Sep. 11th, 2017 01:44 am
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BTVS meme: 6 episodes [6/6] - Prophecy Girl
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When people say they remember their childhood perfectly and not in bits and pieces with mostly a black void of nothingness like me

?? hoW in th e fuk ???
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So Delta flight 302 flew in to San Juan, picked up passengers, and threaded one arm of Irma on the way out. The pilot basically said “hold my beer” and took on a hurricane.

I am not entirely convinced that Poe Dameron was not flying this plane, to be honest.

You can read the Twitter thread here.

Everything about that story was amazing. Delta probably set a record for the turnaround too.

“And if the passengers would look out of the starboard window, they will see A MOTHERFUCKING HURRICANE. ALSO A HURRICANE TO PORT AS WELL.”

My dude landed and took off in less than an hour and squeezed between the arm of the hurricane and the core:

not to mention that the northwest quarter of a hurricane has the highest wind speed and most dangerous weather and they still did it


Also, calling it, this is going to be made into a heartwarming movie
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X2 (2003) dir. Bryan Singer

#logan is like in a competition with bruce wayne on how much family a man can collect around him  #and still pretend to himself that he’s a ‘lone wolf’  #i’m better on my own! just me! and my 12 kids!
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“Remus wouldn’t want to kill another student, Sirius nearly getting Snape killed by him would’ve turned Remus into an unwilling murderer, he should be upset by that!”


(James saved two lives that night)
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Me spending any money that's physical cash and not in my bank account total : this doesn't count as spending, it's not real. It doesn't exist
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you know its funny ive seen a lot of posts comparing ‘kill the moon’ and ‘thin ice’ with regards to how the doctor lets companions make decisions, but what I haven’t seen is anything comparing one or both of those two to “the beast below” where the doctor doesn’t even give amy or liz 10 the choice. he gets mad at amy for trying to keep it from him, and then takes it upon himself to make the decision for them. if amy hadn’t stopped him and freed the star whale, he would have made the 100% wrong decision.

I feel like then he learns something, and thats eventually leads to his actions in kill the moon, which is a pretty similar scenario. hes like ‘okay well i fucked this up last time, and should have let my human companion make the choice. lets not do this again, ill let them decide’ but instead of just allowing clara to make the decision, he basically forces her to make a decision she was not fully ready to make. and in trying not to interfere, he steps too far back and leaves her without guidance or emotional support. 

Then later on in thin ice, the doctor and his companion, now bill, are once again stuck with a decision between risking humanities safety, and condemning an innocent alien life. He still calls upon bill to make the final decision, but he stays with her, and although the decision is hers, asks her to consider what humanity is worth if it relies on the suffering of an innocent creature.

I think at this point he still hasnt quite gotten the balance figured out (esp since this was only bills second trip out) but he’s making progress in trying to figure out how to allow humanity to make its own decisions, while also providing support and guidance without being overbearing or making the decision for them.
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When I was nine, possibly ten, an author came to our school to talk about writing. His name was Hugh Scott, and I doubt he’s known outside of Scotland. And even then I haven’t seen him on many shelves in recent years in Scotland either. But he wrote wonderfully creepy children’s stories, where the supernatural was scary, but it was the mundane that was truly terrifying. At least to little ten year old me. It was Scooby Doo meets Paranormal Activity with a bonny braw Scottish-ness to it that I’d never experienced before.

I remember him as a gangling man with a wiry beard that made him look older than he probably was, and he carried a leather bag filled with paper. He had a pen too that was shaped like a carrot, and he used it to scribble down notes between answering our (frankly disinterested) questions. We had no idea who he was you see, no one had made an effort to introduce us to his books. We were simply told one morning, ‘class 1b, there is an author here to talk to you about writing’, and this you see was our introduction to creative writing. We’d surpassed finger painting and macaroni collages. It was time to attempt Words That Were Untrue.

You could tell from the look on Mrs M’s face she thought it was a waste of time. I remember her sitting off to one side marking papers while this tall man sat down on our ridiculously short chairs, and tried to talk to us about what it meant to tell a story. She wasn’t big on telling stories, Mrs M. She was also one of the teachers who used to take my books away from me because they were “too complicated” for me, despite the fact that I was reading them with both interest and ease. When dad found out he hit the roof. It’s the one and only time he ever showed up to the school when it wasn’t parents night or the school play. After that she just left me alone, but she made it clear to my parents that she resented the fact that a ten year old used words like ‘ubiquitous’ in their essays. Presumably because she had to look it up.

Anyway, Mr Scott, was doing his best to talk to us while Mrs M made scoffing noises from her corner every so often, and you could just tell he was deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a knife sharpening party, so when he asked if any of us had any further questions and no one put their hand up I felt awful. I knew this was not only insulting but also humiliating, even if we were only little children. So I did the only thing I could think of, put my hand up and said “Why do you write?”

I’d always read about characters blinking owlishly, but I’d never actually seen it before. But that’s what he did, peering down at me from behind his wire rim spectacles and dragging tired fingers through his curly beard. I don’t think he expected anyone to ask why he wrote stories. What he wrote about, and where he got his ideas from maybe, and certainly why he wrote about ghosts and other creepy things, but probably not why do you write. And I think he thought perhaps he could have got away with “because it’s fun, and learning is fun, right kids?!”, but part of me will always remember the way the world shifted ever so slightly as it does when something important is about to happen, and this tall streak of a man looked down at me, narrowed his eyes in an assessing manner and said, “Because people told me not to, and words are important.”

I nodded, very seriously in the way children do, and knew this to be a truth. In my limited experience at that point, I knew certain people (with a sidelong glance to Mrs M who was in turn looking at me as though she’d just known it’d be me that type of question) didn’t like fiction. At least certain types of fiction. I knew for instance that Mrs M liked to read Pride and Prejudice on her lunch break but only because it was sensible fiction, about people that could conceivably be real. The idea that one could not relate to a character simply because they had pointy ears or a jet pack had never occurred to me, and the fact that it’s now twenty years later and people are still arguing about the validity of genre fiction is beyond me, but right there in that little moment, I knew something important had just transpired, with my teacher glaring at me, and this man who told stories to live beginning to smile. After that the audience turned into a two person conversation, with gradually more and more of my classmates joining in because suddenly it was fun. Mrs M was pissed and this bedraggled looking man who might have been Santa after some serious dieting, was starting to enjoy himself. As it turned out we had all of his books in our tiny corner library, and in the words of my friend Andrew “hey there’s a giant spider fighting a ghost on this cover! neat!” and the presentation devolved into chaos as we all began reading different books at once and asking questions about each one. “Does she live?”— “What about the talking trees” —“is the ghost evil?” —“can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” —“Wow neat, more spiders!”

After that we were supposed to sit down, quietly (glare glare) and write a short story to show what we had learned from listening to Mr Scott. I wont pretend I wrote anything remotely good, I was ten and all I could come up with was a story about a magic carrot that made you see words in the dark, but Mr Scott seemed to like it. In fact he seemed to like all of them, probably because they were done with such vibrant enthusiasm in defiance of the people who didn’t want us to.

The following year, when I’d moved into Mrs H’s class—the kind of woman that didn’t take away books from children who loved to read and let them write nonsense in the back of their journals provided they got all their work done—a letter arrived to the school, carefully wedged between several copies of a book which was unheard of at the time, by a new author known as J.K. Rowling. Mrs H remarked that it was strange that an author would send copies of books that weren’t even his to a school, but I knew why he’d done it. I knew before Mrs H even read the letter.

Because words are important. Words are magical. They’re powerful. And that power ought to be shared. There’s no petty rivalry between story tellers, although there’s plenty who try to insinuate it. There’s plenty who try to say some words are more valuable than others, that somehow their meaning is more important because of when it was written and by whom. Those are the same people who laud Shakespeare from the heavens but refuse to acknowledge that the quote “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them“ is a dick joke.

And although Mr Scott seems to have faded from public literary consumption, I still think about him. I think about his stories, I think about how he recommended another author and sent copies of her books because he knew our school was a puritan shithole that fought against the Wrong Type of Wordes and would never buy them into the library otherwise. But mostly I think about how he looked at a ten year old like an equal and told her words and important, and people will try to keep you from writing them—so write them anyway.

*sobs for like the umpteenth time this day and reblogs the fuck out of this*

this is it:

“Because people told me not to, and words are important.”
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Moses: so this is our holy document
The people: what do you do with a holy document? we never had one of those before
Moses: idk use it I guess? Read it probably
The people: so you're saying we should go through and find every place we disagree with it
Moses: what else would I be saying
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Everybody lives, Rose.
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“The benchmark of a civilized society is the quality of its justice.”
- Jack McCoy, Law and Order 16.18 Thinking Makes it So
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Alexandra Borgia: Well-intentioned people can disagree.
Jack McCoy: Not about homicide! - Law and Order 15.17, License to Kill
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“The law cannot control people’s hearts and minds, but it can and must hold people accountable for their actions.”
- Arthur Branch, Law and Order 15.01 Paradigm
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“I just feel so dead inside…”

“Dead inside, you say? I know something that might just work”
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My bros I have been doing a lot of
reading about Wacky WWII Hijinks lately and I want to tell you a
story because I love it okay

once upon a time there was a dude in
Spain named Juan Pujol Garcia. Pujol was a chicken farmer. Pujol
hated him some goddamn fascists.

See Spain had recently ended its civil
war, with the fascists taking power. So when WWII broke out in
Europe, Spain technically remained neutral but in practice was buddy
buddy with the Nazis. Juan Pujol Garcia thought this was pretty

so soon after war breaks out Pujol
travels to his local British embassy and goes “hey I wanna spy on
the Nazis for you”

“who the fuck are you?” say the
British, and kick him out

but Pujol is not deterred! He still
wants to dunk on some fascists, so now he goes to his local German
embassy instead. “hey” he
says, “I wanna spy on the British for you, I sure do hate them”

okay” say the Germans “that seems pretty legit”

just like that Pujol now officially works for the Abwehr, the German
intelligence agency. They hand him some spy gear (invisible ink and
such) and instruct him to travel to Lisbon, and from there make his
way into the UK. So Pujol heads to Lisbon, and a little while later
writes to his German handlers telling them he’s made it to England

had not made it to England. He had, in fact, made it to the Lisbon
public library, where he checked out a number of English guide books
and set about just wholesale making shit up

is slightly complicated by the fact that, for example, he completely
did not understand British currency and all his expense reports were
basically gibberish. He also reported things like bribing Scotsmen,
because the people of Glasgow would “do anything for a litre of
wine” (an actual quote) because, hey, people in Spain like wine so
that’s probably the same right?

is where it starts to get really crazy, because the Abwehr loves
this. “wow this dude is a
great spy” they say, because apparently none of them had ever been
the England either. In fact, they are so pumped about this new
awesome spy that the British start to get worried

see, by this time the British had cracked German’s supposedly
unbreakable Enigma code and were totally dunking on the Nazis by
reading basically all of their ~super top secret~ radio
transmissions. And, crucially, they’d become so good at breaking and
reading traffic that there were literally no German spies in England.
The Germans would set up a spy drop (usually dropping dudes in by
parachute in the middle of the night), the British would intercept
the message and then just scoop the dudes up as soon as they landed
in a move that must have been SUPER embarrassing to the spies

there are no German spies in the UK because they’re all sitting in a
prison run by MI5 (although some are being run under supervision as
double agents, feeding Germany bullshit). But suddenly MI5 is picking
up all this traffic from the Germans talking about their super great
spy- a spy the British do not have in their jail

shit” says MI5, and starts rereading all the transmissions they
have to and from this mysterious super spy.

wait” says MI5, upon actually reading the shit the spy was sending.
“someone is playing silly buggers, pip pip cheerio”

this point, Pujol, still in Lisbon, had actually been approaching the
British embassy again, repeatedly, but apparently “I am literally
an Abwehr agent and would like to offer you my services” wasn’t
interesting enough, because he was repeatedly turned away, again.
It wasn’t until MI5 started
asking around that one of the embassy staff was like “oh yeah we
know that guy”

so in
1942 the British finally make contact with Pujol and he officially
becomes a spy for MI5. They move him to London and assign him a case
officer so he can start making up even better bullshit

and he
does. Once actually in London, Pujol reports to the Abwehr that he’d
recruited a whole slew of informants- from a bunch of Welsh Aryans to
disaffected army officers. He ends up with a network of 20+
sub-spies, all feeding him information from around the UK

none of these people actually exist

just straight up invented like 20 people, keeping careful track of
their fake personalities, names, and activities. With the help of
MI5, the information he sends becomes even better- a mix of true but
ultimately useless facts and actually important intel timed to arrive
in Germany just slightly too late to be of any use. He and his “spy
network” become the Abwehr’s most trusted agents

now codenamed Agent Garbo (for his acting skills), ends up playing a
huge role in the run-up to D-Day, where the Allies mounted a huge
intelligence campaign to convince Hitler that the planned site of
attack was going to be Calais and not Normandy (this was Operation
Fortitude and you should absolutely look it up for more Wacky WWII
Adventures). Obviously you know how this ended

enough, the Abwehr never figured out that Pujol was a double agent.
After the war he received both the Iron Cross Second Class (which
require personal authorization from Hitler), and a
Member of the Order of the British Empire (from King George VI)

to resist being totally fucking ridiculous,
Pujol turned down MI5’s post-war offer to continue spying, but this
time against the USSR. “no,” he said “just help me fake my own
death and then I’m moving to Venezuela”

that’s exactly what he did. Juan Garcia Pujol died in 1988, at the
age of 76

Okay I’m just editing my reblog to add this picture of Juan Pujol Garcia because I feel that it adds so much to the story to picture him doing ALL THE ABOVE with this expression:

What a legend.

Thank you Jess for this extremely important addendum.

he’s my hero and also adorable

This is…holy fucking shit, I have no words for how much glee this story brings me. It’s like Mother Night but not soul-crushing

He was Catalan and his real name was Joan (not Juan) Pujol i Garcia.

After the fascists won the Spanish Civil War, Spanish names were mandatory, since the Catalan language and culture were completely banned by the fascist regime, but he referred to himself as Joan. So let’s refer to him as Joan as he would have wanted, and not use the name that the Spanish fascists imposed.

Here’s an interesting interview with him from the year 1984 (in Catalan)
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hell bent
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challenge accepted

No you don’t understand, we’ve had a massive surplus of cheese since the Great Depression. The national government was determined to maintain the dairy industry when our markets crashed and so they developed a policy of buying up surplus cheese that regular citizens couldn’t afford. 

We’ve been shoving the stuff into caves in Missouri because there’s so much of it we haven’t really had anywhere else to put it because you can’t just destroy cheese. You try to burn it and it melts. It’s so heavily processed that it doesn’t biodegrade, and it can’t be fed to animals or turned into anything else. Our only other alternatives would be to dump it into the ocean which we would absolutely not do ever since the whole medical waste thing or to launch it into space which is way too expensive.

In the 1980s Reagan began a government cheese program to distribute some of the excess to welfare and food stamps recipients. And since then we’ve had the Got Milk? campaign which was a government scheme to get the general public to consume more dairy products to help slow the stockpiling. (By the way, cow milk may not be as good for us as we’re led to believe. There’s a lot of debate in the scientific community about whether the hormones present in the milk might have a link to cancer.)

Our surplus cheese is also why so many restaurants put so goddamn much of it into absolutely everything. A division of the federal government known as Dairy Management heavily promotes any restaurants that push cheesy menu items, even as the DoA’s Center for Nutrition Policy and Promotion warns of the health risks associated with a cheese-heavy diet.

Basically the feds are conspiring to kill us all with dairy products because they got so buddy-buddy with the dairy industry in the first half of the 20th century that they’ve dug themselves into a hole and they’re paying Big Dairy too much to back out now.

this is the best news ive heard all year

Oh God, this explains why it’s so hard to avoid cheese.(Well, I’m not in America, but I think our government has the same relationship with our dairy board.)

Okay, but Switzerland dealt with this problem by seriously pushing fondue. 

I bring a source

Cheese discourse for @copperbadge

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Sep. 4th, 2017 03:45 pm
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“The dead-er they are, the more we care.”
- Lennie Briscoe, Law and Order 13.23 Couples
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