#air travel satire

[satireinfo]

United Airlines Begins Extra Charge for Involuntary Removal

United Airlines “Fly the Friendly Skies: Extra Charge for Involuntary Removal” Fly the Friendly Skies: “Re-Accommodation” Service Seatbelt Valley, USA —  In a bold move that redefines customer service and air travel, United Airlines has announced a new feature to their already renowned “fly the friendly skies” campaign: an extra charge for involuntary removal. Yes, you read that right. The…

[moineauz]

જ⁀ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄

synopsis: you are a travelling artist, transversing the galaxy. Thus, on your curt trip to penacony, you see a man and paint him.

including: aventurine

side comments: my rawest writing piece yet. the piece is meant to be up for interpretation and i wanted to take a more vague standpoint. this is not necessarily an x reader fic, please keep that in mind. thank you @/stellaronhvnters members for giving me tips. sending you all lots of love!

extra: angst, gn reader, boothill makes a short appearance, subtle 2.1 spoilers words count: roughly 963

You saw him on three occasions.

The first was under the incessant flash of Penacony's lights, the ubiquitous glint of inordinate advertisements trailed behind you like children. He stood amongst the dreamers with fashion and flare: the subtle sway of his right earing was charmed you. While his shoes reflected opulence and splendour. The number pressed onto his neck- similarly pressed against the folds of your mind: the place in which the eyes stare onto the shore and cast spells of what if’s.

Yet, despite the nature of his novelties and the soulful satire of his smile, you paused- traffic and light bending into sound.

What was he? You pondered. Perhaps he is perched in towers and rolls dice like candy; pecking it afterwards. Perhaps he sharpens his shoes as he does with his eyes. Perhaps he stands still in showers of salty rain, drying his cheeks with the rim of his velvet hat.

Was he a dreamer too? You would of blinked in affirmation, griped your breath a touch tighter and trace his footsteps. Lifting it on to the palm of your hand, tucked it into the haven of your pocket, cradling it like an infant, raising it like a lush fern. A portable paradise euphonious and maternal.

From there you shifted your weight onto your good side and tapped your feet to the beat of your heart, matching it to the song of his hushed ingenious breath.

He was here before, you noted. Clearly, not for leisure nor for pleasure. His strides were candid, curt, and clever. Yet, from afar, it was as if the tip of his shoes was his only connection between ground and sky. His steps bounced, rebounding off by sheer force alone; leaping mid-air, leaping with vigour and intention, leaping over wide yawning chasms.

He was galloping towards, not bothering to gaze back. His image blended into one of a horse standing amidst fields teeming with immeasurable and verdant grassland. The horse and their lush nature, a loneliness that can't be contended with as they lowered their gaze like swans. Their mane brushed against skin; preparing to consume the earth generously all on their own- unaccompanied by instruction, coddling or order.

You pause and step back from the slender and poised length of his legs, from the cage of his chest in which gold is born and coiled, from the rings of his eyes that pirouette and roulette. Hence, pondering curiously what kind of bone does not break despite its beatings.

The second time you saw him was when the sharp pungency of grapefruit- twirled with the salt which lined the rim of your glass- produced a sweet taste on the stage of your tongue. At the time the drink was fresh, garnished and plainly odd considering the dim, velvet aura which vibrated through the bar. The taste lingered in your mouth: reminiscent of a sultry summer afternoon.

His hair, you then realized, was scintillating in the gleam of bottles and booze. You wavered a bit, eyes blurry, hot and wet like the sea. He twirled and tuned with the light, the brand of his watch blurring with another sip of rum.

You don't recall any music, however, in that liminal moment between one song and the next, between one sip and a single swallow, your mouth split open in a wide glowing grin.

One foot over the other- glass in hand- serenading in dim light, crash after crash, bass strung with tangible words- it echoed deep and slow.

From there he stares forward, kissing the rim of his glass, dissipating with light as he seems to do. For a split second, he is vulnerable in the state of lassitude.

However, not before unfurling, smiling then melting. He was flying close to the sun; grazing his hands over its rims. Bright young man, you noted.

You pause and step back from his supple lips- insoluble when met with torrents, solid when left to eternity, liquid when set alive, gone when used up.

The third and final time was when his back faced you: his body resting, arms sprawled out in surrender, a single finger twitching. The memory is slipping. Like grains of sand trailing down your hand, like silk that won't hold a knot, like how rest is destined for those who truly slumber. Everecent in nature and poise. There, you wonder soundly, what stars have been bruised onto his back, and if you'd be able to draw them together- into one grand constellation that spans from one end of the world into another infinite void of true rapture.

"What a painting- or pain really."

"For someone who can't physically feel pain, your remark is rather funny," you quip back smoothly, your gaze still set towards the man's slackened joints and inner tenderness.

"You've been sitin' here for hours," bantered Boothill, "Four months really... since we left Penacony!"

You gingerly place the paintbrush down, pausing as you gradually step back from the lifesize portrait. A streak of yellow and purple paint stains your right cheek. "Today I am done."

Boothill raises an eyebrow as he watches you lift the painting onto a mantel: unhurried as a tree. Boothill watched you, morph the image of a stranger into blinding brilliance with each fastidious detail. How your subject- him- echoed volumes, his back against the world, facing tomorrow, embracing the amorous fold of limelight before departing, walking away into nothing with a princely smile and a single wave of his hand.

"Why do you paint him?" Boothill questions, his voice oddly dim and mellow, "You know nothin' about him."

Repose is found on your face as to your reply.

Boothill emits a frustrated sigh and reaches into his pockets; retrieving a lighter, you promptly flick it alive. The flame staring at you; wavering and swaying left then right. Your eyes are subtly idyllic and lulled as if drifting soundly in prayer; relishing the final wave of maudlin and soothing nuance.

"That's why I like him."

You set the portrait aflame.

"Because I know nothing about him."

masterlist.

interact with a comment! don’t be a silent reader 🤍

[slackville]

60 years ago today, June 27, 1964, the final episode of The Rocky & Bullwinkle Show (known as Rocky & His Friends during the first two seasons and as The Bullwinkle Show for the last three seasons) aired.

It originally aired from November 19, 1959, to June 27, 1964, on the ABC and NBC television networks. Produced by Jay Ward Productions, the series is structured as a variety show, with the main feature being the serialized adventures of the two title characters, the anthropomorphic moose Bullwinkle and flying squirrel Rocky. The main adversaries in most of their adventures are the Russian-like spies Boris Badenov and Natasha Fatale. Supporting segments include Dudley Do-Right (a parody of old-time melodrama), Peabody's Improbable History (a dog and his pet boy Sherman traveling through time), and Fractured Fairy Tales (classic fairy tales retold in comic fashion), among others.

Rocky & Bullwinkle is known for quality writing and wry humor. Mixing puns, cultural and topical satire, and self-referential humor, it appealed to adults as well as children. It was also one of the first cartoons whose animation was outsourced; storyboards were shipped to Gamma Productions, a Mexican studio also employed by Total Television. The art has a choppy, unpolished look and the animation is extremely limited even by television animation standards at the time. Yet the series has long been held in high esteem by those who have seen it; some critics described the series as a well-written radio program with pictures.

The show was shuffled around several times (airing in afternoon, prime time, and Saturday morning time slots), but was influential to other animated series from The Simpsons to Rocko's Modern Life. Segments from the series were later recycled in the Hoppity Hooper show.

There have been numerous feature film adaptations of the series' various segments, such as the 2000 film The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle which blended live-action and computer animation and the 1999 live-action film Dudley Do-Right, which both received poor reviews and were financially unsuccessful. By contrast, an animated feature film adaptation of the "Peabody's Improbable History" segment, Mr. Peabody & Sherman, was released to good reviews in 2014.

Rocky and His Friends and The Bullwinkle Show were ranked the sixth Greatest TV Cartoon of All Time by TV Guide.

source:

Classic Retrovision Milestones (fb)

[mutant-what-not]

Classic Retrovision Milestones

64 years ago today, November 19, 1959, The Rocky & Bullwinkle Show premiered. (known as Rocky & His Friends during the first two seasons and as The Bullwinkle Show for the last three seasons) It originally aired from November 19, 1959, to June 27, 1964, on the ABC and NBC television networks. Produced by Jay Ward Productions, the series is structured as a variety show, with the main feature being the serialized adventures of the two title characters, the anthropomorphic moose Bullwinkle and flying squirrel Rocky. The main adversaries in most of their adventures are the Russian-like spies Boris Badenov and Natasha Fatale. Supporting segments include Dudley Do-Right (a parody of old-time melodrama), Peabody's Improbable History (a dog and his pet boy Sherman traveling through time), and Fractured Fairy Tales (classic fairy tales retold in comic fashion), among others.

Rocky & Bullwinkle is known for quality writing and wry humor. Mixing puns, cultural and topical satire, and self-referential humor, it appealed to adults as well as children. It was also one of the first cartoons whose animation was outsourced; storyboards were shipped to Gamma Productions, a Mexican studio also employed by Total Television. The art has a choppy, unpolished look and the animation is extremely limited even by television animation standards at the time. Yet the series has long been held in high esteem by those who have seen it; some critics described the series as a well-written radio program with pictures.

The show was shuffled around several times (airing in afternoon, prime time, and Saturday morning time slots), but was influential to other animated series from The Simpsons to Rocko's Modern Life. Segments from the series were later recycled in the Hoppity Hooper show.

There have been numerous feature film adaptations of the series' various segments, such as the 2000 film The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle which blended live-action and computer animation and the 1999 live-action film Dudley Do-Right, which both received poor reviews and were financially unsuccessful. By contrast, an animated feature film adaptation of the "Peabody's Improbable History" segment, Mr. Peabody & Sherman, was released to good reviews in 2014.

Mr. Peabody will star in a new reboot series picked up for 13-episodes.

In 2013, Rocky and His Friends and The Bullwinkle Show were ranked the sixth Greatest TV Cartoon of All Time by TV Guide.

[hotchs-bitch]

Fluffy Feb Day 27- Snow

Warnings: getting together, only one bed trope except I as the author provided 2 beds and they do it to themselves, Canada (which was supposed to be realistic but comes across as satire. No judging me unless you are also Canadian), some 18+ implications but nothing happens

Pairing: Hotch x blank slate Fem!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 4.1k (i went crazy :/)

A/N: Honestly I've either made up or researched everything I've put in a fic about America so it was a nice change to just Know Things (although I am not from the province where this takes place). Also in my mind this is a continuation to Day 9- Pine

Once again, bonus points if you can figure out which Taylor Swift song I was listening to when writing this

Cases have taken you all over the country, face to face with some of the worst serial killers that America has ever seen. Much less often, they take you to Canada.

Specifically, in the case of a psychopath who skipped borders after killing in two states almost a decade ago and resumed his killing spree further north now, they occasionally take you to the middle of Nowheresville, Saskatchewan, Canada. In the dead of winter.

“Hey, folks.” The chief of police greets you all- well, most of you, since Rossi and Prentiss are already out on the field- with a friendly wave, shaking Hotch’s hand. “Chief McCartney. Sorry to make y’all take a trip up here, but we sure can use the help.”

“The FBI has been searching for the unsub for some time,” Hotch answers as their hands part. “The case has been assumed cold for several years by the Bureau, so we’re grateful you reached out. Two of my agents are at the latest crime scene already.”

“Where should we set up?” JJ asks, and the chief leads you to a conference room. “And, er, speaking of cold…”

You’re all very cold, just from the drive from the airstrip to the station. You’d seen people snowmobiling past the road, and JJ had marvelled aloud wondering how they could bear to be out in this weather. It’s not surprising that she’s the first one to bring up the chilly air in the precinct with her parka still zipped up to her chin.

McCartney snaps his fingers like he’s remembered something important. “Y’all must be freezing, eh? Let me rustle up a space heater, get you nice and toasty.”

The fact that he’s wearing a button-down shirt and a light jacket isn’t lost on any of the experienced profilers in the room. “You’re not cold?” Derek asks, half in disbelief. “Man, I grew up in Chicago and I can’t feel my toes right now.”

“We hit minus 30’s a few weeks back,” McCartney says, wincing. “Sorry, I didn’t even think of it. Guess we’re all used to it around here by now.”

“Minus…” You glance at Spencer, who’s locked and loaded with an answer.

“Negative 30 degrees Celsius is about negative 22, Fahrenheit,” he reports. “I’d estimate we’re closer to negative 31 degrees Farenheit, though.”

“He’s smart. Windchill’s pushing us a little under,” McCartney confirms. “I’ll go get that space heater. Y’all settle in, and I’ll have one of my officers bring over the files ASAP.”

You ‘settle in’ as best you can, poring over the case with your team while wrapped in thick sweaters and cradling to-go cups of coffee. They’re branded with the Tim Hortons logo from the traveller case that one of the officers brings for you along with the files and a box of donut holes labelled ‘Timbits’. The space heater sits in the corner of the room, slowly bringing the space to a temperature that you’re all used to.

Hotch takes the first sip of his coffee without adding anything into it, his face screwing up at the taste. “It’s not too good when it’s black,” the officer tells him. “Sorry, should’ve warned you. Try a double double, it’s way better.”

“Here, I’ve got it.” You take Hotch’s coffee from him, adding in two little packets of sugar and two creamer cups while he watches you. “Better?” He stirs it and takes a sip, deliberating.

The second sip must be miles better than the first. “It’s not as bitter. I think that’s all I can ask for,” he murmurs while he takes a seat next to you, and you smirk.

He’s wearing the same quarter-zip that made an appearance when you went to Alaska, and he seems relatively warm. Lucky him. The less-built members of your team, particularly JJ and Spencer, have rosy cheeks and keep sticking their hands in their pockets to warm them. Poor Spencer goes through several cups of coffee in mere hours, a weak attempt to warm himself from the inside out.

Nearing the end of the day, you all pack up your things. There haven’t been any more murders today, but the information gleaned from the crime scenes helps you add to the profile. The unsub has a pattern of striking each week, probably to gauge how close the investigation is to catching him during the cooldown period, and he hasn’t strayed from the pattern since resurfacing.

You trudge to the hotel across the street from the police station- this town is so tiny that you don’t think it’s made up of anything other than a main street and rows of suburbia housing- in the pitch-black, wind whistling by your ears and freezing them. The sun went down several hours ago even though it’s only nearing seven PM, and the dark doesn’t lift anyone’s spirits.

“Get some rest,” Hotch says while he hands out room keys in the hotel lobby, speaking over the sound of chattering teeth. It’s more of an order than a request. “We’re at the station bright and early tomorrow, and I want you all rested and ready to work.”

The room key in your hands leads you down a hallway to a door that you unlock right as Hotch turns the corner. “119, right?” He clarifies, and you nod. “Alright. You’re with me.”

“Sounds good.” Your voice sounds cool and even, and you’re sort of proud of yourself for keeping it together after finding out that you’re sharing a hotel room with your very kind, very attractive boss. You’ve shared a room with him before, but it’s a battle of willpower to appear normal every time.

The hotel room is decently nice, and it’s warmer than you expected. Two queen-sized beds share a nightstand, and there’s a desk with a coffeemaker on it pressed up to the wall next to the TV. It’s a standard hotel room, a setup you’re familiar with. The heater under the window is whirring, filling the room with blissfully warm air- almost too warm- that has you shedding your jacket as Hotch sets his go bag on one bed and his briefcase on the desk.

“No working,” you remind him, your tone as scolding as it is light-hearted. “Bright and early, remember?”

Hotch snorts at that, then takes off his quarter-zip sweater. “We’ll be six bitter coffees deep before the sun comes up,” he says, but you struggle to hear a single word out of his mouth when you see his biceps through the thin white material of his shirt. He’s been covered up all day, and you haven’t hit your daily quota of staring at his arms.

It’s been a hard day, particularly for that reason.

“I’m going to shower,” Hotch says after a moment, discarding his fleece on the desk chair. He picks up his go bag, and the bathroom door closes behind him a moment later.

By the time he re-enters, wearing flannel pajamas pants and a white shirt, you’re fiddling with the heater. It seems to be broken, and when you turn the dial to blow cold air in the room it only seems to come out a few degrees cooler.

“The blanket’s really heavy,” you warn as he gets into his own bed. You can’t believe you’re overheating at negative-a-million degrees, but the combined weight of the duvet and warm air blowing steadily into the room is reminiscent of falling asleep in Arizona rather than the snowy north. “Something’s wrong with the heater.”

“I’ll try to manage,” he responds with a dry smile before pulling the blanket over himself. It lands on him with a solid sound, thick duvet against chest, and a soft ‘oof’, and you count to three in your head before he says, “Okay, you were right.’

“Aren’t I always?” You pull your own duvet down when you get into bed, leaving yourself covered with the top sheet of the bedspread. He stays underneath his blankets, not shifting them while you reach out and turn the lamp off.

Falling asleep has never been so difficult. Without the thick duvet, you’re curled into a ball within five minutes when the slightly colder air fills the room. With it, you’re sweating so much that it’s a wonder you aren’t sliding right off the bed. One leg pokes out from under the heavy covers, but it feels like the only part of your body that’s at a closer-to-normal temperature while the rest of you overheats. You toss and turn, falling asleep briefly every once in a while for maybe ten minutes at a time.

It’s a little embarrassing, actually. Your blanket and sheet are lifted and shifted so many times that you have to hope you aren’t waking Hotch up, even when you move as quietly as possible. The only sound in the air is the wind whistling and fabric shifting, louder than you thought possible.

Around 1 AM, hours after trying to fall asleep, you’ve all but given up. You’re considering getting to work on the file by lamplight, or just stripping down naked under the thick blankets. What other option do you have?

That’s when you hear a grunt from the other bed, and Hotch’s outline shifts in bed. You can see him move around, lifting up like he’s flipping over his pillow. In the barely-there lighting from a streetlamp, you notice that his duvet is ruffled and partially folded over itself. It looks like he’s been tossing and turning, just like you.

“Aaron,” you whisper once he’s still. It’s quiet; he can pretend not to hear you if he’s close to falling asleep, and you won’t be offended. 

When he responds, his voice is gruff and just as loud as it was in the precinct today. “Yeah?”

“Can’t sleep?” It’s a stupid question, you realize as soon as it leaves your mouth. He isn’t sleeptalking, after all.

He doesn’t call you out on it, but just sighs instead. “No. It’s not working too well for me. I’m really hot.”

Yeah, you are, you want to say, but the logical side of your brain beats the sentence back with a stick before you can say it out loud. “Me too. How do you think everyone else is doing?

“Better than us, I hope.” He sits up in bed slightly; you can tell from the rustling and the dim outline. “I’m sure Dave has some kind of temperature-controllable blanket with him.”

“Spencer probably researched the best kind of pajamas to bring,” you joke back, and Aaron chuckles at that.

“Morgan probably worked out before bed and didn’t need any blankets,” he murmurs, and you snicker.

“JJ and Emily are probably cuddling for warmth.”

Why did you say that? The high altitude- the provincial average is roughly 1700 feet above sea-level, Spencer would tell you- combined with the restlessness is probably getting to you.

Aaron clears his throat, and you cough. Neither of you seems to know what to say, so he speaks first. “As long as they don’t tell me anything. It’s a lot of paperwork, for that sort of… fraternization.”

“Well, I mean. If they’re just doing it to keep warm, that’s got to be an exception,” you point out.

“I.. suppose so, yes. As long as nothing further were to happen, two agents just trying to keep each other warm isn’t inappropriate. They… we all need to be professional.”

He sounds hesitant now, speaking carefully like he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. You wonder if he’s dancing around the same thought as you. If he is, is he trying to avoid it? Or does he not want to say it first?

“So, by that logic…” you trail off, waiting for Aaron to say something. He can say anything now. He can cut you off, bid you goodnight again, or even ask you to go bunk with Rossi, but he doesn’t.

The fact that he also isn’t exactly not encouraging you doesn’t disembolden you at all. “Yes?”

“Well. You know,” you murmur. “I’m just saying that if it’s completely professional… and if it’s helping them sleep, and therefore be more well-rested to catch a serial killer tomorrow…”

“What are you saying?” He isn’t really asking. You can hear his smirk as clearly as wind whistling through the trees outside your window. “I think you need to clarify for me.”

Your huff of annoyance is more forced than it sounds. “I’m saying that if we sleep in the same bed we might be able to actually sleep. Body heat, and all that.”

Aaron’s voice is softer now, less sure than when he teased you just a minute ago. “Are you comfortable with that?”

“If it’s okay with you, then it’s okay with me,” you promise. The only sound in the room for a moment is both of you breathing, and you wonder if he can hear your heart thumping against your ribcage. What are you doing?

“Alright,” Aaron agrees after a long moment, pushing the duvet down to the foot of his bed. “Does it matter what side you sleep on?”

You get out of your own bed, and murmur, “No,” as he rolls over to make room for you. He lifts the top sheet up and you slide in under it, curling up. There’s still some distance between you, and you try to maintain it; he’s the one who’s concerned about things being ‘inappropriate’, after all. There’s no need for him to know that your heart is beating so fast that it feels like it’s about to jackhammer out of your chest.

“Goodnight,” you mumble as soon as your head hits the pillow. His body heat is like a furnace, warming you up perfectly from a foot away, and the thin sheet is warm like it’s been waiting for you to climb in. He says something under his breath- ‘goodnight’, maybe- but it’s been such a long day that you fall asleep in what feels like seconds without responding.

When you wake up to the sound of Aaron’s phone alarm, you’re much less than a foot away from each other in the warmest bed you’ve ever known. He’s curled up against your back, one of his arms slung around your waist to hold you to his chest. Previous experience with room-sharing tells you that he doesn’t wake up at the first alarm- he usually sets two or three, a few minutes apart- and you’ve got a couple of minutes to just be.

The sound of the alarm grates on you, but it must be on a timer because it stops ringing after a minute or so, and you relax back into Aaron. His cheek is resting against the back of your head, and you can hear his steady breaths in time with the rise and fall of his chest against you. It feels good, it feels right to wake up like this. You don’t want it to end, but you know that it has to.

When the second alarm goes off, he rouses with a little startle, like he doesn’t remember where he is. The arm around your waist tightens, just for a moment, as his body relaxes into yours. Soft as a whisper, you could swear that you feel warm lips brush the shell of your ear before he pulls his arm away and sits up.

The room is just as dark now as it was a few hours ago, and Aaron manages to fumble for his phone and quiet the alarm before he speaks. His voice is raspier than it was in the middle of the night when he checks the time and then says, “It’s almost a quarter to seven. Er, did you sleep well?”

“Very.” You yawn as you sit up, stretching both arms above your head. “I wouldn’t complain about a couple more hours, though. That whole same-bed thing works wonders.”

Aaron yawns too, turning away to grab his go-bag as he stands up. “I’m glad to hear it. You can go shower. I’ll change out here.”

“Deal.” You gather your own things when you get to your feet, disappearing into the bathroom to get ready for the day. Your mind is already on the case, pushing aside all thoughts of sleep arrangements and large arms holding you close in favour of your job. When you exit the bathroom, Aaron is already gone.

When you meet with the team in the lobby, you find out that he headed to the station right away to get ahead on the case. Everyone bundles up before walking back to the precinct; the walk is no warmer than it was last night, and fresh snow begins to fall just as you get to the doors of the precinct.

Once you find your way to the same room as yesterday, you find Hotch already there, dressed in yesterday’s fleece. He’s got a Tim Horton’s cup in one hand, and he sips it while staring, perplexed, at the geographic profile. “Good morning,” he greets everyone at once. “Reid, I was thinking. If we intersect his old hideout parameters from Minnesota and Georgia with his murders here, then…” their chatter fades into white noise as you turn your attention to the files lining the tables.

The first hour passes in a blur, the conference room lit only by harsh overhead fluorescents as you trade theories and examine new evidence provided by the local officers. The clock is just announcing the arrival of 9 AM, the sky beginning to brighten slightly, when you realize that you need coffee.

You’ve got the same setup as yesterday in that regard, too. One of the officers must have picked up a fresh traveller for you, evidenced by the steam rolling off of the coffee that Hotch is pouring for himself. “How’s it going?” He asks, stirring two creams and two sugars into his coffee.

“No big break yet, but I’m sure we’re close. We’re going to get this guy soon,” you promise, and Hotch nods at that. “I wanted to thank you again. For, you know. Helping me sleep last night.”

“It was no trouble,” he assures you, fiddling with the stir stick in his hand. “It was helpful for me, too.”

“And, hey.” You lower your voice a bit, and Hotch leans in to hear you better. “Maybe we can do it again tonight. You know, if that’s okay with you.”

He gives you a smile, that tight-lipped one you’re used to seeing around the office. “It’s alright with me. I just don’t want to… well, I’m your boss. I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. It has no impact on my views of your professionalism.”

There’s that word again. You wish he could be a little less professional, for once. But he’s right, he’s your boss, and there are certain things he can’t say first. Your profiling skills tell you that he still wants to say them though. “Well, what happens in Canada can stay in Canada,” you half-jest.

“It can, if you want it to,” he murmurs. He still hasn’t taken a sip of his coffee, and he hands the cup to you while he pours a second one. “The sun will be coming up, soon.”

He’s right. Pale orange is streaking the sky through the large conference room window, tracing pink lines around the edge of the sun that’s just starting to peek up into the prairie sky. The snow is still falling, painting a picturesque image in the sky “It’s gorgeous,” you comment, taking a sip of your coffee. Without taking your eyes off the sky, you step a little closer to Hotch.

“Yes,” he agrees, holding his coffee in his right hand. His left rests on the table that your back is against, and it might be wishful thinking, but you think that he would wrap that arm around you again if there were no one else around. “It certainly is.”

----

“Longest week of my life,” Emily complains as soon as you’re airborne, a mere three days later. The unsub has been apprehended and is in federal custody of the country you’re returning home to. “But those beds were insanely comfortable. I haven’t slept that well in months.”

You and Aaron exchange a glance, a double-layered inside joke about why Emily slept so well and why exactly you both slept so well for several nights in a row. 

The last four nights have brought with them some of the best rest of your life. You’ve grown familiar with the feeling of Aaron’s arms around you in the morning, and by day three he stopped jerking them away as soon as he woke up.

That was the same day he asked you out, his gaze averted while he fiddled with a gold-coloured coin that he had received as change when he went out to buy a coffee. You had agreed, of course, and had assured him more than once that it didn’t matter that he’s your boss. You want him, and you have for ages.

On the fourth day, just this morning, he had held you a little tighter when he woke up and rumbled, “Morning, baby,” against your ear. If he hadn’t felt your heart beating around in your chest before, he had certainly felt it then.

Despite the fact that you’ve got a date planned with the man you’ve been cuddling for the better part of a week, you’re ready to tease Emily for cuddling JJ, before Spencer chimes in.

“I thought that the beds were quite comfortable, also. According to Sheriff McCartney, they’re primarily a transit town, which runs on a completely different economic structure than a transit village. The economy depends on truckers and people on road trips or similar travel to sleep in their hotels and eat at their restaurants,” he explains. “It’s fascinating, actually; transit towns pour the majority of their resources into making sure travellers making one-night stays enjoy themselves enough that they take the same route on the way home, thus giving the town more business.”

“The only business I want from that town is the name of whoever supplies those blankets,” Derek says, grinning. “That thing was so heavy, it was like getting crushed to sleep. Exactly what I needed with all that cool air blowing in.”

“Your room wasn’t too hot?” You ask, your nose scrunching up. “I think the heat was broken in mine. It was just hot air the whole time, every night. Way too hot to sleep.”

“Ours was like that on the first night,” JJ recalls, and Emily nods in agreement. “It was awful.”

“Right?” You complain, sinking further down into your seat. Hotch is sitting to your right, his face an impassive mask while he watches the exchange. “Let me guess, you guys shared a… uh…” 

Your teasing falters when the look on both JJ's and Emily’s faces tells you that, no, they did not share a bed, and you’ve just implied your solution to the heater problem. “We used the other blankets,” Emily says slowly, her eyes narrowing. “Didn’t you?”

“Oh! Oh, the other blankets. Yeah, the ones in the nightstand.” You nod along, your mortification growing in time with JJ’s smirk.

“They were in the closet,” she corrects you, obviously trying not to laugh. “I guess we know how you and Hotch stayed warm.”

You don’t need to look at your boss’- boss? Friend? Lover? You aren’t too sure right now- face to know that his cheeks are dusted rosy pink. “It wasn’t like that,” you protest to deaf ears as Derek whoops and high-fives Emily.

“About time,” he snickers at the look on your face. “So, when’s the first date?”

“It’s not-” you start to say, but Hotch speaks before you can.

“Friday.”

Your eyes widen and you turn to him. He raises one shoulder and smiles, like What was I supposed to say? “Friday,” you relent a moment later.

Derek is still grinning ear to ear like a maniac, and even Spencer cracks a smile when Aaron snakes one arm slowly around your waist. The sun is rising on one side of the jet, and the orange glow illuminates his face.

For one suspended moment, everything is perfect. You’ve got a date for this Friday, you’re more well-rested than you’ve felt in ages, and your team doesn’t seem to care that you and your boss are much closer than you were a couple of weeks ago. It’s a blissful moment to you, and it’s only broken by Emily’s gleeful not-quite-a whisper to JJ. “Penelope is going to be pissed that she missed this.”

Fluffy Feb masterlist | < Prev Day | Next Day >

Fluffy Feb tags: @doctorsteths-fluffyfeb @iammirrorball @hausofwhores @allthefandomstogether @myweepingangel @hotched @spacecowboyhotch @chibsytelford @honeybrowne @formulapierre @nd264 @hotchnerxnegan1017 (send me a dm or ask to be tagged!)

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

64 years ago today, November 19, 1959, The Rocky & Bullwinkle Show premiered. (known as Rocky & His Friends during the first two seasons and as The Bullwinkle Show for the last three seasons) It originally aired from November 19, 1959, to June 27, 1964, on the ABC and NBC television networks. Produced by Jay Ward Productions, the series is structured as a variety show, with the main feature being the serialized adventures of the two title characters, the anthropomorphic moose Bullwinkle and flying squirrel Rocky. The main adversaries in most of their adventures are the Russian-like spies Boris Badenov and Natasha Fatale. Supporting segments include Dudley Do-Right (a parody of old-time melodrama), Peabody's Improbable History (a dog and his pet boy Sherman traveling through time), and Fractured Fairy Tales (classic fairy tales retold in comic fashion), among others.

Rocky & Bullwinkle is known for quality writing and wry humor. Mixing puns, cultural and topical satire, and self-referential humor, it appealed to adults as well as children. It was also one of the first cartoons whose animation was outsourced; storyboards were shipped to Gamma Productions, a Mexican studio also employed by Total Television. The art has a choppy, unpolished look and the animation is extremely limited even by television animation standards at the time. Yet the series has long been held in high esteem by those who have seen it; some critics described the series as a well-written radio program with pictures.

The show was shuffled around several times (airing in afternoon, prime time, and Saturday morning time slots), but was influential to other animated series from The Simpsons to Rocko's Modern Life. Segments from the series were later recycled in the Hoppity Hooper show.

There have been numerous feature film adaptations of the series' various segments, such as the 2000 film The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle which blended live-action and computer animation and the 1999 live-action film Dudley Do-Right, which both received poor reviews and were financially unsuccessful. By contrast, an animated feature film adaptation of the "Peabody's Improbable History" segment, Mr. Peabody & Sherman, was released to good reviews in 2014.

Mr. Peabody will star in a new reboot series picked up for 13-episodes.

In 2013, Rocky and His Friends and The Bullwinkle Show were ranked the sixth Greatest TV Cartoon of All Time by TV Guide.

[Classic Retrovision Milestones]

+

Narrator: And so alls well that ends well for our high flying friend and his lowbrow companion. I think that it's safe to say that these boys put the moan in matrimony.

Snidely Whiplash: Oh that's terrible!

[hisinfernalmajesty666]

The Magpie c.1868-69 by Claude Monet.

📍 Musée d'Orsay, Paris, France.

Claude Monet was a French painter who founded the Impressionism movement. He was the most prolific and consistent painter of this style. Monet attempted to paint nature as he perceived it, particularly with 'plein air' paintings. His ambition to paint the French countryside led to a method of painting the same scene many times as to capture the changing seasons. Monet's paintings were seen as the precursor of Modernism. His popularity soared in the second half of the 20th century as his works travelled the world in museum exhibitions.

Impressionism is a 19th century art movement, originating in Paris in the 1870s, characterised by its use of basic subject matter and depiction of movement. Impressionism in painting attempted to accurately and objectively record visual reality and achieved it via small brush strokes, open composition, an accurate representation of light, usually to show time passing. Depictions were primarily landscapes, urban streets, houses and railway stations. It received strong criticism from conventional artists and the term was coined by this very painting by a critic's satirical review.

Created during the winter of 1868-69 at a commune in Normandy. It is one of approximately 140 snowscapes painted by Monet and is by far his biggest winter painting. It depicts a solitary black magpie perched on a gate. The light of the sun shines upon freshly fallen snow, creating blue shadows. It features one of the first examples of Monet's use of colored shadows, which would later become associated with the Impressionist movement. Monet and the Impressionists used colored shadows to represent the actual, changing conditions of light and shadow as seen in nature, challenging the academic convention of painting shadows black. This actually led to its rejection at the Paris Salon in 1869.

[rants-n-chants]

Excerpt from my book 'Sundail'

(Currently wip)

When the weary travel they hold their hope in a candle.

Roy had never traveled by sea before, he'd taken the first navel ship out of the white Isles, on a crisp June morning. The sea air was fresh, the rocky coastline of the small fishing town a thin line against the skys pale blue expanse.

"aye up boy!" grunted an older sailor, he was old and ruff in apperence, his gait was one used to a life on deck.

Throwing a thick, coiled rope down behind Roy, and leaning against the ships railing he bagan to roll a cigar, "you know a life on the sea isnt an easy one, if I where you I'd swim back to the promenade."

Roy was completely aware of the dangers most men met on the harsh waters, many found their death and those that didn't wished they had.

"I know what I'm getting myself in for."

He watched the busy Dock grow smaller in the distance, home was now behind him, he was ready for a new start. The old man eyed Roy in contemplation, took a long drag of his cigar and followed Roy's gaze out to the water and disappearing shoreline, the rich smell of tabbaco settled between them.

"The water changes you, I'm not the same man I was when I first stepped on board this ship"

he turned to Roy, his eyes worried and brow serious "is this what you want boy, to be so changed you can't go back."

Roy's lips twitched up, a satirical expression for someone about to leave everything behind him, "oh I'm counting on it".

[invisibleicewands]

[...]

A new dramatisation of Andrew’s fall from grace is due to air on Amazon Prime later this month. And if he thought the Netflix show Scoop, which covered the same ground, was unflattering then I have some bad news for the Duke of York. In A Very Royal Scandal, Andrew is portrayed by Michael Sheen as pompous, deluded and deeply unpleasant. Simultaneously arrogant and weak, he is seen striding around Buckingham Palace shouting expletives at the staff. Indeed, the first words we hear him utter are “f*** off” (to a footman who dares to approach), and throughout the three-part series he continues to bark the phrase at any courtier who comes within ten feet.

It is unnerving the way it trips off the tongue in a way that others might say “good day”. To Andrew the dogs are “little buggers”, the Queen’s esteemed press secretary is “a little shit” and his loyal aide Amanda Thirsk, played by Joanna Scanlan, is “a fatty”. Many viewers will remember her from The Thick of It, and here the duke is just as sweary as that political satire’s Malcolm Tucker — but far less bright.

[...]

The new dramatisation, for which the Newsnight interviewer Emily Maitlis acted as executive producer, suggests that Andrew asked to add in his bizarre “alibis” after his infamous interview with Maitlis had concluded. These, memorably, included that he couldn’t possibly have danced at Tramp nightclub with Jeffrey Epstein’s victim Virginia Giuffre on the night that she claimed because he was at Pizza Express in Woking — and that he couldn’t have sweated profusely on the dancefloor because of “a peculiar medical condition” that meant “it was almost impossible for me to sweat”.

There’s one particularly excruciating scene in A Very Royal Scandal, during which Andrew travels to New York for a meeting with Epstein and essentially begs him for cash to clear his ex-wife Sarah Ferguson’s debts. Granting the money as “a gift”, the convicted sex offender tells the duke, “It’s gone.” Fast-forward several years and the drama shows Andrew being told that Epstein has been found dead in a prison cell. He responds: “Is this good for me or bad?”

Of course, this is a drama and any dialogue from Andrew behind closed doors is imagined. A disclaimer at the beginning of each episode reminds viewers that while the drama is based on real people and events, “some scenes have been adapted or fictionalised and adapted for dramatic purposes”. Yet many people will find it easy to believe that these conversations — or ones like them — took place behind palace walls.

In another scene the duke is seen going “the full tonto” after a call from his older brother, then Prince of Wales, who had found out about the Newsnight interview and was furious. Storming through the palace after coming off the phone to Charles, Andrew shouts: “Calls me a f***ing mummy’s boy! He is the f***ing mummy’s boy!”

In the face of good advice, Andrew ploughs on, suggesting that as “the second f***ing son of the f***ing sovereign, if I want to go on telly and defend myself I f***ing well will”.

[...]

Andrew may not see this but the show’s producers certainly did. Indeed it is succinctly summed up in the drama in a scene where Edward Young, who was then the Queen’s private secretary, is seen to say: “The bottom line for all of us is to ensure that this scandal never touches the monarch. The duke is one thing, the crown quite another.”

According to friends of his, the King knows that it is not a good look to be seen paying so much to keep Andrew in the lifestyle to which he has so clearly become accustomed. While there isn’t public money at stake — the bill is paid from Charles’s pocket — it’s still a public sign of support for a man who was friends with a convicted paedophile and has never acknowledged his lack of judgment over that friendship.

In the drama Andrew is seen hosting lavish dinner parties after days spent shooting and having a table (complete with pristine white tablecloth) set up on the golf course so he can lunch on Welsh lamb served by a waiter.

By the end of the programme he is isolated and alone. His aide Thirsk has been summarily fired and little hope remains. The same is true in real life. His final shred of dignity may be taken away by the King but he can’t say he wasn’t given fair warning. He will have to find a sizeable income (from a reputable source) if he wants to maintain the lease on the property, which is owned by the Crown Estate.

[...] By the end of the film Andrew, sad and alone, is left to stare forlornly out of the window. Those close to Charles believe it may now be a case of life imitating art imitating life if he doesn’t take the help he is offered.

[i-aint-nothin-but-a-nasty-dog]

Happy Cursed Event!

thank you @naughtystiel for hosting this and happy 28th birthday!!; I didn't write this with the intention for posting but it fits right in so I thought I'd share this wretched little thing @youmakemewishicoulddisappear and I wrote at 4 in the morning :) is this cursed enough for you?

1089 words, can be read below the cut or here on ao3

rating: Explicit

tags: Crack, a/b/o, non-traditional a/b/o, dom/sub undertones, dom!cas/sub!Dean, blow jobs, bad dirty talk, riding, shameless smut, crack filth, office au, office sex, overuse of ~ symbol, satire, not serious, daddy kink

absolute cringefest travel at your own risk but it's a fun cringefest I assure you

have fun! 🥰

The Boss’ Omega

Dean was the only omega at the office. Castiel was the most powerful alpha there was. He was the boss.

“I need to see you in my office.” Castiel said in a gruff voice.

Dean followed his sexy boss to his office, trembling at the scent of Castiel's pheromones. He had no choice, really, but to follow the orders. Castiel’s alpha nature was too overwhelming to ignore. So, with his tail between his legs, he walked through the door, looking at the ground.

His tail was the most sensitive part of him, and all the alphas in the building loved to tease him for it, coming up behind him to pull it, touch it. No matter how many times he snarled, “Don’t fucking touch my tail,” they ignored the whimpering omega.

Once in his office, Dean took a seat across from his boss’ desk, impatiently waiting for the other man to speak. He was shaking in his seat, his eyes, which change color depending on his mood, were a dull gray-blue, showing just how anxious he was for this talk. Though, the dark colors hid the pink around his irises. He was attracted to this alpha.

“Dean,” The alpha began, “Do you know why I called you in here?”

“N-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-no…” He stuttered out.

“Gah, you’re so pathetic. Just a whiny little omega who can’t even speak properly. You can’t speak or do your job well, can you?”

“N-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-no sir, I can’t. I can never do anything right. I’m not like the other guys. I’m not big or strong. You probably think I’m ugly, too.” He sighed and looked away. 

“You’re right. I called you in here because your performance has been lacking.”

“W-w-what d-d-do you m-mean?”

“I mean,” He started darkly, “I need you to change your performance. Do you think I need to punish you? I think I should…”

“A-a-a-a-a-alpha please…how are you going to punish me?”

“You can start by coming over here and kneeling before me.”

Dean trembled but obeyed the alpha’s orders, wobbling on his feet and stumbling over to where the alpha was sitting with his legs spread in his chair, thick cock already tenting his slacks. Dean licked his lips and knelt in front of him between his feet, looking up at his alpha with glossy, doe eyes.

“Take me out.” He ordered.

Dean gulped hard and went to work. He reached forward and unbuttoned the man’s pants, slowly tugging the zipper down to reveal his long, hard, thick. veiny cock. It sprung out and tapped Dean in the nose, earning a surprised gasp from the trembling omega. He let out a soft whine at the sheer size and girth of his cock. The alpha let out a rumbling groan at his cock finally being free and exposed to the cold air of the office. 

Dean gripped that cock tight and raised it from the perdition of not being touched. 

“Suck it.” The alpha snarled, gripping onto his omega’s hair, pulling harshly. 

Dean whimpered at the order before cautiously taking Castiel’s cock into his mouth, his eyes watering from the stretch of wrapping his lips around the entire girth of it. Castiel got impatient and shoved the omega’s head down, savoring how he gagged around the cock 

“A-a-a-alpha please i can’t take it that hard~ You need to be gentle…”

“You will either choke on my cock or you don’t get it at all and we can be done here. Your choice~.”

“Ngh alpha~”

“Do it or else, little omega.”

Dean moaned aloud and went back to sucking that huge cock. He lapped at the head, making his way down the shaft to where the alpha’s knot was steadily growing. The omega lapped happily at the swollen knot, appreciating the loud groan he earned from his alpha when he did.

“Oh, such a good little slutty omega for me, aren’t you. You’ve wanted to be in this position for a while, haven’t you? I could smell your slick a mile away, always so strong when i’m near. I know you have, little omega, always such a filthy whore for me, huh? Can smell it even now, wanna see how tight that little ass is for me.”

“Oh~ Alpha please~”

“Get up here.”

Dean knew what he wanted and quickly stood to shake his pants and boxers off, sitting himself in the alpha’s lap and slammed himself down to the alpha’s knot, both moaning in unison.

“Oh~ alpha, your cock feels so good.”

“So wet for me, little omega, so tight on my cock. You feel so good on my knot.”

Dean started slamming himself down frantically, riding his cock like his performance depended on it, which it did. 

“So good for me, gonna knot you, fill you with my alpha sperm.”

“Please, alpha, want your alpha sperm, only yours. Never wanted anyone else’s, oh–alpha im–”

“Good omega, cover me in your omega sperm~”

They climaxed in unison, Dean whining with a high voice and Castiel groaning lowly. Dean fell limp on his alpha, satisfied and taking in the smell of his alpha’s pheromones, the scent intoxicating.

“How’s that for work ethic improvement?” Dean asked coyly.

“Not bad.” Castiel grumbles, clearing his throat, embarrassed of how good that felt.

“Good enough.” Dean grunted in reply, slumping further against his alpha.

Then suddenly Gabriel busted in the room with a stack of papers in his hand, ready to throw them on his boss’ desk, planning to stay and chat for a moment. But, no. Instead, he was met with the sight of his boss and coworker, both covered obscenely in each other’s sperm.

“Oh cool I’ll leave you two to it, but lock the door next time.” He left as quickly as he had come in.

“That was your first lesson: no more doing stupid shit like forgetting to lock the door. Next time you do, I’m firing you for real. Dick or no dick.”

“N-next time?”

“Keep talking like that and there won’t be a next time”

“S-sorry.”

“Get out.”

“W-w-w-wha?”

“I said get out. What did I just say about talking like that to me?”

“No! Please! I’ll do anything! Daddy–”

“...What did you call me?”

“D-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-daddy?” He gulped nervously.

“Nevermind. Stay.”

“Yes, daddy alpha.”

“Good boy.” He placed a kiss on his omega’s head, Sighing happily. They relaxed in one another’s arms, enjoying the other’s company. Work could wait, they’re paid a salary anyway. 

Boss makes a dollar, worker makes a dime, that’s why they fucked on company time.

[choking-on-your-alibis]

hello and welcome! this blog is an AU of the greek gods. In order to punish the Gods for tormenting humanity due to godly affairs, Zeus has banished them to the mortal realm, to live like mortals. However, Athena and Hera saw this as unfair, as Zeus himself committed atrocities against humanity as well. Therefore, they worked together to banish Zeus to the mortal realm too. The Gods powers and immortality are still in tact, they are simply not allowed to live in their respective realms.

(this is not myth compliant! most of them are probably not going to be related due to shipping)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

interactable characters:

↬ achelous: patron god of the achelous river

↬ aeolus: god of the wind and air

↬ aether: primordial god of the upper air, light, the atmosphere, space and heaven

↬ alastor: god of family feuds and the avenger of evil deeds

↬ apollo: olympian god of music, poetry, art, oracles, archery, plague, medicine, sun, light and knowledge

↬ ares: olympian god of war (physical, violent and untamed aspect)

↬ aristaeus: minor patron god of animal husbandry, bee-keeping and fruit trees

↬ asclepius: god of medicine, health, healing, rejuvenation and physicians

↬ atlas: primordial titan of astronomy

↬ boreas: a wind god (anemoi) and god of the cold north wind and the bringer of winter

↬ caerus: minor god of opportunity, luck and favourable moments

↬ chaos: physical representation of the nothingness that all things sprung from. filled the gap between heaven and the earth

↬ chronos (NOT the titan cronus): the god of time

↬ dinlas: guardian god of the ancient city lamark, a place where wounded heroes could heal after battle

↬ deimos: personification of dread and terror. twin to phobos

↬ dionysus: olympian god of the grape harvest, winemaking and wine, ritual madness, religious ecstasy and theatre

↬ erebus: primordial god of darkness

↬ eros: god of sexual desire, attraction, love and procreation

↬ eurus: anemoi and god of the unlucky east wind

↬ glaucus: a fisherman who became immortal after consuming an argonaut, became a god of the sea

↬ hades: olympian (kind of) god of the dead and riches. king of the underworld

↬ helios: god of the sun. also known as sol

↬ hephaestus: olympian god of fire, metalworking, stone masonry, forges and the art of sculpture

↬ heracles: the greatest of greek heroes who became the god of heroes, sports, athletes, health, agriculture, fertility, trade, oracles and the divine protector of mankind

↬ hermes: olympian god of trade, thieves, travelers, sports, athletes and border crossings. the messenger of the gods

↬ hesperus: the evening star. phosphorus’ half brother

↬ hymenaois: god of marriage ceremonies, inspiring feasts and song

↬ hypnos: god of sleep

↬ kratos: god of strength and power

↬ krios: the titan god of the heavenly constellations and the measure of the year

↬ momus: the god of satire, mockery, censure, writers and poets and a spirit of evil-spirited blame and unfair criticism

↬ morpheus: god of dreams and sleep. dream walker

↬ moros: the physical embodiment of doom

↬ nereus: the titan god of the sea prior to poseidon and father of sea nymphs (nereids)

↬ notus: anemoi and god of the south wind

↬ oceanus: titan god of the ocean. personification of the world ocean

↬ olympos: primordial god of mountains

↬ paean: the physician of the olympian gods

↬ pallas: the titan god of warcraft and the springtime campaign season

↬ pan: god of nature, the wild, shepherds, flocks, goats, mountain wilds and is often associated with sexuality

↬ phobos: god of personal fear, panic and rout. twin to deimos

↬ phosphorus: the morning star. hesperus’ half brother

↬ plutus: god of wealth

↬ pontus: ancient primordial god of the deep sea

↬ poseidon: olympian god of the sea, earthquakes, storms and horses

↬ priapus: minor rustic fertility god, protector of flocks, fruit plants, bees and gardens (literally known for having a massive penis)

↬ prometheus: titan god of forethought (made humans out of clay!)

↬ tartarus: the god of the deep abyss

↬ thanatos: a minor god of death

↬ triton: messenger of the sea

↬ typhon: the deadliest monster in greek mythology, known as the father of all monsters. god of monsters, storms and volcanoes

↬ zelus: god of dedication, emulation, eager rivalry, envy, jealousy and zeal

↬ zephyros: anemoi and god of the west wind

↬ zeus: olympian god of the sky, lightning, thunder, law, order, justice, king of the gods

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

[ridenwithbiden]

November 19, 1959, The Rocky & Bullwinkle Show premiered. (known as Rocky & His Friends during the first two seasons and as The Bullwinkle Show for the last three seasons) It originally aired from November 19, 1959, to June 27, 1964, on the ABC and NBC television networks.

Produced by Jay Ward Productions, the series is structured as a variety show, with the main feature being the serialized adventures of the two title characters, the anthropomorphic moose Bullwinkle and flying squirrel Rocky. The main adversaries in most of their adventures are the Russian-like spies Boris Badenov and Natasha Fatale. Supporting segments include Dudley Do-Right (a parody of old-time melodrama), Peabody's Improbable History (a dog and his pet boy Sherman traveling through time), and Fractured Fairy Tales (classic fairy tales retold in comic fashion), among others.

Rocky & Bullwinkle is known for quality writing and wry humor. Mixing puns, cultural and topical satire, and self-referential humor, it appealed to adults as well as children. It was also one of the first cartoons whose animation was outsourced; storyboards were shipped to Gamma Productions, a Mexican studio also employed by Total Television. The art has a choppy, unpolished look and the animation is extremely limited even by television animation standards at the time. Yet the series has long been held in high esteem by those who have seen it; some critics described the series as a well-written radio program with pictures.

The show was shuffled around several times (airing in afternoon, prime time, and Saturday morning time slots), but was influential to other animated series from The Simpsons to Rocko's Modern Life. Segments from the series were later recycled in the Hoppity Hooper show.

There have been numerous feature film adaptations of the series' various segments, such as the 2000 film The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle which blended live-action and computer animation and the 1999 live-action film Dudley Do-Right, which both received poor reviews and were financially unsuccessful. By contrast, an animated feature film adaptation of the "Peabody's Improbable History" segment, Mr. Peabody & Sherman, was released to good reviews in 2014.

Mr. Peabody will star in a new reboot series picked up for 13-episodes.

In 2013, Rocky and His Friends and The Bullwinkle Show were ranked the sixth Greatest TV Cartoon of All Time by TV Guide.

[aquicat]

The Trials of Mathurine (Les Essais de Mathurine Modern English Translation)

For more information of Mathurine de vallois please check the wiki.

In short, Mathurine was a court jester of France in the 1600s, she foiled an assassin, gave no fucks, and spend her free time writing hilarious political satire, apparently. So, without further ado, this is my translation of (what is thought to be) her writing:

When I consider my life, I find it seasoned with many useful moments. Albeit, the little children squark: “Aga! Mad Mathurine!” at me as I pass through the streets. They are right: It is true that I’m tainted by this disease: my senses can be rancid and my imagination becomes mouldy and dislocated. This came to me from a rifle shot I received to the head at a ballet of Caresme-prenant. Baste! 

Even if I am mad, there is one occasion I was able to seize so bravely that I am reminded of it more every year in the form of twenty and thirteen jacobus of rent, without counting the trick of the stick.

There are those who believe they are made of cloth, and there are also ‘clever people’ who are more foolish than I am a beast by half past seven. Consider (if you please) that I spend my time with cheer and without melancholy. If something turns me to boredom, I simply visit my good friend, who makes me eat his hissope [fragrant] soup - that’s as fat and bacon yellow as golden thread; and in the end I can fall back on my lecherous shield: “Until goodbye, Mathurine.” However, I am always ready for commands in the service of gallant men, whether in peace or war, at all hours. The armour of my costume is always in good condition as I often have it polished. This is with a whimple made for the occasion, as there are furred parts at the front.

By Jove! Tabarin makes more profit from two or three buffoonish questions, shitty riddles, or silly jokes than his master does with his holy, disease curing remedies because the world wants nothing more than to banter. [Quack doctors often had clowns travel with them, Tabarin is one such, and a famous one, I believe] So he ends with slapstick, so that people will remember him and want to return. 

The wisdom of this world is madness before God, which makes me hopeful that (in this country) I will be rewarded for double food, for I am doubly mad! If all the madmen and madwomen in Paris  wore cruppers, many would be walking around with their ass skinned, for there are all sorts of madmen, of all ages, qualities and sexes. But they are mad in the fashion that trots, and, as Master Guillame says:

Some are mad and others strange

As marvellous as beautiful angels

Brand new descended from heaven

And those are glorious madmen

There are qualities which are farce and serious; they carry proud arrogance. You would think, by the air pursing their lips like a new bride, that they were Socrates himself! Therefore, about this kind of madmen, Master Guillaume says: According to our good devout doctors, we call them wise fools.

And of course, they find nothing well done if they have not done it themselves. Lord give me faith if they noticed someone on someone. They’d set us to leaf through all the approaches of Aretinus father than find fault with theirs; perhaps they would like to inform against them, claiming that this one is not in fashion yet this one is. I am weary for this list of reproaches! Good people, we create in all fashions, and we have already achieved this quite well as there are more than fourteen jubilees. You other readers, have you heard of a certain jumble of pamphlets called ‘the Caquet de l’Accouchee? Doubtlessly you have, for more copies have been sold than of the familiar epistles, or oration of the saints.

A certain person presented me with a copy the other day, and reading it greatly heated me. Judging by the temper in its words, I immediately saw that it was written by another malcontent, who was above plundering no lip. These people have no wit to conduct themselves, and would wish to be given the world in their palm. It is pure ambition to envision oneself as one day canonized by Master Pierre du Coignet. But the chapter on Notre-Dame is full of the reformation of the priests who sing about the defeat of the Huguenots and death of the Grand Turk in the taverns. I’m sure you know well that the narrator of the Caquet is a fashionable fool. He says that he has been ill at the beginning of his litany - no doctor can tell, but he is in grave danger of death as he no longer knows what he is saying.

Whoever plays the chatterbox did not have a good influence on him, and he boasts about his heritage just as he does his mind. I think he may have gnawed, like a viper, at his mother’s stomach to get out had he not found the plughole at the base of the womb. Maybe she made him kiss her ass as he passed (which he found dirty at the time) and this is the reason he wants to take the whole female sex in his pocket? I heard Pierre Dupuy claim he is the bastard son of a Pasquin, yet I know nothing of him other than that he is known for his caquet and that he is considered the brother of Merlin of England. Notice, ladies, how he flirts about the street women, old young, puny, qualified, public and of all conditions who have not thought on his flirting any more than I have of being a soldier of Babylon.

Do you notice that he is like the monkey who pulls chestnuts out of the fire with the paw of the greyhound? I perceive that he would like all woman to be an echo of his stupidity, and charlantary the subject of his state reforms. For less than a hundred crowns, I will tell you some reasons.

For the first item, let us begin with the Isle du Palais [a prison on an island]. His curiosity made him approach Tabarin: “Are you ill?” Tabarin said. “Yes,” replied the chatterbox, “but my illness is not contagious, it is but of the mind.”

“I addressed myself to you with credit from your master, who is thought to know marvellous, marvellous things. And he was never stingy with his knowledge. You can look about whatever you want. But I will provide what you desire, I am no less a scholar than he,” he said boldly. “I would like, honest lord,” he said bravely, “if your benevolence obliges, to learn your means of telling the virginity, or lack of, of a girl. Because, besides avoiding being a cuckold, it would benefit me among company.”

Then Tabarin replied, “is that all? I will satisfy that desire - one must know these things before loving. Go to Cormier’s and have dinner prepared, and we will get better acquainted. In the mean time, I will ponder my most exquisite secrets, and will return to you in an hour.”

“I will wait for you there,” said the chatterbox.

“I will go and find you,” said Tabarin, “have the wine put to cool.” Both made it to the place, and dined deeply.

After dinner, Tabarin said, “sir, these are not day to day questions of the chaffaut. Moreover, all work requires pay, as I’m sure you know.”

“I know it well,” said the curious one, “so I beg you to put this couple of pistoles in your pocket.”

“Good,” said Tabarin, “listen… when you wish to know the virginity of a girl, put one of your hands on her cunt - do you hear me well? Then, at the same time, blow into her ass. If you feel the wind on your hand, she is undoubtedly pierced. And there, that’s for your money. Farewell, sir.”

It is one of Tabarin’s old tricks, which turned the man green again. And so the laughter remained refined. Nevertheless, he vowed to have revenge on the jester and affronter. That is one reason he is angry at women. 

The second reason is that (by Saint Barbara!) no one has cared to listen to him, or to make a point of his flirting except for an old picardy woman, who was going to shout the mustard. Still he could not enjoy it.

Also, it is a very empty defence. Jan Vouaire, though they say I am ugly and mad, I would not have lent him my ass to kiss. [some joke about Saint Fiacre that is beyond my translation capabilities]. Necessity has dragged him so low that he has made a profession of lending money, and was forced to approach all sorts of women of a fine sort, which he has now exchanged in the office of a pimp. You should have seen him going door to door like the pig of saint anthony! He asked the ladies authority, the damsels for courtesy, the presidents and mistresses of requests, counsellors, favours; to the lawyers council, to the clerks coppies, to the procurators care, to the clergywomen writing, to the solicitors diligence, to the financiers money, to the bourgeois lodging, to the merchants estoffs, to the bakers foüace, to the roasters flesh, to the tavern keepers wine, to the chambermaids service, to the artisans credit: on which was founded the strongest of all his hopes. But knowing himself doomed, he drank as if he were castrated…

Further, having introduced himself to an old woodswoman who’s got the reputation of having experience and knowing deep secrets of nature, who can tell you a good story property and finely draws the coin from the hands of the daft ones like him. Now he found himself lovesick to the third degree and resolved to seek help in this old woman and a pitiful place full of mortal sins, where he fell for almost the same trick that Tabarin had played on him. Upon entering, he greeted this nymph of Pluto, “my gossip, is it not obvious, from my face, that I am ill?”

“Yes,” she said, “I have a remedy for everything, except death. What is your illness? There are several. It’s not the plague, at least?"

“No,” he said.

“Well!” she said, “is there not a problem with the head, stomach, arms legs and all else?”

“No, my illness is worse than all that,” he said.

“I wish to withdraw from you,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “it is not contagious. How to say… it is a woman’s illness.”

“Is it,” she said, “an illness of the womb?”

“No,” he said, “I mean the illness is caused by women.”

“I see, so be it,” she said, “well, there are chancres, colts, pisse-chaude, pox, crystaline and other types too. What kind is your disease?”

“None of those, none of those,” he said, “no, the evil that works on me is love-sickness.”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” cried the Adade, “have courage! You will not die from it, and I’m the expert on that. Why, you have found the shoes to fit your foot: there is no one in the world quite like me; ready for anything, like a minister’s chambermaid, expert in the woman’s trade. I know how to erase freckles and wrinkles from the face; I make talcum oil to perfection, I know how to make a joint tighten so that a runner might be taken for a virgin.” In short, she showed him a multi tiered box full of ointments, on the lid of which was written:

The medicine here

Is good for curing urine

And for taming thrushes,

Mares cure farcin;

It makes many thefts,

It makes rebirths sing,

It makes young ladies crave love.

“Now… what you seek is another item. Let us speak softly… I have brought a certain little root from Egypt which will make you loved by the virgins. Is that not what you seek?”

“That is it,” said the man, “it would bring me great happiness if, by your means, I could experience this science and achieve my dreams!”

“You want to know, don’t you sir?” replied the woman, “I honour the archbishops; I do not walk in front of the cross.”

“So I understand, my friend,” said the chatterbox.

 Now, here is something to laugh at. “Yawn, sir: which one do you want? Tell me her name, and I will just force her to come and sleep with you.”

Our man, half ecstatic and rubbing his arms, names the woman to her. She begins to plot to take one of her comrades, hideous, deformed and capable of killing a delicate person, to his bed. He had his way with her, then, the next day (wanting to look upon his beautiful subject in the daylight) he was overcome with fear and shame, believing that it was Prosperpine.

He wanted to flee, but she followed him saying, “Pay me! Dear Lord! Is this how you thank the world after you’ve used it?”

And three!

Also, near the same time, the doctor promised him a certain drug to make him robust in the game of love. In effect, his prescription was sent to an apothecary, who made a grave mistake; for instead of giving him the correct medicine, he was given one ordered for one Franciscan for the purpose of releasing his belly. This was also given to his father-in-law, and they both found themself very astonished when the time of the medicine came. And, not knowing who to blame for his misfortune, our man raised his shield.

My mind turns when I think of this business, and I will go completely mad if he is not chastised like a true villain. Sus! Sus! Let every woman smear his face with cow dung! Let every girl spit on his moustache! And let them all curse him so many times that he can only defecate which whips and run from a beast the rest of his life! He is a villain, and knows not one secret of women: we are too wise as to babble in the way he says we do, not one of us is so foolish (if she had let the cat go to the cheese) to speak of it to even her closest confidant. Together, we keep this oath quiet; there is no young girl who would not rather do it twenty times than speak of it once. 

It would satisfy you to know that I have discovered the subject of the Chatterbox’s discontent: It was consulting and old Sibyl, whose tripod now serves to support my piss pot.

This makes me seem, when I want to, wiser than thirty-five Diogenes’ [philosopher]. Until goodbye! I cannot talk any longer on this; especially as Count Mansfeld [commander in reformation war] makes me lose my chatter. We must disperse all this chatter and leisure that influence this drunkard to hoax the women he drags around, for fear he will come to prevent the continuation of work in the hostel of my good friend - eat our melons and drink our wine. I will find out if he hasn’t returned from his trip to Notre Dame, and I will send you word by this same messenger.

Sanita et Guadaigne.

Read french the original here.

This was done with the help of google translate, though almost every sentence had to be re written, as (shocker) shoving middle french into a modern french translator does not tend to go very well!

[elexuscal]

the Wayward Children series absolutely has its hooks in me, and has for years. and i could go on and and on about the themes and evocative prose and how it serves both as a great deconstruction/reconstruction of portals fantasies and also excellent satire of system of oppressions in our own world

but honest to god the main thing i find happening every time i read it

is imagining various fantasy worlds

imagine a fantasy world that's a board game, where you travel along pre-set paths and everything is determined by dice rolls and cards

chilly snow worlds, where the land is locked in near internal winter, with trees made of ice and blistering winds, and the warmth inside cabins and igloos are all the sweeter for it

space worlds! where you sail through planetary wings and through the dust clouds of nebula on fighter ships

worlds filled with floating islands, where a child who steps through grows wings, who learns to sail on the air currents, traveling from settlement to settlement

imagine them. a rainbow of worlds. nonsense and logic, virtuous and wicked. what kind of children would they call? what shape would their doors take?

i love it

[writers-republic]

Interview with David Swanson, author of Air-Conditioned Bus Tours

ABOUT THE BOOK

Who doesn’t like vacations with ultimate relaxation preferences? The type of vacation a person takes depends upon individual desires. Most folks like to be wined-n-dined and pampered as if they’ve snuck into the 1/10 of 1% demographic.

A few eccentrics prefer different vacations. Developing the ability to ignore inconveniences that’s like a gym rat who refuses to believe their feet smell. DARREN, prefers these vacations. Being a backpack traveler, he’s just returned from his latest adventure and receives a call from his cousin informing him that their uncle, JORGE DaSILVA, would like to take a niece/nephew cruise. Jorge has lots of money. Darren becomes skeptical concerning the trip since this isn’t his idea of interesting adventure. RYAN mentions that Darren prefers adventures where the excitement comes from doing things off-thecuff. Street stall cuisine, park-bench accommodations, and having an AR-15 pointed at your skull.

Initially, Darren refuses to participate and various individuals including sister, GRETCHEN, try to change his mind. Manipulations eventually has him participating. Then, a monkey wrench gets thrown in when Jorge suffers a mild heart attack. He recovers, and the rivercruise vacation occurs. Things get stranger (if that’s possible…) Jorge tells Darren that he wishes he could’ve done these rough-n-tumble vacations when he was younger. Having just participated in a cruise, Darren wants to continue his backpack vacations right up until the day he’s forced to do the Barca-lounger thing. Eating pre-chewed meals through a straw.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

This is not your conventional, sleep-inducing, writer’s biography. Individuals may experience chuckles. David Swanson is a writer/novelist who lives in Southwest Colorado. He writes non-fiction and fiction with a humorous/satirical bent. He’s just that passionate about writing in this style.

He did not obtain his Bachelor’s in creative writing from the University of Colorado, instead earning a B.A. in Biology. This degree opened up many doors in the area of outdoor, blue-collar-type jobs. The B.A. also dispelled the assertion that you can’t find a job with only a biology-B.A. It got him a U.S. Peace Corps forestry position. Mr. Swanson has won numerous regional awards for his writing. He’s been published. Name recognition is nice, but he’s confronted with the fact that literary entities pay him the money equivalent to that of the Bhutanese naval budget. A life-long obsession with comic book collecting has influenced the writing. Obviously, proving this isn’t possible.

He established a writing website (www.humorouswriter.com) where he posts short stories and essays. This posting of material to the site avoids lawsuits being filed against him. Mr. Swanson attended cartooning school from 1986-89. His time training and work as a cartoonist/illustrator has subconsciously influenced his writing (yeah right?)

[galerymod]

Yanks! How to kill Donald Trump!

It is evident that the piece is satirical in nature; it is implausible that any reasonable person would desire the demise of an orange, hairy, elderly individual who exhibits no signs of empathy. mod

The Mexico method

Trump has recognized it! Mexico doesn't necessarily send its elite to the USA: "They're bringing drugs. They're bringing crime. They're rapists." Use these resourceful human resources from the south and hire one or two pistoleros to put an end to "El Trumpo", as they call him down there. Somehow his death can be chalked up as collateral damage in the "war on drugs". But hurry, before the wall is finished! Big plus: Mexican hitmen rarely charge more than

more than 1000 pesos per head.

The world war method

Perhaps a little time-consuming, but tried and tested: Simply goad your new leader into a world war, give him hope of global domination with early victories, and then fail so mercilessly until he poisons and shoots himself in his Trump bunker with Melania. Disadvantage: A few hundred million other people die too. Advantage: You can feel like a morally superior people afterwards after a proper reappraisal.

The Kennedy method

A president who is not part of the political elite and indulges in liberties with the ladies? Something goes through the back of your mind, doesn't it? Exactly: it's time for a reboot of another American entertainment classic! It doesn't have to be Dallas and a Lincoln convertible again, and it can be a bit more violent - technology has made some progress in this area. But beware: you have to be prepared for Oliver Stone to take on the material.

The Indian blanket method

You should know how to get rid of unpleasant redskins, dear Americans. Problem: Trump certainly won't accept simple blankets as gifts, they would have to contain his gold-embroidered face as well as smallpox. Advantage: It's inconspicuous - you won't notice any major external changes in him.

The Beau Rivage method

A little elaborate, but the result is genuine German workmanship. Arrange a meeting with Donald Trump in one of his hotels under a pretext ("We need to talk about your back taxes ..."), mix a colorful drug cocktail into his alcohol cocktail and wait until the belligerent president falls to the floor with a resounding *trump*. Put the corpse in a full bathtub, inform the press and sneak away. Forge a farewell letter to boost credibility: "This was suicide. The best suicide ever. It was definitely me. Trump out!"

The Booth method

The shooting of Abraham Lincoln in Washington's Ford's Theater went off without a hitch and is crying out to be repeated. Problem: Donald Trump would never voluntarily enter a theater in his life. However, we have it on good authority that the carnivorous head of state does the honors every Tuesday night at the U-20-only strip club "Nasty's". One of the exotic dancers could distract Trump with a particularly patriotic lap dance, while another uncorks a well-shaken bottle of champagne from behind ...

The Goldfinger method

You know the quality of German murder not only from the History Channel. Because we have, of course, also provided the best Bond killers. Role models all of them! And the Manhattan Midas, who never runs out of gold, no matter what he paws at, using the old Goldfinger method - could it be more fitting? No!

The total crash method

Psycho against psycho! Let Air Force One poach a young pilot from Germanwings, and soon the only impact still coming from President Trump will be in the Rocky Mountains ... Possible downside: stricter air safety laws, increasing restrictions on civil air traffic, uncertainty among travelers, anger among the people, protest vote, fascism, shit!

The pussy method

A plan that will only work if all American women, who D. Trump considers "at least a 6", go along with it: Attach dirty miniature bombs (ACME Anti Grabbing Device™) to your primary and secondary sexual characteristics and wait for the pre-feminist leader of the free world to come near you. One tender assault and a discharge later, you should be rid of your greatest adversary.

The point-and-feather method

500 million jokes, taunts and excessive exaggerations could not prevent Donald Trump's election victory. But there is one hairdo-Hitler-small-hands-pussy-grab joke from which Trump will not recover. He will laugh and be ashamed at the same time. Problem: Only TITANIC is in possession of this nuclear Ulk - and will only hand him over for a high transfer fee. So: Better scrape your dollars together, Yanks!

Gaitzsch / Riegel / Wolff