LGBTQIACAB

Fuck yea

Growing.

The thought that Brucie Wayne and Batman being two completely separate entities that Bruce can code switch between has consumed me especially with the idea that he mixes the two together on occasion to fuck with people

~~~~~~~~~

*Batman and Superman searching a dressing room*

Superman: What about this thing, it looks suspicious?

Batman *full Batman voice*: That’s an eyelash curler darling

~~~~~~~~

*OG JLA revealing identities to newbies*

Green Arrow: Your turn Bats, who are you?

Batman having decided to fuck with him walking up to him cocking his hip putting one hand on his chest and in full Brucie Wayne mode: C’mon Ollie-Dollie you know who I am. We dated 💕

Green Arrow (internally): Modem noise

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Recently revealed identities with Clark and Brucie being at the same party

Brucie: oh howdy 🤠 cowboy, fancy meeting you at this shindig

Clark *flustered* (internally): he can’t be Batman he can’t be Batman he can’t be Batman…

~~~~~~~~~

*Bruce getting a call during a JLA meeting*

Brucie: Oh! hello dear, yes of course I’m coming to your party I’ll see you later 😘

Batman: Our security measures need to be increased due to the number of criminals currently attempting to follow heroes to their base of operations

JLA *experiencing whiplash*: what.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*undercover Brucie and members of the JLA at a party*

Bruce *pretending to be drunk wandering over to the flash*: excuse moi but can I get your attention for just a momento😊

Flash *completely disconnecting Bruce and bats*: yeah uh sure sir are you alright

Batman *quiet but deep Batman voice*: there’s an assassin in the rafters

“There’s an assassin in the rafters” shouldn’t be the funniest part of this post and yet is

you: suck my dick me, an intellectual: inhale my richard

here it is! the post that started a “me, an intellectual” hell frenzy, and is officially ⭐ the worst post of 2016 ⭐

you: the worst post of 2016

me, an intellectual: modern art

Look everyone look

saw I trap: hey girlie! this guy is dead. but he has a key in his tummy!! could you get it out to save yourself??

saw traps II and up: preform brain surgery on yourself then eat your own arm then watch your wife be brutally murdered then melt all your skin off with this acid then kill 7 innocent bystanders. you have 45 seconds. now you'll think twice about taking antidepressants.

saw heritage post

The layers

A+ analysis

by @yanpaintsnails on Instagram

On your MOST FOLLOWED blog on Tumblr,

goes hard

I really like dungeon meshi, so take this bit of propaganda

English added by me :)

Far worse, in my opinion, than the famous “he wouldn’t fucking say that” is “he WOULD fucking say that, as part of his facade, but you seem to think he would mean it genuinely”

Idk about this one boys, Cookie Monster always refers to Cookie Monster's self as "Cookie Monster".

no he doesn’t. he refers to himself as “me.” elmo’s the one that talks in third person. that’s the joke. elmo doesn’t use pronouns and cookie monster is blue. how dare you assume i made this post and didnt know my fucking sesame street history. christ

Why does @firefox-official know the ancient sesame Street lore?

Star Trek: Deep Space Nine "Past Tense, Pt. 1"

Reblog if it's the same year as it was yesterday, 2024

Many years ago, I was wandering around downtown Ottawa with my best friend. We ran into a friend of his who offered us some hash (it sucked), then said there was a really good house party nearby if we wanted to go. We were like, yeah, sure. So that's how we ended up at some completely fucking random person's house.

I look around to ask if my friend knows anyone here and he's simply gone, as is his friend. And this isn't some red solo cup hangout; this is a party. There's people counting out pills on the kitchen counter. I am clearly neither as cool nor as drug-savvy as the kitchen people, so I back away and instead wander aimlessly into the living room, which seems to give off more of a chill vibe.

A bunch of people are seated in a circle on the floor. One of them is fiddling with a big wad of newspaper or something. A really cute grunge girl with piercings and tattoos scoots aside to make room for me, so I sit down.

"What's that," I ask her, gesturing at the newspaper wad.

She gets a really big smile on her face. You know the smile. It's the I'm About To Watch This Innocent Soul Get High As Fuck smile. "You've never smoked a tulip?"

"What's a tulip?" I ask.

"It's like if a joint was also a bong," she replies. "You gotta try it."

"Alright," I reply, a little uncertainly. This will not be my first encounter with weed. I am more comfortable with the janky newspaper bong than I am with whatever the fuck is going on in the kitchen. Besides, this girl is really cute and I would like to have a friend here now that my existing friend has turned into vapor or been transported to the Upside-Down or whatever the hell happened to him.

I watch as one person holds the newspaper joint-bong upright and holds a lighter over the top while another gets beneath it, tilting their head back to take a puff. Apparently smoking this Cheech & Chong monstrosity is a two-person job.

"Oh," I say, looking at the fist-sized knob at the top of the wonky newspaper joint. "Yeah, it does kinda look like a tulip." Grunge girl smiles at me.

I watch as the tulip is passed around the circle, along with the lighter, and hits are cooperatively taken. It reaches grunge girl, who takes a huge puff and holds it for an extended moment before exhaling an impressive blast of smoke. She smiles expectantly and holds the tulip up for me, preparing to spark the gigantic meteor of dank that makes up its tip. By this point I have completely forgotten about my missing friend. I only care about making a good impression on grunge girl. I tilt my head back and hit the tulip like a smokestack.

It is the following morning. I am sleeping between a couch and a wall. I'm not positive that this is the same house I was just in. My memories are gone. Someone is yelling at me: "dude! Dude! Wake up, dude!"

I sit up. My mouth tastes like cigarettes. I do not smoke cigarettes. "Wha," I ask the yelling man, who I am quite confident I have never met before in my life.

"We're going on a quest," he tells me, gravely. "You have to come with us."

I look around. Neither my friend nor his friend are anywhere in sight. I also do not see grunge girl anywhere. I shrug helplessly. "Okay."

We embark from this house. I learn that the destination of this quest is Tim Horton's. This is a relief to me, as coffee and a donut sounds really fucking good right now. Somehow, the route to Tim Horton's takes us past the Governor-General's residence, which everyone else in the group loudly heckles on the way past. I do not know what the Governor-General has done to raise their ire, nor do I particularly care. I trudge along with my hands in my pockets, pleased to note that I still have my wallet, phone, and keys. I fervently wish that I could remember anything about last night. Maybe I talked to grunge girl. Maybe she's why my mouth tastes like cigarettes. The tulip tasted nothing like cigarettes.

I am asked about my politics. I voice my frustrations with corporate corruption, the pay-to-win electoral system, the lack of transparency and accountability. This is met with great approval. The guy who was yelling at me claps me on the back. I get the impression that we became friends last night. I don't recognize his face. I do not know his name and he definitely does not know mine. I behave as though we're friends anyway. We are comrades on a quest.

By the time we make it to Tim Hortons, the gaggle of stoners I'm walking with have all run out of energy and/or attention span. People order snacks and break away in pairs or solo, to call for rides or plan the day's events or just vegetate and wait for the drugs to leave their systems. I look around and find that my nameless friend has also gone to the Upside-Down. As I wash the cigarette taste out of my mouth with coffee, I unsuccessfully try to remember whether I saw grunge girl smoking tobacco at any point. I remember nothing. That tulip was so fucking powerful that it instantly sent me a whole day forward in time.

Alone in the city, I try to call my best friend and get no answer. I walk to the nearest bus stop, catch a bus most of the way home, and call up my parents to ask for a ride back. They ask where my friend is. I tell them that I have no idea; we went to a house party and I don't remember anything else.

When they pick me up from the bus station, they ask me some very safe, nonspecific questions, and seem to relax when I describe what little I can remember. It isn't until years later that I realize they were probably terrified I'd gotten rufied or something, and were so relieved to learn otherwise that they didn't even bother chiding me for smoking myself unconscious in an effort to impress a strange woman. In any case, they were probably happy to find out that I did, in fact, like girls; I suspect they had been privately wondering whether I was gay.

After getting home, I finally manage to get my best friend to answer his phone. I discover that he tried the kitchen pills, spent most of the night crossing the entire city on foot, and crashed at his cousin's house. He sounds like shit. I tell him that he should have tried the tulip, instead. He fervently agrees with me.

I never see grunge girl again.

That's okay, though. She got to see a clueless stranger get fucked the entire way up on some ungodly strain of giga-weed, and I got smiled at by a cute girl, and then I got to go on a quest. Wherever grunge girl is, I hope she's happy. I hope she's smoking the fattest fucking blunt and smiling as some kid passes out behind a couch.

Anyway, my parents were right about me not being straight. A couple of years later, while walking out of the bank, I passed a tired-looking grimy young construction worker with dirty blonde hair and bright blue eyes as he went in, and I actually stumbled and turned to stare after him over my shoulder because my heart had straight up skipped a beat. Guy was hauntingly, harrowingly cute. I didn't even have time for denial. It was just "????? I guess? I'm bisexual??"

Like, right in that moment, I knew without question that I absolutely would have let that guy rail me bareback. I went from straight to queer as hell in the blink of an eye. Cannot stress enough how gorgeous this dude was, grime and exhaustion notwithstanding.

Anyway that experience fucked up my sexual wiring and that's why I get funny feelings when I watch Tom Hardy play Max in Mad Max: Fury Road because he's a) cute, b) tired, and c) dirty.