#Hitler Moustaches

[themancorialist]

Water Street, Manchester.

[wainwrightjakobshammerlock]

@ people who hate lilith: why. genuinely why.

[thesparkwhowalks]

I have recently become a big, big fan of American International Pictures’ Beach Party series. Are they problematic? Yes. Are the only black people the musical guests? Also yes. Is there a horribly racist native american stereotype in the seventh one? Still yes. But they’re light comedies that are excuses for rock n’ roll, attractive people of both major genders shaking their asses in swimsuits, slapstick comedy, and some light wordplay from stars of yesteryear (relative to the early 60s). And I detect an influence on the (also somewhat problematic at times) original House Party movies of the 90s, of which I am also quite fond. Highly recommend.

Gay side-note: I happened to watch Muscle Beach Party on the first day of Pride Month. The oiled-up bodybuilders were the sexiest goddamned things in the flick....except for the one who was a dead ringer for a young Alex Jones.

[jewishbarbies]

idk if i found out my past life was adolf hitler i would kill myself. maybe I’d spend the rest of this life doing something better than cosplaying hitler and wearing nazi paraphernalia. no i would kill myself.

[yallemagne]

How do you feel about book Raoul?

...

Y'all coming for me with books I haven't read...

I have insider information from a friend who has read the book tho.

It's... I suppose it's reasonable to assume that I am knowledgeable about books. I do talk about some books... mostly one book. I only. It's just Dracula.

I have a feeling that, if I were to read the book, I'd love him because well, I love him in the ALW musical... Unless he did something heinous that I am not privy to and my friend neglects to mention?

[iidsch]

I'm of the opinion that this type of censorship is incredibly stupid and useless but also I will never not see Registeel doing a nazi salute from now on

[ur-mag]

Hitler moustaches and large eyebrows drawn on faces of kidnapped toddlers | In Trend Today

Hitler moustaches and large eyebrows drawn on faces of kidnapped toddlers Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

[milf--adjacent]

Hitchcock: *Makes the nazi in 1944's Lifeboat a well-rounded character instead of a moustache twirling villain with none human qualities. This is to emphasize how the nazis used reasonability, politness, and other social norms to garner support from moderates, and it is clearly what happens in the film's plot as the ardent antifascist is seen as too extreme for refusing to help a nazi and it leads to several deaths, etc.*

People with college degrees in the year 2024 somehow: "Here's Hitchcock's HITLER LOVING movie you've NEVER SEEN."

[scuttle-buttle]

Co-Pilots

Nobody asked for this. I have the flu. I needed something nice to focus on and apparently this was it. Blame @lorna-d-m my partner in crime :) also kudos to winniemaywebber and sagesolscitcewrites because i def read all their stuff and was vibing it and the pet names and stuff sooo hard

Rated: 18+

Word Count: approx. 3k

Tags: MMF, fluff and reassurance, mentions of wartime ptsd, body confidence issues, mentions of having children, PiV sex, female receiving oral, male receiving oral, voyeurism, no stated use of contraception

A/N: Croz is referred to as Crosby, Harry, and Bing in this (so as not to confuse). And idk what rank Rosie is by this point so were just going with Major

✈️

The bright lights blinded you the first time you walked through New York City; tonight was no different. Flashes of neon whites, golds, blues, reds, lit up your path as you entered the lobby to the Ritz hotel. Your husband had made arrangements for you to meet him in the city much as he had a near 2 years ago during the height of the war. You wanted to meet him at the airport. Crosby insisted he find you at the hotel. And now, with Hitler defeated, he was on his way home. For good. 

His phone call had startled you. Usually, you wrote him weekly, sometimes more if you felt lonesome. Harry’s letters were less frequent, but no less loving. Little Steve kept you more than busy most days, back home safe terrorizing your mother and father while you got some rest and relaxation with your Bing in the big city. The toddler was a shining light in your dark days. He had the same dark curls, the same downturned eyes as his father. A piece of your love that was yours no matter what the war brought - or took.

You’d nearly lost your footing when you heard his voice, gruff and mellow, across the line. Darlin’ it's me, he'd said, I'm coming home but I've got some business to finish in the city, meet me there. I'm bringing Rosie, you remember him yeah? Said he'll take us dancing at the best jazz spots. I love you Mrs. Crosby. See you soon.

Now you wait in the lobby for your love and his friend.

Minutes tick by as you wait. Maybe the plane was late? Maybe they had to meet somewhere after landing to debrief? Maybe there was a problem with the engine? Just as your maybes started to drown out the chatter and bustle around you a voice rang out.

“Well ho-ly mackerel, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes Mrs. Crosby.”

The sight of your husband had you dashing into his waiting arms. Tears streamed down your face as you kissed him senseless over and over and over. Crosby couldn’t contain his laughter at your reaction, nor did he bother hiding it when he wiped his eyes dry. 

“I’ve missed you so much Bing.”

His forehead rested on yours. “God how I’ve missed you too, Darlin’.” 

Over his shoulder you notice a taller man, stylish moustache and curls neatly gelled into place, attempting to avert his eyes and give your reunion privacy. You were struck by how attractive he was. “Bing?”

“Oh!” Harry takes a step back. “Darlin’ this is Robert Rosenthal - or Rosie as us boys like to call him.”

Rosie gives a toothy smile and holds out his hand for a firm shake; “so nice to meet you, Mrs. Crosby. Croz here has told me all about you.”

Giving your husband a raised eyebrow, you ask “all good things I hope?”

Both men chuckle. “Only the best, ma’am.” 

The three of you settled into your rooms before deciding that a celebration was in order. Rosie commandeered the evening, promising only the best jazz New York had to offer. Drinks flowed, the band jived, and couples danced the night away. 

Night after night, Rosie took you somewhere new. You’d split your time whirling the dancefloor between both your husband and his pilot friend, never satisfied until your feet ached. Harry claimed all the slow dances, nestled up close to your body. But Rosie? He got the fast-paced, jumping, hip swaying swing that Crosby claimed he couldn’t keep up with. Two left feet, he’d claim. Each morning after you slept in the plush, luxurious Ritz bed until lunchtime while they attended to their military duties. 

Friday rolled around. It had been a week of this routine. You should’ve been exhausted, you should’ve wanted to slow down - after all you were no spring chicken anymore. Yet, something about being in the arms of your husband and Rosie as you swayed to Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, and Glen Miller felt so right. 

When the barkeep yelled for “last call” you knew it was time to retire for the evening.

“Say, why don’t you come have a nightcap in our room, Rosie? Crosby asked.

The three of you settle into the living room of the suite assigned to you and your husband. Bing plops into an armchair with a satisfied huff. You join Rosenthal on the loveseat, a respectable distance inbetween. A bottle of whisky sits open on the fireplace mantle. Conversation comes and goes as the trio fall from the high of the night. It’s easy. Almost makes the boys forget the horrors they endured in Europe. 

Around 1am the conversation begins to lull as you finish regaling the group with a story of the shenanigans you and your girlfriends would get up to during university days. “-You think you boys were bad flying all around in your skivvies, but it was nothing compared to us girls that night!” Laughter filled the room until all had let it trickle to a close; the silence was warm like the fireplace embers. Robert sat enraptured by your story, by your beauty, by the thought of you under that blue dress and all your curves. He knew he shouldn’t have noticed…..he was just a man after all. And with the things he’d seen? Could you really blame him?

“How long’s it been Rosie?” The question broke the man’s gaze from you and directed it towards Crosby. He didn’t know it was so obvious. 

Rosie was about to stumble out an answer, an apology for looking at you like that, he doesn’t know, when Croz interrupts again. “When’s the last time you felt the touch of a good woman, Rosie?” Harry waits for an answer. Rosenthal can feel his face heat; he runs his fingers through his hair mussing the curls out of place. This confident Crosby was much bolder than the one he’d met when he first shipped out to the 100th. “Before the war?” There is no judgment in his eyes, no disdain or hesitation towards his comrade as he asks. Rosie shakes his head in affirmation. His glass clinks against the table as he sets it down, whisky unfinished.

Crosby sighs. “Too long.”

“Too damn long…” Rosie agrees in a mumble. 

You sit and watch the boys in rapt attention before meeting Bing's chocolatey eyes. Rosenthal is a good man, a great one from what your husband’s letters proved, and he deserves kindness and softness after all he’s been through. They both do. A delicate hand moves to rest on Rosie’s knee where he sits next to you. His brow furrows. The Major flits his gaze between you and your husband.

In all seriousness Crosby says “It’s alright, I don’t mind.” He tilts his head forward in permission, a silent go ahead. 

The navigator noticed how Rosie looked at you all night, how you returned the glances like a game of chicken. Each admiring but neither willing to do anything about it. How the two of you danced around the club without a care in the world at his insistence. He hadn’t seen Rosie smile like that in ages. He knew you hadn’t laughed like that since before he announced he was heading to the front. You definitely were reveling in the attention of both men tonight. This was never something you had discussed with your husband; somehow you just knew each other well enough even after so long apart to know that it was okay. It was something you both wanted.

Your fingers drifted higher on Rosie’s thigh; not enough to be indecent, but enough to get the message across. His larger palm came to rest atop yours, stopping the movement. “You uh- you’re okay with this?” the Brooklyn native questioned. 

Without hesitation you reassure “I am.” 

In a measured, almost odd approach Rosenthal shifts towards you. His lips hover over your cheek for a moment before the softest kiss brushes your skin. The whiskers of his mustache tickle. You can’t help the grin that threatens to break. He continues to kiss along your cheek, once, twice, thrice, each getting closer to your waiting lips. Finally, his chapped lips meet yours. This kiss is awkward at first as he gathers his bearing, quickly finding a rhythm as if no time had passed since he last kissed a pretty dame.

Crosby sunk deeper into his chair as he watched. He could feel the tell-tale sign of his slacks becoming tighter as he watched his best girl and his best friend. “She loves it when you kiss her neck,” he instructed with that smirk of his. Rosie dragged his lips to your throat. “Little lower-” again he shifted “-right there.” A moan slipped from your parted lips as your body warred with the directions from your husband and the attentions from your lover. 

The room felt stifling. Rosie’s coat, your dress, his shirt, your stockings, his trousers, your brassiere - each fluttered off to the floor one by one. Even Bing had lost his button down. 

The Major guided you onto your back along the couch, trailing open mouthed kisses down your sternum, along your breasts. A moment of clarity passed your mind that your body was different now than the last time you had been made love to, whether by your husband or not, since the baby. Your breasts weren't as pert, your stomach was softer than it used to be. Lips pursed, you let out a small sigh. 

“What’s wrong darlin’?” Bing asked. The navigator leaned towards you, brushing a strand of fallen hair from your face. “You know I can read you better than any map.” Rosie stopped and rested his chin on your abdomen to look up. 

“We can stop,” Rosie offered.

“No, It’s silly…” you tried to brush off.

Both men came to your defense immediately. Looking between the two you finally settle on your husband’s face. “It’s just that… since the last time we saw each other I’m different. My body changed and- I don’t know. I want it to be enough for you. For you both,” you add with a look to Rosie.

Crosby drops from the chair to his knees before you. “My pretty girl.” He kisses you slowly. “We’ve all changed.” From below Rosie adds nothing is the same. “You are still the most beautiful, most incredible, woman I’ve ever seen. Gosh - you’re my wife. Mrs. Crosby! I would fight to the ends of the earth to come home to you.” Softer he adds “I did fight to come home to you… and to bring this flak-happy bastard along too,” he laughed, nudging his elbow at his mate. “Now be a good girl and let us treat you right.” At your nod Rosie resumes his ascent down your waiting body. 

With a flourish your panties are gone, your dripping center exposed to his hungry stare. “What does she like, Croz? Because I'm not stopping until she comes begging all over my tongue.” He licks a deep stripe along your slit. “Sweet as sugar, babydoll.” Gone is the man unsure of himself, and in place is a god amongst men who knows exactly what he wants. It’s all you can do to hold on as Rosie devours you at your husband’s suggestions. Fingers dig into the cushions, tangle into his curls as you writhe under him. 

Rosie puts in his best effort to undo you; your husband saunters up to your face, his pants long forgotten. Cock stiff and ready, dripping with need, he runs the tip of his thumb against your bottom lip. Your teeth nibble at the pad.  “Think you can take me too, darlin’?” A whimpered please is all that comes out.

A cacophony of moans fills the air as your senses are assaulted - Rosie latched to your pussy like a lifeline and your Crosby’s cock deep inside your mouth. “That’s it darlin’, just like that. I bet you missed me, huh? I can tell you did, sweet girl. Fuck I missed you….” 

You gave him everything you had as you licked and sucked at his length. You could have sworn it was bigger than you remembered. He could tell by the look in your eyes you were getting closer, hell he was too. Lord knew he didn’t want to finish like some schoolboy in your lovely mouth. Crosby pulled himself out and you gasped for air. Cheeks flushed and sweat dripping down your temple he turned to his partner. “Use your fingers Rose, drives her wild when you crook them up inside her ‘n don't be afraid to get rough - give her a nip.” He punctuated the end of his command with a nip of his own to your throat. Rosie did exactly as instructed, sending you careening further to the edge and hips bucking.

“Oh- please Rosie- oh god don’t stop-” tumbles out as you start to fall. You swear you feel him humming against your clit as his fingers burn pleasure into your skin.

“That’s it darlin’, just let go for him. Being such a good girl for us,” croons your Bing.

When it all gets too much you gently push him from you. He goes gracefully, dropping chaste kisses to your thighs and hips. Despite feeling like a bowl of jello you remember your purpose tonight - to give Rosie a proper homecoming. 

Sitting up you demand he rid himself of his trousers. 

He grins. “Yes ma’am.” 

Just as Rosie goes to cover your body again you place your hand on his broad chest, pushing until he is in a sitting position. You quickly seat yourself over his lap, his length resting against you. Grinding down, he grunts. “Let me take care of you Rosie, it’s okay.” Kissing his temple, the corner of his mouth, his Adam's apple, you repeat “I want to take care of you dear, let me.”

With another roll of your hips he enters you. He feels different than your husband, but no less wonderful. Rosie’s hands land firmly on your hips as you rock above him. He knows he won't last long, you feel too good. “God Croz how do you do it? She’s so- ugh fuck” he grunts, head tossed back as you squeeze his length. 

“I know, Rose, I know. Just like heaven.” Your husband rubs your back as you move.

Rosenthal buries his face in the crook of your neck, his whimpers muffled so that only you can hear. There are no words for him to describe this feeling: the feeling of being comforted, the feeling of warmth, the feeling of home inside you, even if just for tonight. He almost feels a tear spring to his eyes. Circling your arms around his shoulders you remind him that you’ve got him, that he’s safe, that you're here. You pick up the pace as you ride him, bringing him closer and closer to his fate. His pelvis bucks up to meet yours with every roll.

“Honey I- I’m getting real close.”

You seal your lips on his; “I’ve got you, Rosie. I want you to come for me dear.”

With a deep groan he lifts you off his cock, his spend covering your stomachs and lap in a sticky mess. You hold him as he comes down from his high. 

“That was wonderful, thank you…just, thank you.” You kiss him once more; he knows he doesn’t have to thank you for anything, but he does because he’s Rosie. He carefully cleans you of his come with his discarded undershirt.

Crosby drops his lips to the crown of your head, beginning to pull the pins out of your carefully styled hair. “Come here, Darlin’.” He helps to lift you from his colleagues’ lap. “I wanna make love to my wife.” 

In seconds you’re on the floor under Crosby, his cock already buried to the hilt within you. Neither of you move as you both enjoy the feel of each other reunited as husband and wife. Whispered streams of I love you and I missed you and fuck you feel so good tumble from your lips, barely an inch apart. Harry would never need a map to know the curves, the sensitive spots, the constellations of beauty marks on your body - he knew it better in his memory than any map he could chart.

Besides you on the couch Rosie has slumped over to lay down, his arm hanging off towards you. Every breath of your husband’s puffs against your neck, every tickle of hair from across his chest reminds you that he’s here and he’s alive and he’s yours. Emotion overwhelmed you; “Bing, love please, I need you.”

Crosby hitches your thigh up and around his hip; “I’m here Darlin’.” With that he starts to thrust within your walls. His lithe body moves with a power you had nearly forgotten. Each roll of his hips he pounds into you harder, faster, with abandon; his dog tags cool against your breasts where they hung. Harry was a gentle man, but held so much emotion inside. He could let go with you. 

Your next orgasm was building, hotter and faster than the first. Nails raking down your husband’s back, you reached out your other to grab hold of Rosie’s outstretched palm. The slap of skin echoed around the room, mixed with the crackle of the fire and the sound of heaving breaths. 

An inferno raged within you. Every touch, every movement atop you sent sparks down every nerve ending. You didn’t know where you stopped and your husband began. “Fuck Bing mmmm- Harry please-” The rug beneath you rubbed your back raw but you couldn’t bring yourself to care as long as he kept going.

Crosby had his thumb rubbing quick circles on your clit in an instant. “Tell me you’re close, I need you to come Darlin’.” You couldn’t catch your breath so you nodded the best you could while squeezing the life out of Rosie’s fingers.  

Another snap of his hips and you’re gone, obliterated. Everything felt euphoric and white-hot. Crosby follows suit, his release filling you and your name on his tongue. Bruises will surely linger on your thighs. 

There you lay, tangled in the afterglow, your loving husband above you stroking his knuckles against your side and your new lover’s hand in yours. No words needed to be spoken. The moment you shared would be seared into your mind forever playing on repeat. God forbid another crisis happened that would ship your boys out and away from you - yet if it did you would hold on to tonight like a talisman. It had been a long four years, and longer so for them. But the war was won, with spoils a plenty. 

Finally. 

Lips meeting your Bing’s sweat-slicked forehead, your grip on Rosenthal tightens. “Welcome home my boys, welcome home.”  

Tags: @sagesolsticewrites @winniemaywebber @sailorscuttle @thirstyvampyr @hellfirequinnie @lorna-d-m

[artbyblastweave]

The Bureau of Temporal Adjustment is stiffing me on the bounty they posted for anyone who successfully goes back in time to kill Hitler, because of course they fucking are, why pay a freelancer when you can fuck him over, right? Even though I recorded the whole fucking thing for posterity. They’re saying that I shot, quote, “a stunningly obvious body-double/decoy put in place by Bureau of Temporal Consistency” and that they know this because, quote, “he didn’t have the moustache when he was just a baby, you fuckhead.” Okay, maybe put that in the dossier next time, assholes. 

[th3-0bjectivist]

My visit to the NASCAR Hall of Fame (Charlotte, NC - JUN 29 2024)

Every year for a few years now, I try to do an Independence Day post where I walk around a few cemeteries and snap some cool photos. But this is an election year, and I'm concerned that I'm going to have to soft-block some political zealot high on their own farts that will leave intellectual gems in the comments like 'Drumpf IZ Hitler!' or 'down with left-cucks in 24!'. So instead, I'm going to share some pictures that I took at the NASCAR Hall of Fame in Charlotte, and you can leave all the unrelated jabbering political frivolity that you'd like in the comments section.

For the record, I'm not into NASCAR at all. I haven't watched a full single race in my lifetime, and I tend to associate it with rednecks driving in circles. Which, to my chagrin, I was dead wrong in my interpretation on. Well, except for the redneck part. There's a hell of a lot more to these beautiful cars than I thought. My visit to this specialized museum was a delicate mix of history, art and science lessons!

The first thing I learned is that although these cars look fully assembled from the outside, they have nearly all the standard parts taken out (the radio, the average driver wheel, the headlights, etc.) and the bodies are composed of a flat sheet of durable metal. These days the car panels, which are composite materials like plastic coated with fibreglass, are then painted over to make a colorful, and often very corporate piece of art that is ready to drive at breakneck speeds. This all makes the modified car as light and agile as possible on the speedway.

In the U.S. south, where I reside these days, stock car racing's roots took hold from prohibition. Stock car racing wasn't just about competition; it was about taking your very fast car and running moonshine and illegally imported booze to different regions around Appalachia. Getting away from highway patrol meant stripping your car of excessive weight and parts, allowing for maximum maneuverability around hairpin turns and extreme acceleration up and down steep hills… all while a 1000-pound barrel of booze was strapped down in the back seat.

This is a picture I snapped inside the Hall of Honor, and that man is Richard 'the King' Petty. As a non-NASCAR fan, his face is the face I most associate with NASCAR, as his signature moustache, glasses and hat stand out to me as a truly memorable and iconic driver. But it’s not just the driver that participates. In NASCAR, your team is composed of a chief, who spots opportunities from television monitors and signals the driver through radio to execute specific moves to win the race, all while managing the rest of the team.

The pit crew consists of mechanics, a jackman (runs around the car with a heavy jack to raise the automobile during a maintenance pit stop), a cut-off valve attendant for refuelling, and a driver attendant who helps the driver get in and out of the car. It doesn't just take an individual driver, but a full team to assist the driver in winning the race. Drivers have suffered concussions, bone fractures, severe burns, whiplash, traumatic bodily injuries and death. Talk about bleeding for your craft!

And now for some art! Pictured above is a full-scale clay model of a Next Gen Ford Mustang. These days, clay models of racing cars are developed from digital designs and used to capture approvals from companies to lay down a final design for a race-worthy automobile. Once you pack a V-8 engine into one of these babies and recreate it out of a steel tube frame, you've got a vehicle that can reach speeds above 200 miles per hour.

Here's my pops, Dave, who I took to this museum as a birthday present. He's a NASCAR freak, and this little excursion to the Hall of Fame actually made him cry for a beat as he recalled decades worth of memories of racers, historic moments, and images of historic back-to-back victories for drivers and their teams.

Every car has the potential to be a race car. It just takes some weight-loss surgery or a good initial design, some driver safety features, and a colorful skin to make the whole thing faster, more agile, and more appealing to the eye. I have to say I never expected to absorb so much from the NASCAR HoF. I was grateful for my visit and wanted to share a portion of what I learned to Tumblr as a fun little sidebar.

I hope you enjoyed this post. And rest assured, you will never see another NASCAR post on my page ever again… y'know, unless it’s a meme or something!

Happy 4th,

th3-0bjectivist (Luke)

[ADDENDUM (07/05/2024): Tumblr ryanthedemiboy pointed out to me in the comments that the third paragraph in this post probably needed some modifications regarding the actual description of the panels, which I originally and ignorantly described as an ‘outer metal hull’. While this might have been the case with older NASCAR vehicles, in modern times the panels are at best ‘metal-skinned’, if that, and manufactured from carbon fibre. Also, older NASCAR vehicles were painted and repainted, but ever since the early 2000’s these vehicles are simply wrapped in a vinyl skin. Thank you for your insight ryanthedemiboy, I will ‘stay in my lane’ so to speak in the future and give these topics, that are alien to me, the research they deserve before I post!]

[emotinalsupportturtle]

Just more random stuff I felt compelled to note down whilst listening to the rest of the Putting it Together podcast (decided to put it all in one post to spare everyone of the spam)

Love the image of David Tennant struggling to name footballers to look cool in front of his Macbeth cast mates

David when asked about what sports he watches initially saying none then suddenly remembering he’s been photographed there - “I like a bit of Wimbledon”. also who actually watches darts (David tenant apparently)

he cannot take a compliment it’s so funny, the dude simply said “you seem fit” in response to DT worrying about his age and David nearly melted in to the ground. You could hear him blush

I forgot he’s actually funny even in serious talk mode

Brian O’Sullivan (the host) saying David has a way with interpreting Shakespearean text. that’s so real of him

I think I just really like listening to theatre people talking about and geeking over shit they’ve done

I know way too much about Shinda the magic ape (is that how you spell it? Idk). no complaints though

“he was VERY handsome” David, was that necessary?

David IS doing the old actor telling anecdotes thing, as he himself points out but who cares I’m eating this shit up

Both fascinated and horrified listening to him recount bad reviews early on

David talking about getting advice from another actor early in his career about not milking it and then going “look he wasn’t wrong but he was doing it too lol” - this is interesting to me cause I’ve always felt he knows exactly the right balance to get always, without overplaying or underplaying, I guess it’s something he learnt

DT’s revenge on Taggart “I’m going to reboot that shit that’ll show them”

you know he’s good friends with someone when he just starts dissing them

DT with his costars (almost every one of them, including the host) is one of my favourite genres actually

Brian O’Sullivan is a cool podcast host (maybe Ive had bad experiences so far but I find most podcasts by actors really insufferable and annoying - excluding dt, and now this guy)

Bad puddingbowl haircuts and hitler-esque moustaches are not uncommon mistakes among young actors

newsflash! David Tennant has toyed with the idea of writing but gets put off every time he sees a good script

We need your writing David, please

Help not them talking about famous actors having egos and the host says “I mean that is something potentially accessible to you” and dt being like “god I can’t imagine.. maybe I should, but I just couldn’t” and Brian going “nah man we love you don’t change”. Wholesome moment

[dasha-through-the-snow]

I go back in time to give Hitler some basic perspective lessons, so he can finally become a painter, like he's always dreamed.

He goes on to make friends in the liberal Weimar artist circles and his life does a complete 180.

Then Germany still becomes fascist, because the complex sociopolitical circumstances of post-WWI Germany would inevitably lead to the rise of some kind of a revanchist militaristic dictatorship, Hitler or no Hitler. Old Adolph is executed for drawing anti-state pamphlets. But at least his cool name and moustache are spared from forever being associated with dictatorship.

[adhdkobold]

oh my fucking god i found the best image ever while looking for furry artists to commission for my friend's character's character sheet.

look at this work of beauty. it. has. so. many. damn. layers. to. it.

the fucking posters which include: prometheus getting his liver eaten by eagles (i think), sigmund freud and roxanne wolf.

an unplugged wii u with not tv.

the tissues.

the soyjak parents. the father even has a damn hitler/charlie chaplin moustache???????

the medal that says "27 wasted years" that isn't even gold or silver. it's bronze...

the green thing in the bottom right corner with pills??? is it fucking week, yerba mate? what is it?????

the roxanne plush on the desk.

what i assume, a trash can full of damn vapes. sobbing on the floor already at this point.

the ipad which is just lying randomly on the floor.

the other plushie of a character i don't know.

and finally, probably a clipboard of some unfinished schoolwork? i'm guessing it's that based on the shitty black and white printing.

this is my favourite piece of art ever. scientists will find this thousands of years from now and try to decrypt it like some ancient cave paintings. children in schools will discuss this. hell, scientists and scholars will for tens if not hundreds of years. it's a modern mona lisa beyond time.

to the creator of this image - piper paige. picasso has nothing on your genius..........

[trashmenace]

Between Two Worlds by Nandor Fodor

Between Two Worlds by Nandor Fodor 1964, Paperback Library

Fodor has a psychoanalytical approach to the supernatural so we get a lot of gestalt/collective unconscious/Jungian kind of digressions, with very few actual claims of the paranormal. He actually had the reputation as a skeptic at the time, in that he thought hoaxes were a possibility in some cases.

A hairband disappears. Only a ghost could have taken it, one doesn't simply lose a hairband, you buy one for life.

A dog barks at something he can't see, proof positive of ghosts.

A 70 pound table slides around during a séance in the dark. This was impossible to move by corporeal means - it was on a carpet.

His wife has a dream Hitler shaves off his moustache. The next day he sees an ad in the paper for the Great Dictator. Nobody has previously connected Charlie Chaplin and Hitler's moustaches. Coincidence?

He goes over the deeply stupid case of Gef, the magical talking mongoose, which was made into a movie with Simon Pegg as Fodor and a serial sexual predator as the voice of Gef.

One of the dumber aspects of Spiritualism is the use of spirit guides, the ghosts of dead racial stereotypes which aid in seances. Fodor marvels of the case of a reader who transfigures herself into a "Chinaman" and wonders if she had the skills and facial elasticity to make the change herself, when you know she just squinted and stuck her front teeth out.

A woman claims to be molested by a ghost. It stops for a while when she stuffs a giant iron cross in her undies, but it gets too uncomfortable. For a while she was able to guess where the ghost was and grab and yank off his ghost dick, but that lost effectiveness. The ghost starts coming around the backdoor until she shouted "abnormal!" enough that he swings around to the front. They seek the assistance of a medium and her spirit guide Minnehaha, the fictional woman from the Longfellow poem, and her spirit tribe, which presumably includes Tonto and Billy Jack.

From Amazon

[nando161mando]

Germany's massive racism problem has been caught on camera again. This time, the German elite partying on luxury island of Sylt were filmed singing "Germany for Germans, foreigners out," while mimicking Adolf Hitler's salute and moustache.

Singing this racist slogan to the electronic tune of „L'amour Toujours" by Gigi D'Agostino has become a trend among partying white Germans, particularly within the social circles of the far-right party AfD and its youth wing, Young Alternative.