(Will never not reblog this beauty. What genius.)

Same. :)

Mad Max: Fury Road (2015) dir. George Miller

I. Love this. 

Love it.

Oh my god

yes.

This is it, I found it, the funniest post on this entire godsforsaken website

I will never get over how brilliant this comic is. The artist could have just drawn a single image in response, but instead we have this masterpiece. The world doesn’t deserve @iguanamouth.

The Washington Post, Washington DC, June 11, 1916

Neil behind the camera all day tomorrow

Neil not being part of the Good Omens junket or the cast and crew and press screening because he's WGA and we are on strike.

But I'm so proud of our cast and our crew and everything they've made.

THIRD WHEELING™ OUR FLAG MEANS DEATH (2022-)

This meme is inescapable on French insta so I'm posting it here for all to enjoy

They really awake his bloodlust, uh

The virgin pit bull vs the chad Great Pyrenees

Listen. I grew up with these dogs. Im a cat person, no shame, but Great Pyrenees are hands down my most trusted domestic animal and are hardcore as fuck.

When I was a kid, between six and fifteen, one of our Pyrenees would escort me, off-leash, between my grandmother's house and mine. I'd just have to call him, and he'd show up and walk me there, placing himself between me and anything he considered threatening- Cranky farm animals, holes in the ground, bodies of water, etc.

That same dog found a (unfortunately deceased) lamb my grandfather had buried a few hours earlier, dug it up, realized it was cold and not breathing, and carefully carried it to our barn, where he covered it neck-deep in straw and tried to cuddle it warm again to bring it back to life.

One of our older dogs, at about sixteen years old (keep in mind, this breed tends to average out at about 12 years max) had arthritis in his hips, a bad back, and a respiratory issue, was fucking ancient and essentially palliative, but would still go stock-still out of nowhere, let out one subtle "boof", and then set out at an awkward-yet-speedy bunny-hop sprint at the slightest whiff of a cougar, bear, or wolf. Like, grampa would jump fences. Gentle geriatric giant would kick up to 7k to protect the family, never mind the three other, much younger dogs already on the case.

When I was a baby, like a literal in-diapers infant, he would lay on the ground and let me dress him up as a wizard and crawl all over him with zero complaint.

His nephew was 100lbs and often alarmed visitors who mistook him for a bear, yet never so much as bumped into a person in his life and feared only string and kittens.

a Great Pyrenees is not Balto. A Great Pyrenees is Robert McCall, John Wick, and John McClain wrapped in Marry Poppins and a snuggly Mr. Rogers wool sweater.

They are not only the best dog, but I would argue that they are also the MOST dog.

I will die by this

Today in Now I Have a Yard, Should I Get a Dog:

Old Friends Senior Dog Sanctuary has a livestream now and it’s making my life infinitely better by the second.

EDIT: they have a second camera outside!

cashier: sorry for your wait. we’re short-staffed today

millennial: oh that’s ok no worries :)

 baby boomer:

But listen that’s the thing. 

We are short staffed almost 97% of the time at my retail job. Because corporate has figured out you can overwork 4 people at minimum wage instead of paying for the 8 people you should probably have to be on the clock.  

Baby boomers grew up with stores that were adequately staffed, with workers who most likely had weeks of training for their jobs as opposed to the 1-2 shadow shift training we get now. Also those workers most likely were able to be full time if they wanted. Now retail, except for management positions, is mostly made up of part time workers, because you don’t have to give them benefits. So you have a workforce of perpetually underpaid, overwhelmed, undertrained people trying to do their best all while dealing with an entire generation of people who refuse to acknowledge that the system has changed and the average retail worker has NO control over that change and is being taken advantage of.

Like we got our customer surveys back, and almost every single one mentioned that they couldn’t find someone to help them or we needed more people on register because it was TOO SLOW, but what did management tell us instead of scheduling more people? We need to be quicker on register and call for backup if necessary. Which makes no sense because we can’t call for backup THAT ISN’T THERE.

Y'all my parents haven’t worked retail since the 70s and they absolutely never believe me about the things that happen at work. I explain the schedule for next week gets hung up on the Friday before and they scoff and go “well when i worked at X they had it a month up your manager is just lazy.” No mom, its company policy to only do “two weeks” in advance. They won’t give you a full month’s scheduling in advance cause it let’s you plan for a world outside of work. Or about the hours, workload or anything. They just assume its an individual’s failing instead of corporate mandate. Or, if they do believe me (that its company policy) they call it ridiculous and point out some survey that argues its Good Business to do (insert decent thing here).As if they think the higher ups don’t know this and are simply ignorant of Good Business Practices. They don’t understand that retail has completely shifted from caring about its employees to squeezing out every penny now instead of investing it for later.

Cause that isn’t how it was when they worked and they just can’t seem to see otherwise.

   I think there should be a ‘bring-your-parent-to-work-day’ instead of ‘bring-your-kid-to-work-day’, it would shock so many parents and would probably make them finally realize how much retail indeed has changed in the US.

when i first got hired as a cashier, my manager who had been doing that since she was like 17 in 1975 told me that back in The Days, when you were hired as a cashier in a grocery store it was a) a well paid job & you could get full time work easily b) a respected career choice c) the store closed at 6pm and was closed on Sundays so the hours were a lot more pleasant d) they made you go to cashier school for 2 weeks, which was basically a fake grocery store and you just learned the trade completely before even meeting a customer now its like : you get like 20 hours a week, bullshit shifts like 3:45 to 10:15, a 20 minutes training before being thrown to the wolves, customers tell you you deserve your shitty lowlife job as soon as you don’t thoroughly kiss their ass

The millennial experience is tied to growing income inequality and the indentured servitude of student loan debt

My first day of work for Family Dollar was March 1st 2009. I worked 4-9pm. This is my very first job I ever had in my entire life. Never worked a cash register or anything. All my knowledge came from watching people ring me up in the 19 years of my life. At 4:05 I was alone on register for the rest of the night with a solid flow of customers. I NEVER GOT ANY TRAINING OTHER THAN THOSE 5 MINUTES OF PUSH THIS BUTTON AND GOOD LUCK.

It’s gotten worse since I officially left retail in 2001. As an older teen who only lived 5 minutes away and was no longer in school, I was scheduled a lot of open to close days. They could trust me with the key to open, and they could trust me to balance the registers and shit after we closed. I was NEVER compensated as a key holder or as someone who was basically doing managerial shit. Now, kids are only given a few hours a week, and the minimum wage hasn’t been raised in how long? When I worked at the community college bookstore from 1999 - 2000, I distinctly remember making $6.50 per hour. And the minimum wage is, what, $7.25 now? It’s bullshit. Then again, even office jobs around here barely pay more than $12 per hour to start, and you have to have a bachelor’s and somehow also 5 years of experience.

I definitely remember as a kid that all the lines at the grocery store would have a cashier manning them. Now there’s maybe two lines open and all the rest empty.

I remember being the only person to run ALL of the front one day, meaning customer service AND checkout. Because the place I used to work only schedule two people now instead of three. Not only did our satisfaction rates plummet when we made that shift, but if someone called out and we couldn’t find anyone to come in (and let’s face it you usually don’t…) we’re screwed. But it’s whatever I’ve done this song and dance before so I’m doing my thing taking care of the line and working two registers and apologizing profusely because “UM WHERE IS YOUR HELP THIS IS RIDICULOUS???” and it’s going as smooth as it can except I keep having to put the phone on hold and it’s the same number. So I’m putting the phone on hold but the lady keeps hanging up and calling back and about the third time I can’t even say hello before I get a “DO NOT put me on hold again I need to talk to someone!” I tell her firmly that I’m the only one up front and if she holds I’ll get to her in a bit. So I put her on hold again and finally get the line down and get back to the phone. She’s still there and after apologizing for the wait, thanking her for her patients (which she doesn’t have) and calling over another customer to ring out while I talk to her she demands a manager. Now, the manager is dealing with something else so I explain he’s with someone and ask what she needs. She tells me that it’s OBVIOUSLY because she was put on hold. I say “I apologize ma'am, as I said I’m the only one working customer service and checkout because we had someone call out.” “Well the management needs to get you HELP!” “They’ve done all they can ma'am no one was available to come in. What was it you needed today?” “I need to talk to the manager they need to MAKE someone come in this is ridiculous.” That was at a retail electronic store. She was wondering if we had any of a specific TV in stock in the end and was treating it with the same urgency as the CANCER PATIENTS at my current job treat stuff when they call. People cannot fathom how hellish retail is and honestly I’m glad I was able to get out.

a few fun octopus facts:

Full offence, but if you’re in law enforcement and you shoot into a car with a four year-old child sitting in the backseat because you “feared for your life,” then you’re not only a fucking failure as a police officer, but you’re also a pile of shit human being who isn’t worth the piece of paper your birth certificate is printed on.

Like, not only did Jeronimo Yanez literally murder Philando Castile in coldblood for no good reason other than “I think Black people are scary,” but he also put his well-being (which wasn’t even under threat in the fucking first place) above that of a preschooler. He decided in that moment, based on nothing but a racist pre-judgment, that his life was worth more than that of a little four-year-old girl, and in a world with any justice he would have been locked up for that reason right along with a manslaughter conviction. 

The jury for this case basically just looked this poor, absolutely traumatised little girl in the eye and said “We think you are disposable.” Obviously, they thought the same of Philando Castile. 

There is no non-Black person in this country who should not be wallowing in shame right now; our depravity is a scourge. 

Watch: In a powerful Congresional speech, Sandra Bland’s mother called people who think they’re woke “the walking dead” because of how little we still know

The speech included a rousing call to action before the newly formed Congressional Caucus On Black Women & Girls. And her words were incredibly resonant, even if you think you know the whole story.

Gifs: Josh Begley

WATCH THE VIDEO

fucking hell, plz share this

My heart hurts for these victims and this mother.

Here are 15 things your city can do right now to better promote justice in policing

30+ Resources to Help White Americans Learn About Race and Racism

The Washington Post, Washington DC, January 19, 1913

Neural networks can name guinea pigs

Neural networks are a type of computer program that mimic the way human brains learn. Unlike traditional computer programming in which a programmer invents rules for the program to follow, neural networks have an amazing ability to intuit their own rules about datasets simply by examining them.

Given a dataset with enough examples, a neural network can learn the sounds and letter combinations that make a band sound metal, or a tune sound Irish, or a creature sound like a Pokemon.

Then yesterday, I got an email from the Portland Guinea Pig Rescue. “Have you ever trained a neural network to generate guinea pig names?”

No, I hadn’t. In fact, I was fairly certain that this particular feat had not yet been tried in the history of machine learning research. Intrigued, I asked why.

It turns out that the Portland Guinea Pig Rescue often takes in many unnamed guinea pigs at once when they encounter hoarding situations, or sometimes they decide to rename a guinea pig to increase its chance of being adopted. They wanted to know if, given a list of typical guinea pig names (”Snickers”, “Pumpkin”, “Ginger”, “Rascal”, etc), a neural network could learn to generate more names. Yes, I said. Given a list.

The next day, I had a list. The Portland Guinea Pig Rescue gave me the list of every guinea pig they had ever rescued, the names of their own pet guinea pigs, and all the guinea pig names they could find online.

And that same day, I had an answer. Yes, despite having no concept of what these furry round rodents actually are, a neural network is indeed uncannily good at naming them.

I give you: the first guinea pigs named by neural network, currently up for adoption at the Portland Guinea Pig Rescue:

And:

And:

Careful blog readers may notice that Buzzberry is actually an 80s action figure, while Fleury White and Stargoon are both paint colors. Portland Guinea Pig Rescue admitted that they liked some of the other neural network names as well. “I did just threaten one of our rowdy fosters with Stoomy Brown if he didn’t start behaving himself.” 

They also named this guinea pig Princess Pow, one of my favorite action figure names:

I leave you with a list of guinea pig names invented by neural network, some pretty darn good:

and some not so much:

Remember, as soon as some of these very adoptable guinea pigs get their forever homes, the Portland Guinea Pig Rescue will be able to take in more guinea pigs and give them fabulous names.

SNIFKET

“Butty Brlomy” 

Here’s a story about changelings: 

Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. 

She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage.

Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. 

“Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. 

Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin.

“I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.”

“I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.”

“Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.”

Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine.

“We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…”

“Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.”

Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has.

“Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.”

Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project.

She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still.

“Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once.

Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.”

Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.  

They all live happily ever after.

Here’s another story: 

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