#and shirtless Jeff goldblum

[crying-pan420]

Mischa absolutely has this little boy

I font care what you say it is his and he would kill anyone if it got damaged

Please give the boy a name

[littleplantfreak]

let’s go for a milkshake 😭😭😭

I’m buying though and we’re gonna get the extra larges. Then we’re going to the drive in movies to watch Jurassic Park and cheer when people get eaten

[tabascostone]

this 80s movie needs to be seen

I saw this movie. My life is changed.

Here is a single paragraph from Wikipedia about the plot:

"Banzai and his band, "The Hong Kong Cavaliers", are performing at a nightclub when Banzai interrupts their musical intro to address a depressed woman in the audience, Penny Priddy. During a song he performs especially for her, she attempts suicide, which is mistaken for an assassination attempt on Banzai. After questioning her at the jail, he realizes she is his late wife Peggy's long-lost identical twin sister and bails her out."

[chaospossum]

Your idea of 'flirting' is to receive Jeff Goldblum nudes

You know what- you’re so right

[fimbry]

When I was a child, I watched Jurassic Park like 500 times and when I was 4 years old I told my parents that Jeff Goldblum was my favorite of the human characters.

This for some reason alarmed my parents, and they began telling me that I shouldn't like that character. He was a horrible actor, really brought down the film, just awful really.

I was so confused, but accepted that I had bad opinions and my parents knew better.

Cue 25 years later, everyone is going nuts over this guy again. I was just silently watching, thinking wasn't this guy cringe? A bad actor? I was lost. I did really like him, but I thought I was supposed to be alone on that.

I more recently asked my parents about this and turns out they love Jeff Goldblum, loved him in Jurassic Park too. They have no memory of telling me otherwise.

Guys, I believe my parents told me he was a horrible actor because I was 4 years old and liked the shirtless hot guy, and I just believed that for the next 30 years.

[indestructibleheart]

Thanks to several people for the tag, including @myheartalivewrites, @piratefalls, @kiwiana-writes, and a few more included below the cut because Tumblr is an asshole and STILL won't allow more than a few tags in a single line. I wish this website a very merry fuck you.

This week, you are getting a very silly snippet of text messages from my canon divergence coffee shop run-in. Pay no attention to the fact that I haven't named the coffee shop just yet lmfao. #Priorities.

11:12 a.m. guys you won't fucking believe who just walked into [name of coffee shop] irl chaos demon 11:13 a.m. carmen electra  BUG 11:13 a.m. Barack Obama irl chaos demon 11:13 a.m. Mitch McConnell eating a banana BUG 11:13 a.m. Reese Witherspoon, but specifically as Elle Woods irl chaos demon 11:13 a.m. the ghost of alexander hamilton BUG 11:14 a.m. Nicholas Cage carrying the Declaration of Independence 11:14 a.m. are you done irl chaos demon 11:14 a.m. shirtless jeff goldblum

Tagging some lovelies under the cut. If you have not been tagged and you want to be, consider this your tag!

@anchoredarchangel, @cha-melodius, @cricketnationrise, 

@firenati0n, @guillermosfamiliar, @hgejfmw-hgejhsf, 

@hippolotamus, @inexplicablymine, @jettestar, 

@kiwiana-writes, @lizzie-bennetdarcy, @missgeevious, 

@myheartalivewrites, @ninzied, @nontoxic-writes, 

@notspecialbabe, @orchidscript, @piratefalls, 

@priincebutt, @rmd-writes, @three-drink-amy, 

@treluna4, @vanillahigh00, @welcometololaland, 

@orchidscript, @ships-to-sail, @stellarm, 

@stereopticons

[sparxwrites]

The Body Shots Incident

A prequel-ish to this nonsense, aka "the origin story of the Hermitcraft server party tequila ban". cw for lots of alcohol consumption and excessive innuendo [ao3]

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” asks Mumbo, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. He’s trying to delay the inevitable – primarily, being shirtless in front of a lot of people with Scar ‘Godlike Abs’ Goodtimes right next to him for comparison. It’s not working very well. “Just, I can think of, off the top of my head, oh, sixteen ways this could go wrong. At least three of them end with us respawning. At least.”

“Oh, no!” Scar, already reclining across a table in a distinctly louche manner, is nude from the waist up and looking distinctly self-satisfied about it. If anybody present knew who Jeff Goldblum was, multiple comparisons would have already been made. “It’s a terrible idea, and it’s going to go horribly wrong.”

Scar, unlike Mumbo, had taken his shirt off with precisely zero shame and absolutely maximum enthusiasm as soon as the whole concept had been suggested. It had taken three people – Bdubs included, remarkably – to stop him from removing his belt and pants as well.

Mumbo’s unclear whether the nearly-double-digits-worth of brightly coloured cocktails are to blame for Scar’s enthusiastic stripping, or whether this is just a Scar Thing. Probably just a Scar Thing, if he’s being honest. The man’s shredded. If Mumbo had pecs and abs like that, he’d take his shirt off all the time too.

“Okay, both of you, lie down,” says Pearl, officiously. Or as officious as one can be, after multiple bottles of Prosecco and a round of Jaeger bombs – which is frankly not very. She’s wielding a salt shaker in one hand, like it’s a hand grenade; two lime slices in the other, like– some other kind of weapon. Or something. Mumbo’s not exactly sober right now, either. Similes are a little beyond him at this point.

Scar, already draped elegantly across his own table, gestures to Mumbo with a raised eyebrow.

Mumbo, very reluctantly, sheds his shirt.

Grian, loitering next to Impulse, wolf-whistles in what Mumbo assumes is supposed to be a supportive sort of way. It doesn’t feel very supportive. Doesn’t do much to actually support him, either. Mostly, it just makes him go bright red – brighter red than he’d already gone, anyways, at having so much skin exposed in a room full of people.

Though admittedly not that many people, realistically. There’s him and Grian, as a team; Scar and Bdubs, as the opposing team; and Impulse, the judge of this ill-conceived competition. And Pearl, of course, as his self-proclaimed beautiful assistant. But pretty much every other Hermit is on the other side of the room, busy getting drunk and being noisy. Usual server party stuff.

It’s only them over here, with the two tables in the room not currently covered in alcohol and cups, because Grian and Bdubs had had a stupid argument, and decided that clearly the best way to solve it was a body shots competition, of all things. Which, yeah, sure, tracks as far as drunk Bdubs and Grian logic goes, but– Mumbo’s not even sure how you score a body shots competition.

That’s what they have Impulse for, though. Impulse knows how to judge a body shots competition. Probably.

So there’s not that many people watching, by the grace of any god paying attention. It’s just that, well. Mumbo has his shirt off. Right next to Scar Goodtimes, abs god extraordinaire. And Mumbo’s got no abs, and skin pale enough a vampire would flinch from it, and a soft little belly, and enough body hair it probably technically counts as thermal insulation.

And, to put the icing on the misery cake, pert little nipples. It’s not his fault it’s bloody cold with his shirt off but, for some reason, he doesn’t think that’s going to stop anyone from commenting on their pertness.

“Nice nips, Mumbo,” says Grian, as though he’d read Mumbo’s mind in the worst, most malicious way possible. He cackles when Mumbo turns self-consciously pink. “Hey! That was a compliment!”

Impulse clears his throat. “No– no commenting on competitors’ nipples without their explicit consent. Well-established rule of body shots competitions that I definitely didn’t just make up. I mean. Preferably no commenting on nipples at all but–”

“Don’t worry, Grian,” interjects Scar, cheerfully. “You can comment on my nipples all you like.”

“Thanks, Scar. That’s great. I appreciate the offer.” Grian does not, under any possible stretch of the imagination, sound like he appreciates the offer.

“Hey!” snaps Bdubs, immediately, outraged on a reflex. “No commenting on my competition partner’s nipples, okay?! Get your own!”

Grian, moderately drunk and visibly bewildered, flounders. “Get… my own nipples…?”

“Yeah! Get your own nipples, Mister!”

“Anyway,” says Impulse, loudly, clapping his hands together. Several Hermits look over. A few drift over for a closer look. Mumbo’s insides curl up like a dying spider. “If we could, uh, get things started…? Pearl–?”

Pearl crosses her arms.

“–sorry, my beautiful assistant, Pearl, could you do the salt, if our contestants want to lie down…?”

“On it!” says Pearl, with entirely too much glee. She approaches, menacing, salt shaker and lime slices in hand.

Both Scar and Mumbo, rather hurriedly, scramble to arrange themselves appropriately for their salting, and then endeavour to lie very, very still. They get a lime slice placed besides their head for their troubles.

Mumbo is chosen as the first victim for salting. He holds himself frozen on the table – deer-in-the-headlights frozen, even – as Pearl, tongue between her teeth in concentration, begins to tip salt in a line down his chest, right between his pecs. It’s a pretty wobbly line. Mumbo blames the Jaeger bombs.

“This is ridiculous,” mutters Grian, watching his half-naked best friend get salted like a slug by a drunk Australian. This, Mumbo feels, is a bit rich coming from the man who enthusiastically agreed to the idea when Bdubs proposed it.

Bdubs glowers at him by way of reply. Impulse just looks tired.

When Mumbo has had the appropriate salt applied, Pearl moves onto Scar. She wields the salt shaker like a loaded gun, and is doing a poor job of muffling her giggles. Those in her way move out of the way, very quickly, as she heads to Scar’s table.

“Do not get that on my nipples, by the way, Pearl,” says Scar, firmly, craning his head up as she approaches to watch the proceedings. “I don’t want any chafing!”

Pearl, already struggling to keep anything so much as approaching a straight face, barely manages to set the salt down before she doubles over in hysterics. “Im– Impulse–” she manages, wheezing, her grip on the edge of the table the only thing keeping her upright. “Gonna– tagging– tagging you in, mate, oh, oh my–”

Impulse, with an apologetic twist of the mouth in both Mumbo and Scar’s directions, takes up the salt.

His attempt at setting up a line of salt down Scar’s chest goes significantly better than Pearl’s did with Mumbo, primarily because he’s not a bottle and a half of prosecco down and sloppy drunk with it – just a few beers tipsy, instead. In short order, the pair of them are salted, with a lime slice ready to go in their mouths when the competition begins. Then he heads off to fill shot glasses of tequila, with the tongue-between-teeth concentration and unsteady hand of the moderately inebriated.

Bdubs and Grian take the opportunity to approach and examine their victims.

“Cute,” says Grian, and pokes Mumbo in the bellybutton.

Mumbo yelps, raising a hand to swat at him, before freezing when he remembers the salt. “Hey! No– no. I am sensitive. No poking.”

“Ooh,” interrupts Bdubs, peering nosily over at the competition. At Mumbo’s chest, specifically, and the thick fuzz of dark body hair growing across it. Much of the salt has ended up across it – or, rather, beneath it, within it, and amongst it. Mumbo’s not looking forward to tomorrow’s shower. “Look at that. Very nice. Lucky you!”

Grian raises an eyebrow. “Lucky?” he asks, disbelievingly. “I– look, no offence, Mumbo, I’ve got nothing against a good bit of chest hair, but… I’m just not convinced licking it is going to be the best sensation in the world.”

“Lucky,” repeats Bdubs, firmly.

“You want to swap…?” Grian is once more visibly bewildered. Though, admittedly, that’s not an uncommon expression to find people around Bdubs wearing. “Because that’s fine, I don’t mind–”

“I do not want you two to swap,” mutters Mumbo, nervously.

He’s concertedly ignored by everyone involved.

“Aha!” Bdubs grabs Grian by the front of his jumper with both hands. “So it is true. You are trying to steal Scar from me, and you do want to lick his– Scar! Stop laughing, you’ll ruin your salt.”

Scar manages to muffle himself down to stifled sniggers, with what looks like a Herculean effort of drunken willpower. “C’mon, Bdubs. Leave poor Grian alone. We can discuss him licking me when I don’t have salt, uh, perilously close to my delicate nipples.”

“How’re you managing pel– perir– pelirousy after nine cocktails?” demands Mumbo. “You can’t even bloody say that sober!”

He is, once again, ignored.

“I don’t want to discuss him licking you! I want him to not lick you! That’s not his job.” Bdubs sounds aggrieved. He does, however, obediently release the front of Grian’s jumper, stepping back to give the other man the stink eye. “He’s not Deputy Mayor, now, is he.”

Bdubs is, technically speaking, not Deputy Mayor either. It’s several months and an entire world since he was Deputy Mayor. But everyone present is aware that, for Bdubs at least, Deputy Mayor is less a job title and more an eternal-obsessive-crony-to-Mister-Scar-Goodtimes state of mind.

“Since when has licking the Mayor been part of the Deputy Mayor’s job?” asks Mumbo, of no one in particular, though he suspects the answer is since Bdubs got the job.

“I do not want to lick Scar,” says Grian, firmly. “I’d just, you know, prefer not to lick Mumbo’s chest hair. No offence, Mumbo.”

“Some taken, mate, I’m not gonna lie.”

Scar pouts. “You don’t want to lick my–?”

“Ladies, gentlemen, and uh, sentient mosses,” says Impulse, returning with the shot glasses. Pearl has given up on proceedings entirely, sinking down to sit against one of the table legs and looking distinctly out of it. Not out of it enough, however, to have surrendered the prosecco bottle she has in a death-grip. “If we could maybe get back on track with the competition…?”

“How’re we scoring this?” asks Grian, because of course he does. Grian plays to win, after all.

“Uhhh.” Impulse, preoccupied with setting the slightly precarious shot glasses down on Mumbo and Scar’s belly without spilling them, flounders. “I was thinking maybe, like, speed, and style, and… Spanish-ness…?”

“Tequila’s from Mexico, idiot,” interjects Bdubs, helpfully.

“Mexican-ness, then.”

“None of us are from Mexico, though,” Grian points out. “Or Spain. Or anywhere in South America or Europe, actually.”

“Fine! Fine, speed and style, fine, can we just– god, I need a drink. Can we get this over with so I can get a drink?” Impulse’s voice has picked up the whining desperation of a man powerfully regretting several recent life choices.

“Yes,” agrees Bdubs, emphatically. “I would really like to get started, oh yes.” He’s looking at Scar, laid out on the table, as though he’s a slab of particularly well-cooked steak. Scar – somewhat worryingly – preens beneath his hungry gaze.

Mumbo’s relieved when Grian, deciding for reasons known only to himself to be reasonable for once in his life, tosses Impulse a casual salute by way of agreement.

“Alright.” Impulse inhales, and exhales, as though to centre himself. Or perhaps brace himself. Either way, it adds an unexpected gravity to the situation which Mumbo could really do without. Bad enough he’s shirtless on a table covered in salt, without it feeling like some big deal. “Ready, everyone? Right. Lime slices in your mouths, Scar and Mumbo. Bdubs and Grian– On your marks. Get set. Go!”

Grian goes for speed. He’s done the shot, licked the salt, and bitten the lime out of Mumbo’s mouth before Mumbo even really knows what’s happened. He’s kind of grateful for it, honestly – like ripping a bandaid off.

Bdubs, of course, goes for style.

The noise Scar makes as Bdubs drags a tongue up his belly is positively pornographic. Bdubs is flushed red-cheeked from the shot, and Scar is flushed red from a tongue dragged across sensitive skin and taut muscle. By the time Bdubs cranes his head up to take the lime from Scar’s mouth, it’s more of a lewd, open-mouthed kiss than anything else. It’s like watching a train wreck. None of them can look away.

“…Well.” Impulse clears his throat, awkwardly. His nose looks a little pink. Even odds on whether it’s from the alcohol, or the display he’s just witnessed. “I, uh… I think I’m gonna have to call that one for Scar and Bdubs, guys? Um.”

Scar whoops, gleeful. “Yes! Bdubs, it’s official. We’re the best.”

“I,” announces Bdubs, with the smug delight of a man who’s just licked a line of salt off of Scar Goodtimes’s abs and gotten an award about it, “am going to find us some more tequila. To celebrate.”

He’s gone before any of them have the time – let alone the inclination or recovered cognitive faculties – to point out that that’s probably a bad idea.

There’s a long moment of silence, as they all slowly come to terms with what they’ve just done.

“Oh, god,” says Grian, miserably, breaking the quiet. He sticks two fingers in his mouth, and comes back with something dark and wiry clutched between them. “I’ve got bloody– Mumbo hair, in my mouth–”

Mumbo is not looking at Grian. Mumbo is busy staring at Scar, still laid out across the table and looking quite pleased with himself. “Yeah, well,” he says, “I think the rather more pressing issue is that Scar’s got–”

“Absolutely no need to comment on that,” says Scar, cheerfully, finally sitting up. There’s still a little salt clinging to his abs, shimmering and crystalline. It draws the eye to it, and then encourages the eye to move further down, to his happy trail, and then on to his– “Perfectly natural reaction to getting your stomach licked. You wouldn’t shame a man for his natural reactions, now, would you, Mumbo?”

Suddenly unable to make eye contact with Scar, Mumbo averts his gaze. As he does, he mutters something that sounds remarkably like, “Bloody well would.”

He is, once again, ignored.

Scar is saved from having to discuss the particulars of his natural reactions by a loud crash from the opposite side of the room. Grian, sensing trouble occurring that he’s not yet involved with, whips his head around with velociraptor-like enthusiasm and speed.

“Bdubs, please, I just really think you don’t need any more–”

“I won!” Bdubs is yelling, holding the bottle of half-full tequila above his head as high as he can – which, given his height, is not very. Somehow, despite being far taller and significantly more sober, Xisuma’s attempts at grabbing it are going exceedingly poorly indeed. “I won, I licked Mayor Scar so, so good and I won, which means I get to celebrate, okay? With tequila.”

“No– no, Bdubs, you– come on, please, that’s very– you know what you get like when you drink too much of that, please, I really don’t–”

“Let him drink!” yells Keralis, from the sidelines, with both his characteristic lasciviousness and the motivated enthusiasm of a man who had an excellent time last time Bdubs drank too much tequila. “It’s a democracy, Shishwammy. Let Bubbles drink! Or at least let us vote on whether he can drink. I vote yes.”

If it goes to a vote, Mumbo knows, Xisuma will lose. Keralis is not the only person who had an excellent time last time Bdubs drank too much tequila. Far from it, in fact.

“Bdubs–” wails Xisuma, now weeping openly. Bdubs is stanced for combat, knees bent and arms wide like a sumo wrestler, the neck of the tequila bottle gripped in one fist. His moss hoodie and undershirt, somewhere in the proceedings, have vanished from his body. A circle of interested Hermits, sensing the evening’s entertainment, is beginning to gather around the scene.

Scar, Grian, and Mumbo watch from the other side of the room in companionable silence for a long moment – soaking up the general chaos, and attempting to process what’s just happened, respectively.

Then Scar swings his legs off the table, and stands up, with an admirable amount of grace and balance for a man nine cocktails down and counting. It’s an ongoing, server-wide mystery that Scar somehow becomes more coordinated and better with his words when drunk, and it’s always struck Mumbo as deeply unfair. “…Do you think we should go help?” he asks, mildly, watching Xisuma make yet another failed grab for the tequila.

“Absolutely not,” says Mumbo, immediately and very firmly.

As he watches, Bdubs downs two large mouthfuls of the tequila without flinching, and manages to duck Xisuma’s lunge with the poise of a ballet dancer. Xisuma, regrettably helmetless, lunges head-first into a table full of bottles instead. The resulting crash shakes the floorboards. “I do not want to get mixed up in that, thank you.”

“I think we should go and make it worse, actually,” says Grian, brightly. He is, Mumbo notices, holding a prosecco bottle – prised from Pearl’s now-empty hands where she’s slumped half-snoring beneath the table. He takes a sip, directly from the bottle, and hums appreciatively.

“Why,” says Mumbo, weakly.

“‘Cos it’ll be funny. Duh.” Grian offers the bottle to Mumbo, and wrinkles his nose when Mumbo doesn’t take it.

“Excellent point, Grian.” Scar swipes the bottle instead, tilting it up and taking a hearty chug – because that’s the part of the evening they’ve gotten to, apparently. Chugging prosecco from a bottle. “See! This is why you’re the brains of the operation. However, consider– you could also go make out in the bathroom.”

“With who?”

Scar strikes a pose, arms out, abs flexed. “With me, of course!”

“Eww. No,” says Grian, as though he hasn’t made out with Scar at nine out of the last ten server parties. Mumbo should know. He’s been keeping track. For the Boatem Pool, of course. It’s important to have those kinds of numbers to crunch, when you’re trying to work out how and when your best friend and your other best friend are going to have sex for the first time. Which is, of course, a perfectly normal thing to be trying to work out, thank you very much.

“I just want you both know,” Mumbo interrupts, “that I want no part in this.”

Grian turns to look at him, and Mumbo quails beneath the intensity of the mischief in his gaze. “What,” he says, “not even the bathroom makeouts?” as though he hadn’t been objecting to said makeouts mere moments ago.

Mumbo is just a heartbeat too slow in his denial.

“Mumbo. Mumbo!” says Scar, brightly. He’s grinning at him, a salesman’s smile, a snake’s smile, all teeth and smirk. “If you want the rewards of bathroom makeouts, you have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of doing crimes with us! You should know that by now.”

“What does that mean?!” Mumbo’s beginning to wish he’d taken the prosecco when it was offered.

“It means you should come with me and we can both take our pants off in front of Xisuma,” whispers Scar, secretively. “As a distraction. So Grian can do crimes, while everyone’s distracted by our ahmayzin’, uhhh– underwear.”

Scar’s natural reaction, Mumbo cannot help but notice, has not quite subsided yet. And, despite his trousers sitting low on his hips, there’s not so much as hint of underwear peeking out above the waistband.

“Underwear,” Mumbo repeats, slowly. “Right.”

“Absolutely not,” says Grian, but Scar is already gone, sprinting towards the Hermits ringing Xisuma and Bdubs’ ongoing tequila battle. “No! Scar–! Keep your damn pants on!” And then he’s gone, too, chasing after Scar. Or the promise of chaos.

Or, more realistically, both.

In their aftermath, Mumbo sinks – miserable, shirtless, belly hair still faintly damp from being licked – to the floor. Consumed by his own bewilderment, it takes him a moment to realise there’s a hand on his head. Pearl, apparently awake again, is petting his hair gently.

“There, there, mate,” she says, sympathetically. Her eyes are bleary, but her hands are remarkably steady as she pulls a fresh bottle of prosecco from god-knows-where and uncorks it with her teeth in a manoeuvre that leaves Mumbo staring, impressed. “Prosecco?”

“…Yeah, actually,” says Mumbo, as the noises of tequila-based disaster from the other side of the room increase, abruptly, in volume. “Yeah. You know what? Why not.”

They sit in silence for a moment, watching the chaos unfolding. Xisuma is on the floor, weeping. Bdubs is shirtless, teeth bared, wielding a now mostly-empty bottle of tequila. Scar is invisible through the throng of other hermits now watching, heckling, egging them on – but Grian is yelling, “Scar! Put your trousers back on!”, which gives them a pretty clear mental picture.

“They’re going to have sex in that bathroom, aren’t they?” says Mumbo, absently, after a while. The prosecco has settled, warm and fizzy, in bottom of his already thoroughly alcohol-lined stomach. A pair of trousers just flew out of the middle of the Hermit huddle, which is rapidly looking less like a circle and more like an active, good-natured brawl.

“Yeah. Probably.” Pearl pauses, thoughtfully, and makes grabby hands at the prosecco bottle. Mumbo obediently passes it over. “That is, if they don’t just give up and fuck right in the middle of the party.”

Mumbo ignores that last bit, because if he starts thinking about that then he’s a bit concerned he’s going to have a natural reaction of his own. Across the room, Bdubs has begun wailing in misery, in the way only Bdubs can. “I should probably be there,” he says. “If they are. For Boatem Pool purposes, you know?”

“Boatem Pool purposes,” repeats Pearl, solemnly. “Totally.”

She passes the prosecco back, and fist-bumps the bottle in solidarity when he takes it. And then they sit there, in silence, sharing the rest of the drink between them as the sounds of tequila-based disaster fill the rest of the room.

[raiasintended]

Adderall Shortage, a play in one act

me: I’m sorry I took so long in the bathroom I forgot you were waiting and I got distracted by how ripped Jeff Goldblum was in Cronenberg’s THE FLY (1986)

my spouse: it’s ok

me: like WHY was he so jacked?? was it because he had so many shirtless scenes?

my spouse: idk

me: or… is it the other way around? did he have so many shirtless scenes BECAUSE he was so—

my spouse firmly shuts the bathroom door between us

[kiwiweewee]

So, I was talking with my friends about what kind of kid Bruce was before his parents’ murder. I know he played with toy soldiers in Hush but what was his young boy obsession? Trains, cars, rocks? Well, I think it's dinosaurs. While the dinosaur in the cave is a trophy with symbolic meaning behind it, it IS a giant dinosaur and only a dinosaur nerd would have one. (Side note, Zorro is another obsession but that's probably more seen in how he played with other kids.) I joked that if the family watched Jurassic Park, Bruce would be in mental anguish because all he's thinking is hnnnnn don’t comment on the inaccuracies, you already spoke up about it three times and the kids are getting annoyed. But there is no evidence that the dilophosaurus had frills and if I don't say something right now- Meanwhile Jason, who is a literature nerd, would be harping on the differences between the book and the movie. The novel is a thinly veiled critique of capitalism but the movie doesn't address those themes at all! Very disgruntled about the changes of who lives and dies Steph, also a literature nerd in canon (or at least I can argue she is one), would be able to recognize the disconnect between the book and movie, but wouldn't care. "Guys shut up, I'm trying to watch Jeff Goldblum shirtless." And Damian, the animal lover, comes to the conclusion that he could run a dinosaur reserve successfully. RIP to John Hammond but he's different. Ends in an argument about what the true message of the film was.

[iamgodsoopsie]

Illithid Jeff Goldblum

Me, when the camera panned to the Emperor casually lounging shirtless in an unholy cross between Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park and "Paint me like one of your French girls." Rose from the Titanic movie:

Where yo clothes at?

[crying-pan420]

Mischa watches Jurassic Park for the plot

The plot being Jeff Goldblum being shirtless

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Good morning friend. I hope all is well! What turned out as a relaxing hobby (running an RP discord server) turned into stress and frustration at people carelessly trampling over hard work. How does one stay at peace when you put so much time and effort into producing something free for others to enjoy and only ask to not be disrespected, yet people still shit over it?

SO. To combat the bullshit the world likes to throw, here's a happy countermeasure. How do you think a Westeros product line of new hair care endorsed by the Prince Aemond Targaryen himself would go? Do they just paint him, mid hair flick, and past it up in the capital square as product placement? "Who needs an eye when you have silky, shiny, luxurious hair? Try slug gel today."

I'm sorry to hear that's happening to you :( My only advice would be curate your space. It's your server, you don't have to have anyone in there that's degrading your enjoyment of it.

I am dying at "slug gel" lmao

I'm envisioning a huge Red Keep wall sized tapestry of Aemond shirtless and reclining like that photo of Jeff Goldblum with the slogan: "Tyroshi Hair Oil: you won't need two eyes to see how good you look."

[slasheru]

🎃 For the dateables please and thank you.

Oooooh I've actually put A LOT OF THOUGHT INTO THIS haha

🎃 What would they dress as for Halloween/a costume party?

Tate: Tate would DREAD dressing up for anything lest he be mocked, but if he COULD? Either the guy from Reanimator or possibly one of Jeff Goldblum's more iconic characters (The Fly? Jurassic Park??).

Laila: On a dime? Daphne from Scooby Doo. Given enough TIME? Something REALLY fancy, like a recreation dress from Crimson Peak, or, like, one of Lady Gaga's harder-to-achieve looks (not the meat dress, though, that might attract TOO many cannibals here at SU).

Hex: Leonidas from 300, no shirt and all! Also, I think Hex would look EXTREMELY CUTE in a Ryan Gosling Drive costume.

Juno: Lydia from Beetlejuice!! Juno would also love to pull off something hella flashy like Miss Piggy but, alas, in their words, they simply aren't fab enough :( Lydia though? PRIME GOTH.

Sawyer: Shirtless Patrick Bateman. With the axe. ;)

And, because I get the feeling y'all wanna knoooOOOOw, Horsemike: Austin Powers. 100% Austin Powers. He just carries the glasses around, though, cuz he thinks they block his face.

[newvegascowboy]

The jeff goldblum shirtless pose isnt even the first time I've drawn as Red, this time I'm just doing it Better. Somewhere in the digital Ether is another jeff goldblum shirtless red from the era in digital art where I Didn't Know What Tf I'm Doing

[visualmemoryunit]

if im told to choose between anything and one of the options is jeff goldblum, potentially shirtless, its like a fucking no brainer

[the-cat-chat]

October 15, 2022

The Fly 2 (1989)

The almost-human son of "Brundlefly" searches for a cure to his mutated genes while being monitored by a nefarious corporation that wishes to continue his father's experiments.

JayBell: Well well well...what to say about this gem. I went into this movie knowing that is was going to be a shit show. And it was! In that way, I guess you could say it met my expectations exactly.

I actually didn’t mind the plot on paper. The idea of a lab-raised, monster-spawn, former child experiment going on a justified rampage of revenge sounds pretty fun. I also liked the idea of Martin curing himself with the same machine that led to his disease. They even give Martin an interesting moral dilemma: you can cure yourself but only if you doom another person in exchange. The execution is where it falls apart entirely.

The writing is just not good, and the acting leaves much to be desired. The character motivations are juvenile. The lab’s supposed purpose is to use the teleporting machine in order to cure people, and they really want Martin to turn into Martinfly so they can kill and study him. But why? How is studying his dead monster corpse going to help the lab at all? The lab’s handling of Martin’s case is unrealistic even for this super unrealistic scenario.

Watching the romance was painful, and I wish they focused more on Martin’s treatment at the lab and less on romance. For one, they actually time skip over the development of the whole relationship (also what’s with the stupid fly fishing gag??). So I never developed any attachment to them as a couple at all. And when they had their big “conflict,” it didn’t really have the impact that it should have. The resolution happens like two minutes later with no drama and no consequences, so what’s the point of having that conflict at all?

A few other things to note: the doctor/lab lady was mean and cruel for no discernible reason at all, and the random security guard was similarly perverted just to be perverted and provide “conflict.” He also has an unreasonable amount of power for a guard.

On a slightly positive note, it’s just as gross as you’d expect it to be, which makes it gory and disturbing (all good for a horror movie).

All in all, it felt like they were trying to force a repeat of The Fly, but with worse writing, less emotional impact, and none of the charisma of Jeff Goldblum.

Rating: 2.5/10 cats 🐈

Anzie: I thought The Fly (1986) was traumatizing. Okay?? And yes, I thought about it for days after we watched it. Okay?? But this, THIS….. was somehow more horrifically traumatic than the 1986 movie. Okay??? And AT LEAST in that one we get to stare at a shirtless, nerdy, young Jeff Goldblum that despite the terrible hair…. (let’s just all be honest) was a looker. OKAY!!!! I will think about this until I black it out from my entire brain.

I knew it would be bad, but come on. The whole concept is out there, sure, but this this was Baaaaad. I thought the 5.1/10 on the internet was just haters not knowing true art when it was right in front of their faces. No a 5.1 is generous. The story is sooo boring and sloooooooow. And the concept that he’s five years old….just without anymore detail….. just gross. And why was the security guard such a gross freak?

And my bigggggest complaint is the dog. The poor dog! And how did they make it look like that?? And it was sooo sad. I had to look away. Actually scratch that, I have another complaint that might be more pressing. Had ANY of these people EVER seen a FLY????? Like it wasn’t enough to do the usual thing for special effects like they did in the first one- no they did that and then more! Like this thing was a giant evil gremlin. And the weird cocoons and goo on things. Ugggg. And scratch that bc my actual complaint that will haunt me FOREVER is Mr. Bartok getting what he deserves and being turned into a giant blob with just an eye and some teeth hanging out. I’m DONE. It was gross. Like they somehow did a good job with these awful things while also doing a terrible job. And I don’t know which has scarred me for life.

And least just be honest with ourselves okaaay for my own sanity. DO NOT tell me that there was no way Jeff Goldblum couldn’t have figured out how to turn himself completely human again. And THAT, that’s where the real problem of all of this lies.

Rating: 2/10 🪰 flies (it’s disrespectful we watched this the week before Jeff Goldblum turned 70)