#[Doggone Mad]

[danzinora-switch]

As much as I love the idea of Fred's catchphrase being "fuck!" he does actually have a catchphrase in Scooby-Doo. We just think he doesn't because we keep putting it in the wrong order.

*creepy shenanigans begin*

Fred: Well, gang. It looks like we have a mystery on our hands!

Everyone else:

"Jinkies!"

"Jeepers!"

"Zoinks!"

"Ruh-roh!"

[lizzie2dyefor]

Lizzie has been many things before being The Lady of Chromia. That's not exactly a secret, she’s willing to tell tales of adventures long past to whoever asks. Grandiose, thrilling stories with only a little bit of embellishment.

People know why her eyes look like that. They know what that scar along her bicep is from. They know she has some connection to the Sheriff.

This is all to say, there are some stories she keeps to herself.

It's not like she’s the only emperor with secrets!

Everyone has things they’re not ready or otherwise unwilling to face. To present to the world. Hell, her closest allies are two of the most secretive people she's ever met.

Lizzie looks over to the dog laid in front of the hearth, tail sweeping lazily across the floor.

Secrets.

Yah, she has a few.

“Ren?”

Ren, head of security and fully a dog, doesn’t look up at her. His ear twitches, swiveling towards the sound of her voice.

“You can feel it right?”

He woofs under his breath.

“Yah. I know.” A sigh, “We can't just not see what she wants.”

Ren sits up and shakes. Stretching slowly before padding over to her. Lizzie throws her coat over her night clothes.

The bone deep hook connecting the two of them to Her pulls just a little tighter. Her form of a beckoning call.

Together, they make their way past the city limits and into the woods. Ancient trees tower over them like wooden sentinels. Given what, or rather who, they’re visiting, that comparison isn't too far off.

As has become their normal, Lizzie keeps up a steady flow of conversation as they weave through the forest.

“Remember that bard traveling around? She's got these giant dogs. Last I heard Sausage was watching them, maybe we should set up a playdate?”

Ren barks in protest.

“Oh don't be so jealous, you’re always.” Lizzie laughs, “You’ll always be top dog.”

If he could, she’s certain he would laugh.

Instead, they cross the unseen barrier between Here and enter There. She watches the luminescent shackle appear around Ren’s neck. Feels as her own mark begins to warm painfully against her collarbone.

“Always hate that part.” She comments idley, Ren barks his agreement.

Back in Chromia, winter is in full swing, but Here is not There. Around them the forest sings with life, almost painfully green.

The creatures Here give them a wide berth, going out of their way to avoid the path they follow. Lizzie and Ren are undoubtedly Her’s.

“Ah! You’ve finally arrived! Wonderful, wonderful! Take a seat will you?”

Speak of the devil.

Sitting in a perfectly round clearing, is a woman wearing long flowing robes. Today She wears Lizzies face like an uncanny reflection. (She prefers Lizzies face, usually) Her shimmering wings buzz and flitter just outside of what Lizzie can see. She smiles with far too many teeth.

Lizzie and Ren bow, taking their seats across from Her.

“Shadow Lady, to what do we owe the honor?”

[romanromulus]

just made a very common mistake. fell in love with my main characters

[transfemininomenon]

i went to mad at you island and sooo many people were there. yeah they were PISSED. i think they were forming an angry mob. i saw some pitchforks and torches. yeah you really made a lot of people angry. seems you're a real doggone son of a bitch

[femmeleatherface]

gnawing and gnashing my teeth over this ending and how badly i want to see it and how mad i am that it was cut and is most likely lost forever because of those doggone 1920s test audiences ahhahhhghhhHHH

we came so close to seeing the book's original ending. to seeing erik at his physical best getting good, moving character development. to seeing a proper cinematic depiction of erik and the daroga's relationship. to seeing a proper cinematic depiction of the daroga, PERIOD. to seeing some of the rosy hours of mazandaran, which... admittedly based on the descriptions available and the fact that this was a 1920s hollywood movie, would undoubtedly have been an orientalist mess, but just based on the film we got's overall production quality and films of the era like the thief of bagdad, it would have been a very jawdroppingly impressive-looking orientalist mess

so close. so, so close. but alas...

[calebwittebane]

ok finished the paulo chapter.... And Once Again ghetsis is the most entertaining bitch on that doggone island i literally went YIPPIII when i saw him and just a couple minutes later i see him laughing at a child like "oohhh omg your rockruff disappeared? you cant find your cute little doggy? well could it be perhaps that my kyurem KILLED your little doggy SO HARD that it ceased to exist. thats right i EXPLODED your puppy. your rockruff is NO MORE. i VAPORIZED your dog. i UNDID your dogs existence. it was so tiny and sweet and it loved you so much and i ERASED it from this world just destroyed it FOREVER. there is NOTHING left. what are you gonna do. cry? piss your pants? throw a punch? i'll vaporize you too but before that i'll find every little boy in this world every little boy like you and vaporize their cute little puppies too. because you made me mad. thats right itll be Your Fault." like im crying he just never misses he has never let me down ever

[unluckyuncle]

Liked Starter 𓅭𓅭𓅭𓅭 @gaiathran

It was pretty simple, really. Down by the Promenade was an activity where everyone had to pick up a rubber duck and win a prize. Donald had been going around to all of the little game stalls to try his luck at winning something.

Of course, he never really expected to. He had been the unluckiest duck for as long as he had been alive, but at some point, he was just trying to keep at it for the fun. Really, he wanted a little toy for Lune. But that was becoming a feat in itself.

Five little rubber ducks lay on the wooden counter, all of them, miraculously, did not have even a single prize to them. He wasn't one to get mad at kids' games, but honestly, he couldn't believe he couldn't even get a small one!

[ Oh doggone stubborn little... ] he murmured, looking at the sixth duck in his hands, once again turning out blank. Suddenly in a fit of rage, he jumped into the air screaming, arms swinging when his head hit the roof of the stand.

He came crashing down, promptly sending the six little rubber ducks flying into the air, heading straight for the nearest passerby. Whoops!

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 230

So, I have been reliably informed by @mike-ks-66502-blog that “The Miys” has broken containment: they found my story through FB!??? What the... for realsies? (Also, will respond to your ask soon, just kind of processing that information)

Thankfully it was a screenshot someone shared with Noah hilariously mis-translating Terran slang.

Highly distinguished new readers this week also include @111angel3, who not only took on the speedrun of the story, but commented on doggone near every single chapter; along with @krashingallalong, who last I checked was on chapter 216 and still going. Yes, Krash, I do read my comments ;) I’ll get that link fixed.

New readers this week are: @niavirrivain, @miniaturehumanman, @janelss, @earth-man-head, @barn-in-the-desert. Hey y’all!

Thanks, as always, go to @baelpenrose for beta reading and helping me get through the sticky spots.  Additional extra special thanks to whichever mad people are recommending my story out there. Y’all are awesome, I seriously hope you know that.

The mood on Level One was tense for what felt like a severely unsustainable length.  Everyone had fallen back on short answers to avoid interruption, and any mundane question only rated a curt nod at best. My shoulders hurt, I couldn’t sleep, and I was reasonably certain that Noah was sneaking a disgusting amount of stimulants into Tyche’s water, given how long she had been standing.  I even caught myself, while confirming Parvati’s dispatches and food requests, grousing mentally about the rules of movies and the need for something to break at some point.

Given the current environment, I was pretty sure it would be my teeth before anything else.

Thirty plus hours of clenching my teeth ended up being the only thing to prevent me from spitting out something when an irritatingly soothing chime came over the comms. “All Ark personnel, this is Odvub in secure communication. Please be aware that the Eko-mari fleet have found a decisive way to locate the pirate fleet.  Ix’al, Brol, and all ship captains have been advised and are preparing for evasive maneuvers. The Ark is expected to sustain cosmetic fire. Please respond as though it is damaging. Sensor logs will confirm.”

Those who had not been present in the Council chamber when Odvub had been revealed - thankfully limited to three adjuncts - fell to the deck in confusion.  Evan and Maverick immediately sprang from their seats and started shaking out their limbs, while Tyche tapped on Arthur’s shoulder without a word.

After an exchange of nodding and shaking heads, Arthur heaved a sigh and took her position. “Strategist Arthur Farro taking over for Navigator Tyche Reid.”

“I can’t be distracted,” she called out before chugging an odd looking sludge that Maverick handed her. “I navigate, Arthur updates.”

Anxiety clenched my stomach as I dashed over to her. “When is the last time you slept? Are you on top of your game?”

She nodded before swallowing the last of the… whatever. “I don’t know what Noah is putting in this, but Antoine mentioned something about a lactic acid counteragent, hyper oxygenated something, and some other things that sounded very anti-fatigue rather than pro-energy.”

“Is this safe?!” I demanded, as quietly as possible.

Noah sent a targeted response to us. “It is safe up to ninety-eight Terran hours, at which point Tyche will need half that duration in full sleep.”

“Translation - “ she started.

“If you need it beyond the safe point, we’re either dead or you’ve crashed,” I interrupted. “Don’t correct me, I don’t want to hear any other possibility. We have other people who can navigate.”

Tyche rocked her head side to side. “With any luck we won’t - “

The entire ship rocked to one side, throwing us both painfully against a table and cutting off whatever she was going to say. Maverick and Evan were the first to move, clawing against the near-vertical plane to get back to their stations.

Noah’s voice buzzed angrily over the comms. “Eko-mari fleet! We have stayed course as requested, despite debris! Advise!”

“Eko-mari Command to Hujylsogox vessel Yjq. Stay your course. Unexpected debris struck your vessel, and we are taking guard to avoid any future collisions.”

Odvub’s soft chime followed. “That was a warning shot from the pirate fleet. The Eko-mari sustain a falsehood.”

Even though I hadn’t thought it possible, the mood on Level One sombered even further. Maverick and Evan strapped into their seats before the Ark was even close to leveled out, while Arthur simply crawled beneath the closest table, bracing himself between the seats with his legs and back. Tyche yanked off her boots and managed to get to the piloting position just long enough to peel off her leggings and use them to tie herself physically to Mav and Evan’s seats.

Everyone else followed their lead, bracing or securing ourselves to the nearest object protruding from the deck.

After what felt like the longest ninety seconds of my life, Maverick shouted. “Conor! I need you in the engine room now! I trust Noah with my entire existence, but for what we are about to do I need an engineer and some instinct.”

“Derek and Sam are secure, along with Nixe and Coffey,” came the response. “Teeth is in a suspension life-pod.”

“Life pod!?” Charly shouted before Maverick signalled her as patch in, letting her repeat her request.

Noah and Grey responded at the same time, before Noah stopped and allowed Grey to restart. “Suspension life-pods are reserved for high-priority survivors. Assuming either the pirates or Miys survives the conflict, Teeth will be safe.  If neither survive, they will be suspended indefinitely, until a being salvages and opens the pod.”

Groggy as it was, Nixe’s voice followed with enough to command to make it clear who was speaking. “I have already asked Ix’al, one Queen to another, that if our heir falls into enemy hands, death would be preferred.”

“What!?” Charly demanded.

“If the pod is recovered within sixty Terran hours, it will not open for any hands but Terran, Glux, Shalt-kri’i, or So’k’nor. Not even for Hujylsogox - Our apologies, Noah.”

“No offense taken, Nixe.”

“After sixty hours,” Nixe continued, “only Terran hands can open the pod.”

A brief pause of horrified silence, and Odvub clarified what we all wanted to ask but could not bring ourselves to. “If the Ark is destroyed, the pod will be fired in the direction of the anticipated colony on Von. If there are no Terran survivors, only the pirate fleet or their allies can open the pod and account to Teeth what has happened.  Lacking that, the pod will either drift into a star or need to be taken to Earth to be opened.”

Xiomara started to object. “I - “

“Seal it,” Charly cut off wetly. “Seal the pod, along with any others. Nixe, if Coffey is not willing to go with Teeth, and if you aren’t, ask Jordan to. Everyone else is here.”

“Charly - “

“No, Xiomara.” Charly hiccuped, took a deep breath, and kept going. “I don’t care who on this vessel was a child soldier. Teeth is not. And we are better than that. Teeth, the genetic data, the Archive, all of it - I motion they follow the path Nixe outlined.”

With a tone of despair, Xiomara called the vote.

It was unanimous.

We didn’t even have time to grieve before Odvub chimed through. “Incoming shot from pirate vessel, targeting starboard.”

All we could do was brace before the impact rocked the ship sideways again. “Damage report!” Huynh demanded.

Arthur’s hands flew under the table across from mine. “Damage limited to Level Twelve, BioLab Two.”

“Sterile silicate and water,” Maverick shouted. “All available on Von, great shot. Conor! Where are you!”

Panting filled the comms. “I would be there faster if you could drive better, love.”

“You aren’t dead yet,” Mav bitched back. “Confirm when you reach the engines, I’ll patch Huynh and Charly through.”

“Don’t patch me through,” Huynh responded. “I’m not a rocket scientist.”

“Boss, we need to confirm the ship can take whatever he’s trying to do,” Conor panted. “At the door, entering now.”

In the corner of my eye, I saw Charly throw an invisible ball angrily at her mentor. “Ship schematics and stress points. Pull it up, watch for hot spots.”

Huynh glanced at Xiomara, who was ostensibly in charge since this was combat.

She surged forward from the waist, like she was trying to bite something. “You heard the woman! Pull it up, watch for hot spots.”

Huynh appeared mollified, spreading his hands to open the map.

“Xale!” Maverick shouted. “I need you to hit the fore of the Ark. Target to glance the bow, no confirmation needed. All hands, brace for impact!”

Yet again, someone seemed to ask Xiomara’s approval, even though I couldn’t see who. “Fucking hell, you heard the man, just do it! Stop asking for confirmation!”

The Ark surged in yet another direction, this time shoving my hip against the strut of a seat. Bruised is alive, I reminded myself as I tested my joints. Everything hurt, nothing broken.

As soon as that assessment registered, I was thrust to the opposite side, earning a matching bruise.

“Hujylsogox vessel Yjq!” screamed over the comms. “What are you doing!?”

“Weapons fire struck the fore of the Ark,” Noah responded. “Accelerating to leave plane of combat, per protocol.”

“Cease acceleration. No enemy fire has been detected!”

I didn’t even need Odvub to confirm that the Eko-mari were lying out of whatever they had that functioned as an ass.

“Regardless, protocol establishes to leave debris field or accelerate beyond plane of combat,” Noah insisted.

“You will cease acceleration at once!”

Noah didn’t respond, but Maverick did, without hesitation.

“Nope, not happening. Conor, tell me if she red lines.”

“Will do.”

“Noah! If I accelerate and dodge using only maneuvering thrusters, can you alert me to the last moment that the Ark can reach Von and decelerate using planetary gravity?”

“You will need to modify trajectory.”

“That’s a yes, I love it,” Maverick huffed. “All hands! This is your pilot speaking, brace for evasive maneuvers in any direction. That means ‘strap yourself down as best you can, or get the shit beat out of you’.  Shipwide gravity spin will be stood down over the next… thirty minutes. You will get dizzy, light headed, and congested. Anyone with heart conditions, please see your nearest med bay as carefully as possible to be put into suspension.”

Xiomara cut in on the end of Maverick’s communication. “And don’t even fucking bother asking me or Grey for confirmation. You heard him, do it, we’re busy. If we don’t think it’s enough, we’ll let you know.”

“Agreed,” Grey ground out, eyes screwed tight and limbs tense to brace for sudden motion. “And if you are prone to regurgitation under extreme motion, please put on a bivouac suit. It will capture and filter, the rest of us thank you.”

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[ohnotheybombadidnt]

WELL. THEY DID THE DOGGONE THING.

Met Rings of Power's Tom Bombadil. I wrote a blog post, so needless to say, I ain't happy.

As a reminder, Tom Bombadil has been called, "...one of the most enigmatic characters in J. R. R. Tolkien's novel." He was there. They raised a couple of questions. He was a weirdo in the woods. Not my charming Tom. Anyway. Let's dive in, shall we?

I am trying not to be big mad but I am all-around displeased with this representation of one of my absolute favorite characters in all of literature.

I've been racking my brain trying to figure out how to make a live action version of Tom palatable for me.

I came to this weird realization that if they were going to interpret him in this medium and give him this vibe that I wanted so badly to like because IT'S TOM, I could have possibly accepted Squirrely Dan from Letterkenny (actor Trevor K. Wilson) and probably actually had a DRAMATICALLY SHORTER LIST of things to grumble at.

But instead, we got this presumably nice man, Rory Kinnear, a Shakespearean actor. To look him up he is very clean-shaven, in several James Bond films, and honestly, that's it. Nobody knew what to do with this character. Same dude below on either side. Nothing in that face says ENIGMATIC and UNFORGETTABLE TO THE SEASON to me. He must have come cheap. That's the only thing that makes sense.

The dialogue they gave him was so lackluster too. His singing has no wow factor. He's barely mumbling tunes under his breath. Just. Ugh. Do they not want people to fall in love with him because he's a momentary side character and then poof, he's gone? In the trilogy, he is featured in book one a few times. During one of these reunions, the hobbits meet Tom and take off all their clothes and run around in Tom's field, chasing each other and just guys being dudes. Just dudes being guys. Nothing weird happens. I know Gandalf had ties to the Hobbits, particularly the Bagginses, but TOM WAS RIGHT THERE THE WHOLE TIME. I know he didn't volunteer or want to get involved, but this dude's powerset is unreal. HERE'S HIS WHOLE SCHTICK:

1. He's older than dirt but still a pretty sprightly fellow. Always singing and doing his thing, dancing, hanging out with his hot wife (which I think they're implying is some kind of sentient water being or something weird in the show?), living in his awesome house on this beautiful piece of property that's all his. He's doing pretty gosh darn well for himself. But let's just call him old, excuse me, "The Eldest," and leave it at that, Rings of Power.

2. Oh, he's immortal. Nbd.

3. "Master of wood, water, and hill." I'm just going to take this metaphorically since it was spoken by Goldberry, River Daughter. Tommy B is the OG Clarence Carter. But real talk. Bro lives in a forest. He's around all those things that he has mastery over and he can weaponize it at will? Sweet power, but I don't buy that THAT GUY we just met can do it. I want to, but I just don't feel it. Now Galadriel during that one battle this episode- HOT DAMN! Slay while you slay, girl!

4.  "He is impossible to capture or imprison." WHY ISN'T THIS GUY DOING SO MUCH MORE?! Why WOULDN'T we want a Houdini?!

5. Ordinarily described as whimsical/nonsensical, but he could be serious if the need arose.

6. THE RING HAD NO POWER OVER TOM. But Tom was just a guy who sets things down and then immediately forgets where he left them, like most of us. Gandalf recognized his "organized chaos" and recognized that TB didn't have as much order as he thought he did, had a 99% chance losing the ring, and our favorite wizard went Shire-bound. Not what I would have done, but whatever, Gandalf, go off.

7. Tom's greatest revealed power was in his singing. With song he exercised authority over Old Man Willow and the supernatural Barrow-wights. He did it LIKE IT WAS NOTHING. What are the true extents of his powers? Who all could he take on and wipe the floor with? We'll never know. Because poor lil powerless Frodo got suckered into the task thanks to Bilbo and Gandalf. Tom could have been majestic.

Moving right along... what could have been: IMMEDIATELY WHEN ISILDUR SAYS HE WON'T DESTROY THE RING, ELROND NEEDS TO TELL GANDALF, GANDALF FLIES TO TOM, EAGLES ARE HAILED, RIDDEN TO MORDOR, DROPPED THE RING DOWN THE VOLCANO, AND WATCHED IT BURN. BOOM. CREDITS ROLL.

Okay. I admit that's a much less entertaining story, but don't give me a God-man like Tom and then not use him, then give me a gorgeous show like Rings of Power, put him in, and make him meh-looking and kinda mysterious but people who know about the lore and the endgame know he's not really going to do anything. They could have at least made him more, I don’t know, ENIGMATIC, cooler, and a little more magical. (Entwives and Barrow-wights were *chef's kiss.*)

Really miniscule and bland beginning for old Tom. Hopefully it improves. The one thing I liked: he raises goats. However, that is not enough, so still he remains, #notmytombom

[adleryoung]

"This here plan is gettin too dang convoluted!" Burnside protested, brandishing her machete. "Just send me out to stab somebody. It'll be simple. I can just go out, gut everyone who gets in my way, save the dumb baker femme that you ain't never even laid eyes on nor spoken to so it's a wonder you care about her at all, an drag Didelphis back here for judgement. I'll get it all done in one night. There ain't a lowfolk born that can get the drop on me. The Ixies can bet on it."

"I don't like it," I objected.

"If you're so doggone worried about bein' Seelie, just remember it ain't Unseelie to stab somebody if he deserves it."

"No stabbing!" I insisted.

"Fine, I can slash instead."

"That's a bad idea," I persisted, "for the same reason that nailing headless torsos to trees is a bad idea. It may inspire fear but it also draws attention and will cause mass outrage that will spread and bring all the lowfolk on this island right to these woods, with torches and pitchforks. If it turns out this situation requires assassination, and I really hope it doesn't, it would have to be done cleanly, precisely, and secretly so it cannot be traced back to me or my coven. I do not want my organization associated with sloppy and wasteful mass murder!"

"You sounded almost like Ash for a second there," Burnside grinned as she lowered her machete. "All right, I can wait."

I scowled at Burnside for a moment, then directed my attention to the witches.

"All right, all right," I called. "If everyone could please focus and answer my question: Is Didelphis worth saving?"

"Um, no way," Gretchen declared. "She's trying to get us all killed. She's proven herself to be a mean and selfish old hag that doesn't care about any of us. Throw her under the ant-coach, I say."

"She was a pretty crappy coven leader," Petunia added. "She promised us dark power beyond our wildest dreams, but every meeting we would spend a few minutes looking at the same grimoire, and the rest of the night listening to her rant about baking and how much she hated Oonagh. Letting her get burned by an angry mob is probably karma or something. Nothing of value would be lost."

"I don't really like the idea of anyone being killed," Chloe shrugged, "but saving her would only give her another chance to betray us again."

"I'm disappointed with all of you," Rebecca scowled. "Didelphis must be saved."

"What? Why?" the other witches asked in chorus.

"Didelphis represents what all of us could end up being," Rebecca explained. "Especially me. She was a social outcast who spent so much time wallowing in her darker aspects that she eventually believed that was all there was to her. Think about it! She's actually proud of the fact that she's a hideous, mad crone. If I hadn't met Lord Randall, that's exactly what I would have become. I was on that path, but now I'm on a different one and I can hardly wait to share with you what I've learned. If we all get a chance at a happier life, then Didelphis should too. I volunteer to pose as Didelphis like our lord said. I know her better than the rest of you, because I always arrived for coven meetings early, and stayed late to help her around the house and maybe get more pointers on being a witch. I think I can imitate her mannerisms convincingly enough."

That wasn't good. I didn't want to risk my organization's most valuable member (next to Vernier of course) but it would be a mistake to blurt that out in front of the other witches. Plus, I was 99 percent sure Rebecca was an elf, so telling untruths would be a problem for her. It could damage her emerging magickal ability.

I was just about to say something, when an Ixie buzzed up to me and gave a salute.

"Sire, I have more information. There is in fact a ring-leader whipping the rabbit mob into a frenzy. They call him Parson. As best we can tell, he careth not if Didelphis's story is true. He seemeth to be doing this merely to strengthen his influence in the rabbit village. We have also learned that there will be a jury for the trial. Oonagh is popular enough in the town, they were willing to give her that much. If the rest of the coven cannot be found in two days time, then the trial commenceth without them."

Pretty suspenseful, eh? This seems like a good place to pause. I need to take a short break to moisten my throat. In the meantime, why not be like the Ixies and place bets on the coming sequence of events. How do you think I handled this situation? Did Didelphis survive? Did Oonagh?

Discuss among yourselves while I hunt down a decent bottle of wine.

[writer59january13]

Though forever sober, nevertheless numbskull of mine throbs

I (a lapsed milquetoast) experienced a head splitting hellacious hangover.

I tried to be part of Cool And Gang by being "bad"

to the thoroughly good bone, er... which trend followed me till man hood,

whereby this bloke still a cad

plus the most

embarrassing older hippy dad where a shaved pierced pate egad

seems to be the latest fad

boot this nonestablishmentarian

feels more content with himself and glad

though as a precocious

whipper snapper of young lad

did act like "Curious George",

which found me late mum and then octogenarian

widower father quite mad,

especially when breaking

into the liquor cabinet in me homey pad

and nearly escaped by a scad dad dull when the hide o me buttocks

whacked more'n a tad.

Though in a hard core party

rock n rolling crowd, I (a kung foo fighter beastie boy) felt alone

yea, as this chap looks back

on them daredevil days

(with behaviour bad to the bone as iterated above),

and dealt with pounding in ma head

that caused me to groan

which mental sounds

of jack hammers found this current teetotaler to moan

like the ghost of Marley or a whaler, whereby

even whisper down the alley or over the phone

also affected me skin tone

to become altered into an unstoppable red bullish twilight zone

tortured courtesy MALEVOLENT MENTAL Maelstroms -

doggone hounded me while in a drunken stupor

videlicet - I taste a liquor never brewed (214)

courtesy Emily Dickinson

1830 –

1886

I taste a liquor never brewed – From Tankards scooped in Pearl – Not all the Frankfort Berries Yield such an Alcohol!

Inebriate of air – am I – And Debauchee of Dew – Reeling – thro' endless summer days – From inns of molten Blue –

When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee Out of the Foxglove's door – When Butterflies – renounce their "drams" – I shall but drink the more!

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats – And Saints – to windows run – To see the little Tippler Leaning against the – Sun!

Fiendish and gruesome phantasmagoric egomaniacal denizens

dwelt deep inside subterranean uber vault performed an evil contra dance

haunted psychic landscape

with imaginary (yet realistic)

gargoyle visitations that cast a macabre trance

nocturnal unconscious invaders of the lost Ark

cavorted and gallivanted

disturbed quiescent sleep with devilish and sinister prance.

Apparitions crept stealthily into peaceful slumber receptacle

repository, whence illusory landscape of dreams

took place to rejuvenate exhausted body, mind and spirit triage

rented asunder blissful sleep with a startled fright

cold sweat drenched nighttime garments and bedding

teeth chattered uncontrollably

heart pounded loudly inside chest

nightmarish phantoms wrought an awful ghoulish sight.

Mushroom cloud anniversary

triggered frenzied gargantuan hallucination

seventy nine plus years ago today inauguration into atomic age took place

one country after another sought

to acquire demonic and destruction devices

to maintain self-preservation in this surreal atomic weapons race

impossible mission to escape the dark threat

that looms and threatens life on earth

one launched missile spells extermination across entire global space.

No escape from humankind military machines munitions march mean madness death by a thousand cuts flesh deboned courtesy knife and guaranteed demise to all life

Homo sapiens violent history

of bias, intolerance and/or prejudice

characterizes vicious warfare and chronic species strife

legacy for future,

(and perhaps alien) archeologists,

who will sift thru civilization debris with delicate as birthing a newborn

with assistance by midwife.

Artifacts buried in a heap

of pulverized and radioactive ash

civilization monuments and hedonistic symbols

gone in a blinding brilliant flash

irksome flotsam and jetsam

spewed into outer space

alien nations light years distant collect miniscule bits and pieces

offer object lesson as extinction for beings that become excessively brash.

As a way to bury wounded knees,

free guilt sans being psychologically trapped, and wrath of my strict parents, I imagined awaiting an eternity for my modified sentence against being secular humanist individualist, minimalist, nihilist...,

no way to dodge

fiat decreeing penal solitude

for this rambling future man,

who felt unready to kick the can

on account of violating ban

against abominable illegal mandate

with no way to commute death sentence

for the simple act of voicing opinion

against existence of heavenly gate,

nor hellish underworld despite religious opiate decreeing penance

spurious pedagogical poetic rant

not the ravings of some half mad lunatic

carefully plotted recitation that springs

from combined teachings of Kant

and jolly old Saint Nick

charges trumped up

per this average don

purportedly flagrantly decrying and blaspheming Judeo-Christian paradigm

proselytizing devout believers with disenchantment blind faith no more

equated with hill of beans upon,

which dogma erected epitomized

by complex edifices via grime

sweat and tears from slave labor,

where usurpation of freedom won

until outspoken spokespersons risked life and limb

to invalidate the existence of supreme deity who created life

whether for extra credit

or perhaps on a whim

Adam from whose rib cage without anesthesia but razor sharp knife

sported Eve with a physique quite pleasing and trim,

but rather than get lost

in the garden of Eden myth

final seconds of existence tick away

without intent to recant statements

solely acceptable to B'nai B'rith

prompting last words of mine as oy vey

with no regrets - deeming heart

of religion flimsy as pith

thing in the wind or house of cards

vulnerable to blow away.

Though ma mum deceased nineteen and a half plus years ago, and thine papa inching closer toward the inescapable clutch of the grim reaper (when these words typed – he long since passed October 7th, 2020), I revel to be a conscious individual despite the torturous road from those perilous days of yore er rather mine earlier formative pages when the strong armed lance of ignorance jabbed me with toad dull ambivalence evolving from the fusion of two cells after froggy went a courtin. HANDMADE FROM (the genes of) BOYCE AND HARRIET HARRIS - (free versatile poetry my atypical mode (modus operandi) at describing, introducing, and decoding myself).

How apropos and divine to stumble (merely by happenstance) across a chance to claim my (virtual) fifteen minute fragments of fame just in the click and nick of time.

Although gainfully unemployed (do to a series of unfortunate events that now finds me receiving social security disability), I can still vividly visualize utter despair and vouchsafe to acquire the requisite trappings emblematic of psychic misfortune.

Indelible, permanent and unfading abysmal damaging domestic dynamics got etched deep upon the memory of this erstwhile individual. The general gist in the form of quick brush strokes (namely written) of psychologically traumatizing recollection now follows.

I can attest to malevolent mean-spirited objections by my father (and late mother) in regard to my grossly unacceptable attire, deportment and work ethic. Nonetheless, a sense of righteous vindictiveness manifested itself thru attendant Pyrrhic victories.

Back in those days I (a married grown adult male and considerably past the age of rebelling against authoritarianism - and also their one and only not so prodigal son) poorly wore the mantle and staff of supposed maturity.

Lack of compliance and obeisance with regulations and rules of the Harris household (mainly thru being in constant denial to conform, maintaining emotional detachment and estrangement and evincing little or no concern for other family members) brewed, festered and lied dormant during prepubescence.

The pressure and tension between and betwixt genetic kinfolk (so palpable one could sense an indomitable barrier), would rank as successfully dysfunctional way before such nom de guerre became in vogue.

Fury and wrath became markedly and noticeably pronounced once exiting the storied four walls of high school.

The venomous barrage and fusillade spewed forth from off parental tongues at an exponential rate and on a par to feeling the stinging cudgel of a horsewhip.

Out of fear and timidity, I consequently and silently absorbed cruel treatment. Neither the eldest nor youngest sibling bore witness against the tender spirit of their only brother. A façade as of a hardened (statue) conveniently adopted. This embodiment poorly served to fend off the onslaught of incessant anger.

This defense mechanism (identified as passive aggressive by mom) offered miniscule protection as I mentally dodged lobbed insults and affected defiance (in league like poisoned blackened bards and daggers hurled) of said threats and ultimatums.

No matter these bitter pills of blaring character assassination (mine), denunciations, fulminations, incriminations, intimidations, vociferous vocalizations (by said parents), I stood the shifting sands characterizing my ground at playing the deaf mute, which repression and internalization of emotional maelstrom only caused self contamination and manifestation of humiliation.

They (dad and mom) became further angered and inflamed per my total oblivious stance. This reaction added insult to injury.

Deliverance per tough love lessons amplified to the tune of additional feats at becoming excoriated, ranted and raved against this, that and the other of my habits and nonchalant indifference to pursue work.

Those involuntary, unrehearsed and vicious family chats happened to be replete with heavily exploding and uncorked anger.

That (of course) would be a considerable understatement.

Dad (the de facto, elected and nominal spokesperson for unpleasant chest thumping exclamations - which conveniently took place no earlier than the stroke of midnight - emphatically swore (adrip with dramatic livid rage - like rabid beast) all manner of vulgarity and demanded from this insolent appearing male offspring immediate compliance.

Defiance and fatigue offered him that predictable and usual blank stare upon hearing the kind and lenient sentence to pack bags and GET OUT!

With the dreaded approach of dire and sealed fate (played out in this overactive imagination of mine with dad and mom fiendishly and grotesquely expunging themselves of any last vestige personal belonging), I most anxiously bided my time.

Those next couple weeks forced self-evaluation of Atheism, while I hunkered down in my bedroom. The recurrent consideration of relinquishing nonestablishmentarian paradigm in favor and lieu with God, miracles and salvation seemed to clash with being this liberal thinker.

As indicated, the tempest and tirade quickly got turned back upon those who so masterfully tormented this second born, whose steadfast stoicism and subservience to a higher power perchance brought a temporary respite.

That hollow deadline, (which happened to be just one of many similar sputtering swearing valuations of love) blithely came and went without incident - no matter expletive filled intense oath to remove self from premises at 324 Level Road) continued to keep pulsating to remain an occupant with kinfolk.

What caused especial ire and wrath to fester (per this apparent ambivalence, indifference and nonchalance for me to take any job - even shoveling shit - particularly within the emotional bedrock and firmament of deceased mother) constituted remembrance and vivid reminder of her father.

My maternal grandfather (Morris - Moshe - Kuritsky) supposedly never paid much heed to regular and steady employment (to support his four children and wife) despite his skill as a harried styled swift tailor. Hence my mother (Harriet) grew up and lived in utter destitution and poverty.

Mother subsequently reacted with ferocious vindictiveness upon witnessing a near magic transformation of near identical behavior in Matthew - the single heir to the family name.

I avoid alcohol

yet still have a ball when the bell of inquisitiveness doth call this mindful male toward productive pursuits

rather than fall

prey to temptations of vice only deliver gall down the unmarked hall of future time,

as likened to evade the maul

from some ferocious beast

or an urgent plight to retch ideally within a toilet stall

perhaps faded splattered by stains on the wall

of other anonymous imbibers - good day y'all.

[incorrectlooneytunesquotes]

Dr. Weisberg: Little boy. Sylvester Jr.: Yes sir. Dr. Weisberg: I want you to do something very important, alright? Sylvester Jr.: OK. Dr. Weisberg: I want you to run home and I want you to call the E.R. of Royal Oaks Glen Oaks Oakwood Oaks General Hospital, 932-1000. Tell them to set up OR6 immediately and contact anesthesiologist Isadore Turek 472-2112 beep 12. Have him send an ambulance with a paramedic crew, light IV, D5NW-KVO. You got it? Sylvester Jr.: E.R. North Bank General Hospital 932-1000. Setup OR6. Contact anesthesiologist Isadore Turek 472-2112 beep 12. Ambulance with paramedics and light IV, D5NW and KVO. Dr. Weisberg: That's good. Sylvester Jr.: Sounds like a subdural hematoma to me. Dr. Weisberg: Oh it does, does it? Well, it's not your job to diagnose! Sylvester Jr.: But I thought... Dr. Weisberg: You thought, you thought... just go! Three years of nursery school and you think you know it all. Well you're still wet behind the ears. It's not subdural hematoma, it's epidural! Ha! Doggone that makes me mad!

[lizzie2dyefor]

Sometimes when it gets to be too much, the ruling of an empire that by all accounts should never have been hers.

Lizzie and Ren will slip out for the night and camp like they used to. Not in the woods, not anymore, but in the grasslands around Chromia.

Used to, Ren would start the fire and she would gather wood. They’d sit together, hip to hip and discuss any matter of things. Without fail she’d fall asleep and wake in the morning tucked under Ren's jacket.

Of course, Ren can't start the fire. Or lend her his jacket to fend off the chill. Having paws makes that difficult.

“Does it bother you?”

Ren has his head laid in their lap. Like this, fingers wove into soft fur, Lizzie can almost imagine things are back to normal. Can almost believe its long hair instead.

“What?”

“How much they look like you.”

It does. She doesn’t own a mirror. Hasnt for as long as she's lived in the lord's house.

“No.” She lies, “Not really. I assume it's trying to psych me out. Can’t bother me if I don’t let it.” She stays quiet for a long moment, beginning a small braid in Ren's long fur.

“Lizzie-“

“Does it bother you?”

He sighs, stretching his long body and resettling against her leg. “It used to, in the beginning. But you start to notice differences after a while. Her eyes are wrong, hairs the wrong shade, nose is too perfect. Things like that.”

“I'm sorry”

“I know.”

They’ve talked about it before at length. Lizzie places the blame squarely onto her own shoulders. Ren disagrees, he left the path first. It is an argument they’re too tired to truly have tonight.

“Did you know Jimmy doesn’t know how bartering works?”

It's an obvious change of topic but Ren barks a laugh, tail sweeping through the dirt. “That feels pretty on par for everything I've heard about him actually.”

[cxnscience]

Talk about Doc!

TALK ABOUT . . .

"Gee, well, Doc's got it all. Kind, and smart, and funny, and - and so doggone stupid that it drives me up a wall. I mean, he ain't stupid, that's why it makes me so mad - he just don't think about himself half as often as he oughta! If I had hair I'd be goin' grey. Love him to bits, but it's like it'd kill him to just let himself be happy without frettin' about everybody else and their dog."

[idkijustneedasideblogbro]

I decided to embrace the call of the tunnel but in a safe way, I downloaded mincraft and tunneled from where I spawned up into a mountain then started digging out a home at the top of said mountain and my doggone is mad I won't let it mine with me and accidentally drown itself because the mountain has a surprising amount of lakes and waterfalls also I was exploring outside my original home/spawn fell down a crevice (that I didn't make) dug around aimlessly and somehow popped up inside my underground forest I'm making. This has been an adventurous 2nd week

[tuneonin]

🎤 :3

Send 🎤 to catch my muse singing while they think nobody's around!

(Song: "Whatcha Gonna Do When There Ain't No Jazz?" by Esther Walker)

"♪ Every day you read about something else we must cut out How can folks get by with reformers crying: "Don't do this and don't do that! Don't you dare to kiss!" Now if by chance they stop the dance, kindly answer this:

What're you gonna do when there ain't no jazz? How ya gonna step when you're full o' pep if they're gonna stop syncopation? How ya gonna get recreation? How ya gonna chase those doggone blues everybody has? Won't the nights be long and weary? Slower than the darned ol' Erie? And what're ya gonna do with your dearie, when there ain't no jazz?

They took away your liquor! They didn't tell ya why! They are going to take tobacco from ya, by and by! They'll have us all like angels before they get through! Feelin' mad and looney, that's why I'm askin' you:

What're you gonna do when there ain't no jazz? How ya gonna step when you're feelin' full o' pep if they're gonna stop syncopation? How ya gonna get recreation? How ya gonna chase those doggone blues everybody has? Won't the nights be long and weary? Slower than the darned ol' Erie? And what're ya gonna do with your everlovin' dearie, when there ain't no jazz? When there ain't no jazz? ♬"