#frothy monkey

[biscuitsngravie]

"not yet."

cw: stsg x reader, fem!reader, smut, piv sex, fingering, come inside its fun inside, established relationship, edging, voyeurism

wc: 1876

How long has it been? You couldn’t tell. Every drag of Gojo’s cock against your gummy walls feels tortuously pleasurable, causing you to intermittently spasm around him, eliciting a gasp or curse each time. His hips barely move in what can be called strokes as they stutter with each attempt. You can’t bear to look at him, your own mind fuzzy with archaic math equations that you fill it with to focus on Geto’s words and not how close you are. 

“That’s right… keep fucking her just like that….” Geto purrs from the comfort of his chair to the right of the bed. He watches and sees everything, the way you grip the sheets, how your toes curl, and how you can’t seem to care about the drool beginning to leak out the side of your mouth. He’s equally as attentive to Gojo with each break in his stride, and how his strokes are getting more and more uneven. He watches as once fluffy bangs stick to his forehead, donned with a sheen of sweat that’s dripping down his chin and onto you. 

Neither of you can see the sight, though, both wrapped up in the crevices of your own minds, only responding to the sound of Geto’s voice as you await instructions. It was simple at first, him watching you two make out in the living room with slight amusement, always infatuated with the desperation at which you devour each other. He gave a small suggestion, “Maybe we should take this to the bedroom?” Nothing more, nothing less, but you two easily complied, too caught up in the throbbing between you to notice that his “suggestions,” started sounding more and more like commands.

“Don’t take it off yet, I like her tits in that bra.”

“So eager for dick, are we? Can’t you wait ‘till he at least takes his shirt off?”

“Put it in nice and slow… yeah, just like that.”

“Don’t come.”

The last comment solidified what this really was: a game. You two, so incredibly hungry for every part of each other (and Geto when he humbly obliged), fucking as needily and frequently as rabbits; you two who couldn’t bear to hold back at any occasion. Until Geto said so. 

Every time you felt that coil tighten, your soul and body begging for release, it was snapped away by the gentlest utters of “Not yet.” Gojo was on the edge himself, though he was more inclined to verbally share his distaste.

“Fuck, Suguru! Come on! Can’t you just fu—” 

One. It took one look from Geto to silence Gojo’s incessant yelling, and he’s been silently cursing to himself ever since, groaning with each stolen release, just as shamelessly as you. 

So here you are, stuck in mating press for Geto’s satisfaction as you try to avoid eye contact with Gojo who’s doing the same, both knowing neither of you would be strong enough to resist your bodies’ requests if it happened. Much to the dissatisfaction of the ringmaster who was prompt to correct his monkeys. 

Geto sits fully clothed in the chair, painfully aware of the way you two shut your eyes or have them dance around the room. At first he hummed with a hint of amusement, mirth dripping from his voice as he demanded suggested that Gojo go deeper. Deeper. But now it’s become too mind numbingly boring to no longer see you teeter near the edge, but avoid it all together. So who is he but an instigator when he comments, “Ahh, Satoru… look at how good she takes it. Tiny little pussy can’t help but swallow your cock, huh?”

Gojo may be the strongest, but he’s weak when it comes to you, and even weaker when it comes to this. He knows it’s a trap. He knows it, but a peek couldn’t hurt, right? Every nerve ending in him feels as though it jolts when he looks down to see your puffy lips around him, swollen and sore from all the teasing from earlier, helplessly and willingly framing the way he impales you over and over. It’s so messy, the wetness of your combined juices staining your pelvises, sticky and frothy as they form a ring around the base of his dick. 

If it weren’t for his balls being so unbelievably heavy and agonizingly full, he’d have sworn he came already, white painted over your thighs and dripping down the crack of your ass and onto the bed. His own heart jumps as he momentarily fantasizes what it’d look like to fill you up with as you come, wondering if it would even have room to stay in, or gush out and sink into the duvet. His body shudders with need that’s stronger than any desire and he almost collapses on top of you, holding himself mere inches away by bracing himself on his forearms.

The action causes you to squeeze around him when he unintentionally slams further into you, teasing your cervix. You can’t help but wrap your legs around his waist, letting yourself relish in the way he ruts into you like a dog, squeezing his dick with every entry and unabashedly chasing your high as you become delirious. Your clit aches for attention, the throbbing is becoming unbearable as you just want something, anything, more.

“F-fuck… baby let up, will ya?” Gojo’s voice shakes as he attempts a lighthearted laugh to hide his wavering resolve. “Squeezin’ me like that, gonna make me—”

“That’s right, milk that cock,” Geto coos, encouraging you to clamp down even more. As soon as you do, Gojo loses his balance and almost falls on you again, hovering his head over the crook of your neck. You can feel him panting, his hot breath uneven as he whines down to a halt, begging you with husky whispers of “pleasepleaseplease” with no real request. You cradle him in your arms, trying and failing not to dig crescents into his back. 

Neither of you hear Geto approach as your awareness of his presence is only made known when thick fingers grab you both by the roots of your hair. He scoffs at the way you whine as he pulls Gojo away from you so that you can focus your attention on him. His face almost appears neutral if it weren’t for the way the glint of mischief in his eye was replaced by a darkened annoyance. “No one told you to stop,” he says in a whisper that’s roughened and tinged with a hint of a growl. “Now fuck like you mean it before you piss me off.”

He roughly drops the both of you before walking back to his chair, pleased to hear the proper sounds of skin on skin as Gojo slams into you with a purpose, his balls slapping against your ass. Geto takes a shudder breath as he sits, adjusting the boner in his pants ever so slightly, but hissing at the way it burns against his thigh. Not yet. 

Your hiccups replace broken moans as Gojo takes the leg farthest from Geto — as not to obstruct his view — and slings it over his shoulder, pushing himself deeper into your sopping cunt. He presses down on your stomach to feel the bulge that pushes against his hand with each thrust, moving your other leg back onto the bed to ensure Geto has nothing else to say regarding you two’s performance. 

Your eyes are sure to fall out the back of your head with the way they roll over. If it’s possible to split a human in half with a dick, you’re sure this is how it would start as your greedy little cunt is repeatedly bullied by Gojo’s cock, stretching around him like that’s what it was made for. 

Geto watches the sight with a smirk that dares grow into a smile as he gets up to roll a blunt, telling Gojo, “Touch her clit,” as he licks it closed. He doesn’t miss the way you jump and let out a wanton moan yelling his name. Even with Gojo’s cock in you, you can only yell for him. Cute. 

He takes his lighter out and takes a puff, letting the smoke sit in him and warm his chest before blowing it out off to the side. 

“Come.”

If it weren’t for the constant edging, one or both of you could’ve survived two, maybe even three more strokes, but you almost instantly at the command. No, at the allowance. With your combined orgasms, a bigger mess is made between you two. Even with Gojo bottoming out into you, extra cum is forcing its way out around his dick and onto the blankets beneath you. In your state, you’d swear that you can feel Gojo’s dick kicking with every pulse as he continuously paints your walls with an all too heavy load. 

With your clit finally getting the attention its been aching for, the combined deprivation of your high causes you to squirt and spill all over him. You can hear Geto whistling off to the side but can’t seem to care, rolling your hips with Gojo as you chase your orgasm to its completion, your body tensing before it relaxes. Your chest feels hot internally, but you shiver from the sweat around you as the chill of the air is finally starting to set in. You’re wrapped in Gojo’s warmth and arms only for a moment before Geto comes over and separates you two. 

You hiss at the way pulls Gojo out of you, forcing Gojo to sit up even though he whines in complaint. His blunt long forgotten in the ashtray, he looks between the two of you, humming at the sight. A small breath through his nose expressing his delight is released when two fingers fit inside you easily. He slaps your hand away when you tiredly complain about it being “too soon.” Pressing his thumb to your clit, he watches as your hips twitch and buck as Gojo’s cum drips around his digits. 

You curse your body for succumbing to his touch, willing it to fight back as he curls his fingers in you. Your breath hitches when you can feel him adding a third. Goosebumps prickle your skin as your nerves stand on end, the overstimulation simultaneously willing you to pull away but begging you to give in. Your arms are like lead as they uselessly hang at your sides. 

You don’t even see the way Geto grabs Gojo with his other hand, but you hear pathetic whines as Gojo jumps from the touch. Geto does nothing but tut him into silence. 

“I checked the time you know,” he says almost to himself as all he gets in response is broken forms of his name, “and you two didn’t even get close to making the hour like you promised. But… I am a kind man after all.”

A twist of his wrist and a press of his thumb have you two crying out.

“So I let you come early. And you will come. Again.” he relishes in the way you two cry out, for mercy, for god, for him. “And again and again and again,” he hums lightly, “and you won’t stop until I say so.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

taglist: @yasminessims @littlemochabunni @blkkizzat @ryomens-vixen @honeeslust

might hold a poll for what i should write next but idk yet, lmk what yall think!

[balrogballs]

happy valentines day to everyone but especially to ✨ wife guys ✨ as a treat, have a little Celedriel ficlet about how much they love each other because they simply are not leaving my skull atm:

The Homecoming

“They face everything hand in hand every time they must, from hornets to sorcerers, blinking and bewildered by what the world has become. Long oceans and lost homelands; floors of green grass grinning below treetops, they are limitless.”

He first met Galadriel under an upside-down tree and she had asked him whether it was his tree. Celeborn was not certain as to whose tree it was but in the face of her hair he felt himself succumb to spontaneous moral depletion and barefacedly told her that it was not only his tree, but that it was him that put it upside down, because he thought seeming artistically inclined would work in his favour with the Nolde. On the evening they exchanged betrothal vows he felt so ridiculously guilty about his little lie that he admitted it and watched her laugh until she cried and frankly, felt quite pleased with himself.

Celeborn enjoyed sitting around just looking at her and there were people who said that such pursuits were pointless for an elf of his lineage, militaristic credentials and bearing.

Absolutely, he would agree quite seriously. They absolutely are pointless. This is such a problem, thank you for pointing it out. I’ll sit right here, just where I am, look out of the window into her garden, and wonder what to do about it, say for the next few hundred years. Now it is a difficult task, please, leave me to it.

“Most know my father is like a raincloud if rainclouds shat gold,” Celebrían once told Elrond, who apprehensively glanced at the fearsome commander he spent a century under siege alongside, as if he would twist off his head for not only conversing shamelessly with his daughter but gossiping about him. “But few remember that my mother picks up every coin and spends it with glee.”

She does indeed.

Galadriel never did anything as Celeborn as sitting about gazing adoringly at people, but that was only because she, with her strange and awkward stubbornness, wrestled the vague shape of him into most things she beheld. She could be on a deserted shore and she would trick her own eyes into finding him atop a marvellous shipwreck or petrified salt-rock. Every space and time in her life which required courage to pass through, she would conjure him and he would appear like a — no, not a phantom, Celeborn was too easygoing and frothy-laughed and light-footed to be particularly good at melancholic hauntings, he’d be far too happy drifting about in the empty spaces of the world. Perhaps a poltergeist, then. Or a very controlled mirage.

Lothlorien was intimate solitude, the quiet before fireworks. They never told others of how they love and live, they were the two of them, and then one day their remarkable Celebrían. Cello-baby, he called her because she hated it. Monkey-child, Galadriel named her, because she was. They shared each other wholly and without care and it meant all their joys were tripled and it meant that when Cello-baby left for good the loss was thrice as unbearable than it would have been otherwise.

Nothing endures for so long as love between the Eldar. As the centuries pass, their love shapes the world and shapes itself to it. Galadriel, scrying mirror and treelit hair, the world in her hands and Celeborn in her heart. They shape the forest and through the forest, the world: the Cello-baby shaped vacancies between their embraces, the hunting grounds and tree-top love affairs. They covet sameness and turn it to difference. The slow rot spreads across Arda and they cling to each other through time to feel alive in the dying world, like bees suspended in a jar of sticky honey, fleas in the rough, matted neck of a stray-cat. They do not cling to a folded-down page in history but burrow their way through the book itself.

Mithrandir once asks her if she does not feel inconsequential in the forest. Without the marauding ranger circle around Imladris, away from the corrosion of Mirkwood, he asks her if she never longed to fly further. Whether she could not see the forest for the trees.

“Perhaps our landscape makes you feel inconsequential, Mithrandir,” she says dryly. She doesn’t wear shoes at home — a habit her daughter carried to Imladris and passed on to her three, and then to Eldarion, and then ever onwards. But yes, Galadriel spins in a dizzy circle in the little room and says, “but I have all the world I need. I can see what I must, and I will do what I will when the world and the Valar will it. But inconsequential? Amidst hornets nests and horsefly season? In the forest fire of the previous year, this sunset and the next, for these little things I am time and space itself. We are.”

Celeborn has Galadriel feeling limitless even in the smallest of rooms. They face everything hand in hand every time they must, from hornets to sorcerers, blinking and bewildered by what the world has become. He has her back and she has his heart. With his solid weight behind her she can swallow future after future with dangerous abandon. He is not the risk but the reason for it: he is so alive it is almost irritating. Long oceans and lost homelands; floors of green grass grinning below treetops, they are limitless.

Age after age rolls by and they do not stop loving each other in their strange, incomprehensible way. An oddly domesticated love language seemingly apathetic to external perception, the way the spool predicts the pattern of its unravelling, how even on the darkest nights they can reach out to the other and find the little hook where their truest selves hang, trusting in the mnemonics of homecoming. They are an arithmetic problem that never asked to be solved. They are simply Galadriel and Celeborn, under an upside down tree, always and ever.

[dead-dolphins]

“Little Forest” or the doctor Eren and mountain girl Mikasa AU — 1st snippet

A sudden shift in the air caught his attention. At first, he thought it was the wind, but then he heard it—a distant rustling, fluttering, and shivering from outside. It wasn’t the endless hum of the rainforest nor the whisper of leaves but footsteps. Light and slow. Moving far from the house.

Eren turned toward the window, catching the faintest movement beyond the tree line. A figure, barely discernible through the mist and foliage, weaving through the dense grove. He could make out only vague details: the sway of a basket hanging from an arm, the flash of something pale, like fabric, moving against the darkened greenery.

And then, just as quickly as he’d noticed it, the figure was gone.

He wasn’t sure why, but a shiver crawled up his spine. Not from fear, but something else. Anticipation, perhaps. So he exhaled, shaking his head. Long journey, new surroundings; it was probably just his mind playing tricks.

Eren decided to unpack what little he brought. Whatever—or whoever—he had seen, he’d find out soon enough.

However, even after unpacking, that unsettling feeling still clung to him—something he couldn’t quite name. Without a second thought, he shed his white jacket, leaving himself in just a shirt and suspenders, the cool air brushing against his bare arms as he rolled up his sleeves. He stepped through the window, large enough to let in a rush of fresh air and wide enough for someone of his build.

The moment he was outside the house, the air of the rainforest slammed into him: citrusy, moist, and oddly invigorating. It called to him, the rainforest, and without wasting time, he moved toward it. The thought of getting lost never crossed his mind as he ventured. With every step, the leaves rustled beneath his feet, insects hummed their serenades, distant howls of monkeys echoed through the trees, and the birds’ melodies wove a haunting symphony around him.

Little gusts of sunshine danced through the dense canopy, spilling down in golden beams that lit up the ferns and vines. Under the towering trees, the leaves shimmered, lush and green, with splashes of bright tropical blooms, glistening in brilliant reds and yellows. Some orchids were in bloom, their petals scattered across the damp floor, while the air was thick with the scent of rain and earth. How lush they looked; their purple and white faces turned towards the light. A few delicate bromeliads, too, by the path, with their red and orange, stretching towards the sun.

Eren felt suddenly excited, the colour rushing to his cheeks, emerald green gleaming in his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this—perhaps never, in fact. The sensation was foreign, unlike anything he’d ever experienced. This fresh world around him replaced the cold concrete of Liberio, the home he’d known. And he liked it; he really liked this feeling.

So he walked ploddingly, his fingertips brushing against the damp leaves. He didn’t quite know where he was going. Then, in the distance, he heard it—a faint sound that gradually grew clearer. The rush of water tumbling over rocks, carving its path through the floor. But then another sound emerged, soft and gentle, like a rising murmur, blending with the flow of the stream; something like a song.

As he walked, the sound of the stream grew louder, and soon he found himself standing on the edge of a small clearing. The air was thick with mist, and the roar of the waterfall filled the air, cascading over smooth stones in a frothy white rush. The water glittered in the sunlight, splashing against rocks, creating shimmering droplets that hung in the air like tiny diamonds.

And there, amidst the roar of the waterfall, Eren saw her. A girl. A beautiful girl. Perhaps the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on.

She stood there, unaware of his presence, her back to him. Her ivory skin shimmered with droplets, cascading over her like a liquid veil. Her long, ebony hair clung to her skin, falling in wet tendrils over her shoulders. The mist swirled around her like a soft veil, giving her an ethereal, almost unreal quality. 

The sound of the waterfall masked the soft rustle of his footsteps, but still, his heart began to race, almost pounding in his ears. And there was a flutter of pang of something twisting in his stomach. His thoughts scrambled, torn between disbelief and an almost primal awe. Could this be real? Was she real? Because she was so perfect, so impossibly serene, that for a moment, Eren wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. 

“In a forsaken cabin, tucked away and old...”  A soft, haunting melody drifted to his ears, her voice flowing through the air as she cupped her hands, lifting water to her face in a soothing motion. “Alongside their child, the days went by. Her father’s shadow in her eyes.”

For a long moment, he simply watched, transfixed by her movements—movements so fluid that quite didn’t seem human at all. Her body seemed to merge with the water, her delicate form rippling and shifting as the waterfall washed over her.

But then Eren stepped back. A twig snapped underfoot, loud in the otherwise quiet world. He stood frozen, unsure whether to step forward or to retreat. His instinct told him to leave, to give her privacy, yet his eyes refused to look away.

She seemed to stand still and Eren’s breath hitched in his throat as she turned her head slowly. He froze, barely daring to breathe. His heart hammered in his chest as he held his place, hidden behind the thick brush, praying she hadn’t noticed him. And she seemed to not do so, for with a speed that seemed unnatural, she ducked behind the veil of the waterfall, vanishing into the mist as if she had never been there at all.

[mariacallous]

It didn’t take long for me to recognize the low bar awaiting me as a new father. In the early, bleary days of parenthood, I was congratulated for relaying the vaguest details of my son’s whereabouts and received pats on the back for explaining the origin of his name. New moms were rarely granted the same level of enthusiasm; they couldn’t delight a crowd by remarking on whatever precociously cool song their kid smiled along to. Meanwhile, I had only the faintest grasp of my son’s diaper size. I remember the approving nods I received from strangers when I folded his stroller or produced a clean pacifier from my pocket. As he grew into a state that one is contractually obliged to call “cherubic,” people would offer their seats and a sympathetic smile when we boarded the bus, my son wielding a remote control, for some reason.

It’s nice when random people smile at you, yet few of these interactions felt truly meaningful. They merely confirmed a basic competency, an ability to not completely flub my lines. How we behave, at home or in public, is a product of our innate impulses and feelings in concert with the expectations of our surroundings. For the modern-day American father, prescribed identities can be contradictory. On one hand, there’s probably never been an age that so values a kind of chill sensitivity among fathers; witness the dawn of the #girldad, the think pieces about new frontiers in hands-on fatherhood, the mainstream rejection of the withholding, stoic paterfamilias archetype. And, yet, I’ve never been bombarded with so much frothy anxiety around masculinity and testosterone. In an age of declining global birthrates, it is, in the eyes of figures such as Elon Musk, about fathering, rather than fatherhood.

Perhaps it’s safest to keep expectations low. For a while, Sarah Blaffer Hrdy, a professor emerita of anthropology at the University of California, Davis, hewed to the belief that males were simply wired differently; one of her initial forays into academic research explored the penchant for infanticide among male langur monkeys. She spent much of her career studying the behaviors of primates, particularly the reproductive and resilient survival strategies of females. In 1981, she published “The Woman That Never Evolved,” which argued that traditional views on evolutionary biology hadn’t accounted for the ways in which female primates had developed instincts for competition, independence, and sexual assertiveness. In 1999, she published “Mother Nature,” a history of mothers and infants, in which she explored the idea of the “allomother,” a term she popularized to refer to anyone other than the birth mother who helps to care for an infant.

“Father Time,” Hrdy’s latest book, picks up where “Mother Nature” and “Mothers and Others,” published in 2009, left off. Her interest lies in how external forces shape what’s happening inside our bodies, and vice versa. She contends that the emergence of more egalitarian norms of parenthood aren’t just changing society; they could change the biochemical makeup of men, too.

Hrdy writes of the researchers Katherine Wynne-Edwards and Anne Storey, whose “shared interest in what renders males caring” spanned species. Wynne-Edwards had studied the mating habits of Campbell’s dwarf hamsters, found in China, Russia, and Central Asia. Male hamsters don’t just stick around pregnant females—already a rarity—they are integral parts of the birthing process, nuzzling with their partners and “oh so delicately” assisting with delivery. Wynne-Edwards found that levels of prolactin, a hormone that’s responsible for lactation and that affects a mammal’s immune system and metabolism, rose in the male hamster as his mate’s pregnancy progressed.

Storey’s work focussed on female meadow voles, which seem to be capable of spontaneous abortion if they sense danger—by catching a “whiff of pheromone from a strange male,” for example. Storey wondered how females determined whether prospective mates would respond “aggressively or benignly” toward her pups, and what behaviors could turn disinterested male fathers into nurturers. Key to her study was the idea of “sensitization,” first described in the nineteen-thirties, when researchers had noticed that male mice would either attack or ignore unexpected pups. Over time, presented with pup after pup, the mice began to tolerate, and eventually care for, them. This sustained, intimate exposure had profound effects. “Even without the hormonal priming of pregnancy and birth,” Hrdy writes, “the neuroendocrine pathways for nurturing . . . could also be activated in male or female group members other than the mother.”

Wynne-Edwards and Storey began exploring these dynamics among humans in the nineteen-nineties, discovering that the prolactin levels of expectant fathers rose in the weeks before their partners were to give birth; as Wynne-Edwards explained, these men could “experience a muted version of the endocrine changes of pregnancy.” At the time, few studies had focussed on the hormonal changes undergone by new fathers. Research by Ruth Feldman in the twenty-tens showed that levels of oxytocin, a hormone which contributes to feelings of security and intimate warmth, rose in new fathers, as well.

These examples of changing neuroendocrinology—or brain regulation of the body’s hormonal activity—confirmed something that Hrdy had noticed in her own life. While the book draws on her academic expertise, it was also inspired by changes she noticed within her own family. When she and her husband had their first child, she doted on her daughter, keeping her close by as often as possible. Although her husband wasn’t much for “hands-on care,” he was far more engaged than most “professional men” of their generation. By the time they became grandparents, she was in awe of how intensely engaged fathers had become. “From the first hour after birth,” she writes, her son-in-law “took on equal, sometimes more than equal, responsibility for his son.”

These stories—and the occasional family photo—are threaded through a broader story about mammalian evolution. To a lay reader, some of Hrdy’s examples can be hard to appreciate as anything more than a memorable anecdote. But patterns emerge, as well as a sense that parental roles are less fixed than we might assume. “Anthropologists have long been aware that societies where men spend more time in contact with mothers and children are less bellicose and exhibit lower rates of violence,” Hrdy writes. “Social psychologists tell us that men exposed to cues from babies tend to be more other-regarding and generous.” Presumably, this might have something to do with the fact that new fathers experience a decline in levels of testosterone, the hormone often attributed with combativeness and competitiveness. How might a future of more baby-exposed men evolve norms around masculinity and manhood? All of a sudden, Hrdy seems to suggest, our culture’s obsession with testosterone seems not just peculiar—maybe it’s against nature.

There’s something faintly reassuring about the trajectory of Hrdy’s book, her optimistic perspective about how fatherhood among humans might continue to evolve. She writes approvingly of a survey that showed that nine out of ten American fathers living with one or more children under the age of five had helped bathe, diaper, dress, or assist them in the bathroom several times a week, if not every day. And yet hopping over low bars can feel a bit like a scam, a kind of patriarchy multiplier effect, where men get extra credit simply for not being awful.

I became a very different person when I became a parent. Once nonplussed about the choices of others, I now push unsolicited advice (but only about parenting). Where I once felt drawn to radical, improvisatory models of life and art, expediency—and a selfish desire for more sleep—dragged me back down to the most tried-and-true scripts. And, rather than nurturing my private neuroses, fashioning them into an engine of sorts, I’m now too tired to reflect deeply on any aspects of the self, positive or negative. There are also many aspects of being a dad that felt instantly natural to me—the hats, the jokes, the cautionary, look-both-ways ethos.

But I’ve never been too curious about the general experience of fatherhood, partly because it seems to change every day. One moment, you’re hyper-attuned to the frequency of your child’s specific cry, and you find it comforting that you know them so well; a short while later you’ve reverted to finding all children’s cries annoying. There was a fleeting moment when I thought my son had somehow acquired a singular sense of taste, preferring the Cure to “Baby Shark,” through no compulsion on my part. A week when I feared that our lax attitude toward “tummy time” had done irreparable damage on his ability to dribble a soccer ball; turns out he simply couldn’t be bothered. I still wonder if he might not actually be left-handed.

Except for this last one, none of these micro-periodizations really mattered in the long run. Once my son ceased to be a surface for projection, it felt like a charade to assume he was ever so moldable. (Another truism: the days are slow, while the years are fast.) The inner tumult of the contemporary dad, full of unprecedented new highs, lows, and targets for neurotic speculation, is the subject of Lucas Mann’s “Attachments: Essays on Fatherhood and Other Performances.” It is an intense, poetic, and almost uncomfortably honest book about what he describes as the “mundane enormous terror of watching a child grow.”

Mann, who has previously published books about minor-league baseball, reality TV, and the effects of addiction on his own family, writes with a mix of bliss and dread, all of it suffused with a relentless sense of self-scrutiny. Like many in their mid-thirties or forties, cis-het men with progressive viewpoints and vaguely middle-class leanings, he aspires for an approach to fatherhood in rough agreement with his politics. And, throughout “Attachments,” he returns to the various forces that prepared him for this moment—the signals from society, the novels or art works that once gave him pause, the examples of friends and family—until he realizes that none of it properly readied him for the work at hand.

In the eight years I’ve been a dad, the past four of which have finally afforded me the time to return to nonessential reading, I’ve largely avoided books like “Attachments.” They were about episodes of life that were either too far in the rearview (why would I want to experience sleep-training again?) or too imminent—I’d rather go at things spoiler-free. Perhaps what I was resisting was the way in which a book about fatherhood is also, inevitably, a book about masculinity and social expectation, as well as nostalgia and family, real estate and taxes, and the reproduction of privilege, all things I think about, anyway. Third-grade homework is hard enough.

Mann tries his best to keep those larger anxieties at bay. And so, before all that: the fantasies of who a child might become. Perhaps this is the last time that a life can seem so wide-open, since yours no longer is. “In this fantasy,” Mann writes, one of a series, “it’s Wimbledon,” and his daughter is seeking him out in the crowd. In another, he imagines her wedding toast; in another he is dying; in yet another, he becomes “a different type of person,” and imagines almost assaulting someone who has hurt her. “I lose her in the crowd at the largest march I’ve ever seen,” he writes, “not in a scary way, just like I’m no longer needed; the top of her head is one of many, then it’s gone.”

Writers are probably more invested than the average person in capturing the everyday in words. And one of the book’s most powerful motifs is Mann’s confrontation with the limitations of language. We want to cordon off our own, unique experience of a larger cliché. He writes of a “banal observation” that he includes as a caption to an Instagram post, and how it still “feels more important and real to me than anything else I could write, despite its speed and ease and exact similarity to the posts of every other parent I know.” He muses on an argument with his students about “Harry Potter,” which worms toward some thoughts on loneliness—until thoughts of his daughter’s “toothless smile” intrude. “There is nothing good enough and also nothing new to say about what this feels like.”

There’s a free-associative, digressive quality to Mann’s book, until the moments when he seems interrupted by insight, the equivalent of a child screaming during your important Zoom meeting. A reminder, on the page, that time is no longer yours. He listens through the door as his wife reads “Goodnight Moon” just before bedtime and, somewhat inexplicably, begins contemplating those other parents who boast of their children’s love of Kendrick Lamar, “which I think is such a transparent projection of the people they want to be onto a small, blank semi-human that hasn’t yet had the chance to become corny like them.” This spirals into anxiety about how quickly he has defaulted to singing “the least controversial Bob Marley songs to his baby,” a kind of self-consciousness he wasn’t prepared for. Meanwhile, mother continues to read, daughter continues to live in a state of bliss.

Becoming a parent creates a new context for Mann’s “writing life,” within which he’s always been able to impose “order and calm” on the page. Of course, this is a different kind of book from his previous ones, filled with attempts to capture a blur, a character whose personality changes by the second. The perspective ranges from the small and acute to the general and all-subsuming. He’s particularly curious about the new scripts we’ve been given as enlightened fathers—in his case, the celebration of the #girldad, a figure meant to stand in defiance of stereotypes and stigmas. He describes a moment when a stranger high-fives him in the bathroom as they’ve both got their daughters to pee, and wonders about the substance of this solidarity. “Helping keep a kid alive shouldn’t be, isn’t, enough to foster a coherent collective point of view,” he writes.

Mann sounds like a very thoughtful parent—one of the good ones. But he’s attuned to how the new norms of good parenting (good fathering, especially) fall short. While there are serious, necessary cultural conversations about the sacrifices of motherhood, Mann finds that the world of the “online dad” often defaults to irony, laughing at the dad who acts like a “total prick” and indulging in “at least we’re not that” grandstanding. What passes as honesty among fathers, Mann writes, obscures an enduring difficulty to fully acknowledge insecurity or inadequacy, fear or doubt. Instead, he writes, there’s the archetype of the bored dad, a kind of humblebrag that one is excessively present, to the point where there’s little to actually do. “Boredom,” which “occupies outsized space particularly in the language of dads . . . because boredom is a riskless emotion—not even an emotion, but rather a way of articulating the opposite of whatever seriousness the presence of emotion implies.” You start to wonder if we’re just doomed to the old clichés.

An evolutionary scientist like Hrdy might say we’re already doing good by looking to parenthood as a source of meaning and fulfillment—perhaps we are changing our own biochemistry. But the broader, mammalian crawl toward new norms doesn’t provide much solace in the here and now. I remember a moment of crisis, explaining to my son that I’d never been a parent before—that we were learning how to be parent and child together—and the look of terror on his face. I’d told him, possibly ten years too early, that adults don’t have all the answers.

Whereas “Father Time” is written with a kind of late-career retrospection, “Attachments” finds Mann at a professional crossroads. He writes movingly of a moment, while visiting his parents, when his daughter sees a newspaper clipping announcing his first book, published in 2013, years before she was alive. “I hadn’t thought of myself as the person in that picture in a long time, hadn’t written a word in even longer, and had gotten most of the way to a fabrication of my personality in which I would disappear professionally, dedicate my life only to her care, and be fine with it. In an instant, that was gone.”

Perhaps this is the most destabilizing way in which parents might become different people after children enter their lives—we move forward by forgetting as much as we remember. Some of it is by necessity. My wife once speculated that forgetting must be evolutionary, for, if women could recall the gruesome exertions of childbirth, they would never want to do it again. And some of it is just a reëvaluation of what we once thought mattered. Mann recalls attending a dinner with some esteemed writers, and reflecting on the culture of artists, usually men, obsessed with suffering, reaching “for a darkness that feels ancient, mythic.” These were not men like Elon Musk fretting about virility as some bulwark against extinction. But they held a view of what made art serious or meaningful that no longer spoke to Mann.

At some point when my son was two or three, I read an article about when we are truly ourselves. I seem to recall that the author was discussing questions of how we might protect ourselves from the constant onslaught of information and expectation. It took me a while to finish reading it, since my son kept interrupting; I was initially annoyed. But then the notion of figuring out my true self independent of another’s minute-by-minute needs was not a question I’d be able to ponder for some time, if ever again. One of the most difficult things to teach a child is the size and scale of the world, its age and density, the speed at which humans adapt to convenience. (Often, this comes up when my son gripes that YouTube is loading too slowly.) Mann considers what it means for a child to grow into vast, unimaginable contexts. “She doesn’t have a frame of reference for what is worthy of wonder, what is saddled with the weight of former commonness, what she should feel lucky to see, what she can see every day until she stops looking, what she might never see again.” It’s a line that’s at once innocent and weighty, rejoicing in his daughter’s bright, child-size vision while lamenting its inevitable loss. Mann’s horizons are different now. The old ways of thinking about art or being a man no longer hold purchase; they might soon be forgotten. He is her father, yet she is his teacher. 

[feyburner]

hey man do you have any banging cinnamon recipes

Yes! Below are my recipes for Monkey Bread and Gooey Cinnamon Rolls.

They use the same enriched dough for a base. You can also use this dough for cinnamon babka, other types of sweet rolls or buns, etc.

Also here’s some recipes I want to try:

- Brown Sugar Cinnamon Shortbread (made this, it rocked)

- Cinnamon Roll Focaccia

- Pumpkin Cinnamon Sourdough

- Coffee Cake (King Arthur’s Recipe of the Year!)

Also check the giant apple pop tart thing I made in a recent post tagged “food” it was so good.

MONKEY BREAD

MAKES: 1 bundt pan (if no bundt pan, use 9x13” pan)

INGREDIENTS

DOUGH

3 ½ cups (420g) AP or bread flour

2 ¼ tsp (1 packet, 7g) instant or active dry yeast

1 cup (227g) full-fat milk, warm

2 Tbsp (25g) sugar

2 Tbsp (28g) butter, melted

1 egg, beaten

1 tsp kosher salt

CINNAMON SUGAR

½ cup (100g) white sugar

1 Tbsp cinnamon

BUTTERSCOTCH SAUCE

1 cup (200g) brown sugar

½ cup (113g) butter

1 tsp salt

¼ cup heavy cream or evaporated milk

DIRECTIONS

In a large bowl (or the bowl of a stand mixer), whisk together yeast, milk, and sugar. Cover and let sit 5 minutes until frothy, then whisk in butter, egg, and salt.

Add flour and mix for 2-3 minutes to form a very moist, sticky dough.

Let dough sit untouched in bowl 5 minutes so flour absorbs moisture. After resting, dough will pretty much immediately be smooth and workable instead of too sticky.

Transfer dough on a clean, floured surface. Sprinkle flour over the top. Knead, dusting lightly with flour as needed, until dough is soft, smooth, elastic, and springs back to form in 2-3 seconds when poked, 6-7 minutes.

1st Rise: Cover and let rise 1.5-2 hours until doubled in size.

Near the end of 1st Rise: Grease a bundt pan. Combine cinnamon sugar ingredients in a bowl.

Make butterscotch sauce: In a saucepan, combine brown sugar, butter, and salt. Bring to a boil over medium heat, whisking frequently. Turn off heat. Slowly pour in heavy cream (it will froth and spit). Stir until smooth. Put back on the heat until it reaches 240°. Then set aside.

Once dough is risen, pinch off bits the size of donut holes. Roll each dough ball liberally in the cinnamon sugar, then drop into pan. Halfway through, pour ½ of the warm butterscotch sauce over the dough balls. Reserve the other half. Sprinkle any leftover cinnamon sugar over the dough balls at the end.

2nd Rise (Proof): Cover and let rise until visibly puffy, 20-30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 350°. Once dough is proofed, pour remaining ½ of butterscotch sauce over the top. Shake gently to make sure sauce sinks to the bottom.

Bake 35-40 minutes until top is a deep golden brown.

Let rest in the pan 15 minutes. Then carefully flip monkey bread onto a large plate. (If you remove too early, the sauce will be runny. If you remove too late, it will stick instead of coming out easily.)

Serve warm.

NOTES

- Butterscotch is just caramel but with brown sugar instead of white.

- Many recipes use a simple butter and brown sugar sauce, but it can result in a grainy, crystallized texture. Add cream and heat all the way to 240° to get a gooey, silky caramel texture.

GOOEY CINNAMON ROLLS

MAKES: 12 rolls (1 x 9x13” pan)

INGREDIENTS

DOUGH

3 ½ cups (420g) AP or bread flour

2 ¼ tsp (1 packet, 7g) instant or active dry yeast

1 cup (227g) full-fat milk, warm

2 Tbsp (25g) sugar

2 Tbsp (28g) butter, melted

1 egg, beaten

1 tsp kosher salt

FILLING

1 cup (200g) brown sugar

½ cup (113g) butter, very soft

2 Tbsp cinnamon

optional: 1 cup chopped walnuts

+

½ cup heavy cream or full-fat milk, warmed right before rolls go in the oven

optional: Vanilla Glaze (1 cup powdered sugar, 1-2 Tbsp milk, 1 tsp vanilla. Stir until smooth.)

DIRECTIONS

In a large bowl (or the bowl of a stand mixer), whisk together yeast, milk, and sugar. Cover and let sit 5 minutes until frothy, then whisk in butter, egg, and salt.

Add flour and mix for 2-3 minutes to form a very moist, sticky dough.

Let dough sit untouched in bowl 5 minutes so flour absorbs moisture. After resting, dough will pretty much immediately be smooth and workable instead of too sticky.

Transfer dough on a clean, floured surface. Sprinkle flour over the top. Knead, dusting lightly with flour as needed, until dough is soft, smooth, elastic, and springs back to form in 2-3 seconds when poked, 6-7 minutes.

1st Rise: Cover and let rise 1 hour until larger (if not doubled) in size.

Make filling: Beat all ingredients together into a smooth, dark paste.

Roll out dough: On a clean, floured surface, roll out dough into a large, ½”-thick rectangle about the size of a baking sheet, 12x17”. The thickness is more important than the size.

Spread filling over the dough in an even layer. Leave ½” of space at the edges, and 2” of space along the bottom for easy sealing. (If using walnuts, sprinkle over top.)

Starting at the top, tightly roll up the dough lengthwise. It helps to start in the upper corner and go sideways first, then straighten out. Roll tightly to avoid gaps. Pinch the dough to seal along the seam.

Using a large, sharp knife or unflavored dental floss, slice the roll into 12 pieces. If they get a bit misshapen, just pat back into shape as you go. They don’t have to be perfectly round.

Proof: Arrange the rolls in the pan. Cover and let proof for 30 minutes until puffier.

Preheat oven to 375°.

Pour the warm cream or milk over the tops of the proofed rolls, letting it pool in the bottom of the pan.

Bake the rolls for 25-30 minutes until the tops are golden brown.

Let rest in the pan for 15 minutes before removing. If using Vanilla Glaze, drizzle over the rolls while they’re warm but not hot.

NOTES

- Same dough as Monkey Bread. I’ve experimented with richer enriched doughs (most recipes use more sugar and 2 eggs in the dough) but I tend to find them too cakey. I prefer a soft, almost stretchy, bready cinnamon roll.

- Pouring warm milk over the rolls before baking = soft, moist, and gooey.

- I’ve found that baking at 350 takes too long for the tops to get golden brown. I go for a higher temp (I’ve gone up to 400) to avoid overbaking.

[bright-eyed]

STILLWATER COVE

by Ada Limón

It seemed a furtive magic— sun ricocheting off cresting waves near Stillwater Cove, the soft rock cliffs

of sandstone and clay, the wind-tilted cypress trees leaning toward the blue Pacific—and it was only you

who'd see them. A migrating pod of gray whales going northward, new calves in tow, shooting a spray of frothy

expelled water from their blowholes and making a show of breaching in the clear spring air off the coastline.

We'd whine that we never caught a glimpse of a slick back or tail slap, nary a spy-hopping head raised

above the swirling surface. Too young to look outward for long, we'd lower our eyes toward what lived small,

the alligator lizard in the coyote brush, the bracken fern, orange monkey flower, the beach fly, the earwig, the tick.

It was your trick, always a whale as soon as our heads went down. Had to have been a lie: they'd come up

while we zeroed in on Mexican sage or the monarch. Distracted by the evidence of life at our feet,

we had no time for the waiting that was required. To watch the waves until the whales surfaced

seemed a maddening task. Now, I am in the inland air that smells of smoke and gasoline, the trees blown leafless by

wind. Could you refuse me if I asked you to point again at the horizon, to tell me something was worth waiting for?

[slvmbvr]

You swine. You vulgar little maggot. You worthless bag of filth. As they say in Texas. I’ll bet you couldn’t pour !@#$ out of a boot with instructions on the heel. You are a canker. A sore that won’t go away. I would rather kiss a lawyer than be seen with you.

You’re a putrescent mass, a walking vomit. You are a spineless little worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. You are a jerk, a cad, a weasel. Your life is a monument to stupidity. You are a stench, a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon.

You are a bleating foal, a curdled staggering mutant dwarf smeared richly with the effluvia and offal accompanying your alleged birth into this world. An insensate, blinking calf, meaningful to nobody, abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling beasts who sired you and then killed themselves in recognition of what they had done.

I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformation. I barf at the very thought of you. You have all the appeal of a paper cut. Lepers avoid you. You are vile, worthless, less than nothing. You are a weed, a fungus, the dregs of this earth. And did I mention you smell?

Try to edit your responses of unnecessary material before attempting to impress us with your insight. The evidence that you are a nincompoop will still be available to readers, but they will be able to access it more rapidly.

You snail-skulled little rabbit. Would that a hawk pick you up, drive its beak into your brain, and upon finding it rancid set you loose to fly briefly before spattering the ocean rocks with the frothy pink shame of your ignoble blood. May you choke on the queasy, convulsing nausea of your own trite, foolish beliefs.

You are weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. You are grimy, squalid, nasty and profane. You are foul and disgusting. You’re a fool, an ignoramus. Monkeys look down on you. Even sheep won’t have sex with you. You are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in a land that reality forgot.

And what meaning do you expect your delusional self-important statements of unknowing, inexperienced opinion to have with us? What fantasy do you hold that you would believe that your tiny-fisted tantrums would have more weight than that of a leprous desert rat, spinning rabidly in a circle, waiting for the bite of the snake?

You are a waste of flesh. You have no rhythm. You are ridiculous and obnoxious. You are the moral[size] equivalent of a leech. You are a living emptiness, a meaningless void. You are sour and senile. You are a disease, you puerile one-handed slack-jawed drooling meat slapper.

On a good day you’re a half-wit. You remind me of drool. You are deficient in all that lends character. You have the personality of wallpaper. You are dank and filthy. You are asinine and benighted. You are the source of all unpleasantness. You spread misery and sorrow wherever you go.

You smarmy lager lout git. You bloody woofter sod. Bugger off, pillock. You grotty wanking oink artless base-court apple-john. You clouted boggish foot-licking twit. You dankish clack-dish plonker. You gormless crook-pated tosser. You churlish boil-brained clotpole ponce. You cockered bum-bailey poofter. You craven dewberry pisshead cockup pratting naff. You gob-kissing gleeking flap-mouthed coxcomb. You dread-bolted fobbing beef-witted clapper-clawed flirt-gill. You are a fiend and a coward, and you have bad breath. You are degenerate, noxious and depraved. I feel debased just for knowing you exist. I despise everything about you, and I wish you would go away.

I cannot believe how incredibly stupid you are. I mean rock-hard stupid. Dehydrated-rock-hard stupid. Stupid so stupid that it goes way beyond the stupid we know into a whole different dimension of stupid. You are trans-stupid stupid. Meta-stupid. Stupid collapsed on itself so far that even the neutrons have collapsed. Stupid gotten so dense that no intellect can escape. Singularity stupid. Blazing hot mid-day sun on Mercury stupid.

You emit more stupid in one second than our entire galaxy emits in a year. Quasar stupid. Your writing has to be a troll. Nothing in our universe can really be this stupid. Perhaps this is some primordial fragment from the original big bang of stupid. Some pure essence of a stupid so uncontaminated by anything else as to be beyond the laws of physics that we know. I’m sorry. I can’t go on. This is an epiphany of stupid for me. After this, you may not hear from me again for a while. I don’t have enough strength left to deride your ignorant questions and half baked comments about unimportant trivia, or any of the rest of this drivel. Duh.

The only thing worse than your logic is your manners. I have snipped away most of what you wrote, because, well... it didn’t really say anything. Your attempt at constructing a creative flame was pitiful. I mean, really, stringing together a bunch of insults among a load of babbling was hardly effective... Maybe later in life, after you have learned to read, write, spell, and count, you will have more success.

True, these are rudimentary skills that many of us ”normal” people take for granted that everyone has an easy time of mastering. But we sometimes forget that there are ”challenged” persons in this world who find these things more difficult. If I had known that this was your case then I would have never read your post. It just wouldn’t have been ”right”. Sort of like parking in a handicap space. I wish you the best of luck in the emotional, and social struggles that seem to be placing such a demand on you.

P.S.: You are hypocritical, greedy, violent, malevolent, vengeful, cowardly, deadly, mendacious, meretricious, loathsome, despicable, belligerent, opportunistic, barratrous, contemptible, criminal, fascistic, bigoted, racist, sexist, avaricious, tasteless, idiotic, brain-damaged, imbecilic, insane, arrogant, deceitful, demented, lame, self-righteous, byzantine, conspiratorial, satanic, fraudulent, libelous, bilious, splenetic, spastic, ignorant, clueless, illegitimate, harmful, destructive, dumb, evasive, double-talking, devious, revisionist, narrow, manipulative, paternalistic, fundamentalist, dogmatic, idolatrous, unethical, cultic, diseased, suppressive, controlling, restrictive, malignant, deceptive, dim, crazy, weird, dystopic, stifling, uncaring, plantigrade, grim, unsympathetic, jargon-spouting, censorious, secretive, aggressive, mind-numbing, arassive, poisonous, flagrant, self-destructive, abusive, socially-retarded, puerile, clueless, and generally NOT GOOD.

I know u got this off a google. I've used it before. AND U WERE WITH ME WHEN I USED IT @myguumi

[nigrit]

Anon [Louis de Champcenetz?], The War of the Districts, or the Flight of Marat, Heroi-comical poem in three cantos (Paris: n.p., July? 1790)

Part 4 (of 5)

Last Canto:

“When the sun that lights our way,

Near SAINT-MANDÉ

Had flooded all of PARIS,

With its quicksilver light:

Five to six large battalions

Followed by two squadrons,

Silently advanced

Into OBSERVANCE.

BAILLY knowing the moment

When the troops would be assembling,

Is chatting with his wife,

Who fancies herself a fine lady,

While pouring out the tea,

With a fair degree of glee.

‘MARAT’, she says, ‘will be captured,

How my heart is enraptured!

He sought out of his own vanity

To tarnish your immortality;

But the die is cast.’

‘Oh! my loyal spouse!’

He says to her so tenderly

Promptly back to Mr Mayor;

‘Your speech is quite delightful,

I want to have a child with you.

I find you quite an eyeful,

How I long for you anew.'

‘Moderate your friendship’,

His chaste half says to he;

‘I'm not some flirting girouette,

Just wait until la FAYETTE

Has the rascal under lock and key;’

BAILLY says, ‘I want it desperately.’

NECKER who shines with virtue,

Between his daughter & his wife,

Tasted at that moment

The best day of his life.

‘We will let the joker rot

In the corner of some cell.

He attacks my writings,

He covers me with spleen;

Me! whose noble role

Shines so brightlyeverywhere:

Me! Minister Supreme,

Getting vexed by MARAT.’

STAËL (1) the proud ambassadress,

Felt a noble wrath,

Which made her jaundice blush,

‘My father, console yourself;

I wish to make a satire [1]

Against all the insolent wretches

Which your great talents censor

And dare to slander you.

My dear NARBONNE LARA (2)

Shall help me with this work.

GUIBERT (3) could have done it,

His pen is quite light,

But he no longer knows how to please me;

And in my daring pamphlets

I shall crush CHAMPCENETZ (4),[2]

This caustic character

Whose teasing I detest.’

Her mother, reacting to her zeal,

Addresses both, ‘My children,

For that is what you are;

And when I look at you;

My heart is like my eyes;

I confuse you with each other.

Reflect well upon our glory;

And use the écritoire; [3]

Because it is by this weapon,

That this great Minister is here.

The patriotic horde

Of the MERCIERS & GUDINS, (5)

Avenge us every morning,

From the famished horde

Who crawl under DESMOULINS (a):

Their pension is not enough;

But to defeat the MARATS,

We have the proud escort

Of the SUARDS & GARATS (6).

And if we need more ducats

For this miserly cohort;

Pay them, it’s no big deal,

Since we are not short.

But let’s consider something else,

Without any mystery.

MARAT is almost in the clink;

So let’s restore ourselves with a dose

Of this frothy cocoa drink.”

However in the meantime.

The Cordeliers District,

Had armed its warriors.

With very many carts,

And those carriages one hails,

The passages are blocked,

And the guns are loaded.

But lest anyone break through

The passage du Commerce,

Two cannons are placed there

With two or three platoons.

By the door, no carriage arch,

To MARAT’S humble dwelling,

Are placed thirty grenadiers,

With fifty riflemen.

Supported fromthe riverside,

The SAINT SEVERIN District

Has prepared its terrain. [4]

When arriving from behind,

The SAINT MARCEL District,

Came to unfurl its banner

In the Place SAINT MICHEL.

NAUDET the great Captain,

Fearing a flanking move

Protected Luxembourg.

D’ANTON, this other TURENNE, [5]

Followed by some warriors,

Visited all the neighbourhoods;

Putting himself out of breath;

Encouraging the soldiery

To defend MARAT well.

Such glory & such fame

Are not acquired without pain!

Father GOD, Cordelier,

Would show no mercy.

But hidden in his attic

Monsieur FABRE D’EGLANTINE

Seeing the civil war

Quivered from head to toe;

More than if he saw the faces

Of the Bailiffs & recorders

Coming to sing his morning prayers.[6]

WASHINGTON’S monkey,

Surrounded by a battalion

And all these subalterns,

Went off prancing,

And nearly grazed in passing

The lampposts & the ropes,

Where he let a treacherous mob

String up poor FOULON. [7]

He sees that canons have been placed

On every avenue;

And that the end of every street

Armed like a bastion,

Contains a large battalion:

This troubles his genius,

And his soul is less bold

BARNAVE is quite astonished;

He was determined

To act like he’d done at Versailles;

But to risk battle and die!

D'AIGUILLON, gasping for air

From his fishwife attire

Flees at the double,

Escorted by the rabble. [8]

Brave like RODOMONT,[9]

Suddenly without any warning,

Henri SALM & Jacques AUMONT (7)

Go off to explore;

Everywhere are large platoons:

So Henri says to Jacques;

‘My dear friend, let’s decamp;

Let's not start the attack;

Don’t you see those big canons?’

‘Well said, let’s retreat’;

Jacques immediately replies;

‘Soldiers! Half turn to the right.

The obedient troops

In such pressing danger,

Turn round to find LA FAYETTE;

Whose stunned expression,

Dismayed the proud AUMONT,

And his brave companion.

Bold like NICOMEDES (b)

VILLETTE (8), finding himself there, [10]

Suggests a remedy for the ill.

‘This is really no big deal;

Trickery is as useful in war,

As in love, thank God!

We must outflank the enemy,

And attack it from behind.

On more than one occasion

FREDERIC (c) did the same.

But the assembled Troops

Keep watch and fall silent:

When at this moment,

The mistress of MARAT,

A sturdy chambermaid

And formerconventgatekeeper(9) [11]

Whose eye sparkles bright,

Addresses this prayer,

To the most unfortunate Lover,

Who is causing all her grief.

‘Do you want to be murdered?

Or even in a prison cell,

Without your JAVOTTE, starving [12]

On a shabby straw mat,

Do you want to be confined?

Take my headscarf, my petticoat,

And my cotton kerchief;

I will wear your breeches,

And followed by your JAVOTTE,

Whom they will mistake for a boy,

We will go far from the city

And find another home.

Do you wish to see Paris burn

For a few worthless lines?’

MARAT did not wish to know

But the clever maid

Crying and sobbing,

Knew how to soften up her beau.

‘I'm not worth that much blood,’

Says MARAT, in sensitive mood;

‘Let’s leave the city calm;

And swop our clothes at once;

We can do anything with love.”

This noble disguise

Was done in a trice.

Descending from their attic, [13]

They pass through the Soldiers

Without any hesitation,

And make their way outside.

Arm in arm, the couple

Lengthened their stride;[14]

When on a street corner

They find brother GRUE (10),

A subaltern, but strongwilled  [15]

Who recognizes them at once…

He did not cry out in wonder,

But whispers in their ear:

‘You’re doing well,

Go now, have no fear,

Once you're in the clear

I’ll do what needs to be done.’

MARAT responds at once,

‘It’s to spare the blood

Of a District I revere,

That I’m wearing a white petticoat,

Farewell, my reverend frère.

The subaltern Cordelier,

Fearing some grapeshot

Might start the fight;

Cried out across the neighbourhood

In a loud, booming voice:

‘MARAT has chosen his story,

He fled a long time ago.’

They did not want to believe it;

D’ANTON, wanting all the glory

Sends a detachment,

To thoroughly search

His whole apartment,

And assure their escape.

He knew everything in a flash. [16]

Once peace was resolved.

Brother GRUE was dispatched

Towards the great General,

Who welcomed his Ambassador

In a most friendly manner,

And gave him a warm hug.

Immediately, from both sides

The retreat was rung;

And the delighted Bourgeois,

All cried out, PEACE IS DONE.

But dark CRUELTY,

Indignant & furious

At such a treaty,

Quickly takes flight;

And in her fearsome rage

Hastens to the Châtelet

To ponder some misdeed.

STUPIDITY, now more tranquil

Lingered within the Hotel de Ville.

Thus ended, without a melée,

But not without a dumb display,

The adventure of Marat. [17]

Notes to the Last Canto:

(1) Baroness DE STAËL is not unworthy of her father & her mother, she has as much intelligence as beauty; everyone knows that.

(2) Comte Louis DE NARBONNE had left Mademoiselle CONTAT for Madame de STAËL, but, like ANTHONY, he kept returning to CLEOPATRA & the Actress prevailed over the Ambassadress.[18]

(3) Comte DE GUIBERT had been dumped by Madame de STAËL; such a loss consoled him for all his disgrace. [19]

(4) The Marquis de CHAMPCENETZ is the Ambassadress’s nemesis because of this famous epigram which has been falsely attributed to him, & which he has the candour to disavow: [20]

ARMANDE holds in her mind everything she’s read,

ARMANDE has acquired a scorn for charms;

She fears the mocker whom she constantly inspires,

She avoids the lover who does not seek her.

Since she lacks the art of concealing her face,

And she is eager to display her intellect;

One must challenge her to cease being wise,

And to understand what she says. [21]

(5) Bribed writers.

(6) Ditto. [22]

(7) The Prince of SALM & the DUC D'AUMONT sign their names democratically, just as they are written in the poem, which is quite ridiculous.[23] The poor devils are taking revenge for the contempt they have always inspired in honest people & have mingled effortlessly with the rabble.

(8) All Paris knows about VILLETTE, a retroactive citizen. VOLTAIRE died inconsolable for having praised him. [24]

(9) Indeed, MARAT's mistress was a novice in a convent from where she was taken by our hero. [25]

(10) Brother GRUE, the heavyweight of the adventure, is a jolly good fellow who does not lack common sense, & to whom the Cordeliers district owes a statue; but the multitude is ungrateful.[26]

(a) Antagonist of Mr. Necker

(b) The King of Bithynia

(c) The late King of Prussia.

[1] ‘Satyre’ usually refers to the part human, part goat creature, known for revelry and bad behaviour. Possibly a pun, referring to both ‘satire’ and Mme de Stael’s ‘ugliness’, whose masculine looks were frequently commented on by contemporaries.

[2] Champcenetz often inserted himself in the third person into his own compositions.

[3] “Monsieur de Saint-Ecritoire” was Necker’s nickname for his beloved daughter, Herold (1958), p.66. Ecritoire was a portable, hinged desk set.

[4] Actually, it was the militant Saint-Antoine district that Danton threatened to summons into action as backup. Saint-Severin provided a contingent of National Guards for Lafayette’s expedition. See Babut, pp.284-85.

[5] Henri de la Tour d’Auvergne, vicomte de Turenne was a Marshal General of France from the 17th century, renowned for retaking Paris from the Prince de Condé during the civil wars of the Fronde.

[6] Fabre d’Eglantine had been a target for earlier lampoons by Rivarol & Champcenetz in their Le Petit Almanach de nos grands hommes pour l’année 1788 (1788) and Petit Dictionnaire des grands hommes de la Révolution (Aug 1790). Fabre d’Eglantine, who lived four doors away from Marat on 12 rue de l’Ancienne-Comedie, was Danton’s right-hand man and vice-president of the Cordeliers district assembly at this time. While Paré was president (Danton having served from October to December), the district was still effectively under Danton’s control, and Danton was re-elected president on 31 March.

[7] Joseph Foullon de Doué, who replaced Jacques Necker as Controller-General of finances, was deeply unpopular with the Parisians. He was lynched “à la lanterne” on 22 July 1789, and his head stuck on a pike with his mouth stuffed with straw, following a widespread rumour that he had said, “let them eat hay!”.

[8] Armand de Vignerot du Plessis, duc d’Aiguillon had been the wealthiest man in France after the king before sacrificing his title to all his feudal properties on 4 August 1789 and losing over 100,000 livres in rents. Despite having planned to launch the initiative during the debate on renunciation of noble privileges, the considerably less wealthy vicomte de Noailles beat him to the punch in a bid for popularity! Nevertheless, d’Aiguillon’s gesture had a massive impact, and his gesture became the signal for similar sacrifices, escalating events much further along than anticipated. As a result, disgusted royalists, especially from the Actes des apôtres and Gautier’s Journal general de la Cour et de la Ville, depicted him dressed as a poissarde (fisherwoman) leading a battalion of tough dames from Les Halles during the October Days march. Barnave was depicted in similar fashion. In fact, transvestism was frequently deployed in royalist lampoons, as we shall see in the later description of Marat’s escape.

[9] Rodomonte was a major character, renowned for his bravery and arrogance, in Ludovico Ariosto’s 16th-century romantic, epic poems, Orlando innamorato & Orlando furioso.

[10] While the marquis de Villette was the commandant of the Cordeliers district battalion, he opposed Danton’s wish to defend Marat, and had suggested arresting him themselves. Because of the Cordeliers’ own arreté from 19 January insisting on district autonomy, he explained to Lafyette’s commander, Gonsault de Plainville, that he must remain neutral but later thanked him for ridding the district of a “mauvais sujet”. The other battalion commander present was Carle from the Henri IV district. See Babut, p.285

[11] See later note for likely explanation of the convent reference. At this time Marat had a young assistant, Victoire Nayait, who liaised with local printers. This might also explain the erroneous reference to chambermaid.

[12] Javotte is a fictional archetype who often appears as a maidservant, or, sometimes, a prostitute.

[13] Marat had been staying nearby with Boucher de Saint Saveur as a precautionary measure since 14 January. His rooms were in the hotel Fautrière, 39 rue de l’Ancienne-Comédie, which also housed the permanent barracks (30 men) for the Cordeliers district militia. See Mémoire de Madame Boucher Saint-Sauveur contre Marat (late 1790).

[14] According to Marat’s own account of his escape in the Ami du Peuple #170 (23 July 1790), which was also published some six months later, he donned a disguise and left in the arms of a young lady (“marchant à pas comptés”). This detail that might suggest that the poem was published after this account.

[15] The word ‘Coupechou’, a variant of ‘Coupe-choux’, literally means ‘Cabbage cutter’. It was often used in conjunction with ‘frère’ to mean a novice monk (usually put in charge of the vegetables), and, by extension, a person of no importance, Dictionnaire de la langue française (1873), in Dictionnaires d’autrefois (online). In the slang of Père Duchene, ‘grue’ means a fool, or someone easily tricked, Michel Biard, Parlez-vous sans-culotte? (2009), pp.179-80.

[16] When the National Guard were finally allowed to enter Marat’s rooms, they confiscated all his papers, both presses and his type, effectively ending the newspaper and bankrupting him. Many of the papers, including valuable information on Marat’s subscribers, remain in the Archives Nationales (Pierrefitte). The most important of these were rescued by friends, most notably his detailed evidence against Necker, which he published from London in a follow-up to his original pamphlet, as Nouvelle dénoncation contre Necker (April?). Danton’s relationship with Marat would later be lampooned in a scurrilous libelle that described them having homosexual relations, Bordel patriotique etc. (1791).

[17] It is worth nothing here that as a result of Marat’s escapades, his resulting notoriety led to a considerable increase in his revolutionary profile with other journalists and politicians now paying much closer attention to his writing, especially when he began publishing fiercely hostile pamphlets from London. It also led to his inclusion in David’s sketch for his unfinished paining, Serment du Jeu de Paume (1790/91), where Marat can be seen top-right in the public gallery, wearing a broad-rimmed hat, writing with his back to the viewer. The other inclusion, not there at the time, was the deputy Bertrand Barère, editor of the Point du Jour.

[18] In fact, she appears to have had her first two children by the comte de Narbonne-Lara, born in 1790 (Auguste) and 1792 (Albert), see Herold, p.95.

[19] Guibert was a handsome salon gallant and habitué of the salons run by Madame Necker, Mme de Stael’s mother.

[20] Quite why Madame de Stael merits four uncomplimentary notes remains unclear. If Rivarol and/or the marquis de Champcenetz are the anonymous authors, it is worth noting that they also prefaced their anonymous Petit Dictionnaire des grands hommes de la Révolution (Aug 1790) with a biting (and salacious) dedication to “her excellency Madame la Baronne de Stael”, which mocked, amongst other things, the weight of her “prodige” [genius]. Champcenetz also had a fondness for using the six/seven syllable lines found in this poem.

[21] These lines first appeared in a pamphlet erroneously attributed to Rivarol, Réponse à la réponse de M. de Champcenetz; Au sujet de l'Ouvrage de Madame la B. de S***. sur Rousseau (1789), p.7. It is most likely by Champcenetz, who also wrote the original Réponse aux Lettres sur le caractère et les ouvrages de J.J. Rousseau. Bagatelle que vingt libraires ont refusé de faire imprimer (1789). He had also used the alter ego ‘Armande’ to describe Mme de Stael in the anonymous Petit traité de l’amour des femmes pour les sots (1788). The reference to the mother-worshiping Armande comes from Molière’s play, Les Femmes Savantes. The satire is piquant since Mme de Stael was presented by her adoring family as a child prodigy under the tutelage of her doting mother, described by William Beckford as a “précieuse-ridicule”. Moreover, and it is hard to see how the author knew this unless a salon regular, or informed by one, Mme de Stael had privately acted in Les Femmes Savantes. See Helen Borowitz, ‘The unconfessed Précieuse etc.’, in 19th Century French Studies (1982), p.39.

[22] These names suggest someone with intimate knowledge of Necker’s propaganda ‘factory’. Marat had also accused Mercier, Suard and Gudin of being on Necker’s payroll (check). Paul-Philippe Gudin de la Brenellerie, Beaumarchais’s friend and publisher, would later publish a Supplément au Contrat Social (1792, Maradan), which came with an appendix on the need to breed to keep breeding to secure a steady increase in the population! Garat’s Journal de Paris was openly subsidized by Necker. Amongst the more patriotic writers, Cerutti, later editor of La Feuille Villageoise, was also the only one writer to openly defend him in his Lettre sur Necker (1790).

[23] Probably a reference to Charles Albert Henry (b.1761), ninth son of Philip Joseph, Prince of Salm-Kyrburg.

[24] Charles (the former marquis) de Villette was a noted homosexual frequently attacked in scurrilous pamphlets during this time, including, Vie privée et public du ci-derrière marquis de Villette, citoyen rétroactif (1791) and Les Enfants de Sodome à l’Assemblée Nationale etc. (1790, ‘Chez le Marquis de Villette’). ‘Rétroactif’ here appears to be both a pun on being an ‘active’ citizen (referring to the law passed in Oct 1789, discriminating between active and passive citizens for the purpose of voting and standing for office, and a possible synonym for homosexuality (viz its synonym, ‘posterior’).

[25] This reference to an imaginary, ex-novice lover probably alludes to a recent article in Marat’s paper, describing how his services were regularly sought by readers seeking redress. In this particular issue (Ami du peuple #88, from 5 Jan 1790), he gave the singular example (“aussi piquante par sa singularité qu’elle est intéressante par sa nature”) of a nun called “sister Catherine” (Anne Barbier) who had escaped from Pantémon Abbey after suffering countless abuses due to her patriotic views. She had come to see Marat in the company of her landlady (Mme Lavoire), she had sought his help in securing her liberty and reclaiming her possessions.

[26] While I can find no trace of a ‘brother Grue’ in any of the surviving accounts, the most likely candidate would appear to be the powerfully built butcher, Louis Legendre, co-founder of the Cordeliers Club in April 1790 with Danton. In this context, ‘Lourdis’ probably derives from the figurative use of ‘lourd’ to suggest heavyweight, possibly by association with the other meaning of ‘grue’ as ‘crane’ (both bird and a lifting mechanism for heavy loads). Legendre hid Marat several times in his cellar on the rue de Beaune; see speech to the Jacobins on 24 Jan 1794, in Aulard, op.cit.

Alternatively, a letter from 9 May 1790 describes the arrest of Louis Gruet, a fusilier in the Cordeliers battalion. See Alexandre Tuetey, Répertoire général des sources manuscrites de l’histoire de Paris pendant la Révolution française, Tome 2 (1890), p.420 (3982).

Finally, ‘Grue’ might be a nickname for François Heron (viz ‘crane’), who later acquired notoriety as the main police agent for the Committee of General Security. While I can find no record of his playing any role in these events, he also hid Marat in his home, on 275 rue St Honoré, during 1790, and probably knew him from their time working for the king’s youngest brother, the comte d’Artois.

[stickerrsssss]

You swine. You vulgar little maggot. You worthless bag of filth. As they say in Texas. I’ll bet you couldn’t pour !@#$ out of a boot with instructions on the heel. You are a canker. A sore that won’t go away. I would rather kiss a lawyer than be seen with you.

You’re a putrescent mass, a walking vomit. You are a spineless little worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. You are a jerk, a cad, a weasel. Your life is a monument to stupidity. You are a stench, a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon.

You are a bleating foal, a curdled staggering mutant dwarf smeared richly with the effluvia and offal accompanying your alleged birth into this world. An insensate, blinking calf, meaningful to nobody, abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling beasts who sired you and then killed themselves in recognition of what they had done.

I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformation. I barf at the very thought of you. You have all the appeal of a paper cut. Lepers avoid you. You are vile, worthless, less than nothing. You are a weed, a fungus, the dregs of this earth. And did I mention you smell?

Try to edit your responses of unnecessary material before attempting to impress us with your insight. The evidence that you are a nincompoop will still be available to readers, but they will be able to access it more rapidly.

You snail-skulled little rabbit. Would that a hawk pick you up, drive its beak into your brain, and upon finding it rancid set you loose to fly briefly before spattering the ocean rocks with the frothy pink shame of your ignoble blood. May you choke on the queasy, convulsing nausea of your own trite, foolish beliefs.

You are weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. You are grimy, squalid, nasty and profane. You are foul and disgusting. You’re a fool, an ignoramus. Monkeys look down on you. Even sheep won’t have sex with you. You are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in a land that reality forgot.

And what meaning do you expect your delusional self-important statements of unknowing, inexperienced opinion to have with us? What fantasy do you hold that you would believe that your tiny-fisted tantrums would have more weight than that of a leprous desert rat, spinning rabidly in a circle, waiting for the bite of the snake?

You are a waste of flesh. You have no rhythm. You are ridiculous and obnoxious. You are the moral[size] equivalent of a leech. You are a living emptiness, a meaningless void. You are sour and senile. You are a disease, you puerile one-handed slack-jawed drooling meat slapper.

On a good day you’re a half-wit. You remind me of drool. You are deficient

in all that lends character. You have the personality of wallpaper. You are dank and filthy. You are asinine and benighted. You are the source of all unpleasantness. You spread misery and sorrow wherever you go.

You smarmy lager lout git. You bloody woofter sod. Bugger off, pillock. You grotty wanking oink artless base-court apple-john. You clouted boggish foot-licking twit. You dankish clack-dish plonker. You gormless crook-pated tosser. You churlish boil-brained clotpole ponce. You cockered bum-bailey poofter. You craven dewberry pisshead cockup pratting naff. You gob-kissing gleeking flap-mouthed coxcomb. You dread-bolted

fobbing beef-witted clapper-clawed flirt-gill.

You are a fiend and a coward, and you have bad breath. You are degenerate,

noxious and depraved. I feel debased just for knowing you exist. I despise everything about you, and I wish you would go away.

I cannot believe how incredibly stupid you are. I mean rock-hard stupid.

Dehydrated-rock-hard stupid. Stupid so stupid that it goes way beyond the stupid we know into a whole different dimension of stupid. You are trans-stupid stupid. Meta-stupid. Stupid collapsed on itself so far that even the neutrons have collapsed. Stupid gotten so dense that no intellect can escape. Singularity stupid. Blazing hot mid-day sun on Mercury stupid.

You emit more stupid in one second than our entire galaxy emits in a year. Quasar stupid. Your writing has to be a troll. Nothing in our universe can really be this stupid. Perhaps this is some primordial fragment from the original big bang of stupid. Some pure essence of a stupid so uncontaminated by anything else as to be beyond

the laws of physics that we know. I’m sorry. I can’t go on. This is an epiphany of stupid for me. After this, you may not hear from me again for a while. I don’t have enough strength left to deride your ignorant questions and half baked comments about unimportant trivia, or any of the rest of this drivel. Duh.

The only thing worse than your logic is your manners. I have snipped away most of what you wrote, because, well... it didn’t really say anything. Your attempt at constructing a creative flame was pitiful. I mean, really, stringing together a bunch of insults among a load of babbling was hardly effective... Maybe later in life, after you have learned to read, write, spell, and count, you will have more success.

True, these are rudimentary skills that many of us ”normal” people take for granted that everyone has an easy time of mastering. But we sometimes forget that there are ”challenged” persons in this world who find these things more difficult. If I had known that this was your case then I would have never read your post. It just wouldn’t have been ”right”.

Sort of like parking in a handicap space. I wish you the best of luck in the emotional, and social struggles that seem to be placing such a demand on you.

P.S.:

You are hypocritical, greedy, violent, malevolent, vengeful, cowardly, deadly, mendacious, meretricious, loathsome, despicable, belligerent, opportunistic, barratrous, contemptible, criminal, fascistic, bigoted, racist, sexist, avaricious, tasteless, idiotic, brain-damaged, imbecilic, insane, arrogant, deceitful, demented, lame, self-righteous, byzantine, conspiratorial, satanic, fraudulent, libelous, bilious, splenetic, spastic, ignorant, clueless, illegitimate, harmful, destructive, dumb,

evasive, double-talking, devious, revisionist, narrow, manipulative, paternalistic, fundamentalist, dogmatic, idolatrous, unethical, cultic, diseased, suppressive, controlling, restrictive, malignant, deceptive, dim, crazy, weird, dystopic, stifling, uncaring, plantigrade, grim, unsympathetic, jargon-spouting, censorious, secretive, aggressive,

mind-numbing, arassive, poisonous, flagrant, self-destructive, abusive, socially-retarded, puerile, clueless, and generally NOT GOOD.

(I lovb yaou… this is a copy pastas🥺🥺)

This is a copy pasta??? No way!!!! I totally definitely thought you wrote all of this out by hand!!!!

[tahinnia]

You swine. You vulgar little maggot. You worthless bag of filth. As they say in Texas. I’ll bet you couldn’t pour !@#$ out of a boot with instructions on the heel. You are a canker. A sore that won’t go away. I would rather kiss a lawyer than be seen with you.

You’re a putrescent mass, a walking vomit. You are a spineless little worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. You are a jerk, a cad, a weasel. Your life is a monument to stupidity. You are a stench, a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon.

You are a bleating foal, a curdled staggering mutant dwarf smeared richly with the effluvia and offal accompanying your alleged birth into this world. An insensate, blinking calf, meaningful to nobody, abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling beasts who sired you and then killed themselves in recognition of what they had done.

I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformation. I barf at the very thought of you. You have all the appeal of a paper cut. Lepers avoid you. You are vile, worthless, less than nothing. You are a weed, a fungus, the dregs of this earth. And did I mention you smell?

Try to edit your responses of unnecessary material before attempting to impress us with your insight. The evidence that you are a nincompoop will still be available to readers, but they will be able to access it more rapidly.

You snail-skulled little rabbit. Would that a hawk pick you up, drive its beak into your brain, and upon finding it rancid set you loose to fly briefly before spattering the ocean rocks with the frothy pink shame of your ignoble blood. May you choke on the queasy, convulsing nausea of your own trite, foolish beliefs.

You are weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. You are grimy, squalid, nasty and profane. You are foul and disgusting. You’re a fool, an ignoramus. Monkeys look down on you. Even sheep won’t have sex with you. You are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in a land that reality forgot.

And what meaning do you expect your delusional self-important statements of unknowing, inexperienced opinion to have with us? What fantasy do you hold that you would believe that your tiny-fisted tantrums would have more weight than that of a leprous desert rat, spinning rabidly in a circle, waiting for the bite of the snake?

You are a waste of flesh. You have no rhythm. You are ridiculous and obnoxious. You are the moral[size] equivalent of a leech. You are a living emptiness, a meaningless void. You are sour and senile. You are a disease, you puerile one-handed slack-jawed drooling meat slapper.

On a good day you’re a half-wit. You remind me of drool. You are deficient in all that lends character. You have the personality of wallpaper. You are dank and filthy. You are asinine and benighted. You are the source of all unpleasantness. You spread misery and sorrow wherever you go.

You smarmy lager lout git. You bloody woofter sod. Bugger off, pillock. You grotty wanking oink artless base-court apple-john. You clouted boggish foot-licking twit. You dankish clack-dish plonker. You gormless crook-pated tosser. You churlish boil-brained clotpole ponce. You cockered bum-bailey poofter. You craven dewberry pisshead cockup pratting naff. You gob-kissing gleeking flap-mouthed coxcomb. You dread-bolted fobbing beef-witted clapper-clawed flirt-gill. You are a fiend and a coward, and you have bad breath. You are degenerate, noxious and depraved. I feel debased just for knowing you exist. I despise everything about you, and I wish you would go away.

I cannot believe how incredibly stupid you are. I mean rock-hard stupid. Dehydrated-rock-hard stupid. Stupid so stupid that it goes way beyond the stupid we know into a whole different dimension of stupid. You are trans-stupid stupid. Meta-stupid. Stupid collapsed on itself so far that even the neutrons have collapsed. Stupid gotten so dense that no intellect can escape. Singularity stupid. Blazing hot mid-day sun on Mercury stupid.

You emit more stupid in one second than our entire galaxy emits in a year. Quasar stupid. Your writing has to be a troll. Nothing in our universe can really be this stupid. Perhaps this is some primordial fragment from the original big bang of stupid. Some pure essence of a stupid so uncontaminated by anything else as to be beyond the laws of physics that we know. I’m sorry. I can’t go on. This is an epiphany of stupid for me. After this, you may not hear from me again for a while. I don’t have enough strength left to deride your ignorant questions and half baked comments about unimportant trivia, or any of the rest of this drivel. Duh.

The only thing worse than your logic is your manners. I have snipped away most of what you wrote, because, well... it didn’t really say anything. Your attempt at constructing a creative flame was pitiful. I mean, really, stringing together a bunch of insults among a load of babbling was hardly effective... Maybe later in life, after you have learned to read, write, spell, and count, you will have more success.

True, these are rudimentary skills that many of us ”normal” people take for granted that everyone has an easy time of mastering. But we sometimes forget that there are ”challenged” persons in this world who find these things more difficult. If I had known that this was your case then I would have never read your post. It just wouldn’t have been ”right”. Sort of like parking in a handicap space. I wish you the best of luck in the emotional, and social struggles that seem to be placing such a demand on you.

P.S.: You are hypocritical, greedy, violent, malevolent, vengeful, cowardly, deadly, mendacious, meretricious, loathsome, despicable, belligerent, opportunistic, barratrous, contemptible, criminal, fascistic, bigoted, racist, sexist, avaricious, tasteless, idiotic, brain-damaged, imbecilic, insane, arrogant, deceitful, demented, lame, self-righteous, byzantine, conspiratorial, satanic, fraudulent, libelous, bilious, splenetic, spastic, ignorant, clueless, illegitimate, harmful, destructive, dumb, evasive, double-talking, devious, revisionist, narrow, manipulative, paternalistic, fundamentalist, dogmatic, idolatrous, unethical, cultic, diseased, suppressive, controlling, restrictive, malignant, deceptive, dim, crazy, weird, dystopic, stifling, uncaring, plantigrade, grim, unsympathetic, jargon-spouting, censorious, secretive, aggressive, mind-numbing, arassive, poisonous, flagrant, self-destructive, abusive, socially-retarded, puerile, clueless, and generally NOT GOOD.

[tkbarnes]

OK, so this sent me on a wee (sic!) google search for some medieval insults. There are tons of great articles, but here's a selection of the few from this particular one.

[...] a knight might be called a “swag-bellied codpiece,” a double whammy on his physical stature and martial prowess.

A “bunch-backed toad” or a “roguish pox-marked pignut” would certainly not be considered terms of endearment.

Manners, too, were a ripe target for insults. You might be called a “rude-growing canker-blossom” if your manners weren’t up to snuff.

[to shepherds ] a “sheep-biting clotpole,” it wasn’t just an insult to you but a jibe at your entire livelihood.

Frothy, Full-gorged Flax-wench - A shallow, overindulgent woman.

Paunchy, Pottle-deep Pignut - An overweight, shallow-minded fool.

Extra special bit that I ADHD'd my self into looking up:

The world's oldest insult has been discovered on a clay tablet and surprisingly, it was intended to teach language as well as morality. Written more than 4,000 years ago in Sumerian, the language of the elite in Acadian society, the insults were used to teach students the language and how to write, as well as ridicule the lazy and foolish. The tablet contains two insults: “Your husband has no clothes to wear. You yourself are wearing such rags that your butt sticks out of them” and “You have the intelligence of a monkey. Your house is like a pigsty. Your living room is like an oven”.

[via thearcheologist.org]

[strengervinay]

The Dudhsagar Falls trek is one of the most scenic and thrilling treks in India, especially for nature lovers and adventure seekers. Nestled in the lush greenery of the Western Ghats, the Dudhsagar waterfall offers a stunning visual treat with its milky white waters cascading from great heights.

If you’re planning a visit to Goa and want to witness the raw beauty of nature, a trek to Dudhsagar Falls should be on your bucket list. In this article, we cover everything you need to know about the Dudhsagar Falls trek, including trail info, height, best time to visit, and more!

What Makes Dudhsagar So Special?

The name Dudhsagar means “Sea of Milk” in Hindi, and once you witness the falls in full flow, you’ll understand why. The waterfall gets its name from the frothy white appearance of the water as it tumbles down the rocks. Dudhsagar Waterfall is one of the tallest waterfalls in India, located on the Mandovi River in Goa, near the Goa-Karnataka border.

The Dudhsagar Falls are surrounded by dense forest and wildlife, making the journey as fascinating as the destination itself. The region is part of the Bhagwan Mahavir Wildlife Sanctuary and the trek takes you through thick vegetation, railway tracks, tunnels, and picturesque landscapes.

Dudhsagar Falls Height

One of the major highlights of this natural wonder is its impressive height. The Dudhsagar waterfall stands tall at a height of approximately 310 meters (1017 feet) and is around 30 meters wide. Its four-tiered flow adds to the grandeur, making it one of the most photogenic waterfalls in the country.

During monsoons, the water gushes down with full force, creating a thunderous sound and a magical mist in the air. This makes the Dudhsagar Falls trek even more exciting but also more challenging during the rainy season.

Dudhsagar Falls Trek Trail Info

There are multiple ways to reach the Dudhsagar waterfall, but the trekking route is the most adventurous and fulfilling. The most popular trail starts from Kulem in Goa and takes you through dense forests, old railway bridges, and dark tunnels. This route is about 11 km one way and takes around 4–5 hours to complete, depending on your pace and weather conditions.

Another trekking route starts from Castle Rock in Karnataka, which is a slightly longer and less crowded trail. Both trails provide stunning views of nature, and if you’re lucky, you may even spot some wildlife like monkeys, deer, and exotic birds.

It’s important to note that entry to the Dudhsagar Falls trek may be restricted during heavy monsoons due to safety concerns, so always check local updates before planning your trip.

Best Time to Visit Dudhsagar Waterfall

The best time to visit the Dudhsagar waterfall is from October to February, when the weather is pleasant and the waterfall is still in full flow after the monsoon season. While the monsoon months from June to September offer the most dramatic views, trekking is usually restricted due to slippery paths and strong currents.

Tips for Trekking to Dudhsagar Falls

Wear comfortable trekking shoes with a good grip.

Carry sufficient water, energy snacks, and a raincoat if you’re trekking during or after the monsoon.

Always trek in a group or with a guide for safety.

Carry a camera to capture the beauty of Dudhsagar Falls—but protect it from the water spray.

Respect nature and don’t litter along the trail.

A Breathtaking Journey to the Majestic Dudhsagar Waterfall

The Dudhsagar falls trek is more than just a walk in the woods—it’s a journey into the heart of nature. From the mesmerizing views of the towering Dudhsagar waterfall to the exciting trek through forests and tunnels, every step brings you closer to one of India’s finest natural wonders. Whether you’re an experienced trekker or just a traveler with a love for nature, the Dudhsagar Falls promise an unforgettable adventure. Make sure to plan, trek responsibly, and soak in the beauty of the majestic Dudhsagar!

Planning to visit the Char Dham in 2025? If yes, head over to Universal Adventures’ website for the complete travel guide and FAQs!

[helloaceone]

The Impact of Visual Storytelling in Modern Website Design in Nashville, TN

Introduction

Ever land on a website and feel instantly connected? That’s the power of visual storytelling. It’s not just about pretty pictures—it’s about using visuals to communicate, engage, and convert. And in a creatively buzzing city like Nashville, Tennessee, incorporating this strategy into your website design is more than smart—it’s essential. Whether you're a startup or an established brand, effective website design in Nashville, TN, can elevate your entire digital presence.

What is Visual Storytelling in Web Design?

Definition and Concept

Visual storytelling is the art of conveying a narrative through visual elements—images, videos, icons, layout, and typography. It’s how you take visitors on a journey from “just browsing” to “take my money!”

Why it Matters in the Digital World

People remember 80% of what they see and only 20% of what they read. Visuals stick. In today’s fast-paced, scroll-happy world, first impressions aren’t just crucial—they’re everything.

Why Nashville, TN, is a Hotspot for Creative Website Design

Nashville’s Booming Business Scene

From music to tech startups, Nashville is exploding with entrepreneurial energy. With that growth comes the demand for standout websites that don’t just inform—but perform.

Local Flavor in Design and Storytelling

There’s something unique about Southern charm. In website design Nashville TN, storytelling often carries that regional flavor—personal, soulful, bold.

Core Elements of Visual Storytelling

Imagery and Graphics

High-quality images and custom graphics aren't just decoration—they're your first line of communication. They set the tone before any words are read.

Typography as a Storytelling Tool

Fonts carry attitude. The right typography gives voice to your brand without saying a word.

Color Psychology

Blues calm, reds energize, greens grow trust. Strategic color choices guide emotional reactions and help create consistency.

Layout and Composition

A good layout = easy navigation. Great layout = an immersive story that unfolds with every scroll.

The Role of Website Design in Building Emotional Connection

Creating Immersive Brand Experiences

Effective website design in Nashville, TN, brings your brand’s personality to life. Every page should feel like a scene from your brand's movie.

Story-Driven User Journeys

From the homepage to checkout, your site should guide visitors on a thoughtful path, building interest and trust along the way.

Benefits of Visual Storytelling in Website Design Nashville TN

Higher Engagement and Retention

Visual storytelling keeps visitors around longer and encourages them to explore more pages.

Stronger Brand Recall

A well-told visual story makes you memorable. And memorable brands get revisited.

Better Conversion Rates

When users feel emotionally engaged, they’re more likely to convert—whether that means signing up, purchasing, or reaching out.

Best Practices for Effective Visual Storytelling

Keep it Authentic

Don’t fake it. Real stories, real photos, and honest visuals connect better than stock overload.

Consistency is Key

Brand consistency builds trust. Make sure your style, tone, and visuals align everywhere.

Balance Visuals and Content

Visuals draw them in, but great content seals the deal. Strike that balance.

Case Studies from Nashville

Local Brands Doing It Right

Think of The Escape Game or Frothy Monkey—local Nashville brands using storytelling to hook and hold attention through web design.

Before and After Visual Storytelling

Sites that once looked like a digital brochure transformed into immersive, experience-driven platforms—and saw traffic and engagement soar.

How to Incorporate Visual Storytelling in Your Website

Start with a Clear Narrative

Know what story you’re telling—your brand origin, your mission, your “why.”

Choose Visuals That Align With Your Message

Don’t just choose “pretty.” Choose purposeful.

Optimize for User Experience

Your visuals must load fast, look great on mobile, and support navigation.

Tools and Platforms to Enhance Your Visual Story

Design Tools

Canva, Figma, and Adobe XD are your best friends for crafting visuals that work.

Content Management Systems

Platforms like WordPress, Webflow, and Shopify make integrating visuals and stories seamless.

Common Mistakes to Avoid

Overloading with Visuals

Too much = chaos. Let your visuals breathe.

Inconsistent Branding

Mismatched visuals confuse your audience. Keep it tight and on-brand.

Poor User Navigation

A beautiful site is useless if visitors can’t find what they’re looking for.

The Future of Website Design in Nashville, TN

Emerging Trends

Think interactive scroll effects, animation, and personalized experiences.

AI and Interactive Storytelling

AI-driven designs adapt to user behavior, making your story dynamic and user-specific.

Why Work With a Professional Like AceOne Technologies

Expertise in Website Design Nashville TN

AceOne Technologies understands the Nashville market and its vibe and builds visually stunning sites that convert.

Tailored Strategies for Local Businesses

From creative entrepreneurs to service-based brands, AceOne crafts websites that tell your story, not someone else's.

Contact AceOne Technologies

Ready to turn your website into a visual storytelling powerhouse? Reach out today.

 📞 Phone: (870) 738-9433 📧 Email: info@aceonetechnologies.com 🌐 Website: www.aceonetechnologies.com

Conclusion

Suppose you're serious about standing out in Nashville’s competitive market. In that case, it's time to stop thinking of your website as a digital flyer and start thinking of it as a storytelling platform. When done right, website design in Nashville, TN, can transform your business by forging real emotional connections with your audience. And with experts like AceOne Technologies on your side, you’ve got everything you need to tell a story that sells.

FAQs

1. What is the goal of visual storytelling in website design? To emotionally connect with visitors, guide their experience, and boost engagement and conversions.

2. How can I make my site stand out in Nashville's market? By using authentic, visually compelling storytelling tailored to your brand and audience.

3. What industries benefit most from visual storytelling? All industries can benefit—from restaurants and boutiques to healthcare and tech startups.

4. Can small businesses in Nashville use this approach affordably? Absolutely! Even on a tight budget, smart visuals and storytelling can make a huge impact.

5. Why choose AceOne Technologies for my website project? They specialize in website design in Nashville, TN, understand the local market, and build websites that don’t just look good—they work.

[naturesnest1]

The Best Ways to Experience the Magic of Dudhsagar Waterfall

The Dudhsagar Waterfall, one of the most spectacular natural wonders in India, offers an unparalleled experience for nature lovers and adventure seekers. Nestled amidst the lush greenery of the Western Ghats, this iconic cascade, whose name translates to "Sea of Milk," is a must-visit destination for anyone exploring Goa. Whether you’re an adrenaline junkie or someone looking to connect with nature, there are countless ways to immerse yourself in the magic of Dudhsagar Waterfall.

1. Trekking to Dudhsagar Waterfall

For adventure enthusiasts, trekking to the Dudhsagar Waterfall is a dream come true. The journey begins with trails cutting through dense forests, teeming with wildlife and offering a chance to experience Goa's natural beauty up close. The trek, which passes through parts of the Bhagwan Mahavir Wildlife Sanctuary, is both exhilarating and rewarding. As you approach the thundering waterfall, the misty spray and roaring sound create an unforgettable atmosphere.

Pro Tip: Choose guided trekking options to ensure safety and gain insights about the region’s flora and fauna.

2. Enjoy the View from a Train Ride

One of the most scenic ways to experience the Dudhsagar Waterfall is via a train ride on the South Western Railway. The view from the train as it curves around the waterfall is breathtaking, especially during the monsoon season when the falls are at their peak. This short yet picturesque journey offers a unique vantage point to admire the grandeur of the falls.

3. Go on a Jeep Safari

If trekking isn’t your style, a jeep safari is an excellent way to reach the Dudhsagar Waterfall. This thrilling ride takes you through the rugged terrain of the Western Ghats and lush green forests, adding an adventurous touch to your visit. The safari ends near the base of the waterfall, where you can take in its full glory and even enjoy a refreshing dip in the natural pool formed by the cascading water.

4. Visit During the Monsoon Season

To witness the Dudhsagar Waterfall at its most majestic, plan your visit during the monsoon season, between June and September. During this time, the falls are in full flow, creating a mesmerizing spectacle of frothy white water gushing down the cliff. The surrounding greenery also becomes more vibrant, making it an ideal time for photography and soaking in nature’s beauty.

5. Explore Nearby Attractions

While Dudhsagar Waterfall is the main highlight, the area offers several other attractions worth exploring. The nearby Bhagwan Mahavir Wildlife Sanctuary is home to a rich variety of flora and fauna, making it perfect for wildlife enthusiasts. You can also visit spice plantations in the vicinity for a glimpse into Goa's agricultural heritage and enjoy a flavorful tour of aromatic spices.

6. Stay at an Eco-Resort

To make your visit truly memorable, consider staying at an eco-resort near Dudhsagar Waterfall, such as Natures Nest Goa. These resorts offer a tranquil escape, surrounded by nature, and provide convenient access to the waterfall. Staying in such accommodations enhances your experience by immersing you in the serene beauty of the Western Ghats while ensuring sustainable tourism practices.

7. Capture the Perfect Moments

Photographers and Instagram enthusiasts will find Dudhsagar Waterfall to be a paradise. Whether it's the dramatic cascade of water, the lush greenery, or the playful monkeys in the area, there’s no shortage of subjects for stunning photographs. Remember to bring a waterproof cover for your camera or phone, as the mist from the waterfall can get quite intense.

8. Combine the Experience with Birdwatching

The region around Dudhsagar Waterfall is a haven for birdwatchers. With its rich biodiversity, you can spot several rare and exotic bird species. Natures Nest Goa, known for its birdwatching tours, offers curated experiences for those keen on combining the thrill of the waterfall with the joy of spotting vibrant feathered friends.

Tips for Visiting Dudhsagar Waterfall

Plan Ahead: Make arrangements in advance, especially during the peak season.

Carry Essentials: Bring sturdy footwear, a raincoat, and a change of clothes, as you’re likely to get wet.

Respect Nature: Avoid littering and follow all guidelines to preserve the natural beauty of the area.

Travel in Groups: Exploring with friends or family not only enhances the experience but also ensures safety.

Why Choose Natures Nest Goa for Your Stay?

Natures Nest Goa offers the perfect base for exploring Dudhsagar Waterfall and its surroundings. The eco-friendly resort provides comfortable accommodations, nature-centric activities, and expert-guided tours to the waterfall and beyond. Staying here ensures a seamless blend of adventure, relaxation, and sustainability.

Conclusion

The Dudhsagar Waterfall is not just a sight to behold but an experience that stays with you long after your visit. Whether you trek through the jungle, enjoy a jeep safari, or simply admire its beauty from a distance, this natural wonder promises a magical escape into the lap of nature. Pair your visit with a stay at Natures Nest Goa to make it a truly unforgettable adventure.

By exploring Dudhsagar Waterfall in these incredible ways, you can create memories that will last a lifetime. Plan your journey now and prepare to be captivated by the enchanting beauty of one of India’s most iconic waterfalls.

[goasathi123]

Nature Wonders Discovery Tour Package: Dudhsagar Waterfalls and Spice Plantation in Goa

Talking of Goa, you certainly cannot think of this place without talking of beaches and night life. However this region is a treasure trove for innumerable natural beauties that lie beyond those fine soft sandy shores. Among the most secluded and nature-immersive experiences offered in this paradise, the Dudhsagar spiceplantation tour package in goa will surely blend the breathtaking majesty of Dudhsagar Falls with the fragrant allure of spice plantations in Goa for providing the perfect balance between adventure and relaxation and discovery of culture.

Dudhsagar Waterfalls: A Natural Wonder of Beauty and Magnificence

Dudhsagar Waterfalls is one of the highest and the most beautiful waterfalls lying deep into the heart of Western Ghats. The name literally translates to "Sea of Milk," which well explains the white frothy torrents of water that cascade down 1,017 feet into the forest below. The powerful flow of water during the monsoon season makes falls more wondrous, with a background of dense green foliage of the Bhagwan Mahavir Wildlife Sanctuary.

Visitors often reach the place in jeeps or bikes, giving a gamut of adventure to the visit. This place is adventurous while one has to face the dusty road and the crossing of rivers. Nonetheless, the view of the falls makes it all worthwhile. For the adventurous, it is still possible to hike all the way to the waterfall that provides a full opportunity for solitude in the natural beauty of the jungle. Along this trail, you will find some beautiful exotic birds, monkeys, and other wildlife living in this environment.

You would wade through pools of cool refreshing waters at the bottom of the falls when you get to the falls, surrendering to raw beauty as it drowns you. The misty spray coupled with the rumble of the roaring waters from Dudhsagar will be a soothing yet energizing break from the otherwise bustling coastal towns of Goa.

Visit Spice Plantation: Journey to the Exploration of Goa's Heritage

Just after the Dudhsagar experience comes one of the spice plantations well known in Goa. Those are places that create a serene hideaway to the aromatic world of spices and allow visitors to explore Goa's rich agricultural past. Amidst the sprawling expanse of these plantations and amidst their fragrances of cardamom, cinnamon, pepper, nutmeg, and cloves, there also abound some less-known and localized spices native to India.

On this guided plantation tour, you will be taught the growing, harvesting, and medicinal properties of various spices grown in Goa years ago. Given the tropical climate and fertile soil, it is one of the best places to cultivate spices. This also has plantations across various fruits such as coconut, pineapple, and banana.

Some of the Goan plantations provide visitors with a tasting of the traditional Goan meal.Dudhsagar spiceplantation tour package in goa It would prove to be an experience of tasting first-hand what has been reaped. Most the meals were prepared on a banana leaf, and consisted of local delicacies, mostly prepared from organic products grown within the plantation itself. That kind of meal would really give a proper view of the Goan food tradition, full of flavor and spice.

Expectations from the Dudhsagar and Spice Plantation Tour Package

Ordinarily, the Dudhsagar and spice plantation tour packages are full-day activities, well suitable for mixing in adventure, education, and relaxation. Under 

a normal package, you can expect the following:

Transport: It is usually part of a tour package, especially if you are to and fro in your hotel, then a jeep or a bike will take you all the way to the Dudhsagar Falls so that you can easily explore all of Goa.

Enjoy Dudhsagar Falls: When visiting Dudhsagar Waterfalls, you will be able to enjoy the place. When there, you can either trek up or have a jeep ride up to the base of the falls wherein swimming, clicking pictures, and basking in the beauty of this nature wonder are something to be done.

Spice Plantation Tour : Spice plantation tour visit where, accompanied by a guide, it takes you around the plantation explaining its history and cultivation of spices Goan specific. And, as you expect, you relish the authentic Goan lunch at the place itself.

Elephant Ride or Bathing Optional Most of the plantations allow riding or bathing in an elephant though this is optional and sometimes charged for. These have been amazingly popular with families and young children.

Its price is not too high. Depending on the tour package you prefer to opt for, this costs between ₹1,500 and ₹2,500 per person, but it usually includes transport, guide charges, entry fees, and lunch at the spice plantation.

Why Dudhsagar and Spice Plantation Tour?

Take up this tour to experience Goa beyond beaches. Witness the mighty Dudhsagar Falls and have an elated view of India's natural beauty in a serene journey through the spice plantation as one comes to understand the country that is the agricultural heart of Goa.

This package is perfect for nature lovers and families and for anyone interested in touching the quieter and authentic side of Goa. Whether it is swimming underneath a cascading waterfall or walking into fresh aromas of freshly ground spices, Dudhsagar Waterfalls and Spice Plantation Tour are something that cannot be missed while visiting Goa.

Goa is not just a place of sun and sand; there is much more to it. The Dudhsagar spiceplantation tour package in goa  takes one into the heart of Goa, which is the power of nature and the rich agricultural heritage of the State. This tour offers something unique, multifaceted, and wonderful about the same-from awe-inspiring Dudhsagar Falls to peaceful spice plantations, making good memories of beauty in Goa.

[fun-adventures-travels]

Rafting in Rishikesh Packages: Incredible Offers!

Experience the ultimate fusion of adventure and tranquility as you navigate the frothy waters of Rishikesh, surrounded by majestic hills and lush greenery, creating a perfect backdrop for an unforgettable rafting adventure.

Why go River Rafting in Rishikesh?

Adrenaline Rush: Rishikesh offers some of the best rapids in India, ranging from gentle Class I to thrilling Class V. This variety means you can experience everything from serene paddling to heart-pounding excitement, perfect for both beginners and seasoned rafters.

Stunning Scenery: Rafting in Rishikesh allows you to soak in breathtaking views of the lush hills, dense forests, and spiritual temples lining the riverbanks. Each turn reveals a new picturesque landscape, making your adventure visually captivating.

Spiritual Experience: As the yoga capital of the world, Rishikesh adds a unique spiritual dimension to your rafting journey. Paddling through the sacred waters of the Ganges connects you to the rich cultural heritage and tranquil energy of the region.

Team Building: River rafting is a fantastic way to bond with friends, family, or colleagues. Navigating the rapids together fosters teamwork, communication, and camaraderie, making for unforgettable shared experiences.

Wildlife Encounters: While you’re on the river, keep an eye out for diverse wildlife. You might spot colorful birds, playful monkeys, and even the occasional deer along the banks, enriching your adventure with moments of natural wonder.

Adventure Hub: Rishikesh is a hub for adventure sports, making it easy to combine rafting with other thrilling activities like bungee jumping, zip-lining, and trekking, creating a complete adventure getaway.

Safety and Expertise: Rishikesh is known for its experienced guides and well-organized rafting companies that prioritize safety. You’ll receive thorough instructions and equipment, allowing you to focus on the thrill without worries.

Perfect Weather: The best time for rafting in Rishikesh is between March and June, when the weather is warm and the river is flowing at its best, providing ideal conditions for an exhilarating adventure.

In summary, river rafting in Rishikesh is not just a thrilling activity; it's an immersive experience that combines adventure, nature, and spirituality, making it a must-try for every adventure enthusiast!

You must be wondering, is river rafting safe in Rishikesh or how much will you have to spend on the rafting packages? Stress no more and check out Universal Adventures’ website for the perfect deals and details.

Rafting in Rishikesh Packages: 

1. Rafting 9 KM with 3 Rapids

INR 549 per person

Cliff Jumping with Body Surfing

03 Rapids (01 Major, 02 Minor)

Pickup and Drop from Tapovan 

Rafting in Rishikesh timing is between 07:00 AM to 04:00 PM 

2. Rafting 16 KM with 7 Rapids

INR 999 per person

Cliff Jumping with Body Surfing

07 Rapids (04 Major, 03 Minor)

Pickup and Drop from Tapovan

Rafting in Rishikesh timing is between 07:00 AM to 04:00 PM  

3. Rafting 25 KM with 10 Rapids

INR 1,199

Cliff Jumping with Body Surfing

13 Rapids (07 Major, 06 Minor)

Pickup and Drop from Tapovan

Rafting in Rishikesh timing is between 07:00 AM to 04:00 PM

For further details on river rafting in Rishikesh price, call their toll-free number 8533812266

Feel the adrenaline surge as you paddle through thrilling rapids, each wave a testament to nature's raw power, while the sacred river whispers ancient tales of wisdom and peace, inviting you to embrace the moment.