#sp nutters

[yoshi-self-ships]

Internet was down for a few days so during that I just watched whatever DVDs I have, including SP s6.

[southconfessionpark]

I ship butters x Nelly more than Bunny , Infact I don’t even ship bunny at all 

[sunstone-smiles]

Aren't Joltiks Just the Cutest?

Author’s note: It’s time to partyyyy!!! This is my first fic for the Hear Me Out Cake event hosted by @tickly-trashcan, and I was so happy when I saw that @a-fluffer-nutter requested Ingo! I’m absolutely hearing you out! I’m taking a page from tickly-trashcan and pairing the characters with cakes, so Ingo and Emmet get a Cookies and Cream / Oreo cake. (Here’s the link to the cake recipe where I found the image, Lol). I hope you enjoy!

Series: Pokemon

Characters: Ingo, Emmet, Joltik, and Excadrill

Word count: 1,503

Summary: Emmet wants to show Ingo that Joltiks are the most adorable Pokemon. In order to do so, Emmet thinks that Ingo and the Joltiks should spend some play time together!

---

After being brothers with his polar opposite for so long, Ingo is used to being able to quietly focus while Emmet causes a racket in the same room. As Ingo sits peacefully reading a book on the couch with Excadrill napping by his side, Emmet sits in the middle of the floor, training eight joltiks to do tricks.

Emmet cheers in the background. “Ingo, look!” Emmet rushes over to his brother. A joltik is sitting in his cupped hands. “Joltik just did a flip! Watch!”

Ingo pulls his eyes away from his story to see the little creature. As if on cue, the joltik hops up and does a flip, almost like a toy. 

“See?” Emmet exclaims.

“Wow, very nice Emmet. And you too, Joltik,” Ingo congratulates both pokemon and partner.

“I know, right?” Emmet brings the joltik to his face, then nuzzles the tiny creature, “Aren’t joltiks just the cutest?”

“Well, I don’t know about the cutest,” Ingo looks over at his napping Excadrill and gives the creature a gentle pat. Ingo would say that all his pokemon are the cutest though, truly.

Emmet narrows his eyes at his brother, taking lighthearted offense at Ingo’s words. 

“Oh, really?” he lifts a brow. He turns his attention back to the tiny creature in his hand. “Well, maybe you just haven’t spent enough time with them like I have.”

“I’m sure of that,” Ingo moves his eyes from Excadrill to his book, not even sparing a moment to see Emmet’s face. If he did look though, he would have seen that Emmet’s expression had morphed itself into a scheming smile.

Emmet leans on one leg. “Theeeen, maybe you should spend some more time with them,” he glides over to Ingo. With zero warning, Emmet places the joltik on Ingo’s shoulder. Ingo whips his head in the creature’s direction when he feels the little legs, like a tiny bird’s, resting on his shoulder.

He glances up at his brother and lays his book on the table in front of him, confused. Emmet has his hands on his hips, and Ingo finally notices the calculating smirk on his lips.

“Go on, Ingo. Get to know them,” Emmet says. By this time, the little joltik has already begun making their way towards Ingo’s neck. When they reach their destination, the electric type nuzzles into the side of his neck to show their affection.

“Emmet, what point are you trying to make?” Ingo says with a joltik mid-snuggling his neck. “You know I already like joltiks.”

“Yes, but you don’t think they’re the cutest. Which is fine. Everyone is entitled to their opinion. I just thought that you could have some fun with them. You know, to hear me out.” Emmet’s tone appears standard, but his grin adds a hint of mischief to his words.

Ingo rolls his eyes. “Emmet, my opinion is not going to sway in an instant—ah!” Ingo’s sentence is suddenly cut off when he feels the little joltik climb into the collar of his shirt. Immediately, Ingo’s mouth quivers into a smile. The little joltik skitters across his torso, making joltik’s journey have ticklish repercussions for Ingo.

Emmet’s grin widens from ear to ear, experiencing joy that’s equivalent to sneaking ice down their sibling’s shirt. “Oh, did I forget to tell you that when joltiks are curious, they like to explore?”

“E-Emmet!” Ingo stutters with an underlying growl, trying to tame the feeling of laughter. 

“See, you would know that if you spent more time with them,” Emmet throws another quip his way.

“Very funny,” Ingo says through gritted teeth. His body begins to curl forward. “C-Come on, joltik. Gehehet out of there,” a giggle slips.

“Hmm,” Emmet taps a finger to his chin, but he already knows full well what the next part of his plan is. “Maaaybe, playing with even more joltiks will convince you of their cuteness!”

“What?!” Ingo exclaims, but Emmet’s already scooping up his seven other joltiks in his arms and bringing them to join the party. 

Ingo’s eyes grow wide. “Emmet! Wahahait!” Ingo’s giggles from the joltik’s tickles and from the anticipation spill simultaneously. Right after his pleas, Emmet gently pours the joltiks over his twin’s shoulders, and all of the little creatures wander to different places around Ingo like children exploring a new playground. Ingo scrunches his shoulders to his neck and wraps his arms around himself, already feeling the tiny creatures spider their little legs across his upper half—some even crawling into his shirt.

“Ohohohoh nohohoho!” Ingo finally bursts into laughter; his chest rumbles from his booming giggles that are loud enough for Excadrill’s ears sitting beside him. The steel and ground type pokemon blinks open their eyes. Feeling and seeing through the sleepy corner of their vision that Ingo is making sudden shifts in movement, Excadrill’s head shoots up in surprise. 

He jumps to his feet, alert and worried for his trainer, “Exca!?” Finally processing the laughter and seeing the wide smile on Ingo’s face, the pokemon leans his head to the side. “Drill?”

Emmet informs the older pokemon, “Don’t worry, Excadrill. Ingo and my joltiks are just having a little playdate.”

Excadrill nods in understanding. He’s used to the twins causing some brotherly ruckus once in a while. Most of the time, Excadrill is an audience member to their shenanigans, but this time, Excadrill thinks to himself that his trainer could use some revenge for waking him up…

The dual type spots one of the joltik perched and snuggling at Ingo’s neck. “Exca! Drill-drill!” he grabs their attention.

The one joltik returns a smile with their blue eyes. “Jol! Joltik!” As soon as the interaction takes place, the joltik scurries into Ingo’s sleeve. Excadrill smirks. The larger pokemon hops off the couch and struts over to a pillow left on the floor while looking over his shoulder with a sly smile.

“Wahahait! Excadrill! Whahahat did yohohou just tehehehell them–AHA!” Ingo’s laughter jumps a hurdle once he feels the little creatures hone in around his ribs and his belly like a coordinated attack. 

“YOHOHOHOU trahahaitor!!!” Ingo, who figured out the answer to his very question, yells over to Excadrill. The steel and ground type simply keeps grinning and plops himself onto the floor pillow.

Emmet looks Excadrill’s way. “Verrry nice, Excadrill. I didn’t think you had it in you,” the younger twin complements. Excadrill makes a happy grunt. Emmet then clasps his hands together and returns his attention to his brother. 

“So Ingo. Now that you’ve gotten more acquainted with my joltiks, there’s another reason I want to show you why they are the cutest. Technically they can’t learn what the actual move is in battles, but I taught them a miniature version of it they can use for occasions such as this one. The move is called the most endearing and adorable name. Watch,” Emmet ends his pitch by putting on the largest smirk. He pauses for dramatic effect. “Joltik?”

“Ehehemmet!” Ingo giggles his brother’s name like he was scolding him.

“Use…”

“Ehehemmet, dohohont!” Ingo’s giggles turn more frantic, like he knows what’s coming.

“Nuzzle.” 

With the command spoken, the sound of tiny electric sparks and squeaks are heard from beneath Ingo’s shirt. Ingo doesn’t even have a moment to prepare himself before a surge of electric energy zaps harmlessly, but very ticklishly, at the front of his torso, causing Ingo to explode with more of his boisterous laughter. The blast of his giggles knocks him over and onto the cushions flat on his back. He curls his knees to his chest and he rolls himself into a ball of precious giggles, still while making sure not to hurt the little joltik playing around.

“See? Isn’t that adorable?” Emmet teases. Ingo’s not sure whether or not he’s referring to the joltik or poking fun at him. Either way, Ingo surrenders.

“EHEHEMMET! Ohohohokay! OKAY! Cahahahall them OHOHOHOFF!” Ingo shouts. Satisfied, Emmet walks closer to Ingo and claps his hands.

“Okay, joltik. Playtime is over. Come on out, everyone,” Emmet says. The sound of electricity starts to silence, then joltiks begin to emerge from Ingo’s shirt. The joltiks all jump off of Ingo and into Emmet’s arms as Ingo releases his remaining giggles and regains a steady stream of air. When all eight of the electric creatures are retrieved, the pokemon crawl up and perch themselves on Emmet’s shoulders and on his head. 

Emmet lends a hand to his brother to help him sit upright on the couch. Then, he takes a seat next to him.

“So, how about it? Did I convince you?” Emmet elbows his twin to let him know he’s kidding. “Although I will say, Excadrill definitely earned some cuteness points from me for helping joltik and I earlier.”

Ingo rolls his eyes at this silly competition. “How about we just call it even and say that all of our pokemon are the cutest?” Ingo flashes his brother a soft smile.

Emmet emphasizes a nod, “Now THAT is something I can agree with.”

[penig]

A question of power, Pt 2

Part of the problem with assessing Aziraphale's power levels is that, not only do we not get a direct statement about them, we hardly ever see him do anything angelic-powered in canon. The flashiest things he does in Series 1 are to burn up Crowley's parking citation (which can't have been hard) and to fly Madame Tracy's scooter to Tadfield (apparently soaring blithely over the inferno of the M25; unless someone has identified Shadwell and Tracy's neighborhood as being outside the loop). He heals Anathema, and her bike, and puts a bike rack with tartan straps on the Bentley, which is arguably the least he can do given that it's his and Crowley's fault that she and the bike are injured. However, Crowley grumps at him about it, and Aziraphale appears chastened and excuses himself with: "I got carried away." When Crowley flakes out over the explosion of the Bentley Aziraphale, under protest, makes the gate SP* disappear with a minimum of fuss about the actual act, and then frets over where he might have sent him. (In the book, which has more time to be reassuring, he goes home to the family farm.)

(*Security Policeman, because it's an airbase. On an American Army posts, gates are guarded by MPs, Military Policemen.)

Am I missing anything? Because for the most part, when miracles are to be done, Aziraphale looks at Crowley, expecting him to do "the dirty work." In the French prison he refers to being reprimanded over "frivolous miracles," which is the source of my own headcanon that angels on earth have miracle budgets and Aziraphale's, at least, is stingy. This reading is supported, in Season 2, by the archangels in Heaven being alerted to a supermiracle of "25 Lazarii" boiling off of southern England. At the very least, miraculous power is monitored for angels.

We have no indication that this is so for demons, and Crowley doesn't let knowing that miracles are monitored prevent him from complaining about Aziraphale performing sleight-of-hand when he can "do proper magic," including "making people disappear." Though that particular line is presumably setup for the fate of the SP in Tadfield, it is also reasonable to extrapolate that Crowley specifies that ability because it is something he himself cannot do, or which is easier for Aziraphale to do than it is for him. Lines can do double duty when needed.

The original Series 1 script had two points at which Aziraphale performed miracles which were ultimately cut. In one, he's talking on the phone, spots a baby stroller rolling into traffic, gestures without missing a beat of his telephone conversation, and the stroller changes direction.

In the scene "Aziraphale Meets the Neighbors", his work interpreting Agnes Nutter's books is interrupted by mob types come to initiate a buyout. At first it looks like a rescue situation, per the stage directions: Aziraphale seems slightly out of his depth here. The Boss and two thugs are hard men, well-dressed, dangerous. It's like a lamb meeting three wolves. In a book shop. The thugs even manhandle the books! But when the Boss comes to the point and declares himself ready to make a "generous offer," Aziraphale counters with his own generous offer:  you and your friends tidy up the mess you've made, leave my shop, never come back, and we will say no more about it. The Boss is confused, but the thugs immediately start doing as they are bid and even turn their intimidation on the Boss, leaving the shop talking about wanting to be a florist and feeling like nicer people already. The Boss merely complains of his head hurting. This scene is an expansion on a couple of paragraphs in the book, in which we learn that Aziraphale frequently has to deal with mobsters demanding that he sell or pay them protection money. And Aziraphale would nod and smile and say that he'd think about it. And then they'd go away. And they'd never come back.

Just because you're an angel doesn't mean you have to be a fool.

My takeaway from all this has been that Aziraphale is reluctant to perform miracles at all, and that when he does, he a)does his best to make them inconspicuous and b)is prone to getting "carried away." This opens up an entire separate, but related, issue concerning how they choose to present themselves to the world and each other, and how their relationship has been negotiated through all those years, which I'll probably go on about elsewhere but which would distract from the central question of power levels if dealt with in detail here. Suffice it to say that, on the evidence of the first series and the book, there is every reason to assume them to have similar power levels that they choose to use differently. Aziraphale can probably shapeshift and travel the telephone lines; he just hasn't done it within our line of sight. Whether he could learn to stop time is an interesting question on which we can only speculate.

The second series is harder to parse, especially in the minisodes. The fact that the minisodes were separately written and directed makes this inevitable for Doylist reasons. At the Watsonian level, I believe this can safely be attributed to the separate issue of presentation. Aziraphale's supernatural powers are even less flashy than in Series 1. He barely seems to use them at all. His most obvious solo miracles prior to the Ball involve technology, and his approach there is both interesting and enlightening. We can take his negotiations with the Bentley over music, color, speed, and sound effects at face value as an interaction with a fellow supernatural entity if we assign a level of sentience to the car; but he approaches the borrowed telephone (and for that matter, those he borrows the telephone from; like the thugs and the Boss, they are coded as threats, but soften right up when he exerts his personality on them) in the same manner, asking it politely to perform its function, even though he doesn't even attempt to go through the steps necessary or even give it the information it should need. He doesn't even give it a number to call, just "my bookshop." And the telephone comes through, getting mended and upgraded as a reward (and quite possibly despite not being able to take any more upgrades; planned obsolescence is not something Aziraphale's going to cooperate with). I would love to know how the phone's owner's subsequent, blessed interactions with Twitter and Grindr are going, since Aziraphale didn't even know what they were. I suspect the algorithms run differently on that phone. It's an impressive miracle, but it keeps its head down.

The exception to this low-key trend is of course the miracle he casts in tandem with Crowley (and also while touching Jim; the question of whether in the process of protecting him they tapped into his natural angelic power is one I have not seen examined and which I am not prepared to go into myself at this time, but I feel it should at least be mentioned). When specifically asked about this miracle, Aziraphale reaches for a plausible lie and comes up with the "tried to make Nina fall in love with Maggie" dodge. And Heaven allows this as a possibility. The implication here is that even the power of Heaven can't just change a heart with a fingersnap. Human affections are hard to tamper with!

Both this and the "Aziraphale gets carried away" implications are reinforced at the Whyckber Street Ball. Aziraphale doesn't force anyone to show up, but puts himself to considerable trouble, running all over the neighborhood influencing, tempting, persuading, and bribing, even committing himself to parting with a book. Once the ball starts, he gets carried away and controls people to a funny but disturbing extent: Mrs Sandwich can't speak the name of her ancient profession and everybody buys into the roleplay and does a dance in a style few of them are likely to have attempted before (I have; English country dance and square dance are similar in that they don't require fancy footwork but you really have to know the patterns and pay attention). But Nina still doesn't fall in love.

The fact that in "Aziraphale meets the neighbors" The Boss leaves with a headache and the thugs leave discussing their other ambitions and leaning into "feeling nicer" also demonstrates that humans can't be mucked about directly in this way. Aziraphale can take them by the hand and lead them up to the brink as highhandedly as he likes, and exert as much power as he's able, but they have to make the last step on their own.

Which is Free Will and the point of the whole exercise, theoretically.

Heaven and Hell are hedged about with prohibitions and limitations - especially Heaven, but Hell isn't allowed to harm humans directly (collateral damage is fine, which is how Hastur ate all those phone solicitors) and physically can't enter a Heavenly embassy like Aziraphale's bookshop without an invitation. Aziraphale's power usage was strictly monitored and limited by rules and divine ordinance while he operated as an angel - he was absolutely forbidden to interfere with what Hell chose to do to Job and his family, and he's not allowed to save Wee Morag in the Resurrectionist minisode - and he chafes under those restrictions, pushing them right up to the edge trying to persuade Crowley not to do his worst just because he's allowed to. But he's also limited by the hold they have upon his conscience, taking so long to work up to helping Wee Morag that he loses his chance.

But once he's free of Heaven, does he go hog wild, let himself get carried away all over the place, healing and influencing every chance he gets?

Nope. He's still very restrained about throwing his power around. If Heaven doesn't impose rules, he will. Is this because he's afraid of getting carried away? Or is he afraid of his own power? Or is something else going on?

The very largest miracle he undertakes, blowing up his halo, is put off as long as he can possibly put it off. The way he holds himself back and leaves the defense of the bookshop largely to Maggie and Nina is frustrating to the viewer, but at least he makes it clear that this is a choice he's making. The reason for that choice is more properly dissected along with the issue of how he and Crowley present to the world, which I am not doing here, but it amounts to, once again, wanting Crowley to do it, though this time we get the intriguing rationale that it's because "he enjoys rescuing me so much." When the backs are against the wall, though, off comes the halo, and though he says apologetically that he's not supposed to do it outside of a state of war, he breaks that rule quickly, competently, and cleanly.

And then seems embarrassed about it.

The inescapable conclusion seems to be, that if power levels seem uneven between Crowley and Aziraphale, in favor of Crowley, it's because Aziraphale chooses that this should be so.

Which is going to have to be a third post.

[naturecpw]

Every good dog deserves a musical tribute

Hector, dog of dogs, is the most glorious companion. Simon Tiffin reveals how he came to commission a piece of music that would evoke his spirit when he finally departs this world

Simon Tiffin Sun 28 Nov 2021

One of the earliest signs of spring in my garden is a ring of snowdrops and winter acconites that encircles the trunk of a medlar tree outside the greenhouse. This yellow-and-white display was planted to complement a collection of elegantly engraved, moss-covered mini-headstones that mark the resting places of the previous owner’s dogs. Each of these markers has a simple but evocative dedication: “Medlar, beloved Border Terrier”; “Otter, a little treasure. Sister of Medlar”; “Skip, grandson of Genghis. Sweet eccentric.” Every time I see this pet cemetery I am reminded that, despite a complex denial structure that involves a sneaking suspicion that he is immortal, there will come a time when I have to face the death of Hector, dog of dogs.

Hector is a cockapoo and not ashamed to admit it. He sneers at terms such as “designer dog” and “hybrid” and is rightly proud of his spaniel/poodle heritage. Although many people have an origin myth of how their pet chose them, in Hector’s case it is true. When I went with my wife Alexa to see a friend whose working cocker had recently given birth, a blind, chocolate-brown caterpillar of a pup freed himself from the wriggling furry mass of his siblings and crawled his way towards us. Bonding was instant and, on our side, unconditional.

Eight years later, Hector is my companion, confidant and friend. Our relationship is uncomplicated; we don’t argue, we are always pleased to see each other and I never go to bed angry with him (even if he is taking up half of the duvet). Hector’s antics have, at times, astonished me: at the funeral of Marion, an aunt whose life had been dedicated to loving, breeding and showing poodles, Hector, like the dogs of Antioch at the fall of the Roman Empire, threw his head back and released a lupine call at the exact moment the celebrant released Marion’s ashes to the wind; an action he has never repeated. (A friend recently recommended reading Dogs That Know When Their Owners are Coming Home, by the renowned biochemist Rupert Sheldrake, who studies phenomena that conventional science cannot explain, to shed light on Hector’s more baffling behaviour.)

While many of my friends understand and even identify with the depth of feeling I have for Hector, others see it as mawkish. How can a relatively sane and intelligent person invest such emotion in an animal? I have seen this attitude expressed when others who have lost a much-loved dog have been grief stricken. “We dismiss and don’t legitimise people’s grief for a dog,” says Julia Samuel, psychotherapist and author of Grief Works: Stories of Life, Death and Surviving. “It is as if people have more value and those that make a fuss about a pet are somehow trivial. As our relationships, however, can be more straightforward with our dogs than with family members or friends, we can invest huge amounts of love and time in our pets. We have no right to begrudge or dismiss people’s grief at the loss of a dog. Indeed, it can be very important to have a ritual or a physical reminder to mark the death of a pet.”

Short of enacting a reverse Greyfriars Bobby, I am pushed to come up with a suitable memento for such a special beast as Hector. Cloning? Too Silicon Valley nutter. Taxidermy? Too mad cat lady. Brian Sewell, in his wonderful autobiography Sleeping With Dogs, suggests planting a tree, but bemoans that he won’t be around to see the Sequoia sempervirens reach its full potential in 200 years’ time, a sentiment I cannot help sharing.

As a more immediate memorial, I consider having Hector sit for a portrait and contact the artist Sally Muir, whose work always manages to capture the innate doggishness of her sitters. “I have been obsessed with dogs all my life,” she says, “and I also love how so many artists have portrayed them. I am particularly fond of Hogarth’s pug paintings and Freud’s whippets. He was much more sympathetic to his canine sitters than his human ones.”

“I do work from photographs,” Muir says, “but ideally I like to meet my subjects and look them in the eye. If you are going to have your dog painted as a memorial, wait until he is quite old. Like people, as dogs age they become an extreme version of themselves; there is a dignity to old dogs.” A portrait would be a fine way to remember Hector and, looking at Sally’s work, I know she would be able to produce a painting that would capture everything but his bark. There is, however, something a little too static, too frozen in time about an image that does not quite get Hector’s delight in being Hector. He is a true energy and like all his kind, simply can’t help living in the moment.

Several years ago, Laurie Anderson composed and performed music intended only for dogs. Performed in a low frequency perfectly adapted to its canine audience’s sense of hearing, this piece complemented her film Heart of a Dog, a work inspired by the bardo – the Tibetan concept of transitioning into the afterlife. It was Anderson’s idea of combining Tibetan mysticism, dogs and music that inspired my final choice of a suitable memorial for Hector: a piece of music composed to celebrate his life and death.

I did not, however, want this to be any mass of the dead in the tradition of Brahms, Fauré or Mozart, but more an uplifting anthem evoking the exuberance, joy and chaos Hector brings to life. Not a Requiem but a Hequiem. Although I have always suspected Hector of being a rock fan due to his resemblance to Robert Plant when he is overdue a groom, for the Hequiem I took my starting point to be works that brought to life big landscapes, freedom and hope, such as Vaughan Williams’s Lark, the Scherzo: Molto Vivace from Dvořák’s 9th and the “Open Prairie” from Aaron Copeland’s Billy the Kid Suite.

My search for the right composer began with a conversation with William Mival, head of composition at the Royal College of Music. “A good composer will write to order and provide what a client wants,” says Mival. “Mozart did exactly the same. Indeed, his commission for the Requiem was from a client who wanted to pass the music off as his own. As I was attacked by a dog as a child, however, I am not your man, but I can think of a number of Royal College students who would be thrilled with this idea.”

After discussing Hector’s personality and my ideas for the piece I was put in touch with dog lover, composer and recent graduate from the Royal College, Nahum Strickland. Making his own music since the age of three, Nahum is something of a prodigy and was featured in a Guardian piece on child composers in 2004. His approach to composition is also remarkable. “When I watch a video or look at scenery or an image, the music appears to me fully orchestrated, already complete,” he says. “It is just there and if I don’t write it down it disappears – I’ll never get it back again.”

So Nahum can get as good an idea as possible of Hector’s nature, I send numerous videos of him charging through the countryside, playing with his dog walking pack and sleeping in his bed. We talk of his loves: playing ball (endlessly), guarding; and his hates: his nemesis the cocker spaniel who taunts him from the back of a quad bike – and being ignored, cyclists.

For Nahum, the Hequiem presented a welcome challenge. “In composition you usually start with an arc – a beginning, middle and end – but Hector is always charging around. He seems to find it hard to concentrate on one thing and I get the idea he will always do what he feels like; he is a very immediate dog. So I got this very fast-moving time and this piece became more of a progression and odyssey. The piece builds to something a little bit bombastic – like Hector.”

Not only is Nahum’s assessment of Hector’s character spot on but also the piece he produces – from the acerbic timbre of the opening oboe solo that captures Hector’s playful nature to the climax that immediately brings to my mind the sight of Hector charging after a ball or a rabbit – is sublime. I can imagine myself weeping uncontrollably at his grave side.

Hector, however, remaining blissfully unaware of his mortality, appears unmoved and gives me a look that reminds that it is time for supper.

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https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2021/nov/28/every-dog-deserves-a-musical-tribute-simon-tiffin-pet-hector-gets-a-hequiem

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[mashupofmylife]

Tell a joke that you find funny, even if it isn’t amazingly hilarious… a joke.

I’m probably not the best person to be going to looking for laughs right now.

But there’s this camp song based around a series of knock knock jokes–stay on the sunny side of life–that’s actually fairly morbid, and as a teen aide it got sp old after two or three days of camp, but as an adult I now just find perfectly charming the whole time.

Ether who? Ether bunny!

Nutter who? Nutter ether bunny!

Stella who? Stella nutter ether bunny!

Cargo who? Car go ‘beep beep’ and run over all the ether bunnies!

Bo who? Don’t cry! Ether bunnies will be back next year!

[malewifevenom]

Ok ok so LloyD, here are my ideas

So since Wu isn’t in the picture anymore, the ninja wouldn’t have found the golden weapons (but Kai still decks Garmadon Bcuz I said so) Sp Lloyd, Who is Fed up of his Dads shit, Goes around and finds them all, taking them back to Darkly’s and once he gets all 4, The weapons begin reacting, Blah blah blah, Lloyd is now insanely powerful.

So what does this small child do? He goes and visits his nutter of an aunt Mystake and she pretty much goes “oh yeah ur the grandson of FSM go find the other elemental masters atta boy” and because this is ninjago, All 4 of the ninja get wind of this crazy tea lady who knows everything and barge into her shop just as she says “other elemental masters” and because the ninja share 1 and a half brain cells between them they immediately go “okay your now our son lets fuck some snakes up”

I’m back with another au idea

Au where the Ninja aren’t Ninja, but instead 4 very gay dudes with a even gayer sister finding out they have elemental powers and they end up saving everyone, pretty much Raising Lloyd and forming a team with the other elemental masters, All without Wu being vauge and beating them up during March of the Oni

Yesssssss! Okay i love this, like actually yes

aight, im making a reason for them to meet without Wu recruiting them all so that this au can happen ✨✨✨

Ok, so their elemental powers all started to show up at arround the same time (appart from Nya though hers do come into this, we aren’t leaving her out until s5 like canon), but the other 4 ofc were really confused, and all reacted in different ways, though all ended up meeting at that weird mountain place from Cole’s backstory, and i’ll explain why

-Zane went there because the cold made his powers stronger and he thought that was cool and the mountain place was snowy so y not, also Zane definitely wanted to have an elsa moment™️

-Kai went there (and took Nya with him) because he was scared of the powers and hoped all the ice and snow would stop things arround him setting on fire (and it did, at first........ 🙂)

-Cole used it as an excuse to get away from his Dad and also discovered that being near the mountains made his powers stronger because of all the rocks and stuff before, it was similar to canon

-Jay was there testing his inventions, it was his glider like in canon, also similar to Kai, he was avoiding accepting that he had elemental powers and so he threw himself into working on that instead

They meet when Cole saves Jay with his powers after he straight up jumped off the mountain in order to test the glider, the others see what happened and they’re like ‘wtf you have powers? Thats so cool, what a coincidence, same 🤩’

At some point after this but before Lloyd shows up, Nya discovers her abilities after Kai nearly drowns and her powers kick in as a way to save him (also yes this is why hes afraid of water in later seasons, also yes Nya does get her s5 moment of struggling to control water, but for this it was her trying to learn to do it on command instead of just in life/death situations)

K so onto Lloyd, I honestly dont know, i’ll be back later with an explanation of how they end up adopting him unless anyone else got any ideas 👀

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Couple doodles I made before going to sleep.

[ecotone99]

[SP] Future Perspective Shakedown of This Beautiful Garbage Heap We Call Home *Jazz Music*

It was our imaginations that finally did us in. There was no return of the lizard people, and northerners killed more of their own than the “southern hicks” ever did. The point when people began to see things in the sky was the most maddening of all. It was at this point that there simply was no turning back. Frankly, I thought I saw one once, but I can’t be sure. I am sure that I never spoke about it once, to anyone. The raving lunatics on the street gave me some piece of mind, because I certainly hadn’t seen it the way these poor souls claimed to.

Our homes became our madhouses. When it was obvious that the watcher of watchmen had gone just as mad as the general populous, people really stopped going out much. How do you deal with a reality that is relentless? At what point could we have still gotten it right? When floating objects in the sky becomes a political stance, and the nutters are running the mad house they live in because no one wants to make a scene, you would think people would just have to laugh it off. Crack open a beer maybe, and then let everyone find their island.

Maybe we grew up on one too many stories of good conquering evil. It would seem opposition inherently comes with a bit of evil engrained at the core. I suppose though it always had been that way. Now everyone’s a goddamn hero, fighting everything in front of them to save the world from total utter non-personally-reflective fantasy.

Maybe if Walden’s pond was just a little bit more enjoyable of a read for the common consumer, we’d have seen the finish line all long. Some land, and as many of your close friends and family as you can. At the end of the day when the shouting dies down, and people keep the peace, the days that are worth remembering are almost always compiled of the same elements. Family, love, friendship, bounding, helping. Why then did we get in the way of that so often? Because we never left the jungle, we never left the savannah, or the mountains, fields, or planes, we just made them a lot safer and with much bigger game.

So when the only answer in the world is to not kill the prized rhino, who ends up with the horn? I think if the FBI didn assanate Martin Luther King Jr, we probably would have figured our shit out. The noise became so rampant in our minds from all of the media and galore that no one had a clue to the truth behind it all. Was it a collapse or a demolition? At some point it didn’t matter anymore, but people still wanted to believe it did. But the demons haven’t shown up yet, the earth has yet to rupture, and it’s a quiet, warm night, so I think I’ll enjoy this moment for all that it's worth.

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Got some hate for having good taste so I made something out of spite :3

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Was out doing laundry with my mom so I decided to draw this. (This was on my phone so colors may look off)

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Pride stuff!

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Barbie meme ft Butters and New Kid

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Some doodles

Kiibo will never be consistent with me.

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Here's some Nutters