27 9 / 2014

jakeenglish:

theskiesabovelife:

jakeenglish:

IF WE LOSE POWER I’M QUITTING

JUST GIVE ME 20 FUCKIN MINUTES FOR MY CHICKEN NUGGETS TO COOK PLEASE

please

(vegan) I hope your power runs out 

thats fuckin nice and all but the chicken is already in the nuggets. the power going out doesn’t save a chicken. it’s a nugget already. sorry

(Source: lalna, via colorguardpanda)

25 9 / 2014

sixpathsofbrule:

coalgirls:

*images dont load*
*battery drains to 30% scrolling through grey boxes*

*uses 2 gigs of data*

12 hours go by

(via thezakattakk)

25 9 / 2014

jestre:

aishatyler:

notfuckingcishet:

socialjusticekoolaid:

Can’t stop, won’t stop: Protesters in Ferguson rally again, seeking justice for Mike Brown. More than a month and a half after his death, his killer, Darren Wilson, is still a free man. (Pt 2) 

Because it wouldn’t be a protest in Ferguson without fuckery from the police. A driver plowed his car through protesters, grazing several and running over a young boys foot. Beyond taking several hours to transport the boy to the hospital, they took even longer to arrest the motorist. Who did they not wait long to arrest? Two of the protesters who had been documenting the altercation for the world to see. If you’re not angry, you’re not paying attention. #staywoke #farfromover #nojusticenopeace

September 20th, 2014

Just in case anyone thinks these are old posts still going round Tumblr: they’re not. 

sigh.

That last tweet though.

25 9 / 2014

Anonymous said: please elaborate on how you got a substitute teacher to quit within one day. I'm genuinely curious.

leviheichoubutt:

miss-nerdgasmz:

grinningmoonlight:

mysticmoonhigh:

mamalovebone:

all right everyone sit down, shut up and listen closely because I’m about to tell y’all the tale of Ms. Mormino.

Seventh grade is a time most people don’t look back on fondly. I know I sure don’t—I tend to regard that era as nothing more than an unpleasant, acne-filled haze of fall out boy and poor attempts at pseudo-zooey deschanel fashions. But enough about me. Let’s talk about my math teacher. 

Ms. Isom. Poor old Ms. Isom. Well in her 60’s, always plagued with some illness or injury, she was hardly ever even at school. Since many of her absences were the result of short-notice incidents—“falling down the stairs” was popularly cited— it wasn’t all that uncommon to not have a substitute on hand. Being a smartass honors class, we’d gotten away with several successful evasions of administration, walking cavalierly into class  to pass the next 48 minutes doing just about nothing. Hell, for good measure, we’d sometimes even toss in a friendly “hey, Ms. Isom!” if any administrators were anywhere within earshot. So incredibly anti-establishment, you could basically call it another Project Mayhem, except instead of Brad Pitt and Ed Norton concocting homemade bombs, it was a bunch of tweenyboppers with iPhone 3’s and Justin Bieber 2009 haircuts. 

 We got pretty accustomed to our own little self-governing system that rolled around every second period, so we naturally weren’t exactly thrilled when administration caught on to our little Anarchy Act and strictly enforced the presence of a substitute every day. 

Most of our subs weren’t terrible—most were friendly, gave us participation grades, and didn’t object to the independent attitude of our class (which, mind you, only had about ten students in it) 

That is, until Ms. Mormino came along. 

Four feet, ten inches of raw, undiluted evil, Ms. Mormino walked into class with a scowl on her face and a chip on her shoulder. When the girl behind me sneezed, Ms. Mormino’s immediate response was “NO INAPPROPRIATE NOISES!” 

 Although we all suppressed our laughter, we all knew from that moment on that, try as she might with her despotism and her draconian anti-sneeze policy, Ms. Mormino didn’t stand a chance. 

 The arguable beginning of the end for Ms. Mormino’s all-too-brief reign of terror was the moment I asked for a calculator; mine was broken. Mormino asserted that I could only borrow a calculator if I loaned her something of mine; at that moment, the girl next to me chimed in, saying she, too, needed a calculator. “I have a folder I can give you,” I offered. “I have a highlighter,” added the other girl. 

 At that moment, a puberty-creaking voice from the back of the room piped up. 

Max. 

We all know certain people have certain gifts. Michelangelo saw angels in every block of marble and devoted his life to setting them free; Einstein had a mind which saw the potential of the entire universe; F. Scott Fitzgerald wove intricate tales of decadence and depravity. Max, however, had a different kind of gift: he could make anything—anything at all—into a “that’s what she said” joke. More on that later, though. 

Max pried off a Nike sneaker and held it proudly in the air, like a coveted trophy. 

"I have a shoe." 

Tottering in one-shoe-one-sock, Max dumped the sneaker on Ms. Mormino’s desk, retrieved a calculator, then tottered back to his own desk, a sort of smirk playing on his face. And, as to be expected—the rest of us quickly followed suit. 

 A small pile of shoes on her desk, Ms. Mormino grit her teeth and glared at us as we all sat back down, quietly victorious, a calculator in each of our hands. It wasn’t long, however, until we all began to silently plot our next act of minor mayhem. 

"Can I go to the bathroom?" asked Tyler, who, despite being in seventh grade, was approaching his sixteenth birthday. In a combination of verism and admiration of Tyler’s devil-may-care boldness, we unequivocally accepted him as our leader. For reasons unknown, Ms. Mormino denied his request. Tyler, much like his Fight Club namesake, heeded no rules but his own and left anyway—Ms. Mormino, furious, locked the door behind him and smugly insisted that "administration will take care of him." 

Tyler, however, was not one to be caught, and stayed close by, appearing in the window of the door whenever Ms. Mormino wasn’t looking. Waving, smiling, laughing, making faces and obscene gestures, Tyler had us all in stitches, but cleverly avoided Ms. Mormino’s sight—when she asked us what was so funny, we all refused to give Tyler away. 

A girl asked to go to the bathroom, stating she “really really really” needed to go. Ms. Mormino, again, denied her request. Ms. Mormino, however, seemed to be uninformed about the side door—leading right outside, always locked from the outside but always open from the inside. 

"Well, I’ll go myself," the girl responded, and took off, hurdling three desks and darting out the door. Right behind her, two other students took off, pursuing freedom. The door slammed behind all three students, and they were gone. 

 Six of us were left. Among us, importantly, was Chris. 

Chris was thirteen, but looked half his age; scrawny, wiry, he probably measured in at about four-foot-three, but no taller. “Late Bloomer” are words that come to mind. 

Despite his diminutive size, Chris possessed the gall of someone like Tyler.

"I have to use the bathroom," said Chris, standing. 

 ”Do you think I’m going to allow you to go to the bathroom?” snapped Ms. Mormino. 

 ”It’s an emergency!” Chris pleaded. 

"Sit down," Ms. Mormino growled. 

Meanwhile, the entire class borders on hysteria. We have tears in our eyes, almost suffocating from choking back laughter. 

"It’s an emergency," repeated Chris, but it sounded more like a warning.

"Sit."

Silence. Silence, Silence and more silence, until we all began to notice a dark stain on Chris’s khakis. The stain grew. And grew. And grew.

 Fists at his sides, stoicism in his face, and a cold, proud, triumphant glint in his eye, Chris locked eye contact with Ms. Mormino. 

And pissed right in his pants. 

The entire class erupted into a laugh only comparable to the detonation of a bomb. 

We laughed so hard for the next five, ten, fifteen minutes straight that Ms. Mormino gave up. Surrendering, putting her head on her desk, she waited until the hysteria finally subsided. 

Finally looking up, defeated, pathetic, Ms. Mormino glared at us all and wailed: 

 ”This is too much, this is too hard, too hard, Jesus Christ, this is too much for me!” 

 A lone voice sounded from the back of the room. Guess whose it was.

"That’s what she said."

Ms. Mormino officially retired from teaching that afternoon.

FUCKING READ IT IT’S WORTH IT

I FUCKING BEG ALL OF YOU TO READ THIS

WRITE A BOOK

omg that was the best

holy shit

24 9 / 2014

superlockedphan:

the-vashta-nerada:

thatcrazylittlelord:

the-vashta-nerada:

nothing feels better than winning monopoly. not love. not sex. not free pizza. nothing

I’m sorry, have you tried pizza…?

yes and it doesn’t compare to owning half the board and watching the light die from your friends eyes as you take their money and feel your friendship slowly deteriorate

i like you

(via thezakattakk)

24 9 / 2014

assbutt-in-the-garrison:

thisguyknowswhatimtalkingabout:

Remember when I blindly hated Russel Brand? I fucked up.

I love this man.

(Source: idontcareimjustinspired, via aforgottensoul)

24 9 / 2014

didyouknowwaltdisney:

carry-on-until-its-gone:

wish-upon-the-disney-star:

This scene is SO important. Maleficent is with someone she trusts, someone she considers a friend. And then the next thing she knows, she wakes up in pain, bleeding, with her wings burned off. A huge part of her has been destroyed.

Rape is so prominent in our culture that it is in a Disney movie. Maybe not explicitly, but it is very clear what this scene represents and it is so sad.

I fucking cried my eyes out during this scene

Let’s also remember that this is someone who she trusted that gave her a liquid that essentially put her to sleep. In essence a date rape drug, this whole scene was meant to play out just like that. Angelina Jolie herself has stated that this scene is most definitly about that sensitive subject. I have some issues with this film, but this scene is not one of them.

(Source: bbuchanann, via thepageofhopes)

24 9 / 2014

(via kagayaita)

24 9 / 2014

litsy-kalyptica:

fluffmugger:

that’s not a typo


that is not a typo

litsy-kalyptica:

fluffmugger:

that’s not a typo

image

that is not a typo

(Source: jefcostello67, via nicolas-cages-butthole)

24 9 / 2014

chariczard:

alittleworldofimagination:

Ok but this is one of my favorite Disney endings because they decided to be happy together as frogs rather than try and find a way to be human and by finding that happiness they got to be humans again like that is rad as hell thank you Disney

Uh excuse you, that is the plot of Shrek

Excuse you, shrek is an ogre, not a frog you illiterate fucking douchesucker

(Source: subtubitles, via godtiermeowlin)

24 9 / 2014

sunflower-mama:

lesmemoirs:

blametherapistneverthevictim:

 

i’ve found my favourite 

WELL SHIT

sunflower-mama:

lesmemoirs:

blametherapistneverthevictim:

 

i’ve found my favourite 

WELL SHIT

(via thelegendarylemurian)

24 9 / 2014

24 9 / 2014

kingofconeyisland:

When he asks you to suck his dick after he fucked you

image

image

image

image

(Source: kingofcreppyisland, via clestroying)

24 9 / 2014

f0xyshy:

If Linkin Park plays in the forest and no one is around to hear it, in the end, does it even matter?

(via princessponies81)

24 9 / 2014