#ariston

CHE FESTIVAL DI MERDA, CHE CLASSIFICA DI MERDA DIO LONGOBARDO AAAAAAAAAAAAA

Per l'ennesima volta ci è stato confermato che gli artisti che sono veramente artisti, a.k.a quelli che cantano senz'autotune, suonano, scrivono i propri testi, sanno fare un spettacolo - vengono puniti. Nessuno mi mai spiegherà l'esclusione di Giorgia dal top 5. MAI!! O le posizioni basse di una Joan Thiele o Serena Brancale...

Vabbè, immaginiamo per un attimo che si guarda come andrebbe la partecipazione all'Eurovision ........ Ok, abbiamo immaginato. E quindi qualcuno che mi spiega come la canzone più Eurovision è finita al 26° posto??? (i.e Gaia)

Si scherza che Sanremo odia le donne, ma raga, le odia veramente. 10 anni dovevano passare tra la vittoria di Arisa (che da un po' di anni viene sempre inspiegabilmente esclusa, pure "Canta ancora" hanno rifiutato) e la vittoria di Angelina. DIECI ANNI!!!!!

Elodie e Noemi, non so cosa dovrebbero fare di più per essere finalmente su questo podio.

Per le donne non va bene se portano una canzone radiofonica/Eurovision/divertente perché "non è arte, non è qualità". Non va bene se portano una canzone profonda perché "sempre le solite ballad noiose". Lo styling non va bene mai perché per la gente apparentemente non esiste niente tra "puttana" e "suora".

In conclusione, non va bene se partecipano 🤷🏻

Top 5 di nuovo solo uomini. Un "ex"omofobo che non sa cantare senz'autotune (buona fortuna, hai 4 mesi per imparare prima di andare in Svizzera e rappresentare il tuo paese), uno che spera di vivere in un mondo dove la maternità surrogata venga abolita, uno che... non ho tempo di scrivere tutte le cose che ha detto e fatto ma sapete bene di chi sto parlando.

Brunori e Lucio ci sta. Loro due meritavano il podio

Non ho nemmeno voglia di criticare Carlocò e il suo attitude, o il trattamento delle co-conduttrici, o la mancanza di rispetto per gli artisti in gara in generale. Meglio che sto zitta

Ce l'ho fatta ahaha

repost from bird sinking ship

My Phonodroid! His name is Ariston, he’s a later year Laserdisc Unit that’s inspired by a Kangaroo, might redesign or not; this drawing is a bit older.

The thing about cats was they could do more than see in the dark, they could lengthen their spines for short bursts of speed up to thirty miles an hour. They could narrow their shoulders and chests to squeeze into tiny spaces. They could jump nine times their height from a standing position and land on their feet almost every time they fell. Cats at their prey because their bodies didn't produce enough taurine, an essential amino acid: they were predators because they were deficient.

A knife drove into the armrest of Atlas' chair, chips carved into the wood grain one after the other. Eoin was taken. Optimism wasn't something that the druid fucked with so he was probably dead or worse, Death didn't seem to be taking people no matter how much they begged. In the field Atlas had seen a symbiote twist a man's spine so violently without severing any nerves that the guy would have been better off. Esme went into the mud on the first day, Evy was gone too, taken alongside Eoin. Octavian... Atlas could still feel him in the way that he always felt him, but he was further away now. Distant, like instead of a scream he'd been reduced to a whisper. The addition of phoenix fire to his daughter's arsenal was telling.

With every removal of the knife from the grain, Atlas turned it over in his hand, slid across the back of his thumb before he gripped it again and pushed it hard into the armrest once more. His deadpan stare looked off into the dark of the woods, he could hear them out there, they could all hear them. Inside Atlas' mind there was the instinct of the avis ready to take flight, it conflicted with the urge of the viper ready to striker, and last of all was the felidae desperately trying to survive. His last words to Eoin had been- they hadn't been his shiniest moment.

Anthologia Palatina 6.306 = Ariston (Hellenistic period) His cooking-pot, and this flesh-hook; His deeply curved pork-hook and soup-stirring ladle; His winged fan and cauldron of beaten bronze; His hatchet too, and his throat-cutting knife; His broth-cup beside his spits And his wiping-sponge, propped beneath His stout cleaver; this two-headed Salt-pestle with its mortar of fine stone, And the pail to hold the meat – These, the tokens of his craft, Spinther the cook Dedicated to Hermes After shaking off the weight of slavery. Χύτρον τοι, ταύτην τε κρεαγρίδα, καὶ βαθυκαμπῆ κλεῖδα συῶν, καὶ τὰν ἐτνοδόνον τορύναν, καὶ πτερίναν ῥιπῖδα, ταναίχαλκόν τε λέβητα, σὺν πελέκει, καὶ τὰν λαιμοτόμον σφαγίδα, ζωμοῦ τ᾽ ἀμφ᾽ ὀβελοῖσιν ἀρυστρίδα, τόν τε μαγῆα σπόγγον ὑπὸ στιβαρᾷ κεκλιμένον κοπίδι, καὶ τοῦτον δικάρανον ἁλοτρίβα, σὺν δὲ θυείαν εὔπετρον, καὶ τὰν κρειοδόκον σκαφίδα, οὑψοπόνος Σπίνθηρ Ἑρμῇ τάδε σύμβολα τέχνας θήκατο, δουλοσύνας ἄχθος ἀπωσάμενος.