jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2xeGpkM:
abbydraws:

Wonder Woman
(Your picture was not posted)

Photo

Aug. 20th, 2017 01:28 am
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2xeySCg:
(Your picture was not posted)
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2vQA9jv:
squeeful:

ineptshieldmaid:

marzipanandminutiae:

feels-for-the-fictional:

satanpositive:

Roses are red, that much is true, but violets are purple, not fucking blue.

I have been waiting for this post all my life.

They are indeed purple,
But one thing you’ve missed:
The concept of “purple”
Didn’t always exist.

Some cultures lack names
For a color, you see.
Hence good old Homer
And his “wine-dark sea.”

A usage so quaint,
A phrasing so old,
For verses of romance
Is sheer fucking gold.

So roses are red.
Violets once were called blue.
I’m hugely pedantic
But what else is new?

My friend you’re not wrong
About Homer’s wine-ey sea!
Colours are a matter
Of cultural contingency;

Words are in flux
And meanings they drift
But the word purple
You’ve given short shrift.

The concept of purple,
My friends, is old
And refers to a pigment
once precious as gold.

By crushing up molluscs
From the wine-dark sea
You make a dye:
Imperial decree

Meant that in Rome,
to wear purpura
was a privilege reserved

For only the emperor!

The word ‘purple’,
for clothes so fancy,
Entered English
By the ninth century

.

Why then are voilets
Not purple in song?
The dye from this mollusc,
known for so long

Is almost magenta;
More red than blue.
The concept of purple
is old, and yet new.

The dye is red,
So this might be true:
Roses are purple
And violets are blue

.

While this song makes me merry,
Tyrian purple dyes many a hue
From magenta to berry
And a true purple too.

But fun as it is to watch this poetic race
The answer is staring you right in the face:
Roses are red and violets are blue
Because nothing fucking rhymes with purple.
(Your picture was not posted)
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2fTtvp0:
katemontoya:

i live for bruce being this like terrible force and a dark shadow and the scourge of the underworld but can’t get his kids to do fucking anything. like an hour ago a criminal was trembling before him and now damian won’t go to bed at a proper time and counting didn’t bloody work and now he’s out of tactics 

stephanie still won’t keep to the meal plan he’s laid out for the batkids and unlike the others, who at least cheat in private, she takes great pride in bringing in a box of krispy kreme doughnuts and stuffing her face right in front of him 

cass hears bruce’s orders to stop watching cutthroat kitchen on the batcomputer but just does a face and turns straight back around and plays the rest of the episode 

tim ‘i’ve told you to tidy your bedroom eight times now I’LL DO IT LATER GOD’ drake 

dick and his habit of hanging from the rafters despite bruce’s insistence that they’re old and antiques and he shouldn’t do it, dick just ‘alot of stuff in his house is old and it’s still standing’ whilst giving bruce a too pointed look 

jason and …….. well anything

bruce in a meeting with the justice league, standing over them as a dark and commanding leader and then just his phone ringing and he has to immediately try and calm down duke and damian before they fight each other again and he’s trying everything and just hears a loud yelp on the other end and has to sit down w/ his head in his hands like ‘why are they always like this’ 
(Your picture was not posted)
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2uKan37:
prokopetz:

iveforgottenmyusername:

jumpingjacktrash:

pipistrellus:

one thing that makes me sad about startrekverse is that alongside genuinely utopian things like “in the future there will be no poverty or hunger or crimes or illness” there is also “in the future there will be no religion” like what is this a john lennon song. i am sending you my least amused face

it saddens me that apparently a utopian future involves “”transcending”” religion which apparently universally and inherently holds humanity back?? whaaat. give me a break

i dont want to imagine a utopian SPACE FUTURE which has no, like, hijabi starfleet officers, or space rabbis bickering about what counts as “sunset” when you are on a space station. or what counts as “friday” for that matter

BUT MOST OF ALL

I DONT WANT TO IMAGINE A SPACE FUTURE IN WHICH EVERYONE DOES NOT VALIANTLY PRETEND THAT THERE IS NO ONE HOME ON THEIR STARSHIP WHEN THE MORMON MISSIONARY PODS COME BEETLING BY WITH THEIR DIGITAL PAMPHLETS

AND I AM WILLING TO BET THAT YOU DONT WANT TO IMAGINE THAT EITHER

i was nodding along all serious and then my tea came out my nose

“Captain, we’re being hailed”

“On Screen”

“Hello Captain, this is the Mormon Faith Ship Joseph Smith, have you thought about letting Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ into your life?”

“…You have reached the holographic life size double of Captain Pipistrellus, please leave a message after the beep. Um… beep?”

I just had a vivid mental image of a Star Trek AU where the Borg have successfully been pacified by converting them to Mormonism, and now instead of forcibly assimilating entire worlds into the Collective, they just loom ominously and hand out explanatory pamphlets outlining the spiritual benefits of joining the cyber-Mormon hive mind.

They get more converts than you’d think.
(Your picture was not posted)
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2wRe2K2:
mediamattersforamerica:

This is spot-on. 
(Your picture was not posted)
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2wcrPgl:
I found this at my liquor store. I didn’t buy it, but I kind of wanted to.
(Your picture was not posted)
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2w8ghM0:
phantom-of-the-trash-blog:

thebibliosphere:

nosoundinspace:

buckyforcap:

glumshoe:

absynthe–minded:

glumshoe:

I pretend to be complex and clever but in reality, nothing has ever made me laugh harder than those bad Chinese subtitles from the bootleg Lord of the Rings DVDs. Tears streaming down my face, core aching, slowly suffocating because I’m laughing too hard.

also (because one can never have too many of these)

and my personal favorite:

I somehow forgot to add my own favorite, which is this one:

I also appreciate the ones that really change the tone and suggest that the characters openly loathe each other…

and this one, which gently encourages self-care:

listen you guys forgot some important ones

ya’ll forgot the best one

*inarticulate wheezing noises*

I swear to fucking god
(Your picture was not posted)
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2vYXKk8:
fyeahmarvel:

– Queen Elizabeth II
(Your picture was not posted)
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2vNbQpl:
sharpestrose:

lazaefair:

bodhiandors:

 “They are requesting a call sign.”

“It’s, um…Rogue. Rogue One.”

HE NAMED THE SHIP

BODHI ROOK FATHER OF ROGUE SQUADRON

(THE SQUADRON LUKE SKYWALKER FLEW IN)

AN ENTIRE GENERATION OF PILOTS AND STARFIGHTERS PAYING TRIBUTE TO HIM

IT’S HIM

HE’S THE PILOT

Bodhi Fuckin Rook. Let me talk about Bodhi Rook for a second.

Riz Ahmed’s first acting role was as a guy imprisoned at Guantanamo Bay. One of the Tipton Three, who tried to sue Rumsfeld for torture and religious abuses but who failed because the torture hadn’t technically been prohibited and Rumsfeld was technically immune from prosecution.

So we take a guy with a very specific set of imagery associated with him and we put him stumbling and terrified in the desert with a bag covering his head. Heck, put him through interrogation techniques invasive enough that people tend to go crazy from them.

Take this guy, this guy whose skin is brown and whose family live in a war-torn city full of suicide attacks against tank-driven peacekeeping patrols.

Make him clever and brave and beautiful. Make the audience cheer when his plans go right. Make his intel pivotal to everything, and then do it again. 

Remember those jokes in Kevin Smith and Mike Myers movies about evil henchmen with regular families, about contract workers on the Death Star, about whether they deserved to die just for having worries about paychecks and taking a job? 

Those jokes are all about Bodhi Fucking Rook, an intergalactic long-haul trucker, and they aren’t jokes anymore because his answer is that you don’t stay some anonymous jerk just keeping his head down and acting like the machine he’s in isn’t his responsibility. You find something pure and strong in yourself, that inch of integrity Alan Moore told us about once, the thing that’s worth more than your life.

Luke Skywalker resonated with the audience because he was a fresh-faced farm boy setting off on the hero’s journey, and that gets us on a primal gut level.

Bodhi Rook isn’t an ancient archetype like Luke is. Bodhi Rook is a modern achetype. Bodhi Rook is the human face that we all hope looks back in the mirror at us when we ask ourselves if we’re willing to compromise our humanity – are we willing to ignore Guantanamo and Manus, turn a blind eye to Rumsfeld and Dutton and Morrison? Is it okay to take a job installing air conditioning on the Death Star when you know that it’s the Death Star, because someone’s gotta do it and you need the cash?

We all hope that when the question comes, we answer the way Bodhi Rook did.
(Your picture was not posted)
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2wQsUaD:
copperbadge:

notesoftruth:

copperbadge:

peradii:

digitaldiscipline:

doctorwithafryingpan:

dafterwho:

arctic-hands:

not-to-worry–fan-not-stalker:

kyraneko:

peradii:

We all know that Hoth was a simmering mess of hormones and stress and I would pay good money for a soap opera about them. Here are some things which Definitely Happened: 

There’s a betting pool going on who takes Luke’s virginity. The favourites are Han and Leia, but Wedge Antilles has pretty good odds, and there’s a small contingent of aliens who are convinced it will be Chewie (after all, who could resist that Wookie musk? Headcanon: most alien races consider humans soft and gross. Most alien races find Wookies absurdly attractive. Han Solo isn’t the ladykiller; Chewie is.)

Leia and Han scream at each other in every corner of the base. Everyone is desperate for them to fuck. They do not. The sexual tension is so thick that it could be cut into blocks and sold as wall insulation. More than once they are ‘accidentally’ locked in a supply cupboard in the vain hope that claustrophobia will act as the catalyst that enables their frustration to spark into true love – or at least nasty raunchy cupboard sex. It does not. All that happens is that the offender has legally changed their name to escape the Wrath of Organa. 

Someone paints a shirtless Han Solo on their X Wing. Leia is furious. Han is delighted: both at the highly flattering portrait (he has an eight-pack, he is shredded) and at Leia’s fury (you’re jealous princess/no I am not/you’re jealous, hey I can pose like that for you if you –). Hoth’s winter had nothing on the chilly silence that followed that suggestion. 

Luke and Leia both have very graphic dreams about Han Solo. Han Solo has very graphic dreams about the twins –  individually, together, he’s thirty fucking years old, why is his brain doing this to him.(Later on they will, individually, realise that due to Luke and Leia’s Force-bond they probably created a circle of Han Solo Sex Dreams: Leia had them, so Luke sensed her lust for Han which intensified his own lust for Han, which led to Luke having Han Solo sex dreams, which led to Leia lusting – and so on, and so on. For the sake of their sanity, they never share this revelation which each other.)

Luke is SO COLD. All the time. WHY DOES NO ONE APPRECIATE HOW COLD HE IS. He comes from a desert world. Of course he’s cold! What is all this white stuff? It was pretty for the first fve seconds but holy fucking Force it is so cold it burns and what the hell is going on with that? He bundles himself up in so many layers that he waddles rather than walks. Fearsome Last of the Jedi indeed.

Luke tapes a knife to a cleaning droid (disc-shaped things that swish around the base, sucking up dirt) and names it Stabby. Why, says Leia. Luke, the boy from Tatooine, shining and happy despite everything says why not. Why not indeed. Stabby is very fond of chasing Han. Han wants desperately to shoot the fucking thing– but then he sees big-eyed Luke and sharp-toothed Leia cooing over it and, well. A little bit of light stabbing is nothing, compared to those two smiling. 

STABBY THE SPACE ROOMBA!

I am torn between wanting Stabby to be grabbed and evacuated along with the Rebels and make it to the next base, and wanting Stabby to get Vader.

Compromise: shortly after losing the Millennium Falcon, Vader, storming through the Rebel base, is startled to feel a sudden jolt of pain from the artificial sensors on his left leg prosthetic: a sharp sensation on his ankle. Surprised, because he sensed no threat–is the limb malfunctioning?–he looks down, and there is a cleaning droid with a knife taped to it, a little painted-on Rebel lieutenant’s insignia, and the word STABBY written on it.

He stares down at it, completely and utterly taken aback for the first time in over a decade. Fearlessly, it chitters back at him, sounding very triumphant.

He picks it up.

Off in the fractal weirdness of hyperspace, Rebels on several ships are surprised to find an update on Stabby’s kill-update feed, and then thoroughly shocked at the accompanying image: the upward-pointing camera has captured an image of Darth Vader staring down at the droid.

It’s the fastest news ever to travel through the Rebel grapevine, the mix of triumph and loss that is, they are certain, Stabby’s heroic last stand.

Until a day later, when the thing updates again, this time showing an extremely confused Imperial officer. And another, and another, and another, day after day.

They cancel the funeral.

Vader hasn’t done much just for the fun of it in two decades. Watching Imperial officers swear and clutch their ankles as a cleaning drone with a knife taped to it, an Imperial emblem, lieutenant’s insignia, and the word STABBY painted on it, bumps into them and then chatters triumphantly, he’s figured he’s earned.

STABBY FIC!  STABBY STARWARS FIC!  YOU HAVE MADE MY DAY!

But do they send in a rescue unit to reclaim their most honorable POW?

no, the rebels are all too happy to have vader backing one of their most valuable psychological weapons.  stabby’s antics are invaluable for their ability to escalate tension within imperial ranks, and vader’s personal amusement means stabby will get to keep running his miniature interference mission for a long time to come

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSS

STABBY LIVESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Grand Moff Tarkin limps into Vader’s quarters. Again. “Lord Vader, enough of this.”

“I have altered the droid; pray I do not alter it any further.”

(If there’s one thing young Anakin Skywalker can appreciate, it’s a hot-rodded maintenance droid, c’mon.)

VADER PUTS A LIGHTSABRE ON STABBY

HE CALLS IT HIS APPRENTICE

MY SON WILL NOT TURN TO THE DARKSIDE BUT MY SON’S STABBY SON WILL

Stabby is eventually recovered and given a medal after the defeat of the Emperor, but his poor little chassis is too badly damaged by then to even hold onto the knife anymore. His internal mechanism is removed and upgraded, and then the Master Droid Tech charged with fixing him casts around for a new casing to put him in.

“Hey!” calls a teenaged Poe Dameron, walking into the Droid repair shop. “I got this decommissioned BB-8 chassis they said to bring in here. It needs a new owner. Captain said I can have it if I can find a new mechanism for it.”

The Master Droid Tech looks at Stabby, then at the BB-8 chassis, then back at Stabby. Stabby turns his unsheathed ocular sensor to Poe and beeps adoringly. (This is a common if relatively new reaction to Poe Dameron, who has just graduated from his Awkward Stage.)

“Yeah, I got one for you right here,” the Tech says, grinning. 

Shortly after Poe gives in to the pleading beeps and whirs and upgrades BB-8 with a miniature welding torch he starts noticing a lot more people limping around the base…

Poe takes BB-8 on a mission to a trade world. He is unfortunate enough to make himself a gang target, and in the ensuing fight he almost the guy sneaking up behind him. The shockingly loud scream of agony and furious beeps are his only warning…

Poe wonders sometimes at why so many cities are banning welding torches smaller than a spanner. He was there just last week and didn’t have any problems, and BB-8 had so much fun, he was trilling excitedly for hours on the way back. Now if he ever wants to go back he won’t be able to bring BB-8 along…

ADDITIONAL HEADCANON APPROVED. 
(Your picture was not posted)
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2vqKtjL:
lannamichaels:

aimofdestiny:

cousinborris:

justagenerictumbler:

northeast-artist98:

becausedragonage:

inverted-author:

werewolvesdontlikeyou:

hazlelnoot:

bleeznuggets:

riddlemethatgollum:

samandriel:

visitingfan:

consultingcorsair:

poppy-popsicles:

I wanted to download We Will Rock You, but…

everytime i hear this my lungs hurt from laughing

I just fOUND HTE BEST GIF OMFG

I HAVE LOOKED FOR THIS LONGER THAN I HAVE BEEN ALIVE

37chickenducks

No, no, these .gifs are terrible to go with this song.

You need something like this:

ITS BACCCCKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!

This came up on my dash. Meanwhile on the radar:

I clicked over (source) and saw these:

Serendipity and perfection.

I need this in my life this sounds like a sassy mafia gang circling you and instead of guns they only use the power of dance and music

I am morally obligated to reblog this post

does anyone know who this cover is actually done by?

His name is Max Raabe! Here’s a playlist.

thank you for IDing who this is! :D
(Your picture was not posted)
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2hPSslP:
dw-is-eating-mylife:

So I was just looking through Doctor Who comics when

And let me tell you: this is even better than it sounds.

I

Dont

Even

This

Is

Amazing

I never knew how much I needed all this in my life

This is golden

Bonus: Every single entry begins with “Unfortunately, my previous plan did not succeed.”

For those who are interested, this is from issue 490 (I think) of the DW magazine. If you don’t have it and want to see, send me a message about it and I’ll link you.
(Your picture was not posted)
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2vTJLgs:
ink-splotch:

you know what would have been great? if ron got sorted into slytherin.

imagine– we have this kid on the train, the first friend harry meets, with his corned beef sandwiches and smudged nose. ron is eleven years old and he wants gryffindor, because he’s a weasley and that’s what always happens. but it doesn’t happen.

what a way to redeem slytherin house– or, god, at least complicate it. because ron is petty. he is mean and sharp and ambitious and jealous– and he is loyal to the ends of the earth. he is all those things, and he is and always has been good.

potter becomes before weasley in the alphabet, so harry says not slytherin please and gets told might as well be gryffindor. percy and fred and george are all sitting there in red and gold, ruffling the already-ruffled hair of the boy who lived, smug, and then ron sits down and the hat spits out slytherin!

c'mon it’d be fun. just imagine–

the weasleys freaking out– but even that first christmas molly sends him a sweater in beautiful green and silver.

snape taking points from gryffindor when ron breaks rules or mouths off. “i’m in your house.” “hm, couldn’t tell which weasley it was…” /drifts away

sitting with harry in potions and in flying– whatever classes they happen to share. meeting up to study. scarfing down their breakfasts at separate tables so they can go hang out in the empty classrooms before the day starts. hermione reads while they play exploding snap.

the trio signing up for all the same electives third year. this friendship being something they earn and work for; not just the one that looked easiest. (not to bash canon ron&harry, the bros to end all bros, but by putting this very obvious obstacle between them– it makes it that much clearer to the reader that this is a love worth fighting for, because they’re fighting for it).

ron being jealous that harry and hermione get to share this house, this home, these hours, while he’s stuck with malfoy and parkinson and goyle– because that would eat him up some days, some months, this insecure kid who’s been the last at everything all his life. this kid who always leaves and always comes back.

ron, who constantly compares himself to his brothers– not as smart, not as popular, not as good. one more nail in that coffin, here, yeah? he’s not a prefect, not a quidditch star, not a troublemaker– and even when he becomes those things, someone else has always gotten there first. 

well, i guess he got to this house first at least

ron still snaps at snape in potions, after hermione’s been ignored three times, “you know, sir, i think hermione might know the answer.” he still pulls the bars off harry’s window with a stolen, flying car. he still shows harry around the burrow shyly, not knowing what a wonder a warm home is. he still stands up in the shrieking shack as best as he can with a broken leg and tells a mass murderer that if he wants harry he’ll have to go through him first. 

ron weasley is a lot of things, but one of them is absolutely a true friend.

in their second year:

when everyone calls harry the heir, they eye ron at his side and sniff.

when hermione lays petrified in the medical ward, ron sits at her side and reads her homework assignments aloud and thinks my house this was my house. 

when ron hugs ginny’s damp, shaking frame after the chamber, ron says sorry and sorry and are you okay and i’m so sorry and ginny calls him an idiot.

the trio spends more time in the library with hermione, since ron can’t come to gryffindor tower to study, and homework remains a thing that has to happen. fred and george constantly try to sneak him into the tower anyway. 

“c'mon, ronnykins, you belong here, you deserve it, no one’s gonna fuss, it’s your BIRTHRIGHT,” and ron fusses and rolls his eyes at them

and then in fourth year in one of those periods where he’s not talking to harry and harry’s not talking to him– he just snaps at the twins

because it’s not, alright?

not his birthright, not his house, and maybe no one would fuss if he snuck in, maybe no one would care, and that makes it worse not better, because then he’s just that weasley who should’ve been gryffindor

and isn’t

(and harry overhears this caterwauling, feels his heart fall to his toes, and goes and awkwardly asks ron if he wants to go a few laps on his firebolt). 

(because, god, harry-the-chosen-one, harry-in-the-cupboard-under-the-stairs, harry-who’ll-save-us-all– he knows what it’s like to have should have beens on your shoulders, and he knows what it’s like to not be wanted).

ron cheers for gryffindor during quidditch matches in those first few years, and sits with hagrid and hermione and neville. harry’s seeker, and fred and george are beaters, and ginny becomes chaser eventually, and honestly screw the slytherin team. they have each and every one of them said disparaging things about ron’s mother.

harry and hermione badger ron into trying out for keeper fourth year; he and harry have been practicing on the quidditch pitch because its a non-library-shaped place to hang out where both of them are allowed. ron makes the slytherin roster, and malfoy grudgingly provides ron a team broom after the captain chews him out for a bit.

“he may be a weasley, but he’s our keeper, don’t you want to win, draco”

but the sort of things they spit in the locker room, the words the players hiss or snigger, the slurs that come easy to their tongues– ron would like to say that he considered just walking out of the cesspit, but instead he snipes and sasses and shouts and sometimes tries to spell slugs at the worst of them. 

it doesn’t do much, that one irritated voice of protest– except that it does. and he’s got a new (hand-me-down) wand, after the gilderoy fiasco, so the slugs even come out the right end.

fred gives him a black eye with a bludger one time (though ron does manage to block the quaffle) and molly sends a howler to gryffindor table with the morning post. (“RON DID YOU TATTLE”) (“IT WAS CLEARLY PERCY, FRED, SIT DOWN”)

(the weasleys often have family conversations across the great hall, with hufflepuffs and ravenclaws covering their ears long-sufferingly between them)

in the lake, it’s still ron hanging there in the water, still and bloated. it’s still harry’s heart that stutters in his chest, for all it’s just a game, just a game, just a game, right?

ron listens hard and tries to talk himself out of fist fights, all that next year in the slytherin common room as they read aloud rita skeeter articles.

when hermione calls dumbledore’s army to its first session in that pub, there are green scarves in that crowd– ron and one of the beaters who ron’s gotten to help glare to rest of the slytherin quidditch team into submission.

ron beats draco to being prefect (i think i remember it was dumbledore and not mcgonagall who seemed to award prefect status– snape doesn ’t get a say).

percy is SO PROUD, as usual, but so are fred and george. “did you see the little malfoy git? green with shame, my god.”

when harry has the dream about sirius, ron isn’t there to wake. but when draco’s pulled out of bed to be a professional bully– er, i mean inquisitorial squad member– ron follows at a careful distance and curses draco from behind. 

they ride thestrals over london. harry finds the prophecy and ron thinks about the sorts of things that get decided at your birth.  

sirius black was a son of slytherin who had a lion living in his chest that he couldn’t hide away. 

ron was meant to be gryffindor, and through a haze of injury and fear he watches sirius die just out of harry’s reach.

just imagine: ron with his temper and his sharp words and his fierce loyalty. ron who looks into the mirror of erised and sees house cups and prefect badges and ambitions earned– he could belong in slytherin. there is nothing wrong with wanting things, and he wants them so bad.

there are so many reasons to fight a war, and so many ways. harry and his sacrifices, his loving resignation. hermione’s good right hook and bottomless bag of supplies. luna, brilliant and a bit batty. lee jordan’s radio and mcgonagall’s burning patience and brittle, certain bones.

just imagine: when the last battle comes, there is a slytherin on the field who is not snape.

when draco and his parents walk away, in that last battle, ron–

who slept in the same dormitory as the boy for six years

who heard draco’s nightmares and saw him paling and desperate all sixth year

who is as pureblooded as lucius’s spoiled whelp

who remembers grimacing at the thought of squibs

who has known magic all his life

who spotted draco penning letters home to his mother every sunday and hiding them when the other boys could see–

ron sees them going.

he sounds no alarms. he says no farewells.

he turns back to his friends, and his fight, and lets them be.

just imagine: when harry kneels on the train platform and his second son asks him “but what if i get sorted slytherin, dad?” harry can say, “the bravest man i ever knew was in slytherin house. whatever you are, wherever you go, we’re going to be so proud of you.“ 

and they can both gaze over to where ron is squawking beside his daughter’s trolley of luggage because crookshanks (who will live to be forty eight million years old) has latched onto his shins with a violent fondness.
(Your picture was not posted)

Photo

Aug. 9th, 2017 10:51 pm
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2vo6mid:
(Your picture was not posted)
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2vLiwUb:Recalling the Jewish men who fled the Nazis then returned to fight them - The Boston Globe:

jewish-privilege:

Now Bruce Henderson has rescued that story from the past, providing in “Sons and Soldiers’’ a gripping tale of how 2,000 Jews who fled Europe during the Nazi reign returned to that war torn continent, determined to free their homelands from Third Reich tyranny and prevent further atrocities. It is a story of courage and determination, revenge and redemption, grippingly told in a fast-moving narrative.

On both sides of the Atlantic, the war was fought in part by bureaucrats. There were the Nazis who categorized the Jews as a dangerous race doomed to extinction. Then there were the Americans who categorized Jewish refugees as enemy aliens, ineligible to fight their onetime tormentors — until sanity prevailed as it became clear that the newcomer’s language and cultural familiarity would be assets to the Allies.

“We were fighting an American war, and we were also fighting an intensely personal war,’’ said Guy Stern, one of these emigre warriors. “We were in it with every fiber of our being. We worked harder than anyone could have driven us. We were crusaders. This was our war.’’

The book opens with accounts of the youths of many of these men, heartbreaking stories of childhoods disrupted by taunting, bullying, and terror, followed by abrupt departures from home and family, often alone, for America. … Another, safe for a time in Amsterdam, said: “Germany is no longer our homeland. I’ll take up a gun against those crooks anytime.’’

…Hoping to take revenge on the Nazis, or hoping to right an eternal wrong in Europe, or hoping to save other Jews from death, or simply hoping to use their wartime assignments as a way to find lost and imperiled family members, they were dispatched, or smuggled, into Europe, this time working with American personnel, this time with a mission greater than self-preservation.

…It begins with the simple fact that these men who fled Europe yearned to return. And then there are the small ironies of combat, such as how Manny Steinfeld struggled to qualify as a parachutist but eventually rode into Holland on a glider, conveyances sometimes dubbed Flying Coffins. Steinfeld survived, eventually interrogating prisoners — and exchanging gunfire with German soldiers concealed in the forest. Later he presided over the burial of 200 civilian victims of Nazi cruelty.

The ironies, moreover, are captured in passages like this: “On the long walk across the valley, with the German Jew leading the blindfolded SS officer by the crook of his arm and telling him when to watch his step, the two began to talk.’’

Indeed, on the long walk through the war years, the German Jews confronted SS officers who had been their mortal enemies and told them to watch their step. It is a magnificent story, one crying out to be told and one that is told very well.

Read David M. Shribman’s full piece at the Boston Globe.
(Your picture was not posted)
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2vggedK:
nonphallic-eclairs:

ayellowbirds:

theladytrickster:

If that doesn’t say ‘suck my dick, Nazis’. I don’t know what does

Over 113, now! He missed celebrating his Bar Mitzvah because of the first World War, so he finally observed it September 2016, a hundred years later.

Just checked, and he’s still alive! He’ll be 114 on September 15th.
(Your picture was not posted)
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2vfzGqN:
imthedoctortobiasfunke:

handtosondheim:

scriblonza:

i-cant-i-have-rehearsal:

elderpooptarts:

divawithanunspoiledagenda:

nerdnuggets:

jelliclephantomfaces:

chandraleeschwartz:

six-months-from-never:

*sees broom*

*picks up broom*

“TELL THEM HOW I AM DEFYYYYYYYYYING GRAAAAAVITTYYYY”

*starts sweeping broom sadly*

“There is a castle on a cloud…”

*holds broom horizontally*

“Never need a reason, never need a rhyme. Up on the roof top step in time!”

*sweeps broom angrily*

“IT’S A HARD KNOCK LIFE!”

*begins waltzing with broom* I could have DAAAAANCED all NIIIIIGHT

*hits broom handle on the ground and tap dances* LOOK AT ME! IM THE KING OF NEW YORK!

*gently places broom against a wall* I’m the belle of the ball in my own little corner!

*broom starts dancing of its own accord*
BE.
OUR.
GUEST!

so apparently musicals have a thing for brooms huh

ok but you forgot the best one 

*starts sweeping aggressively sad* POOR. ALL MY LIFE I’VE ALWAYS BEEN POOR! 
(Your picture was not posted)
jeb124: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2fncxz0:
harrypotterhousequotes:

HUFFLEPUFF: “Winning? Is that what you think it’s about? I’m not trying to win! I don’t do this because I want to beat someone, or because I hate someone, or because I want to blame someone. It’s not because it’s fun and God knows it’s not because it’s easy. It’s not even because it works, because it hardly ever does. I do what I do because it’s right. Because it’s decent. And, above all, it’s kind. It’s just that. Just kind.” –Steven Moffat (The Twelfth Doctor: Doctor Who: The Doctor Falls)
(Your picture was not posted)

Profile

jeb124: (Default)
jeb124

August 2017

S M T W T F S
  1 2 3 45
6 7 8 9 10 1112
1314 15 161718 19
20212223242526
2728293031  

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Aug. 20th, 2017 09:49 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios