#but Kicked Out Catholic is funnier

[hotcocoandmarshmallows]

"2ed generation Italian immigrant" "7th generation Irish immigrant" I'm 3ed generation Kicked Out Catholic

[mudpuddless]

I saw a couple tags with king Halt AU and I am interested now 👀 (if you need someone to blab to about this)

okay. listen. i was rereading the early years and halt rescues duncan but refuses to call him highness and duncan gets mad, the canon dialogue is pretty much just,

halt: you-

duncan: YOUR HIGHNESS

halt : i preffer to be called halt, actually

(this is the base idea: this scene is doubly funny if halt were also crown prince)

so picture halt swimming back to shore after ferris tries to kill him and deciding actually he doesn't want this idiot in charge of his country.

halt has had about four years of ranger training on top of royal battleschool at this point and ships ferris of to the countryside, names Caitlyn as his successor to the throne and convinces his father that he should aide araluen (read: the rangers who kept pritchard informed) for diplomacy reasons.

his father thinks this will be a good lesson in war craft for the crown prince and sends him on his way.

halt and Crowley meet in the inn just like in canon while pritchard, who travelled with halt to araluen, makes his way to berrigan who was his main contact and then the plot kicks off (canon slightly to the left) halt is still halt but with the full authority of the clonmel crown behind him. he just doesn't tell people. surely this won't result in any silly situations.

big change might be that daniel, who still dies, asks halt to look for his wife, who is heavily pregnant and halt goes to find her, but presented with a baby who has no living relatives he knows of he just takes baby will and disappears him to Hibernia? Caitlyn loves her nephew. halt insist that will is not his son. will is absolutely his son and no one will be convinced otherwise.

halts father/ the king of clonmel declares Will fourth in line to the throne bc what else are you supposed to do when your heir goes to fight a war for eighteen months and returns with a baby. the king isn't an idiot, halt.

i want at least one scene where an invitation is extended to the Hibernian kings for princess Cassandras first birthday and Caitlyn shows up to represent clonmel and bonds with crowley bc they have a similar sense of humour (compatible with halt). crowley refers to halt only by "Arratay" and Caitlyn only by "my brother". they think the two should meet though crowley thinks halt doesn't know how to behave in the presence of royalty.

this would be even funnier if it was cralt/craltine (geometrically accurate love triangle my beloved) bc crowley is fawning over halt and Caitlyn unknowingly sets them up by encouraging crowley to tell his friend how he feels.

at least one scene would be halt and crowley visiting Crowleys family which is big and loud. halt is immediately a favourite of Crowleys kid sister who thinks he is the funniest person who ever lived. halt is stumped by this

the rangers are also 100% the queerest group of people in the entire country. berrigan and Leander are established and not subtle about it. at least one person is only referred to by ranger, never by any pronouns. this is never remarked upon.

the problem im still trying to figure out is how I can merge canon post TEY. halt returns to clonmel bc he has to check on his family and also bc, yk, the infant he now cares for and virtually disappears from araluen. crowley and pauline are upset bc they dont know what happened. this would be even funnier if this was craltine and they just had a highly emotional moment and then the final battle happens and suddenly halt is gone and no one knows where.

if this was really cracky they would tag along as security/diplomacy detail for duncan when he is invited to halts coronation but then again, we're not catholic so I might as well. could be fun

feel free to add anything you might find funny/devastating etc.

[werewolfetone]

So wild how being the father of Irish republicanism is genuinely like the least interesting thing about Theobald Wolfe Tone. like yeah sure he did that & it was an important thing he did but also did you know that he got kicked out of uni for helping kill a man in a duel & promptly started putting on plays with the wife of the fellow who started the first animal rights society in Britain but they had to stop because he fell in love with her & then he ran off to England to write an insane satirical novel about it with his friends. did you know that he probably lied to everyone about not being able to speak French when he moved to France, seemingly just for drama. did you know that he would beat up any thieves he met because his house was robbed one time & they tied him up & his wife had to come & rescue him. did you know that he started the entire Movement he did partially because he was mad that William Pitt wouldn't answer a letter he sent him. did you know that he would spend hours & hours watching British soldiers wishing for nothing but to be one of them & then would go plot to kill them & to talk big about how awful England was. did you know that he led the Catholic committee for some reason and was best friends with both of the two other most prominent people on it, who were both literally encouraging people to murder the other. did you know that he consistently asserted that the French were inherently funnier than the English in his journals. inventing a new political philosophy is really just the tip of the fucking iceberg with him

[laufire]

why was wolfgang in a daddy issues poll, let alone made it to round three? he’s a firm believer of the “daddy issues aren’t real, just traumatise (kill) your father back 🙄” creed. hereby thanking every catholic that voted for jesus christ and thus kicked him out in round four, that’s MUCH funnier.

[princess-of-purple-prose]

[ID: Trigun 98 and Trigun Stampede screencaps overlaid with text posts.

98 Wolfwood drooping + A post by @/wrender that says "Heavy is the chest that wears the tits or whatever"

Tristamp Wolfwood grinning + A tweet by ass @/drill that says "if a doctor tried to euthanize me I would kick the fucking needle out of his hand at 99 mph"

98 Wolfwood smoking + A post by @/dead-god-dreaming that says "Excommunicated from the catholic church for sexy reasons

Tristamp Wolfwood grinning while wielding the Punisher + A post by @/lakevida that says "you missed it because you were looking at your phone but an angel just appeared to me with a flaming sword and told me that god decided there's nothing wrong with day drinking"

98 Wolfwood grinning on the airship + A post by @/cock-dealer that says ""I like my fruit firm" I say before slapping your twink ass in the farmers market , instantly horrifying someone's nana to death"

98 Vash grinning while eating a donut + A post by @/nightmaredad that says "you hate me because you know i am funnier and sexier than you. when i jingle my little clown bells and do my silly little jester dance it fills you with anger that i can be so funny and also so sensual in my big, big clown shoes"

98 Wolfwood and Vash laughing very obnoxiously + A tweet by ASMR is fake @/singingflesh that says "(kisses the back of your neck while you're peeing at the urinal) Oh sorry I thought you were my wife"

Tristamp Vash yelping + A post by @/scaldingwater that says "cant get over how cool i am when im not acting like a neurotic prey animal"

98 Vash crying with his head in his hands + A post by @/beacon-lamp that says "[white knuckling the bathroom sink] but i stay silly :3 but i stay silly :3 but i stay sil"

Tristamp Vash smiling nervously + A post by @/generalgrievousdatingsim calling me a "people pleaser' is so misleading. absolutely nothing i have done in my life has pleased anyone." End ID]

Woe vashwood be upon ye

[masschase]

16, 28, and 38 for the ask meme

Character building questions

16. How did your character react to the way their enemies (like Kia and Zinyak) reminded them of their past failures? Did their accusations bother them?

She's fucking Catholic 🤣

OK not "she's", more "she was raised" but it was funnier phrasing it that way. Point is, she gets extremely guilty when certain things are brought up. Having said that, I think it does depend what they decide to pick at because she has a skewed morality that never truly leaves her.

I feel like there are so many layers to Casey where it's like... it seems like she cares about very little on the surface, and under that is a layer of guilt that can be triggered with the slightest accusation, then under that is a layer that only really cares about the deaths of her friends and any innocent bystanders, and then deep, deep down... I think at first there wasn't anything beneath that. But eventually this deeper level of introspection kicks in that makes her... not so fond of killing anymore and thinks she deserves to be punished for all of it by that point.

I've not really talked about this before but I do think she had a slight breakdown when presented with the kill yourself/rescue Matt options. Not so much because of the choice itself but because of the screens everywhere. Like with the whole not in touch with her emotions thing she'd just kind of held it all together through the earth blowing up and you know how she kind of loses her composure at relatable movies/TV shows? I think that managed to awaken that, but ten times worse because this was the real deal. Another thing that deserves its own post some time, really.

I don't think she paused with the actual decision too long though. She didn't remotely trust Zinyak saying he'd free everyone if she killed herself. If she did... I think whatever part of her chose to climb aboard the fucking nuke 5 years previously might have activated. But she trusts her own dedication to her friends more than anyone else's. Besides, Casey isn't really ever truly suicidal. She doesn't really believe she deserves death. She believes she deserves pain, both emotional and physical.

I do think it was a good job that the choice was between death and Matt. Not for shippy reasons (although... *silenced with duct tape*) or even because she'd made that promise to protect him, because that wasn't the case in the original timeline. But because he was one of the first areas where she felt she'd made a good choice, a step away from the instinct to follow her anger. Then that led into saving Shaundi and Viola rather than go after Killbane, acting selflessly when it came to the nuke, showing some mercy against the Washington gangs, and a general restraint from killing during her Presidency. Like obviously that was by far from the first good decision she made so I don't want to overplay it, but it played out that chain of memories in her head and reminded her that whatever Zinyak was saying, she had changed and grown as a person.

28. What does being a Saint mean to your character? Does that definition ever change for them during the series?

I always try and think about the fact that Casey was so young when she joined the Saints and how that shaped her view of the world. For Casey, being a Saint and friendship are just inexorably linked. Everything she practices across one spreads to the other; loyalty, protection, self-sacrifice.

I don't feel like that stuff ever truly changes, even as the nature of the Saints does as they find fame and so on. At times she does prioritise her own money and power and so on, but she sees that as something the Saints are doing rather than the nature of what they are. I think if she were to truly lose or alienate all her friends, she wouldn't feel like a Saint anymore. Luckily it doesn't ever get to that point.

38. Which restaurants in Stilwater did your character visit a lot? What did they usually order? I mean Freckle Bitch's is too obvious, right? But her favourite burger, her favourite lunch in fact, is honestly The Fist, only with bacon(it's colloquially known and ordered as "The Greased Up Fist"). She's also very partial to a boston creme donut and an iced caramel latte from Apollos too though(she usually grabs some donut holes to take with her too)! Cup'o Java has  better coffee objectively speaking if she's in the mood to chill somewhere for a while but Apollos is quicker and everywhere so she's more likely to grab something there.

Biscuits & Buns is usually her favourite for a proper sit down breakfast, but once a year, when Stacked has all you can eat she's there the entire month.

For dinner, she is rather partial to That Pasta Place, especially their chicken alfredo, but more than anything she frequents The Steakout, which is that restaurant she worked at in the few months between dropping out of high school and joining the Saints. That one manager who was really nice to her and got her moved from waiting tables to dishes (when she realised Casey's struggle with the former and speed with the latter) became the owner, so she tries to support the place whenever possible. They do her off-menu order which is a medium-rare ribeye with fries, broccoli and a TON of macaroni and cheese.

She insists on paying no matter how big the Saints get but after the bill is paid, there's always a little white polystyrene box brought out for the boss to take home, with "For *****" written on the box, since you know the owner is one of those people who knew her so long ago she actually knows her name. Inside, just like there every time that manager handed her an identical box at the end of every shift they worked together, is a piece of lemon meringue pie.

[dukewilbury]

Drinking Alcoholics Under the Table

I was tailored made for alcoholism. My genetic makeup includes nearly all of the heavy-hitting drinking cultures - Russian, German, English, Scottish, American Indian. I have an alcohol tolerance reserved for Irish dockworkers. This is dangerous for a person with my brain. Addictive personalities rarely manifest themselves with sound financial planning and physical fitness. Instead, I got hooked on cigarettes and strong drink. Also self-destructive patterns of behavior, self-loathing, and anger. You know, the classics. Factor in that profound Catholic and Jewish guilt and you get a tattooed Sailor crawling across his bathroom floor at the 3 in the morning during the working week praying for his own death in between trips to the toilet bowl.

I know all the clichés and shitty jokes about drinking and alcohol. I know all the synonyms for drunk. I know how to make it, drink it, use and abuse it. I know every culture that has ever existed on this planet has figured out a way to intoxicate itself. Which makes sense when you think about it. The world is a better place with a drink in you. Jokes are funnier, music is better, and life isn't so rough. So yes, people get drunk. Even Muslims, who don't drink alcohol, often drink fermented honey. Intoxication, in one form or another, is global.

I started drinking in earnest because I had no idea who I was when I took my uniform off after work. That isn't an exaggeration. I never cultivated serious hobbies that I couldn't drink while pursuing. I never had a family of my own that required my full-time attention. I was a playboy. Utterly. Everyone who really knows me knows this is true. With no interests that don't include drinking, no sense of self, and an addictive personality, I was as sure of needing treatment as the Cleveland Browns are of missing the playoffs.

I drank everything... I once dehydrated myself so badly that after drinking three quarts of water I took a piss for the first time that day, five hours after I woke up, and it came out like rust. I once threw up at a stop sign on the way to work. I once threw up walking down the pier to my ship... at 6:30 in the morning. I've woken up in strange bedrooms, confused, and looking for the cat that shit in my mouth during the night. I've lied about my drinking and hid it. I got away with it for so long on active duty because I'm somewhat charming and on good days I'm kind of funny. People let things go more easily when you do that. Was I ever an alcoholic? I don't know, but I know I could sit at a table full of alcoholics and drink them under the table.

I learned a lot on the way to the wacko basket. I learned more in it and afterward. I learned I didn't have a problem; I had a solution I didn't like. I had to get honest with myself and that's a brutal conversation to have. I also learned I had my entire chain of command in my corner. That, more than anything, is the most important part of this piece. I know a lot of you reading this are on active duty, and I know a lot of you are scared about seeking help. So let me kick you the real deal for a bit.

After I admitted I was suicidal, and I got help for my whole host of issues, I never, NEVER, not once, got hit for my problem. I never took so much as a counseling chit for getting help. My evaluations made no mention of treatment. What I did get was 30 grand worth of in-patient treatment for free. No one looked down on me or thought me weak because I got help. I was treated with more decency than I've ever been treated with in my entire Navy career.

The Navy's Drug and Alcohol Program Advisors are actually there to help. You cannot go begging for help AND expect to get off the hook for a crime you already committed, but you can refer yourself BEFORE you're in deep shit and make progress. In making progress you may very well understand not only yourself but the world in which you live. You may gain a deeper sense of empathy, and believe me, empathy is one of the most powerful traits you can possibly possess. You become a better human being in the process.

The last salute comes for all of us in uniform. Once that uniform comes off for good you're just another person who was in the Navy once, and no one really cares how many medals you earned or how many people you lead. What's going to really matter, in those places between the flesh and the bone, the parts people will talk about when you finally pass away, is what kind of human being you were. My chain of command and friends supported me the whole ride through and forgave me for my sins when I finally had to courage to admit them. I learned a lot of lessons, some of which I've detailed, but none more important than this: we can all stand to be forgiven.

[ubyr-babaj]

Ok, but if you actually take the headcanon that Dracula IS Vlad "Tsepesh" Basarab/Drakuleshti seriously, he becomes even funnier.

In the book Van Helsing says that Dracula studied in Scholomance, a school of magic. So after his brother, who was a Turkish sultan's boyfriend, whooped his ass, Vlad Tsepesh went to the devil and started studying dragon-riding to Cope.

Also it can be used to give another reason for Dracula’s sudden move to England, because during the time the novel is set in, Romania was ruled by a German Catholic king, who got invited to rule after the oligarchy kicked the last king out. So Dracula, being an Orthodox Christian, decided, fuck it, I’m not staying in this country of faithless sell-outs, time to bail.

I’d actually read fics and stuff about the fact that technically, as the last surviving Basarab, Dracula would have more claims to the Romanian crown than Karl I.

[rviner]

"I didn't do anything, I'm just walkin' here." Ines responds, a hint of an Italian American accent slipping through her words. It seems to be a thing whenever she's with Margo, although her friend has her beat with the catalog of accents she can fall into. Ines laughs, scrunching her nose as she glances down to her skirt. "I would literally get kicked out of Catholic school if I wore this." she comments, glancing up in time to stop herself from colliding against a stream of people. The shifter zig zags momentarily, walking a quick criss-cross path in front of Mars before she's back by her side, but it's definitely not cat-like in her opinion. "I wasn't judging anyways," Ines continues, slapping Mars' arm lightly. "It's like the next best thing to a big lesbian sign flashing above your head." she grins then.

Ines already predicts the joke as Mars shows her the phone screen, nodding her head slightly with feigned amusement despite the fact her grin remains over her lips. "You still kept my name in the search bar, by the way. Could've just typed in founder of guac and not hit send, and it'd be funnier." Ines teases, flicking Mars' septum piercing before she turns away to walk. A laugh quickly leaves her, and she shoots a playfully judgmental glance to the witch. "Ah, see. That's the block I can feel in our friendship." Ines forces a sincere tone, waving her hand around to create an invisible barrier between them. "I'd probably feel like we related to one another more if you were a meme girl."

She doesn't notice The Crow poster until Mars is already laughing, Ines turning slightly before she sees it and her own chuckle slips free. "Everyone I've ever met in my life thinks my sister is hot." she says but there's no bitterness to her tone. Ines always found it amusing, although she's self aware enough to know that perhaps if they were closer in age, it might have been a different story growing up. "And obviously Felix is hot." Ines adds, laughing louder for a moment. "But yeah we laughed about it. That our hall passes are each other's brother and sister." her features scrunch into a playful disapproval as Mars wiggles her brows and Ines shoves her friend. "Okay gross. I don't wanna hear that. And I think unless you're a blue eyed wolf, she's not gonna be that interested."

a slight scoff of a laugh escapes the witch, but mars is shaking her head. 'you did not just do that, alnes invarez on instagram.' her expression drops at the terrible play on words, shooting an impressive glare at ines despite acting. she catches the quick once over given by her friend, laughter spilling in the next moment for the sudden quip. 'okay, what the fuck? i'm getting hatecrimed by miss catholic school skirt?' she points dramatically to the trademark fashion choice of nes'. 'this is why church and state needs to be separate. y'all is too judgy.' she adds, accent slipping into an exaggerated twang and her grin widening with the teasing.

'i'm googling that to make sure, because you're usually a liar.' mars then remarks, slipping out her phone despite everyone on the planet knowing the aztecs are the creators of the avocado-ian treat. the witch taps away and soon flashes the shifter her phone. the name ines alvarez sitting in the search bar followed by photos of her. 'see. you lied.' since two can play the game at horrendous jokes, mars finds herself hilarious, slipping her phone away once more. her head tilts curiously before shaking. 'no, because i don't know every fucking meme to ever be created.' she bumps into ines now as they walk once done with the stall, avocados in tow. or tote.

it's not long until there's a poster for the crow, felix's gothic face slapped center which pulls a laugh from margo as they pass it. 'have you and jakob ever asked each other if you find your siblings hot? because he must know isla is hot. and felix is basically jakob, so you obviously think he's hot.' she grins wickedly. 'i can't really speak on felix, but i can see how him and jakob have like...good faces?' she shrugs, unsure how to really send a compliment their way. 'but isla?' mars' brows waggle. 'i could speak on isla all day.'

[grenade-maid]

Something I find very fascinating about guilty gear lore that to my knowledge hasn't been addressed is that the vampires don't react to any of the various crosses festooned around the environment or on people's costumes. Perhaps it could be said that God has abandoned this wretched world. Or, perhaps, that Ky and Asuka, as the last Catholics in the world, are simply so utterly devoid of swag that Jesus looks at them down from heaven and decided "ya but it would be funnier if this vampire fop-ass motherfucker and his turbochad samurai friend kicked the shit out of these twinks I'm not gonna intervene on this one actually"

[sanderssidesfanfiction]

If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Ninety Four

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

December 12th, 2003

Emile took a deep breath as he stared at the phone. He brought it back up to his ear. “What would Grandpa possibly have to say to me after hearing about the wedding?” he asked.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. I just know he wanted to speak with you,” his mother said. “Is there a chance you can go see him?”

“Maybe over spring break?” Emile said helplessly. “Until then, I’m pretty busy, and I also...I also have to work up the courage to actually see him.”

“I understand, Emile. Would it help if it was at our house, rather than his? Even ground, so-to-speak?”

Emile sagged. “Yeah, that would help a lot,” he breathed. “Can you set it up? Sometime late March.”

“I’ll talk to him,” his mother promised. “Hang in there, Emile. I know you can do this.”

Emile smiled. “Thanks, Mom.”

  December 14th, 2003

Emile was the only one home when there was an urgent knock on the door. He walked over from the kitchen, halfway to the door when the knock started up again. “All right, all right, I’m coming!” Emile shouted at the door. He opened it up, instantly regretting doing so when he saw Remy’s mother on the other side. “Oh, it’s you,” he said disdainfully. “What do you want?”

“What is the meaning of this?!” Remy’s mother demanded, shoving a wedding invitation into Emile’s chest.

Emile looked down at where Remy’s mother was still holding the invitation up against him, then up at Remy’s mother. She pulled away, and Emile let the invitation fall to the ground. “I knew we should have gotten a P.O. box instead of giving you our address,” he said drily.

Remy’s mother scoffed, crossing her arms. “Where’s Remington?” she asked.

“Currently? At work,” Emile said. “And no, I’m not giving you the address.”

“I don’t need the address. Tobias gave it to me,” Remy’s mother scoffed.

Emile rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure, that’s totally believable. What, did you snoop in his room for it? Or did you just find the newspaper clipping Remy sent his brother?”

Remy’s mother turned red. “I demand an explanation!” she said.

“You don’t get to demand anything,” Emile said. “But I would have thought the wedding invitation would have been clear.”

“My son is not gay!” she screeched.

“That’s not what he said last night,” Emile said before he could help himself.

Remy’s mother gave him a disgusted look.

“Yeah, I’m not proud of that one either,” Emile said with a shrug. “Sounded funnier in my head, to be fair.”

“You’re going to Hell!” she seethed. “And I will not have my son be dragged down there with you!”

“Your son is, one: willingly with me, and two: absolutely the most wonderful person I have ever known. I would be shocked if he ended up in Hell. Genuinely shocked. But then again, your particular flavor of Christianity doesn’t care for that, does it? No, you just care that people cough up money to your church and stay in line. Heaven forbid an individual try to be themselves, am I right?” Emile spat. “Now listen: I don’t care for you. That’s abundantly clear to both of us. But consider, for one moment, that I love Remy enough to agree with him to invite you to the wedding. Consider that he actually wants you there. Is there not enough love in your cold, dying, shrivelled up heart to allow him one day of happiness? One day where you don’t kick up a fuss over his choices? One day where you can say you’re proud of him? Is that not possible?”

Remy’s mother snarled. “How could I be proud of my son being a fag?”

Emile’s hands balled into fists, and it took all his restraint to not beat Remy’s mother to a pulp then and there. “You don’t get to use that word,” he said, voice deadly soft. “That is not yours to use, and Remy doesn’t want that label for himself. Bad enough that you use ‘gay’ like it’s a slur; don’t use actual slurs against him.”

Remy’s mother growled, and Emile crossed his arms. “You’re trespassing. I demand you leave now. Or I’ll call the cops. And I don’t know if you remember this, but last time you lied to them they gave you a hefty fine.”

“I’m not leaving until I get an explanation!” Remy’s mother exclaimed.

“Mom! What the hell?!” Remy exclaimed, stepping out of his and Emile’s car. “What, you know I won’t listen to you so you send Dad to give me the ‘we’re disappointed in you’ speech?! ‘Cause you know, I own my own shop now, I can ban both of you from entering!”

“Remy, mind your language,” a man who Emile didn’t recognize said, exiting their car.

“Dad, I love you, but now’s not the time,” Remy growled. “I brought you here so you could leave, not to receive a lecture on my behavior.”

“Remington,” Remy’s mother seethed. “Your...your friend here has been incredibly rude to me!”

“You show up to our door unannounced, demanding an explanation, probably calling me a slur or three, I’m not surprised,” Remy said. “I take it you won’t be coming to the wedding?”

“I don’t want her there after what she said about you,” Emile said, glaring at Remy’s mother.

“I don’t want your grandfather there after what he said about you, and still hasn’t apologized for,” Remy shot back. “We invited him anyway.”

“He doesn’t stalk either of us to ensure we’re on the ‘straight and narrow,’” Emile responded, looking over to Remy. “Just saying no is better than...this,” he gestured in the general direction of Remy’s mother.

“How dare you?!” Remy’s mother screeched.

“Mom, he meant your behavior, not you,” Remy sighed. “Emile, can you apologize?”

“I don’t apologize to bigots,” Emile snarled.

“Emile. Please,” Remy said.

“Rem, she’s stalking you, trespassing, and wreaking havoc on your mental health to the point where you’ve had nightmares,” Emile wisely didn’t bring up the fact that Remy was in need of therapy.

“Emile,” Remy pressed.

“Rem, I’m not backing down on this one,” Emile said. “She doesn’t deserve an apology.”

Remy sighed. “Mio amore...”

Remy’s mother turned her ire on Remy. “Don’t use that sort of language for another man, Remington, it’s unbecoming of you.”

“Mom...” Remy shook his head. “Don’t you understand? I love him. I love him enough to marry him.”

“Why couldn’t you find a nice girl to settle down with?” Remy’s mother bemoaned.

“Because I’m not bisexual,” Remy said. “I’m gay. And you need to respect that, and me.”

“Respect is earned, Remy, and you haven’t earned ours,” Remy’s father said. “Based on your decisions, do you really think we can trust your judgement?”

Emile blew out a breath. “Your dad’s almost worse than your mom.”

Remy rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it. The guilt-trips he took me on when I was little? Definitely worse than my mother guilting me into forgiving her for her behavior, any day.”

“Goddamn,” Emile uttered.

Remy’s mother shrieked. “You bite your tongue!” she declared.

Emile raised an unimpressed eyebrow at her. “You realize if you don’t accept Remy being gay, and I’m just his ‘friend,’ you don’t even have theoretical power over me, in my house? If I’m not your future son-in-law, I don’t have to follow your rules. I don’t have to, anyway, but I’m trying to follow your backwards logic for a minute. I can swear all I want.”

“Spoken like a true sinner,” Remy’s mother spat. “Next you’ll tell me that you seduce little boys.”

“Ah, the ‘all Catholics are pedophiles’ argument, how I missed you... not,” Emile rolled his eyes and continued, “I’m only a year older than Remy, and I was in his same grade, anyway. Now. Am I your future son-in-law to you or not?”

Remy’s mother’s lip curled.

“What do you think about the name ‘Mister Emile Picani,’ Rem?” Emile asked.

Remy was stifling laughter as he walked over. “You know? I think that sounds perfect,” he said, kissing Emile on the cheek.

Remy’s mother looked positively scandalized.

“You know, Mom, maybe it’s for the best that you’re not coming to the wedding. If a kiss on the cheek makes you blush, imagine what would happen when we make out at the altar?” Remy said, laughing. “Because I love my fiancé, more than words could possibly describe. And we kiss, and hug, and are happy with each other. We make love, too, just in case you thought there was any hope that you could save me from Hell; there’s not.

“We love each other, Mom. If that’s not enough for you? Well, sorry,” Remy said, shaking his head. “And I’d really appreciate you not showing up again unless you’re going to apologize for your behavior. Thanks.”

“You’re making a mistake, Remy,” Remy’s father said.

“No, Dad,” Remy said. “For once in my life, I’m making the right decision.”

Remy’s parents didn’t say anything for a beat, and Emile laughed. “You know, all the arguing about last names was solved by this, so I’d say that’s a silver lining.”

“Mm, I still think Remy Thomas would be a good name,” Remy teased. “But you’re right, it doesn’t have quite the same ring as Emile Picani.”

That seemed to snap Remy’s mother out of her reverie. “You will not be sullying our good name with this!” she snapped.

“You still have a good name?” Emile laughed. “After all you’ve done you think it’s still in good standing? No, honey...your son and I are gonna restore that name for ourselves, our way. And if you have a problem with that, then you’re not coming to the wedding. You can’t exactly protest it, unless you want to protest outside a Catholic church.”

Remy’s mother sneered at him. Remy’s father just watched the exchange with an air of disappointment and sadness around him. “Honey, we should go,” Remy’s father said. “There’s no way we can convince Remy out of his choice like this. He’s made his bed, he’ll have to lie in it.”

Remy faltered a little bit and Emile wrapped an arm around his fiancé protectively. “The only bed he’s made is with me,” Emile informed Remy’s dad. “And I don’t know if you realize this, but loving someone who uses the same pronouns as you? Isn’t actually a sin.”

“It’s not a one-way ticket to Hell, but if he doesn’t repent—”

“—Why’s it any of your business whether or not he believes what you believe or whether or not he shares your values?” Emile interrupted. “If he doesn’t share your values, why should he be judged by your standards?”

Remy’s father frowned. “Are you saying he doesn’t share our values?”

“I’m saying he’s marrying me, and that should be a rather large hint that maybe you should reevaluate your relationship to him,” Emile stated primly.

Remy’s father turned back to Remy’s mother. “Honey, we really should get going. You promised to call Vanessa by five.”

“Yes, to explain the drivel she received in the mail, and I haven’t gotten an explanation!” Remy’s mother exclaimed.

“You’ve gotten a perfectly good explanation, it’s just not the one you wanted, Mom,” Remy said with a sickly sweet smile. “You have your explanation. You can track down every last person in my family and tell them not to come to the wedding, and see who listens to you. Test their allegiance. Tear the family into who supports me and who supports you. Have fun.”

“Well, Vanessa won’t come to your wedding, and neither will Tobias!” Remy’s mother spat.

“Gee, you sure?” Remy asked. “Because I could have sworn Tobes was gonna be my best man.”

“Honey, leave them alone,” Remy’s father said. “They’ve made their choice. And it’s the wrong one, but they’ll have to deal with the consequences. You promised you would call Vanessa. We need to go if we want to make it home before she calls.”

Remy’s mother growled, but went to leave. Remy picked the wedding invitation up off the ground. “I take it you don’t want to save the date?” he called after them.

“You’re evil,” Emile said with a smirk.

“In the best of ways,” Remy said, giving him a kiss.

Emile smiled as Remy’s parents drove off, but sighed after they left. “This is going to be nightmare fuel for you, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Remy said. “But I’d rather not think about that right now, if it’s all the same to you.”

“You know what? Fair enough,” Emile said. “We also got our wedding checklist done for the day, we decided on a last name. We’re good to go.”

“Mm, I thought we were deciding on a color scheme today,” Remy said.

“I figured one is as good as the other,” Emile said with a shrug. “Was I wrong?”

“No,” Remy said with a shrug. “I just need to call Tobes sooner rather than later about the tuxes.”

“Oh, good point,” Emile said. “So let’s figure that out, and then we can relax.”

“Sounds good,” Remy sighed.

Emile’s arm never left Remy as they walked back inside.

[prismcaster]

I just had the most amazing experience!!!

I am going to do a little back story here, because it has been quite a while since my last post...

So, my grandfather, who was the the only person in my entire 35 years of existence that I never felt the need to question if he really loved me. Any way, super long story, shortened because I don’t feel like getting into that right now, he passed away three months ago.

In the time since then, i began to question my choice of kicking spiritualism from my life. You see, since my father, i chose that purposefully, because calling him dad would insinuate that he ever truly gave a fuck about me, or my sister.... but anyway, he used and still probably does, use his religion as an excuse to punish his children for doing him wrong.... which is typical narcissistic behavior.

Which speaking of, i recently read a book called Narcissistic Father, and it literally explained him to me perfectly! It actually made the fact that he has something wrong with him mentally, make me feel so much better about myself somehow.... because well, it turns out, it really is his fault, and none of it is mine. So definitely check out that book!

So since I have all these odd feelings for him because of these things... I cast “religion” out of my life completely. I figured, religion had to be fake, because no religion would keep a parent from their child, so i cast it out 100%. It was so bad, i began to believe that when you die, you just go. I believed that when you go, there is nothing, it just ends, and that your body decomposes, giving it back to the earth you were born from, and that is that.

Then the depression came in. Because there is nothing. Nothing else. And if I couldn’t have my family back, the way i thought it should be, and that at the end of all this pain, there truly is nothing, then what is the point in being in pain forever? And contemplated suicide while laying in the floor in my art studio in complete darkness.

But i thought,” that’s stupid, you didn’t die from cancer and you’re thinking about this right now?! What the fuck, you idiot!” And i got up off the floor, switched the light back on, wiped the tears from my eye’s, and started to draw again. This eventually led to me cutting my arm open, and telling someone months later, and finally getting the help i needed to be able to get better.

Therapy was such a blessing. I truly recommend it. Talking about your problems with someone you are literally paying to listen to you, and paying to keep their opinions to themselves, is a blessing in and of itself. I also strongly suggest journaling. When ever i felt bad, i would write to myself... it helped me explain what i was feeling to myself so that i could finally start to process what was actually happening in my mind so that I could start to slowly solve my own problems.

As i did this, a strange sense of accomplishment came over me suddenly, as i realized that the saying is true, you have to create your own happiness, and also, that you have to love yourself if you ever hope to love anyone else.

So i kept working on myself, and one day, my sister mentioned to me that she had picked up a ouija board at a garage sale. Immediately, for some reason, i said, let’s do it! And we called our other sisters, and planned our first seance. The four of us went all out. We put white candles everywhere , took it very seriously, and experienced the magic of ouija for the first time.

Now, it took a while of hitting dead ends which what we were communicating with, but one day, the mother lode of insane things happened! My cousin came through the board, and after confirming neither of us were moving the planchette, and that this truly was who they said they were, i realized that the end isn’t really the end, but that there really is more, and my life started to change more and more.

I eventually decided that since I didn’t enjoy coloring any more, that I should make a coloring book instead, that way other people can color my art work, and make it their own.

Then, in the midst of this, I decided that I wanted to make my own ouija board, but not call it a ouija board.... so the google searches began.

My sister and I started a podcast, and i used that as an excuse to do an episode on the ouija board, as an excellent excuse to do deep dive research on the boards themselves.

Using this info, I knew I needed to make a spirit board, so I started to work on drawing a design, while also trying to figure out how to make it.

One day I realized “hey, i could make this design up on my ipad and turn the background off, and turn this into a png file, and cut it out with your cricut!”

So i immediately set to work on that, while still trying to figure out how to make them. Finally one day, i discussed this idea with my husband, and he suggested resin on wood. And so it began.

So far, i have made around 30 or maybe more, boards, and yet, i still do not have my own! Maybe some day! Anyway, so that was done and in progress, I left my job that was sucking me dry physically and emotionally, started pushing myself harder, was finally trying to live my life for me, instead of trying to live it the way i thought my father would have wanted me to.

I was truly happy.

And then my grandpa left us.

I collapsed hard. But I had to try to keep it together at the same time because my grandma needed me... my mom needed me.... and my sisters needed me. I fought it as long as i could.... but eventually i broke under the pressure, and re visited my therapist, whom I have decided I am just going to continue to see monthly just in case.

Turns out, I was handling grief the right way.... which I am sure surprised her a little, being as how she had diagnosed me with ptsd a few years prior.

Since his passing, i have not touched a board, or held a pendulum, and not because I am afraid he will talk to me.... but because I am afraid that he won’t. As a 100% Irish Catholic man, I am not sure if he would come through the board or not, although, i do think that he would think it would be funnier than hell to scare us.

I have however found something to believe in. Paganism. No judgements, no frills, just love, paganism, and I will never look back.

After I decided to “come out of the broom closet” so to speak, and openly declare that I am a magical being, things started changing fast...

I finished my coloring book, and most importantly, feel mentally healed. I can’t even begin to explain it, but I will try....

First, after grandpa’s passing, I realized I had learned a few things. For example, that you shouldn’t take those you love for granted, which is when i realized he was the only person who had shown me unconditional love my entire life, no matter what. I also learned from that, the passing of the person who took care of me like a dad, that all I was doing was punishing myself for something someone else did, and that I needed to stop. And you know why?! Religion!

The same damn thing that i tried so hard to keep out.

You see, my grandpa was a wonderful dude. In my entire existence, i never heard him say a negative word about anyone. And most notably, whenever he heard me say anything bad about anyone, he would tell me that I couldn’t change them, but I should say a prayer for them.

It was this phrase, which i had repeated to me over and over again, that now finally made sense after finally realizing the true power of religion. You see, I couldn’t change my father, but, I could change the way he effected me. So, i made a little testament outloud, i moved on.

But then i realized, that if that was the case with that, maybe I needed to be more open to the idea, of religion being legitimate. So i started some research again. But this time, as homework for the tribe I was planning to join. I researched goddesses, because If I was going to pick a deity to start working with, they had to be a strong female.

First up, came Athena. And i truly believe she has been with me, allowing me to get through all of my life’s battles, without me even knowing, for years.

I studied greek mythology in college because I was fascinated by it, and was floored by the parthenon, and the giant statue of Athena that stood inside, and even insisted on visiting the replica while in Tennessee for my sister’s birthday.

Coincidentally, it also turns out that she is the goddess if wisdom, arts, and crafts, so i knew she was the one for me.

Tonight, after my full initiation into the group, i went to the full moon ritual, and was asked some very prying questions by what I will refer to as the “mega crone” and I was forced to question a lot about my choices right then, in front of everyone, and ended up crying while explaining all of that to them , and not really all that well.

But i left there thinking that I needed to let go of the idea of needing to know everything, and just go with the flow.... knowledge is nice, but too much knowledge can have it’s downfalls as well. But also left me wondering how I ended up on this path.

So here i am, telling a long ass background story to get to the damn point!

I was feeling emotional after getting home, and decided to light a candle for my great aunt who is in the hospital, and try to meditate for a while.

Normally, when I try to meditate, I don’t feel anything, and also don’t normally see much, but It’s like I can envision it, even though I can’t actually see it... imagination! Which is something I had cast out of my life a long time ago as well.

So tonight i was ready. Whatever happened was going to happen.... and if grandpa communicated with me while i was meditating I would deal with the emotions and just go on. I turned on my favorite meditation video, and jumped right in... and it fuckin worked! I could feel the ground and see lights, it was so magical! I wish I could explain the trees!

Then, after i processed that I am magical, that I can truly take my own pains away, which set off a mini party if thoughts in my mind, i refocused, and realized that athena had actually been with me my whole life. She got me to grandpa somehow when he was living thousands of miles away, so that I could continue to see and feel what true love is. She was with me through the shit storm that was my youth... and stood with me as i learned to fight for myself, and get up.

It was right now that I realized I am truly magical.... i am loved.... i am perfect the way i am..... i am enough. And if anyone ever should stumble upon this ramble, and stuck with it until now.... know that you are all of those things too! And if you don’t agree, i hope maybe my path will inspire you to get to know yourself, and see what incredible, life changing things could be in store for you.

[lookbluesoup]

Whumptober 9 - Shackled

So, kinda stoked to share this one!! It’s part of (another) idea I’ve had sitting around for ages that I would love to turn into a multichapter story someday. If I can find the courage to commit to a longer fic xD I also think it would be a really fun premise to make a quest mod of. But alas, I don’t know how to mod. x’D This story is inspired by “The Most Dangerous Game” by Richard Connell. Which, if you haven’t read, I highly recommend! It’s free online! c: 

Also, Butler is crazy. Which is fun to write for, and hopefully fun to read, but fair warning - he is an unhinged villain and says/does some deliberately inflammatory things!

-------

Heavy, molded cloth suctioned to Nate’s face. What staggered breath he could inhale tasted poisonous. Black. Tight. Suffocating. Rough hands shoved him forward, but beyond that no sense of space except for the fabric squeezing tighter and tighter. Panic pulled all the air from Nate’s lungs, leaving him light-headed. Trapped. Helpless. He writhed, wanted to scream, but his throat had collapsed. 

Metal pincers closed a vice-grip around Nate’s arm, dragging him along even when he dug in his heels. “Do. Not. Resist.” The stilted voice of the protectron ordered. “Injuries. Will. Lessen. Your chances. Of survival.”

Nate was a little too distracted by the world caving in around him to comprehend. A boot kicked him in the back, sending Nate against wet concrete. Even through the fetor of the hood, he could smell rot beneath. The cold steel kiss of shackles clamped over his wrists. 

Then General Butler ripped the sack from Nate’s head and turned on the light. Blinding fluorescence made it hard to focus on anything outside of the immediate few feet. 

Shuddering, Nate tugged against his shackles. “The hell?” He snarled up at Butler, only to be met with dark, accusing eyes. 

Butler took an even breath. “Seein’ as I bought you dinner and all,” He unholstered his pistol, examining it with superficial interest. “Maybe we can finally get down to the dirty business this evening. General to general.”

“General to general, huh? Could just be where I’m standing, but I think our playing field’s a little uneven.” Nate jabbed back. “What is this, an interrogation?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Grinned Butler, spinning the pistol around a withered finger. “Guessin’ you figured out the truth by now. About this place. About my little… hobby.”

“I dunno what you’re-”

Butler’s patchwork face flushed with rage. “What, you think I’m stupid? That nosy reporter comes snooping around and then an old pre-war army dog shows up at my doorstep, wantin’ to buddy up? I knew you were a plant the minute I laid eyes on ye.” He jammed his pistol hard under Nate’s chin, forcing the man to meet his eyes and grinning savagely, “So the way I see it, the only way to keep playing my game… is to make the both of ya part of it.” 

Nate’s stomach dropped, “I came alone, Butler.” 

The general leaned back and smiled. “Boy, you really should learn when to cut the bullshit.” Motioning to a shadowed door, an inhumane chuckle seethed out of him. 

An unpainted assaultron, headpiece replaced by a gawking skull, shambled into the light. It drug Piper into the room, bound and bruised, spewing acrimony and adding a few new Wasteland obscenities to Nate’s vocabulary.

Lips pursed, Butler studied her like a hawk sizing up a morsel of prey. “Mouthy thing. I can’t hear myself think.”

The assaultron pulled her head back, shoving a dirty rag down her throat so roughly Piper was left gagging in a heap on the floor.

Nate’s jaw clenched until his ears started whistling. She met his gaze, only for a moment. Enough to reassure him that she was alright. He didn’t know how she’d been caught, but the reason hardly mattered. With both of them trapped down here, they were at the mercy of Butler’s insanity. 

“That’s better.” The old general stalked around her, rubbing at the gap where his nose used to be. “My but you are pretty, aren’t you?” He knelt without regard for personal space, peering at her with abject intrusiveness. “Why, if I were a little younger…” His fingers scuttled through the locks of her hair.

Piper’s eyebrows arched, a nuclear explosion in her hazel eyes as she jerked away.

“Get your shriveled hands off her!” Nate snarled, lunging against the restraints so hard he felt his skin break under the steel. 

Butler turned, sitting up a little straighter when he saw the abrasions. “Does it bother you? Tch. So touchy!” He stood, sauntering back to where Nate still dug against his shackles. “Now, I wonder why that could be…” The general’s brow furrowed thoughtfully, then splayed upward. “Ahhh-” He laughed once, hollow with arrogant delight. “I understand.”

Nate’s eyelids creased, a crater opening in his chest. 

Smirking with rancid glee, Butler’s beady eyes flexed open as he studied his captive with renewed interest. “You know, the instinct to protect a mate is a fierce impulse. It can drive almost any creature to kill. Humans though? They’ll even die for it. Crazy, isn’t that? Just crazy! It makes no sense, from evolutionary terms.” Dropping down beside Nate, Butler leaned to the side, tilting his head to peer at Piper. 

Nate stared at her, and she kept her focus squarely on him in return, drawing strength from one another. 

Butler continued his twaddling. “I mean, she’s a looker, no denying it. I bet she’s got your dick wrapped around her finger all kinda ways. Hell, she convinced you to come out here!” He laughed abrasively, clapping Nate on the back like an old pal.

Nate didn’t laugh back.

Butler thought that was even funnier. His guffawing seemed liable to crack his chest open, “You would die for her, wouldn’t you?” He gawked between them, “Even if you knew she wouldn’t be far behind crossing the veil. What, you don’t think that’s strange? You’re a smart man Nathaniel, doesn’t it occur to you to think how insane a thing like that is?”

“The only insane thing here is you!” Nate spat. “Kidnapping innocent people off the road, killing them like animals.”

“Oh, c’mon now.” Butler’s amusement faded, “Where’s the legendary General of the Minutemen I’ve heard so much about? You exterminated those Brotherhood bucketheads, didn’tcha? And the big bad Boogeyman underground. Old soldier, where do you get by criticizing me, hunh? Dead is dead.” He holstered his pistol. “I bet you were raised by Christians - real orthodox ones. Catholics? Baptists? Yeah, that must be it. No other reason to be such a damn hypocritical fool.”

Standing, he sauntered back toward Piper with an arrogant frown, “Thank God for the bombs. This world, now, this is the way things oughta be. None of that prewar greater-good nonsense. Life is for the strong. I got every right to do whatever the hell I want with anything weaker than me. And why shouldn’t I? I’m the apex predator.”

“You’re a murdering psychopath is what you are.” Nate sneered. “A senile old-”

The general’s fist collided hard with Nate’s jaw. He went reeling, would have hit concrete hard if the handcuffs hadn’t pulled him taut against the metal pin. 

A grunt bubbled through Nate’s throat as he swallowed back metallic-tasting drool, refusing to give Butler the satisfaction of seeing blood. 

Lurching forward, Piper let out a muffled cry, “BLUE!” distinguishable even through her gag. 

Butler shook his fist out with a deep scowl, then smiled again with a mouth full of wooden teeth. “I think I’ll enjoy hunting the pair of you.”

[spardaxwarchief]

*On the Phone*

Dante: Say it!

Brittany: Fuck you.

Dante: After you say it!

Brittany: You’re really going to force me on this?

Dante: I’m at half-mast, babe! I need to hear this!

Brittany: FINE! YOU WERE RIGHT!!!

*Dante makes a groan of extreme pleasure*

Brittany: JUMP YOUR OWN ASS AND DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[Scene change to Dante in the safehouse]

Dante: Ahhhhh! Houston, we have no problems.

[Morgan Kane kicks in the door. Asterion and Lady gasp.]

Dante: Okay, dude, I just- I just finished, I'mma need like five minutes over here to recharge.

[Morgan punches Dante in the face]

Dante: Never mind, we’re back in business!

[Dante draws his guns and Morgan draws his bayonets. Lady swings the Kalina Ann at Morgan.]

Lady: I’ve got him!

[Morgan throws a bayonet and pins an official notice to the wall right next to Lady’s head, causing her to become jittery and slump to the ground]

Lady: OH!

Dante: Oh great, and now she’s triggered. Could be all day with it.

[Lady mumbles incomprehensibly]

Morgan: The good Lord has handed down a blessing to you filthy heathens as a sign of good will. A small private Vatican jet. [picks his broken glasses up off the floor] Now, if you would be so very Christian-like to ship your sorry pale ass out?! And take your trigger happy harlot with ya! [Lady is still traumatized on the ground] And the woman!

Asterion: Don quoi?

Dante: Man, I don’t know what I find funnier, the Catholic Church strong-arming you into helping us, or the fact that you obviously haven’t seen what I did to the statue of Big J!

[Scene change to show the private jet flying past the statue of Christ the Redeemer, which now has a banner tied across it which reads “420YOLOSWAG4JESUS”]

Morgan: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

[kurgy]

this story has everything. a dirt poor punk rocker finally getting his foot in the door and kicking off his music career in a big new city. genderqueer protagonist (the punk rocker) who uses he/him but man he dont care. transmasc love interest. MLM oriented romance that deals with past traumas, acceptance of gay love, jealousy, and learning from each other to grow themselves and their relationship. hardcore fucking for funsies. unplanned pregnancy and a protagonist that has to confront his fears of fatherhood and the parental abuse he suffered throughout his childhood to better himself for his boyfriend and the potential child they might have should they choose to. 2 very good friends who will ride or die for the protagonist but they got issues. interpersonal drama. a rich CEO ex boyfriend everyone calls BJ and he hates it. a weird city full of weird shit that no one comments on even though they really should. a colorful cast of neighbors of all ages and walks of life that like each other and hang out. community and acceptance. a protagonist whose gender is whatever makes the situation funnier. life ending tragedy. a boyfriend who will fight to protect the protagonist even if that means ripping out a mans jugular with his teeth. a rehabilitated corpse that needs flesh and blood to survive and keep his rot and bodily decay away. the corpse is his boyfriend? Uh oh! incredible violence. cannibalism and visceral gore. self mutilation for the sake of a loved one. catholic idolization of the cannibalization of the divine. "is our baby going to be normal?" "with the shambling corpse of your boyfriend as the biological father? no way!"

everyone who likes deceptively quirky queer romantic dramas that slowly get weirder and weirder until taking the deep dive into horror should read Nowhere City

[conanobrien1963]

It’s show time By Nicholas Kralev, The Financial Times Magazine, February 10, 2001

NEW YORK — Conan O’Brien has no regrets that the longest election in US history is over. True, Campaign 2000 and the 36 agonising days that followed were a gift from heaven for late-night TV hosts. They were courted by both Al Gore and George W. Bush, who made “nice-guy” appearances aimed at winning young voters (keener viewers of late comedy shows than the prime-time evening news). At the same time they had a ball firing jokes at the candidates.

But now, with a new president in office, “it gets even better”, says O’Brien, beaming at the thought of the mocking monologues probably being born in the writing room of his show, “Late Night with Conan O’Brien”, as we speak.

“Presidents get funnier all the time,” he says. “Nixon was a lot of fun for comedians — a good target. But Clinton may be the funniest. The bonus when you are finally president is that you don’t have to come on these dreadful shows any more.”

As “Late Night”, along with other comedy programmes — such as “The Tonight Show with Jay Leno” on NBC and “The Late Show with David Letterman” on CBS — makes media analysts ponder the impact they have on voters, late-night comedians feel on top of the world. Having had Democratic vice-presidential candidate Joseph Lieberman sing Sinatra’s “My Way” on his NBC show, and made good use of all the negative points of White House contenders during the campaign, O’Brien says that his is “a good business to be in”.

The taping of “Late Night” has just ended, and we’ve swapped Studio 6A at NBC’s Rockefeller Centre headquarters in New York for O’Brien’s comfortable ninth-floor office. The 6ft 4in comedian has replaced his on-camera suit with jeans and a casual shirt, and is kicking off the post-production part of his evening with a cold beer. I notice that he’s neither as lanky as he used to be — his reported $2m salary has apparently made a difference — nor as carrot-topped as everybody describes him. “My hair is much more red on TV, from the lighting,” he agrees quickly. “It was never that red. It’s a misconception.”

Misconceptions are no novelty for O’Brien. Having watched him for an hour every night for seven years, millions of Americans have created an image of him based solely on “Late Night”. They expect him to joke and be funny all the time, and think that he’s kidding even when he’s serious. “Most people usually assume that I’m making a joke. When I try to complement someone sincerely, they think I’m being sarcastic. Sometimes I’d say, ‘You did a really nice job for me, thank you’, and they’d say, ‘Go to hell, how dare you, you are so mean’. And I’m just being nice.”

Another unpleasant consequence of having a job like his, he explains, is that, “when I walk around the street, since people see me only on the show, always smiling, they are not used to seeing me being just normal, and think that I’m depressed. I’m not — I just have this face, I’m neutral. I’m going to buy bread, or I’m walking my dog”. But he’s not, he’s quick to point out, one of those comedians who are “funny only during that hour they are on TV”, and “quiet and shy” in real life. “We always hear that Steve Martin, Woody Allen and others, who are really alive on camera, are introverted at other times. I don’t relate to that and don’t understand it. During the day, you’ll see me wandering in people’s offices, trying to make them laugh. I enjoy it.”

Most of O’Brien’s staff — about 60 people occupying the entire floor — are accustomed to his style. Some, however, never get used to the pressure of the daily deadlines and the speed, which often resembles that in a newsroom. “I have fired people who haven’t worked out,” he admits, “but not too many. I’ve had people murdered, but that’s a different story — it’s much easier.”

That, of course, is a joke. And it’s a perfect illustration of how others’ expectations of O’Brien sometimes force him to play the funny guy from the show, rather than be himself. His jokes, however, aren’t always easy to distinguish from his “serious speak”. To make it easier for me, he suggests holding up his hand when he’s serious. But things work out without hand intervention, as soon as I engage him in a meaningful, intellectual conversation.

If one keeps him serious for a while, the 37-year-old O’Brien can be thoughtful and philosophical about his job. Although now everybody takes his success — and his refreshing yet nervous boyish charm — for granted, it took nearly four years to prove himself to network executives, audiences and critics. After many 13-week contracts and reviews calling his show “lifeless and messy”, he finally signed a five-year deal in 1997. But when he started, in 1993, he was virtually unknown, and many people accused him of not having earned his big break.

“After the first tough years, I felt I’d paid for that studio,” he muses. “I bled for this show. I put my heart into it.” He says that he realised he was “in a lot of trouble” at first, but never contemplated giving up. “In such cases, you tend not to think too much — you just do. There was no time to sit around and worry. If you are trapped in a burning house, you don’t sit on the floor thinking what to do. You start running around, try to find an open window and get out. What kept me going was that I really wanted it to work. Deep inside I knew I could do this. I just needed time to develop the skills.”

Confidence was the key to his “dramatic transformation”, O’Brien says. “I used to live or die by what I said every night. If I had something funny to say, I felt like a hero. But if I didn’t get a laugh, I was visibly unhappy and upset. It took confidence to realise that not everything I say is funny. I learned to enjoy the mistakes as much as the success. Now I make fun of myself for not getting a laugh.”

Today, with the wisdom of an almost veteran, he counters the notion that the way to succeed in a job like his is to learn how to play a TV talk show host. “That’s not true. The way to succeed is to somehow figure out how to be who you always were, but in a very strange environment — in a studio, with cameras looking at you. My struggle was finding a way to take this part of me that was very natural and spontaneous, get control of it and make it look the same in this artificial surrounding.” Unlike on “Friends” and “Frasier”, where an actor plays someone else for half an hour, “on my show, it’s me for an hour every night”. So, inevitably, “people are going to see who I really am. I can’t invent a personality, but I can showcase the personality I already have”.

Although he has always liked performing, as a child O’Brien never though that it would become his profession. “I was very serious, and I didn’t know that you could do comedy for a living — it was something you did with your friends. My hometown was as far removed from Hollywood as you can imagine. I’d never met anybody in show business — or any famous person for that matter.” Born on April 18, 1963, in Brookline, Massachusetts (the Boston suburb known as John F. Kennedy’s birthplace), O’Brien was one of six children of a Catholic Irish family. His mother, Ruth, was a lawyer, and his father, Tom, a doctor, so Conan thought he’d do “something responsible”– “go to a good college, then law school, and then maybe get into politics”.

He followed his plan, but very briefly. He was a “smart student, with a good work ethic” and, after graduating from Brookline High School in 1981, he enrolled at Harvard, in neighbouring Cambridge. (“When I heard, as a boy, that there was Cambridge, England, I thought that they were copying us.”) He had written plays and sketches before, and performed them for his friends, but it wasn’t until he started working for the Harvard Lampoon, the university’s venerable comedy magazine, that he realised that “adults were taking this seriously”. He decided that if he could make $5 a day doing comedy, he’d go for it.

He eventually became the Lampoon’s editor — a position that helped him to get to know many of his fellow students. “Everybody assumes that only the smartest people in the world go to Harvard,” he says. “They don’t. It’s just a very unusual collection of people. A few years ago, when they caught the Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski, the news media were shocked that a Harvard graduate could be this weird, eccentric loner, who is bent on destroying society.’ I was the exact opposite: I said, ‘Of course he went to Harvard. I knew at least five future Unabombers when I was there.’”

Just before O’Brien left Harvard, the student newspaper asked him what he thought he’d be doing in 10 years. He said he’d have his own television show. He underestimated himself — eight years was all he needed.

He didn’t know exactly what he wanted to do after Harvard. He loved comedy and performing, but had no interest in acting. In 1985, he arrived in Los Angeles, where an acquaintance helped him to get a writing job on an HBO show called “Not Necessarily the News”. He also joined a local improv class — “Friends” star Lisa Kudrow was among his fellow students. Two years later, he began writing for the late-night series “The Wilton North Report”, but it had a short life, so O’Brien decided to move to New York. For three years from 1988, he worked as a writer for NBC’s “Saturday Night Live” (“SNL”). The show, featuring some of America’s top comedians, such as Phil Hartman, Mike Myers and Dana Carvey, helped him to make valuable professional connections. He appreciated the opportunity to create his own sketches, but when it came to performing he was allowed only fleeting appearances as a crowd member or security guard.

In 1992, O’Brien joined the staff of Fox’s hit animated series, “The Simpsons”, starting as a writer and producer, and moving up to supervising producer the following year. But he wasn’t happy there, either. “As great as the show was, I was speaking through all those other established characters, while at “SNL” I could create a whole new world, with no limitations. Another frustration was that “The Simpsons” had a much more controlled environment, because it’s animation. You can spend a year on an episode to get it right. I loved the show, but it wasn’t mine — there is a big difference between being the manager of a Hilton hotel in Hawaii and running your own bed and breakfast.”

His B&B chance came sooner than he expected. In 1993, late-night legend Johnny Carson retired from The Tonight Show and NBC sought a replacement. David Letterman, then hosting “Late Night”, was regarded as the heir apparent. The job, however, went to the little-known Jay Leno, and the deeply offended Letterman left the network, taking over “The Late Show” on CBS, which directly competes with Leno’s programme. The “Late Night” seat was now open, with no obvious front-runners. O’Brien begged executive producer and “SNL” creator Lorne Michaels to let him audition. He got the job immediately.

Having long been a fairly good writer but a “frustrated performer”, O’Brien had finally found the right combination. Although he would, for the most part, recite lines written by someone else, he could make a creative contribution at any time. But being in front of the camera made a world of difference. “When I wrote,” he recalls, “it was never over; I was always editing it in my head, torturing myself. Now, I can worry during rehearsals, but when the hour is over, the hour is over. It’s done, and there is another show to do tomorrow. It’s been good for me, because I needed to learn how to just let go of things — I’m obsessive and compulsive. I forget about what just happened and move to the next thing, and I do it as well as I can.”

With the initial scepticism forgotten, O’Brien’s show now attracts an estimated 2.5m viewers a night. Although “The Tonight Show” remains NBC’s premier forum for Hollywood celebrities — and, lately, for politicians — “Late Night” has had luminaries like Harrison Ford, Sylvester Stallone, Elton John, Sigourney Weaver and Helen Hunt. “The booking is a nightmare,” O’Brien complains. “Fortunately, we’ve been around long enough to get good guests. At the beginning, it was very tough, because we had to make it funny with unknowns. But no show can survive if it requires Tom Cruise or Madonna — those people have to be a nice, occasional surprise.”

O’Brien says that he avoids watching comedy on television: “It’s like a dentist going home and cleaning someone’s teeth for fun”. He prefers documentaries and “serious movies”. He’s cautious about trying to learn from fellow comedians, afraid that doing so would take away his “unique flavour”. Unlike broadcast journalism, for example, where “you can learn certain techniques, comedy is a very personal thing”, he says. “Once you start to alter too much who you are, to reach some professional quality, you lose what many people tune in for.”

His own celebrity is now part of the reason for “Late Night’s” popularity. He thinks that “it’s fair game for the media to ask about my personal life — I have nothing to hide — but I’m not an important historical figure, so it’s good to keep some things private”. He has been single since his last, nine-year relationship ended in 1999, though the tabloids have been speculating about new girlfriends. “I’m going out with Cher now. Please write this!”

O’Brien returned to Harvard last June, to give the traditional Class Day speech before the graduating class. “I was very much aware that someone else could have been speaking that day, and that no one might have remembered Conan O’Brien — a complete nonentity, who had graduated in 1985, with a degree in American history and literature, and had vanished. That keeps me humble. I feel really lucky — I’m the poster boy for luck. Getting this job was an extremely fortunate break.” (x)