel, this shall be our home for the next few weeks, and no doubt we shall grow to like it. The cold wind is somewhat bracing, and we have plenty of supplies.

After sorting out things such as watch rotas, cleaning and food preparation, we settled in to look for the elusive Felis concolor.

Day 3

During my watch, I happen across Davis performing some kind of repetitive movement underneath his coat. He seemed somewhat embarrassed, so I congratulate him on performing exercise to stay warm. After giving me a frankly odd look, he said that he needed to visit the latrine, or somesuch in the common parlance. I respected the man’s privacy, and after quite a long absence, he returned, somewhat hot and bothered. Quite an achievement in this cold climate.

That must be quite an effective exercise, I should remember to ask him about it.

Day 4

Davis has suggested that we play a game called ‘poker’, using our equipment as betting chips. I have not played this game before, but I am a dab hand at whist, so should pick it up quickly. In any case, it should while away some of the time.

Day 4, Addendum

Davis is now in possession of all my equipment. I managed to extricate myself from the game before he could win my clothes in addition to everything else.

Day 5

After unsuccessfully trying to whittle a bowl from some of the local wood, and not finding any native plants which are edible, I was forced to perform a series of frankly demeaning tasks at the behest of Davis, in addition to doing more than my fair share of the tasks around the camp. I suspect that he may have been taking pictures during this time as well, although, when pressed, he claimed that he was merely ready to take a picture of the mountain lion, should one appear. At least he is diligent in that respect.

Day 6

Still no sighting of the animal. Camp discipline continues to decline. Despite me doing the majority of the tasks, Davis is barely doing the reduced tasks allocated to him. I shall have to lecture him on the matter. Despite him being a formidable person, I have no fear of him as I was quite a boxer in university.

Day 6, addendum.

It appears that boxing offers no defence against a swift kick to the groin, and in addition to other bruises, when doubled over in pain, a knee to the face hurts. While tender, I don’t believe my nose is broken. Davis, carrying his camera, appeared to be sympathetic after the fight, laughing in a way I believe was to increase camaraderie.

Day 7

Still no sighting of the animal.

While tending to my wounds, I discovered that the bottle of medicinal alcohol is nearly empty. Questioning Davis on the matter, he said that he had had injuries to attend to. I asked what kind, but he said that I wouldn’t understand. Wary of yesterday’s altercation, I did not press the matter.

Day 8

Still no sighting of the animal. Davis continues to be surly. I worry about the amount that he has had to drink, and while looking for tracks of the mountain lion, I happened to train my field glasses back to camp and observed Davis taking a swig from what looked like a whiskey bottle. Quite where he got that from, I am unsure.

Day 9

Still no sighting of the animal. Early in the day, I observed Davis shouting sexual themed obscenities out at the mountain. I cautioned him against drawing attention to ourselves, whereupon I became the target of his ire. I retreated to a safe distance to avoid another fight.

Later that day he appeared to be apologetic. Although I observed that he was moving in a way suggesting he was drunk, and moved very close to me, giving me a manly hug. Having played rugby, I am not unfamiliar with such masculine bonding, however upon contact with the bulge in his trousers, I had occasion to recall that I had left something on the burner and removed myself from the situation.

Day 10

Still no sighting of the animal. Despite my best efforts, the camp is in a state. Davis has taken to throwing objects he deems to be of no further use down the mountain. I attempt to retrieve them to maintain a tidy camp. After a period where he threw an object, I retrieve it back to camp, whereupon he threw it again for his amusement, I am rather tired of this, and give up the struggle. After throwing a few more items and seeing that I no longer retrieve them, he returns back to his tent for some of his curious exercise.

Day 11

Disaster.

Dear reader, I shall attempt to recount the activities of this day.

Davis seemed back to his usual convivial self in the morning, helping with observations, and other camp tasks. However during lunch time where he was preparing a tasty smelling stew with some of the remaining meat, we heard a rustling in the bushes.

Behold! It was the lesser striped mountain lion, several in fact. Davis called out to me to take vital supplies, including his camera, while he shoed away the creatures. I attempted to take some pictures, however I am unfamiliar with the device. During the scuffle, the oil burner stove upturned, and spilled burning oil throughout the camp. Gathering my equipment, I heard Davis shout to me to “Save yourself” before I headed back to civilisation.

It was a long trek, but lightly burdened, I made it, more than somewhat exhausted.

Day 12

The end of the expedition. I send a telegram back home to inform them of the likely demise of Davis, and the end of the expedition.

2 days after the expedition

Back in Blighty. I have a sad task to perform, I inform Davis’s wife of his demise. She seemed to take it as well as can be expected, and opened a bottle of brandy to help her through this difficult time. Fortunately she had a fine strapping gentleman on hand to help her through this process. I excused myself from the situation, and left them to their grief.

8 days after the expedition

After a brief stay in hospital to recover, and contact from the Brazilian authorities, I am up before the board to explain how my travelling companion is dead, large parts of the mountain lion habitat have been destroyed, litter strewn all over the mountain, and other than some very blurry pictures of something which may or may not be a lesser striped mountain lion, the only pictures taken during the expedition appear to be of me in a variety of compromising poses.

I await the board’s decision.

#peacehammer #creative writing #writing group #expedition #strange bedfellows #diary #fiction

iguanamouth

kept getting requests for gryphons so heres a bunch of them At Once

peacehammer

Time to make stat blocks for these and put them in a D&D game...

#gryphon #d&d #monsters

Architect Burning - writing group piece

So, I am part of a writing group, and today we had the meeting where we present our pieces. The stimulus of the piece was "Architect branding". I used the title 'Architect Burning' because I am rubbish at titles. Unfortunately I didn't have the time / mental space to print the piece out, so ended up reciting it :S. Got it mostly right, but thought I would publish it here so I can link to it, and amuse others. Architect Burning In a low down pub for low down people sat Gerald, a soon to be former, Architect and failed business investor. Not long qualified, him and a small group of other newly qualifieds had got together to form Archi-Build Ltd. Unburdened by such things as experience, or traditional methods of doing business, they were a purveyor of innovative and exciting new ideas. Funded by credit cards, overdrafts, and living in mum’s basement, they were set to redesign the world. Somehow they got involved with Imagine Construction, an upscale developer looking for designs for an exciting new business development. Working long into the night for many months, Gerald and his group had accumulated more debt than a university student could imagine. During the final presentation to the developers, most of the clients seemed impressed with the bold freshness of the ideas presented. “These are certainly not like the ideas the other companies have come up with”, commented the head of marketing for Imagine Construction. Gerald picked up on the phrase “What other companies?” “You know the other companies in the competition. As explained in your contract” Blinded by pound signs and the excitement of a new job, contracts were things for other people to read. The fact that only the winner would get paid had been one of many things that had drifted past in the moment, never to be revisited. He was saved from having to think about this for a while longer by another bombshell. A grey man, in a grey suit, a structural engineer by trade, had a question. “The bottom floor and most of the second floor appear to be only supported by glass. Have you done the calculations to check to see whether this is feasible?” Calculations? Gerald’s brain froze as he went through the creative process of their master stroke of design of a light and airy space. He was in complete meltdown. One of his colleagues in the presentation said “We’ll get back to you”. After briefly conferring, there were no more questions. The developers left with promises to respond with a decision soon. They did. They said no. In the days which followed, Gerald heard of the winning design. A safe, traditional, and boring design. The formal unveiling to the public was this very evening. With a genius idea inspired by whiskey, he realised the only thing to do was to blow up the other company’s model, thus showing the investors just how structurally unsafe it is. A short distance stagger home, rummaging around in a cupboard, he got a party pack of fireworks from last November 5th. One where you light the starter, retreat to a safe distance, and watch. Unused as being overworked didn’t leave time for parties. A taxi cab paid for with a crumpled note led to him standing outside the developer’s office. The door was locked. His drink addled brain had no idea how to get through this insurmountable obstacle. Intending to break the glass of the window where the presentation was being held, he lit the fireworks with a lighter, flung them, and scarpered. The box bounced off the window. During the climax of the presentation for the new build, fireworks started going off outside. In the after presentation hubbub, people were complimenting the design, the ideas, and the model. And their entertainment timing. In a low down pub for low down people sat Gerald, a soon to be former Architect, failed business investor, and world’s worst terrorist.

#architect #branding #short story #writing #fiction #amusement #peacehammer

thecriminallawyer

16 A - Problems

CONTINUED IN PART 16 B, which goes over the history of how we got here, and maybe even offers some solutions.

[Obligatory links to buy the book, read the comic, & buy merch.]

#law #legislation #overcomplicated

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It is no longer a secret.

#bad puns even worse art #puns #huts #butts #peacehammer

Armed Police in Cambridge were called out yesterday, when a man attempted a robbery, armed only with a picture of a firearm. A police spokesman said... "Thankfully we have the suspect in custody... and we hope in future, criminals will think twice before drawing a gun."

yourplayersaidwhat

DM: He’s wearing a symbol of Baphomet. Fighter: Who the heck is Baffmat? Cleric: The demon that makes you slip in the shower.

Continuing to learn to draw silly things, I got thinking: what would the comments in Chess be like if it were played by modern MOBA players? Pieces unbalanced much? Starting with the King Also I hope no one notices how little actual drawing there is in this pic, and mainly text... <.< >.> Yes, I really am learning to draw, honest...

#moba #chess #learning to draw

So, I recently bought a drawing tablet, partly to learn to draw, and partly so I can illustrate bad puns like this one. This is what I think of when I hear the word 'senpai' Enjoy.

#peacehammer #senpai #kouhai #sen-pie #pun

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outofcontextdnd

Gunslinger

"When you said you were a gunslinger, I didn’t think you’d actually sling guns at people.” — the DM

outofcontextdnd

D&D quote: my name is EriK

Druid: My name is Erik with a k.

NPC: *writes name down* And your last name?

Druid: With a k.

NPC: No I got that: Erik. What’s your last name?

Druid: My last name is with a k.

NPC: Wait…is your name Erik Erik?

Druid: My last name is With a K.

NPC: Okay wait a minute, so to clarify —

Druid: My last name is literally the phrase *air quotes* “Withakay.” It is all one word.

NPC: *finishes writing* So review the document to make sure I got this right.

Druid: *looks* No I spell Eric with a C

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