Category: Uncategorized

Uncategorized , , , , ,

gallusrostromegalus:

caramel-poptart:

mushroomgay:

mossful:

by Mark Ziembicki

Veiled stinkhorn (Phallus

cinnabarinus)

This gorgeous stinkhorn is easily separated from other veiled stinkhorns – such as Phallus indusiatus and Phallus multicolor – by its cinnabar red skirt. Like other stinkhorns, this fungus emerges from an egg-like sack, with a cap covered in a sticky, foul-smelling, spore-filled gleba, that will be eaten and carried far away by the flies that it attracts. You can see a few flies polishing off the last of the gleba here, which is mostly gone, revealing the red cap beneath.

As far as I know, the edibility of this variety is not known, but its close relative Phallus indusiatus, similar except for a pure white skirt, are considered choice edibles, while stinkhorn ‘eggs’ of all varieties are eaten, though they are not among the best culinary fungi. 

Beautiful mushroom, but did they basically name it “cinnamon penis”?

YES!  the entire genus is named for thier distinctly… dickish shape.  P. indusiatus is edible/tasty and used to be thought to increase virility and longevity, but modern testing has been inconclusive. Here’s a gif of P. indusiatus blooming, becuase it’s still my favorite fungus:

(P. indusiatus roughly translates to “Penis with a pretty skirt)

Uncategorized , , , ,

wackd:

neonthebright:

thefingerfuckingfemalefury:

the-mighty-upside-down-pyramid:

I will continue to call The Creature “Frankenstein” and no force in Heaven or Earth will impede that.

I also laughed at him totally deliberately calling attention to the fact Victor isn’t a real doctor because he dropped out of college and built a guy out of corpses

He punched the lycanthropy right out of wolfman

did he just throw ygor out a window

Uncategorized , ,

whynonnaearghhh:

vampireapologist:

vampireapologist:

vampireapologist:

wait do those tin can phones really work?? I thought this was all a myth.

I just looked up a video this is wild I’m making one tomorrow

in my high school Art 4 class while we were no doubt supposed to be getting ready for a Very important Art Show, two of my friends made one of these phones but instead of talking into it they would write messages and clip it to the string and slide it across the string to the other and when the art teacher asked why they said “we’re texting” and she could not BELIEVE it, this was the FUNNIEST thing she’d heard all year

so she got on her office phone and called the principal and said “two girls are texting in my classroom I need you to come take their phones and issue them detentions” and we all waited like assholes for him to show up and when he asked where they were she gestured at my friends “texting” on their tin can phone and my principal was already a pretty tired dude but that was the most exhausted I think he ever looked.

Uncategorized , , ,

thetransintransgenic:

bariumsulfateacetone:

thetransintransgenic:

laughlikesomethingbroken:

last-snowfall:

keantha:

thejunglenook:

ballpointpun:

Somewhere a rocket scientist brain surgeon physicist with a knack for economics who wears Velcro shoes is having a stress breakdown.

When I was a professional ballroom dance instructor, one of my coworkers was having a tough time teaching a step to her student. As he gets more frustrated she tells him “it’s ok- you’ll get it- this isn’t rocket science.”

There is an awkward pause as her student stares back at her.
“No” he agrees, “this isn’t rocket science. That I can do. This is some sadistic step designed specifically to torture rocket scientists.”

And that’s how we found out he worked for NASA.

Reblogged for that story

Your daily reminder that no, seriously: “difficult” is a matter of context.

isn’t rocket science a form of physics

Buddy if you’re doing rocket science and quantum physics at the same time, then multiple things have gone seriously, seriously wrong.

Very tiny rockets

​‌‍​‌‍​‌‍​‌‍

​‌‍

​‌‍

                                    NO.

​‌‍​‌‍

​‌‍

​‌‍

Uncategorized , , , ,

quousque:

lynati:

wilwheaton:

This whole canvas is a happy accident.

I was practicing mountains, and just doing a shit job. I could not get the paint to break, I felt like I was using someone else’s hands, and it was a frustrating, demoralizing experience.

Every time I wanted to stab the canvas, I scraped it clean and started over. Eventually, I ended up with a ton of various blue shades on my pallette.

I didn’t want to just throw it away, and I didn’t want to give up while I felt like an asshole who will never be any good at this, so I just started practicing again, but this time I didn’t care much about the colors. I ended up working with those colors and got something that matches my mood pretty accurately.

I don’t think you can see it, but the *technique* for my trees is real solid, even if the colors aren’t there. The mountain is okay, but not great. I’m struggling like hell to see it in my head before I get into it, and I still can’t do that. I feel like I end up icing a cake when I try to out on the snow, and it’s really demoralizing and frustrating. The distant trees going up the slop make me happy, and I like the reflections I tried out.

I still feel unsettled and kinda pissed at myself because I am just. Not. Getting. It. With the mountains, but I’m gonna a focus on how I ended up with this color study (I guess? Is that what it is?) that just feels like bleakness trying to be beautiful, which is very much how I feel in the empty space where my soul should be.

#BobRoss #painting #art #practicemakesprogress
https://www.instagram.com/p/Bne_hVhngIe/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1pyr0gko53g3k

I still feel like I want to put on a heavy coat and grab some hot chocolate and go hang out there for a couple hours.

funny thing, without the artist’s commentary, you’d never know how much struggle went into this painting, or how much work went into getting it to look like this. You’d think the artist just tossed this off no problem, or something.

I can’t tell if the shadowy mountains in the distance are previous fuckup mountains that got removed, or if they’re there on purpose, but honestly I wouldn’t have doubted on purpose without the commentary. It looks like a fog is descending and there’s a whole mountain range back there, half-hidden.

I think it just goes to show that as an artist (or writer, or singer, or whatever) you see all the ways that it didn’t turn out how you wanted it to, but the audience only sees the way that it did turn out. The audience isn’t comparing it against the imaginary perfect artwork in your brain.

Uncategorized , ,

house-of-crows:

deadmomjokes:

I know cats have a stigma of being evil little robots who care for nobody but themselves. I don’t deny that there are some out there like this. But in defense of the large majority of darling cats who have been given a bad name due to the wicked few, I would like to tell you a story…

I am asthmatic. I’m not as bad as some; my asthma is generally well-controlled, and I don’t have much trouble with it on a daily basis. However, as all asthmatics know, getting sick becomes a nightmare. Even a small cold can turn into a days-long asthma attack, one that is very painful, and very annoying for me and those around me. The asthma cough sounds like an ill seal at best, or an angry moose with a nasal condition at worst. Y’all with asthma, and y’all with asthmatic friends, know exactly what I’m talking about. The bark. The hack. The Cough Heard Round The World. It’s painful, it’s loud, and it doesn’t stop. Even the rescue inhaler can only do so much to calm it. It just has to run its course with the cold.

Well, this week I caught the crud, and in the past few days it deteriorated into The Cough. Last night, I took some NyQuil to try and stave it off for as long as I could, just to try and get some sleep. That meant that for a few hours, I was cough-free. After that, I was still doped up enough to sleep through some of it. However, by 2am the sleep aid had worn off and The Cough woke me up. Since lying down makes it worse, and I didn’t want to wake my sister, I sneaked out of my bedroom into the living room, where I sat on the recliner and proceeded to hack up a lung while I waited for my next dose of NyQuil to kick in. That is when I noticed Simon.

Simon is a Russian Blue with a masterful resting-witch-face and an attitude to match. She (yes, she’s a girl, that’s another story) is old, fat, proprietary, and attitudinal. She isn’t shy about telling you when she is displeased, and does so with a loud shriek and some teeth or claws thrown in. She is convinced she owns the place, and owns all of us in turn. She is particular about where you can pet her, like most cats; and, like most cats, she loves her sleep and hates to be woken up.

And of course, my hacking woke her up.

Attempting to whisper an apology in between bouts of coughing, I noticed she was getting off her perch atop the chair nearby. She stretched, made a little squeaking sound, and trotted over to me.

I expected her to demand petting as payment for having woken her precious sleep, but she did not. Instead, this traditionally cranky dragon of a cat did something that amazed me.

She began to purr loudly, and sat herself directly on my aching chest. She kneaded my sternum softly, and nosed my chin as if to say, “I’ve got this, you sleep.” Even though I was still coughing, and bouncing her horridly in the process, she remained settled on my chest right above my diaphragm, purring loudly so that it vibrated through my ribs. I don’t know what magic spell she was chanting between her boat-like purrs, but within minutes my cough had subsided and I was able to sleep.

I didn’t wake up until about 4:30. When I did, it was to discover that my lap and chest were devoid of Simon’s presence, and I was coughing again. As I started coughing once more, I heard her familiar “I’m here” squeak from the area of the water dish. I heard some hurried lapping, and then her heavy gallop across the floor. She flumped onto my lap again, and resumed her purring and kneading. She had evidently been doing that for the past 2 hours, and had only left to get some water. Hydrated, she had returned to take care of me.

So yes, she has her share of evil, jerk-cat moments, but I can no longer pretend that Simon is entirely heartless. For that matter, I now refuse to believe that about any cat. Just because they act like a jerk doesn’t mean that they don’t love you.

My Lilith is a Grade A Bitch.

I’ve known this since about three days after I rescued the tuxie fluffbutt at two weeks old from the Great Outdoors. Her colony abandoned her, mum nowhere in sight, and the Toms were being drawn to her little kitten wails. I waited it out for 24 hours, hoping mum would come back for her and I wouldn’t have to get involved. We didn’t really have the money for a pet and all the vet bills, and really I’d rather have a yearling or one of the over five crowd that don’t get adopted so easily. Nope. 

So she screamed and screamed and eventually, I heard snarling Toms. I’m not going to let a kitten die if I can help it, so I ran outside, scooped her up, and started making her a box. Thankfully at that point, we had plenty of Amazon boxes piling up all over the place, so it was pretty simply to make her one up, with a hot water bottle wrapped in a rabbit pelt, and some hot rice socks to make SURE she stayed warm in our pretty chill house. (even in May it’s ridiculous.) 

I started googling quick as possible milk alternatives, and found one for a little oil in milk with an egg yolk mixed in. Now, generally, you’re not supposed to give cats cow milk OR raw eggs, but the point was calories and fast. As soon as Sir got home, we headed out to the pet store and got her some of the KMR. For about six weeks I was awake every two hours feeding this little asshole. She wouldn’t eat for anyone but me, really, and she made her voice HEARD. 

She’s since grown up into a real Asshole of a cat. Spooking people on purpose, hiding around corners to jump us, and attacking the shower curtain any time either of us needs to clean off. BUT. Ever since I had my surgery back in February…? She sneaks into bed with us at night. Curls up at the foot of the bed or in between us, and tends not to move until I wake up in the morning; except to get breakfast and come back in.

She likes to sleep on Sir’s chair when He’s not around; she steals it when He gets up for a drink because it counts; and she follows me from room to room if she’s not off doing her own thing. Watching birds from the windows or terrorizing her brother. 

She cries for playtime, and knows to lead me to the water dish if it needs cleaned or refilled, or to shake the kibble in her bowl so it covers again. And sometimes, if I am very lucky and awake very late, she will come sit in my lap, and purr, and stay there until my arm falls asleep. She’s definitely an asshole, but she loves me anyway.

Lilith sounds like our Jade.

I read your post and I’d like to help you get started. Please talk to me about how vegetables aren’t real, because that sounds like an interesting af conversation.

Uncategorized , ,

thecrackedamethyst:

Well let me tell you.

Everybody and their cousin has experienced the argument “is a tomato a fruit or a vegetable” at some point in their lives. It’s a fun bit of trivia, and let’s know-it-all’s speak condescendingly, or at least they did like 10 years ago. “Knowledge is knowing tomato is a fruit, wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad”. Whatever.

Which brings up the point, that botany and culinary sciences are very different. Botany is the study of plants, culinary is cooking and how things taste. Botany is science, and it has rules (kind of), where cuisine is full of guidelines that are completely cultural.

Tomatoes are a fruit. A fruit is how many plants have babies, and are made in the ovary of a flower. I have a diagram.

Armed with this knowledge we can know that tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, beans, peas and peppers are all fruit.

“Now”, I ask you, “what are lettuce, and cabbage, and spinach, and kale”?

“Vegetables”, you say, assuredly.

“Yes, but, what are they?”

“…vegetables”, you say, slower, and louder this time, not quite sure what I’m wanting from you.

No. They are leaves.

What are carrots, beets and radishes? Roots. What about celery and rhubarb? Stems. Potatoes? Tubers (food storage for the plant, and where new plant babies will grow from). Garlic and onions? Bulbs (also food storage). Mushrooms? They’re not even a plant, they’re a fungus, in the kingdom of fungi, which is somewhere between the plant and animal kingdoms.

“Vegetables” is just a word for plants that we eat, that doesn’t have enough sugar to be a fruit, and not enough flavour to be a herb or spice.

Botanically speaking, there is no such thing as a vegetable. They’re just different parts of a plant that happen to be edible.

There are other plants, normally considered weeds, that can be “eaten like a vegetable”. Dandelion, stinging nettle, dock, purslane, can all be cooked and eaten, making them vegetables, at least to the people to treat them as such. It’s all very cultural, and biased, and based on nothing but what people think it is. Therefore, they are not a real thing, it’s just a concept.

Uncategorized , , ,

lord-kitschener:

harokissmile:

ksteeno:

spoookyscary:

After succumbing to a fever of some sort in 1705, Irish woman Margorie McCall was hastily buried to prevent the spread of whatever had done her in. Margorie was buried with a valuable ring, which her husband had been unable to remove due to swelling. This made her an even better target for body snatchers, who could cash in on both the corpse and the ring.

The evening after Margorie was buried, before the soil had even settled, the grave-robbers showed up and started digging. Unable to pry the ring off the finger, they decided to cut the finger off. As soon as blood was drawn, Margorie awoke from her coma, sat straight up and screamed.

The fate of the grave-robbers remains unknown. One story says the men dropped dead on the spot, while another claims they fled and never returned to their chosen profession.

Margorie climbed out of the hole and made her way back to her home.

Her husband John, a doctor, was at home with the children when he heard a knock at the door. He told the children, “If your mother were still alive, I’d swear that was her knock.”

When he opened the door to find his wife standing there, dressed in her burial clothes, blood dripping from her finger but very much alive, he dropped dead to the floor. He was buried in the plot Margorie had vacated.

Margorie went on to re-marry and have several children. When she did finally die, she was returned to Shankill Cemetery in Lurgan, Ireland, where her gravestone still stands. It bears the inscription “Lived Once, Buried Twice.”

what did i just read

Irish women are strong as fuck

“I lived, bitch” irl