I know for a fact that the Colorado Bigfoot is real, but the truth is that he’s my friend Todd’s dad, Woodstock.
Woodstock is 6'8" and looks like if Treebeard did way too much acid in his youth. He’s an Authentic Mountain Man, and owns a Bison-hide bodysuit from the 1800’s he found in a goodwill that he likes to go hiking in. He also doesn’t believe in property lines or shoes.
So, intermittently, there *IS* a tall ape covered in shaggy brown fur and size 16 feet wandering around the Rockies. But it’s just a former middleschool woodshop teacher.
I wish octopus could learn how to read. They could be pen pals with middle schoolers.
Dearest Samantha,
I do not know what a guinea pig is, but it sounds delicious. I hope you have fun devouring it, or playing with it, if that is your preference. Today I hacked a local computer to get more bubbles in my tank and took a photograph of an unsuspecting victim. Do let me know how your human activities are going. And if this “Karen” continues to antagonize your brother, I would suggest smacking her very hard. And do send more canned snacks.
Best Wishes, Octopus #5, Monterrey bay research aquarium
For a while in my life I legitimately considered moving to Germany. There’s multiple reasons I inevitably ended up staying in the US but one of the big ones was that one time when I was in Germany and wanted some salsa the closest thing I could find was basically just tomato sauce.
You crave a burrito. You ask your aunt, hey. Can we make burritos? And she says, sure. But we can’t use tortillas. They don’t sell those here. And you learn to your horror that she plans to use flatbread. Which she insists is basically the same thing as a tortilla. It is not. It’s not. It’s adequate but good lord it’s not a tortilla.
There’s the near impossibility of dual citizenship, the pay toilets, my difficulty with the language, being really far away from most of my family, the difficulty of finding a job as a foreigner, the lack of diversity especially in rural areas. But also in there. Is buying a bottle of supposedly habanero “hot” sauce and it being so mild that I could drink it.
I know how to make tortillas, guys. Perhaps also read the rest of the post. With a lighthearted tone, preferably.
You have my deepest condolences.
Okay so I’m American and I live in Scotland and let me tell you about this fucking abomination:
I once found corn tortillas in a Sainsbury’s. Oho, you may think, that’s a lovely find! But no, my friend. These were flour tortillas… with cooked corn rolled into them. Individual kernels. Like one may find blueberries in a pancake.
I still see red when I think about it.
I have… no words. Beyond stunned.
In honor of my tags passing peer review, i would like to inform everyone that when i make quesadillas my german gf dips them in mayo
“When I first saw the original painting, I began to do some research on
that little boy. I could find everything I wanted about every other
detail in the painting, but there was nothing about him. No history. And
so I wanted to find a way to imagine a life for this young man that the
historical painting had never made space for in the composition: his
desires, dreams, family, thoughts, hopes. Those things were never
subjects that the original artist wanted the viewer to contemplate. In
order to reframe the discussion, I decided to physically take action to
quiet [and crumple] the side of the painting that we’ve been talking
about for a very long time and turn up the volume on this kid’s story.
And that’s the reason why I started that painting.” Via Artnet News 2019/03/27
This captures everything I love about being online
This reminds me of the time that I asked if anyone had resources on the history of Shinto and while nobody had book recs, turns out an actual Temple Maiden followed me on Tumblr and was down to chat.
Tumblr has a startling number of well informed insightful people with names that reference obscure hentai.
People are downright interesting when they’re not being duct taped into one box or another.
The world is fucked when historians and linguists and mathematicians and artists of all kinds are forced to work jobs that suck the soul out of them because they didn’t get the right bit of paper from the right building or be born in the wrong place or something
seriously think about how many absolute geniuses spend their free time mastering some obscure realm of knowledge but have to mop up shit for 8 bucks an hour, or pick vegetables for a nickel
I am, somehow, less interested in the weight and convolutions of Einstein’s brain than in the near certainty that people of equal talent have lived and died in cotton fields and sweatshops.
