badgerbasher-blog

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Gimme my nipples back

REBLOG IF NAZIS OFFEND YOU MORE THAN NIPPLES.

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I feel less hideous than usual, I've eaten twice today, and only succumbed to nicotine four times

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Pot, meet kettle!

CONFESSION: 

As a Christian, I find myself disliking Andrastianism because I find it incompatible with biblical Christianity. The Maker is presented as no better than the Evanuris, demanding absolute obedience among followers while doing whatever He wants no matter how immoral they are. Non-humans are discriminated against, which contradicts its goal of spreading the faith to all races. Lastly, the Chantry uses military force to enforce the faith on everyone, which is unsurprisingly counter-productive, as it has made more bitter enemies in the long run.

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My hair's so straight it's the perfect disguise for my kinky bi ass 😎

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That moment when you've been polite about your family trampling on you for so long that when you ask them where they get off it's like you've whipped your literal or metaphorical dick out and pissed in the dinner.

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Beatrice and Benedict are same-sex leaning disaster bisexuals who are both extremely surprised when they end up falling for someone of the opposite sex.

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"Mum, are you cooking dinner?" Child, it is half past five, of course it's fucking dinner.

Literally anyone: *puts butter, garlic, and onions in a pan*

Me, busting through their wall like the kool-aid man: smells good, whatcha cooking?

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Mate, this is the kind of shit I live for

The Things We Give Welsh Learners: y Babi Sinsir

So I was going through our bookshelf yesterday, because we’re fast approaching the point where we need a clear-out, and I came across one of my all-time favourite creations ever, probably even beating shit like the wheel and penicillin. Years back, before leaving The Man to pursue his dreams of being a sort of professional clown-thing, my husband used to be a translator for Neath Port Talbot Council; as is often the way with Welsh councils, though, owing to a lack of money and also everywhere is really close to each other (this country is 150 miles wide at its widest point, and about 47 miles at the thin bit. Ver ver small), NPT Council’s translating department was shared by Swansea Council. Thus it was that, in the halcyon days of circa 2009, the two decided to team up and produce a new Welsh language book for learners between them, and thus it got sent through to Steffan to proof read it.

A Thing You May Not Know: Welsh is one of ten indigenous languages to Britain, arguably the oldest, and has been viciously oppressed over the last millennium and a half as part of England’s big If You Destroy Their Culture They’ll Be Glad To Be Ruled By You policy. These days, it’s nonetheless still spoken by approximately a fifth of the Welsh population; a hell of a feat, considering, but the suppression of it continues to this day (just in cleverer, sneakier ways now than whipping people’s children if they’re heard.) But it is classified as Endangered. Thanks to Welsh-language schools now being a thing (though supply is much lower than demand), transmission rates to the younger generation are pretty good; but, Welsh is peculiarly dependent on adult learners.

This means that learner books might have to appeal to both children and adults while using very simple language, which I explain in case it in some way justifies the bewildering weirdness of what I’m about to show you; because at first glance, this book is simply for children. But it’s… Well. 

Well.

I present to you, with translations in bold and commentary by me, Y Babi Sinsir.

Literally, “the Ginger Baby”, but they mean ‘ginger’ as in ‘gingerbread’. Literal ginger. Not the colour.

This is Mr Jones. This is Mrs Jones.

What’s wrong, Mrs Jones? I want a baby.

Note: there will be some confusion in this book about whether the narrator is speaking, or anyone else. It might seem cut and dried here, but there are no speech marks around “Dw i eisiau babi”, whereas later speech marks are used, and also in two pages’ time the narrator will actively pass a value judgement using first person, so… Well.

But, so far so good.

Mrs Jones is making a Babi Sinsir.

… okay, so I like this page because of the capitalisation of Babi Sinsir and the lack of definite article. She’s just making a Babi Sinsir. You know, a Babi Sinsir? Magical baby made of gingerbread that you make if you can’t conceive but can’t afford IVF? Yeah. A Babi Sinsir. That’s right.

Let it be known that this is Not A Thing in Welsh folklore or mythology. What the fuck. How does this work. Where does the magic come from? Do you need a faerie ingredient? Will the next page tell us?

This is the Babi Sinsir. I like the Babi Sinsir.

Nope.

But it is apparently shit-capable and needs a nappy. It’s good that the narrator likes it anyway.

The Babi Sinsir is bad. He’s running.

Uh oh.

“Come back, Babi Sinsir.”

Look how Worried the Joneses are. Funny how they don’t seem to be calling that enthusiastically, though. I’d have expected an exclamation mark at least. Did Mrs Jones always have a massive left arm? I can’t remember.

“Run, run, catch me. I’m the Babi Sinsir.”

Yeah, okay, so that’s the Welsh for “Run! Run! As fast as you can! You can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man!”, but once again, I’m going to have to draw attention to the lack of expressive punctuation here. It really feels like this naughty Babi Sinsir’s heart is just not in this.

“Come and help, Mr Horse.”  “Run, run, catch me. I’m the Babi Sinsir.”

Cool, look, a floating horse has come to help.

The pen there, incidentally, was an attempt by the translators to work out who was talking. I can’t imagine why. This dialogue is on fire, everyone can tell.

“Come and help, Mrs Cow.”  “Run, run, catch me. I’m the Babi Sinsir.”

Now they have been joined in their high-speed zombie shuffle by a married floating cow who is, if I’m not much mistaken, high as shit.

“Come and help, Mr Goat.”  “Run, run, catch me. I’m the Babi Sinsir.”

I’m starting to suspect the artist only knew how to draw the legs on animals in one way.

“Come and help, Mr Dog.”  “Run, run, Catch me. I’m the Babi Sinsir.”

Yes, that dog is definitely here to ‘help’. Also… the Babi Sinsir is literally within reach of Mrs Jones’ massive left arm now. Why is she not just picking him up?

“Come and help, Miss Cat.”  “Run, run, Catch me. I’m the Babi Sinsir.”

You may be wondering at this point if this is just… the whole book. An ever-increasing flock of floating zombie creatures shuffling after a naughty gingerbread baby in a nappy who is committing the cardinal sin of running. I mean… where can they go from here, amirite? A sheep? A squirrel? A chicken? We can hit a hundred pages this way, easy. The concern is the artist, whom I think was stretched a bit beyond their means on this project anyway.

BUT WORRY NOT! Shit’s about to go down, guys.

Oh no! Here comes Mr Wolf. Mr Wolf runs and catches the Babi Sinsir.

THAT IS A FOX

THAT IS A GODDAMN FOX YOU HEATHEN FUCK

WHAT THE FUCK

AND WHY THE FUCK IS IT WEARING CLOTHES WHEN NONE OF THE OTHER ANIMALS WERE

WHY IS IT DRESSED IN DUNGAREES LIKE A LAZY FARMHAND ON AN AMERICAN RANCH IN THE 1800S

This doesn’t bode well for the -

Half of the Babi Sinsir is left.

WHAT THE

Quarter of the Babi Sinsir is left.

WHY DOES IT STILL LOOK SAD AND HORRIFIED WHY IS IT STILL ALIVE OH MY GOD

The Babi Sinsir has gone! There’s tasty.

What the

I 

Wha

It

I realise this is not the main point to make here, but two pages ago it had eaten half of that nappy, and now it’s whole again and delicately discarded to one side, I just want

I mean

It’s okay, right? This happens in fairytales? Little Red Riding Hood? Someone will eviscerate the fox and out will come the Babi Sinsir…’s pieces, and they can be baked back together…?

No one cares!

Mrs Jones is making another Babi Sinsir.

The new Babi Sinsir loves Mrs Jones.

… 

…

…

…okay, so there’s a lot for us all to take in right now, and we’re all going to get through it at different speeds. But I’m just going to draw attention to the fact that Mr Jones is now merely depicted as a picture on the wall, and the new Babi Sinsir apparently only loves Mrs Jones, and…

Okay so they just lost their beloved baby gingerbread son because he got eaten alive by a fox in dungarees calling itself a wolf, right? Mrs Jones apparently couldn’t give less of a fuck if she tried, as long as she has some flour and ginger left over to make another. This one she made to love her.

Mr Jones, I presume, had a total mental breakdown and drank himself to death. At the very least, he’s left her, look. All she has left is the photo.

But does dim ots! Mae’r Babi Sinsir newydd yn caru Mrs Jones.

And that is the story of Y Babi Sinsir, aka the greatest work of literature ever written.

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Zombies fkn hate lift music. Play the shit loud.

The AO3 Tag of the Day is: Knowing nothing about Zombies makes you a human disaster

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Send help, my eyes have turned to orbs!

So last week I tried moaning every time I ate something delicious.

It was vaguely uncomfortable and unnatural

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If you think parents giving their children ridiculous names is a new thing, there was a woman novelist born around 1663 named Delariviere Manley.  Her books are pretty good, too. Try ‘Adventures of Rivella’.

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Does anybody else read fanfic and think “HOW many guest rooms do you have? Why is nobody sleeping on the lounge room floor on an air mattress? Are no children top-and-tailing on the ancient sofabed in the hall?  Has nobody’s brother thought “bugger this” and dragged a swag onto the verandah? Is the recycling bin not full by the second day, and are there not crates of empty stubbies and tinnies lining the garage?”  Because that is exactly what happens when my family descends on my mum’s house for Christmas. Usually with my auntie and uncle’s pop-up camping-trailer on the drive and my giant mediaeval tent on the lawn. Small cousins can make deals with Badgerette to kip in it with me. I make hot chocolate on the trangia, and then BadgerBro wonders why I’m the favourite.  

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^happy sigh^ 

006.  Soooo I know you ship Dorian/Felix (I think?? haha), but if you feel so inclined, could I request Carver/Felix? I’ve fallen into rarepair hell and I can’t get out :P - erebones

I don’t actually ship Dorian and Felix (but I can see where you got that from) but I’m on board with Felix and Carver, not that I’ve heard of it before? I’m assuming they’d get with each other within the Wardens right?

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You know you’ve got a good one when there’s an interesting-sounding commotion outside, and they immediately say “I’ll just bring the bin in, ey,” and come back with exactly what’s happening, and which window will be best for watching through

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Sometimes I forget we’re living in a post-9/11 world. It’s normal, all the security checks and x-ray machines and constant paranoia.  And then I’m chatting with the Badgerette, and she asks “have you ever seen the front of an aeroplane? Where Grandad sits?” and it hit me.  I mean, it’s hit me a few times. When I realised there are adults out there who’ve never lived in a pre-9/11 society; when I dug up some pictures of me sitting on my dad’s lap in the cockpit on a long-haul trip to the UK; remembering the time the airline lost my booking to go home when I was twelve, but the Captain was my neighbour so they let me sit on the jumpseat the whole way home. 

But this time, it fully glassed me in the face and followed through with a coward-punch. Badgerette’s never gonna sit on her Grandad’s lap on a long-haul flight to the UK. She’s never gonna walk her uncle right to the gate. Every time we go through security, I have to convince her to put Bear and Miffy through the x-ray, despite the fact that holding on to them is stopping her shaking into pieces.  My baby is growing up in a dangerous world, and fuck me, it’s a bit shit.  

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At least 80% of renting in Australia is waking up and realising that not only do you have a rent inspection tomorrow, your house looks like a Godzilla/Mad Max mash-up

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I grew up in South-East Asia. My school was literally across the wall from an army camp. We never had intruder drills, bomb drills, anything. Just fire drills, where the primary school sat in lines on the basketball court, and the secondary school pissfarted around on the pitch.  In year eight, I went down to boarding school, which was right on the coast but surrounded by bushland, and also had a history of gaol escapees using it as a stopover on their bid for freedom. So, we had intruder drills once a year. Basically, we closed the blinds, flipped the lock on the door, and continued class while sitting on the floor. They were a source of great amusement- we were the only school we knew who did this, and we only did it because occasionally some loser thought a girls’ boarding school was ^exactly^ the place to hide out unnoticed. 

I honestly can’t even imagine this shit being normal across the country. 

It’s funny how some people don’t realize like. When I was in elementary school every year we had “intruder” drills. They were always kinda spooky but I never thought anything of it when I was a kid. The teacher would turn the light off and lock the room doors and we’d all have to quietly hide under desks until the intercom announced it was over. Sometimes there’d be someone walking around and trying the doors to the classrooms to make sure they were locked. Never seemed strange to me as a kid, but talking with my canadian spouse they look mortified