doodlin stuff.

God forbid women have hobbies

I feel like a surfboard is potentially a fair price to pay for getting to watch an otter surfing.

the way this shiba puppy yawns (please unmute)

Check your hand sanitizer y'all

Here's the full, updated list from the FDA. It's currently (well, as of March 14 '24) 67 pages.

Also be aware that a LOT of companies substitute cheaper ingredients in their food products. Which is obnoxious but fine, unless you're allergic to the substitute ingredients.

Olive oil, tea, honey, cinnamon (not that lead is exactly "safe" to eat), vanilla, coffee, fish, blah blah blah. The list goes on. Any corners a company can cut to save .001%, they will. Usually the substitutes are mostly harmless, but it isn't as if companies care about consumer safety when there's profit to be made.

To clarify, the list linked is ALL hand sanitizer products officially recalled (and may have ongoing additions). It is NOT just the Aruba Aloe brand; there are many brands by various manufacturers on the list. So please check to see if you own anything on that list.

How 2 avoid telling ur kid his dad was a wizard

star wars fans really just make anything up

I’m not Glup Shitto-ing you. He has a sexstache and everything.

star wars heritage post

public service announcement

I keep getting people asking about bowling on this post so I’m just gonna repost this drawing I made on Twitter

How did her grandmother fill 4 vases?

She was a very large woman. Easily 12 feet tall.

then why the heck is her family not tall too?!?!

Pop-pop was very small so it canceled out.

This was originally part of its own post, but I figured I should add it here so all the Bawling/Balling/Bowling family lore can be in one place, sorry if you’ve seen it before.

So 12-foot-tall Grandma was actually a star basketball player back in the 70s for a very brief period of time– her career as a professional athlete only lasted between October and December of 1972.

The reason for this was because John Basketball, the inventor of the sport, realized that the WNBA had not yet been established, so he asked her to please sit out until the Basketball Elders got a chance to make a space in the sport for women. Grandma thought this was pretty bullshit, but she decided to leave the NBA anyway because nobody could keep up with her balling, and the sport had lost its novelty.

After she settled down in her new-but-less-exciting career as an astronaut, she met Pop-pop on the moon. It turns out that he had been a big fan of her and had recorded all her matches on U-matic, and had fallen in love with the sport.

Anyway things happened, the two fell in love and got married, and Grandma and Pop-pop had a beautiful family together. She became especially close with one of her granddaughters, Ballin’ Jessie, who inherited her propensity for basketball. The two would often dunk hoops with each other, and developed trash-talk as their love language.

Pop-pop also had an interest in the sport, but his height had made it difficult for him to keep up with the others. In fact, he had actually lost about a foot in height as a result of being compressed by Earth’s stronger gravitational pull. Despite this, Pop-pop was never really bothered by this because of his exceptional love for Grandma, who was always more than happy to lend him a helping hand. 

I want emo versions of idioms

Like, instead of ““you’re barking up the wrong tree” it’s “you’re panicking at the wrong disco”

You can lead a horse to Evanescence but you can’t bring him to life

This isn’t my first black parade

He’s all sins and no tragedies

MISS CONGENIALITY | 2000 

Without even thinking about it, I used to be able to fly. Now I'm trying to look inside myself and find out how I did it. KIKI'S DELIVERY SERVICE 1989 — dir. Hayao Miyazaki

Denzel Washington being an absolute whore in MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING (1993)

My boyfriend is trying to explain cricket to me again. “He’s only got two balls to make 48 runs”, he says. The camera focuses on a man. Underneath him it says LEFT ARM FAST MEDIUM. A ball flies into the stands and presumably fractures someone’s skull. “There’s a free six”, my boyfriend says. 348 SIXES says the screen. A child in the audience waves a sign referencing Weet-Bix

The first time he showed me this I assumed he was pranking me

if people haven’t been exposed to cricket before, here is the experience. The person who likes cricket turns on a radio with an air of happy expectation. “We’ll just catch up with the cricket,” they say. 

An elderly British man with an accent - you can picture exactly what he looks like and what he is wearing, somehow, and you know that he will explain the important concept of Yorkshire to you at length if you make eye contact - is saying “And w’ four snickets t’ wicket, Umbleby dives under the covers and romps home for a sticky bicket.”

There is a deep and satisfied silence. Weather happens over the radio. This lasts for three minutes.

A gentle young gentleman with an Indian accent, whose perfect and beautiful clear voice makes him sound like a poet sipping from a cup of honeyed drink always, says mildly “Of course we cannot forget that when Pakistan last had the biscuit under the covers, they were thrown out of bed. In 1957, I believe.”

You mouth “what the fucking fuck.”

A morally ambiguous villain from a superhero movie says off-microphone, “Crumbs everywhere.”

Apparently continuing a previous conversation, the villain asks, “Do seagulls eat tacos?”

“I’m sure someone will tell us eventually,” the poet says. His voice is so beautiful that it should be familiar; he should be the only announcer on the radio, the only reader of audiobooks.

The villain says with sudden interest, “Oh, a leg over straight and under the covers, Peterson and Singh are rumping along with a straight fine leg and good pumping action. Thanks to his powerful thighs, Peterson is an excellent legspinner, apart from being rude on Twitter.”

The man from Yorkshire roars potently, like a bull seeing another bull. There might be words in his roar, but otherwise it is primal and sizzling.

“That isn’t straight,” the poet says. “It’s silly.”

“What the fucking fuck,” you say out loud at this point.

“Shh,” says the person who likes cricket. They listen, tensely. Something in the distance makes a very small “thwack,” like a baby dropping an egg.

“Was that a doosra or a googly?” the villain asks.

“IT’S A WRONG ‘UN,” roars the Yorkshireman in his wrath. A powerful insult has been offered. They begin to scuffle.

“With that double doozy, Crumpet is baffled for three turns, Agarwal is deep in the biscuit tin and Padgett has gone to the shops undercover,” the poet says quickly, to cover the action while his companions are busy. The villain is being throttled, in a friendly companionable way.

An intern apparently brings a message scrawled on a scrap of paper like a courier sprinting across a battlefield. “Reddy has rolled a nat 20,” the poet says with barely contained excitement. “Australia is both a continent and an island. But we’re running out of time!”

“Is that true?” You ask suddenly.

“Shh!” Says the person who likes cricket. “It’s a test match.”

“About Australia.”

“We won’t know THAT until the third DAY.”

A distant “pock” noise. The sound of thirty people saying “tsk,” sorrowfully.

“And the baby’s dropped the egg. Four legs over or we’re done for, as long as it doesn’t rain.”

The villain might be dead? You begin to find yourself emotionally invested.

There are mild distant cheers. “Oh, and with twelve sticky wickets t’ over and t’ seagull’s exploded,” the man from the North says as if all of his dreams have come true. “What a beautiful day.” Your person who likes cricket relaxes. It is tea break.

The villain, apparently alive, describes the best hat in the audience as “like a funnel made of dove-colored net, but backwards, with flies trapped in it.”

This is every bit as good as that time in Australia in 1975, they all agree, drinking their tea and eating home-made cakes sent in by the fans. The poet comments favorably on the icing and sugar-preserved violets. The Yorkshire man discourses on the nature of sponge. The villain clatters his cup too hard on his saucer. To cover his embarrassment, the poet begins scrolling through Twitter on his phone, reading aloud the best memes in his enchanting milky voice. Then, with joy, he reads an @ from an ornithologist at the University of Reading: seagulls do eat tacos! A reference is cited; the poet reads it aloud. Everyone cheers.

You are honestly - against your will - kind of into it! but also: weirdly enraged.

“Was that … it?” you ask, deeming it safe to interrupt.

“No,” says the person who likes cricket, “This is second tea break on the first day. We won’t know where we really are until lunch tomorrow.”

And - because you cannot stop them - you have to accept this; if cricket teaches you anything, it is this gentle and radical acceptance.

I thought this post was about… crickets like, you know, crickets…

No it is, you’re right, you’ve nailed it

Look at those silly legs

Wait I've seen this movie

Source smoothdunk on twitter

By LabradoriteKing on Pinterest

A handy guide for your Jewellers and Gem Cutters.

I accept payment in trillion-cut black diamonds.

Chop chop.

Useful!

why don't people in zombie apocalypse stories ever just wear suits of armor? you think any zombie is gonna get their shitty rotting jaws through this?

I'm gonna rip and tear my way through the zombie apocalypse completely unharmed because none of the undead hoards will be able to get through my plate mail

everyone else is like "oh we gotta stay inside the most secure places possible and never leave" and I'll be storming through the wastelands in my bloodstained suit of armor, blasting the Doom (2016) OST and plowing my way through waves of the undead. one of them tries to bite me but his shitty rotting teeth don't even leave a dent in my armor before I turn his head into paste. I'll be unstoppable until I die of dehydration or something like an idiot

this goes along with my other pet peeve about zombie apocalypse stories, namely: why does no one ever think to ride a bike? 

bikes are quiet- if the zombies react to loud noises, they won’t hear you on a bike the way they might hear you in a car. bikes don’t need gas, meaning you won’t be stranded if you run out. bikes are much, much easier to maintain than a car- there’s no computer that can short out, no fiddly engine bits that could kill you if you mess with them wrong. you can learn how to maintain a bike with a couple weeks’ worth of classes. almost every adult knows how to ride a bike, and without cars on the road, it’d be much safer to do. 

what i’m saying is

American author Mark Twain (b. 1835) lurches from his grave only to give you a massive thumbs up and die again

Mark Twain essentially invented the genre of a bystander sent into a time-travel sci-fi plot just to get someone to draw this image for him. And today we can simply search for such a picture. It is a time of wonders

#this post has everything. zombies. knights. bicycles. knights on bicycles. mark twain.