#but it's actually the most diabolical insult known to man

[demigods-posts]

okay but percy calling the minotaur 'ground beef' is so diabolical. because imagine being the well-known. undefeatable. half-bull half-man. seven foot tall monster. prancing around in your fanciest fruit of the loom tighty whities. and this twelve year old. with no objective experience in swordfighting. whose mom you just violently squished to death. calls you a feast for carnivores. the important part of a taco. the beef of the wellington. i would have gave up.

[agentnico]

Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga (2020) Review

If you haven’t yet came about this gem, look up the Russian submission for the cancelled Eurovision 2020. The group is called Little Big. You can thank me later. 

Plot: When aspiring musicians Lars and Sigrit are given the opportunity to represent their country Iceland at the world's biggest song competition, they finally have a chance to prove that any dream worth having is a dream worth fighting for.

I do enjoy Will Ferrell’s comedy. He has one funny bone, I tell ya that much! Obviously he’s great in all the Adam McKay films such as Anchorman, Talladega Nights and Step Brothers, all of which are endlessly quotable, and I also enjoy his lesser known outings such as Casa de mi Padre and The Campaign (the latter being a scarily realistic portrayal of the bonkers nature of American politics for a stupid irreverent comedy), however recently he’s definitely exhibited a dip in quality, especially with Holmes & Watson. That movie...........that movie.................that......movie.....can I even call it a movie? I still have no idea how in the hell that thing got green-lit? Honestly, who at Sony Pictures picked up the script and thought “hey, look at this, what a funny and original take on the classic Conan Doyle stories, this is a farcical revolution, a slapstick masterpiece, a fantastical example of burlesque interpretation.....let’s make it!!” Whoever this spherical dumbass of a producer was, he’s an idiot who should question his choices more as Holmes & Watson is diabolically bad! It’s excruciatingly unfunny! There’s a gag involving Holmes wearing a Trump-supporting ‘Make America Great Again’ hat....speaks for itself really. The movie is poop! But enough about negatives, let’s set our eyes upon Netflix’s new comedy Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga about, you guessed it, the Eurovision Song Contest! Ironically, the movie is brought to us by the US, even though America has never partook in the real Eurovision contest, nor do many American citizens even know what Eurovision is, which is probably why film critics have been so negative towards this movie, as they don’t really know what Eurovision is all about. Yes, it’s about the music and the competition, but it’s also about the over-the-top set pieces, flamboyant costumes and general acts of weirdness that make Eurovision so enjoyable to watch. But does the new Netflix spoof recapture the magic?

The movie’s biggest negative is that for a comedy it’s not that funny. There are some solid jokes for sure, but there a lot more ones that fall flat than ones that hit. It seems that due to the movie being made in conjunction with Eurovision partners, the writing team avoided to take any true risks, so as to not offend anyone. The Eurovision contest has a lot within it to make fun at to be honest, and this movie avoids that in favour of typical stupid debauchery Ferrell is known for. Even the inclusion of Graham Norton, who actually commentates on Eurovision in real life is severely toned down, and his insults are nowhere as offensive and sarcastic as in real life. And yes, at first that may seem to come off as me saying that this film is a total pile of garbage that should be buried deep at the bottom of the dumpster hidden beneath various human excrement right next to a bunch of DVD copies of Holmes & Watson (grrrrrr!), but let me hit you back with a but! Yes, there’s always a but! No, I’m not referring to one’s backside, for starters that’s a different spelling so learn your English you uneducated son of a bee, please and thank you! Anyway, I digress, the but is that even though it lacks the promised comedic punch, the movie more than makes up with it’s element of romance and, more importantly its heartwarming feel-good nature. Especially in these very strange and confusing times that we find ourselves living in, one does not need a masterpiece in film-making......though I am very much still looking forward to Christopher Nolan’s Tenet...whenever that release date finally comes to fruition. But sometimes a fairly simple film with an abundance of cliches (there’s an obligatory ABBA reference) and terrible Icelandic accents but filled with good cheerfully innocent nature is enough to please one’s mind. And you can call me sentimental at my old age (I’m turning 23 in under a week so happy birthday to me!), but I’m not going to lie, I really dug this movie. I had a good time! As I said, it’s no masterpiece, far from it actually, but it is just so pleasing, joyful and upbeat to watch!

Interestingly enough, a few films came to my mind whilst I watched The Story of Fire Saga. There’s the obvious reference to Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story, another satirical film that parodies the music industry, only there the comedy worked better for me. Then also the movie has a surprisingly catchy soundtrack, with a lot of the song choices feeling like they came out straight from The Greatest Showman. There’s that element of oomph to each tune that really makes it pop! Not going to lie, I’ve been listening to the soundtrack on repeat ever since I’ve watched the movie! Also there’s a certain scene that’s a straight up knock off of the Riff-Off scene from Pitch Perfect. Then the more surprising connection is actually last year’s film Yesterday, where a man wakes up one day and he’s the only one who remembers The Beatles and their songs. The connecting thread-line is that in that movie too there is a woman who is unabashedly in love for the main guy, but he doesn’t notice it as he’s so focused on his music dream. I’ll be the first to say I did not like Yesterday. It was very disappointing in light of the calibre of talent that was involved, with Danny Boyle directing and Richard Curtis penning the script. The romantic side of that movie came as a bit of a distraction that got in the way of the potential of the main story-line involving a world without The Beatles. However in Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga that romantic thread is actually what holds the whole thing together so well. This is easily the most romantic movie of this year, and I know, I’m surprised to say so myself, seeing as this is a Will Ferrell motion picture! 

Speaking of Will Ferrell, he’s decent in the movie, if you like Will Ferrell, as he does his usual shtick, though looking unrecognisable due to the ridiculous wig. However it seems Ferrell himself realises his co-stars bring more to the table in terms of acting compared to him, as he devotes a lot of scenes to Rachel McAdams and Dan Stevens. Rachel McAdams is adorable in this movie, with such a pure and baby-like personality, and it was constantly a pleasure seeing her light up the screen. Though it is Dan Stevens who steals the show as an antagonist that is surprisingly not as villainous as first anticipated, and turns out to be a cute puppy-dog eyed Russian lion! Also, that hair style suits him well.......maybe too well. Appearances from Demi Lovato and Pierce Brosnan are welcome too, though heavily under-used. Speaking of the latter, Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga and the Mamma Mia! films are now part of the Pierce-Brosnan-has-a-dead-wife-and-ABBA-is-heavily-involved-somehow cinematic universe.

As a whole Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga is nothing groundbreaking, but a truly good time, with a soundtrack filled with low-key bangers, a visual feast to the eyes due to showcasing the gorgeous visages of the Icelandic landscapes, and is easily Will Ferrell’s best film in years! Especially with that surprisingly emotional finale. Yes, this movie is ridiculously stupid, though it’s more ridiculous how emotionally hard-hitting the ending is. The song “Husavik” does for this movie what “Shallow” did for A Star Is Born. So I say go watch this film and embrace its warm comforting feels. Perfect for a date night, me and my girlfriend can attest to that!

Overall score: 6/10

[riathedreamer]

Prompt by @secretlystephaniebrown: “Grif comes back, only to discover that Simmons has started dating his doppleganger.” -Halfway through I realized I made the others return instead of Grif, but I am really happy with how this one-shot turned out so I hope it works anyway! Thanks for the prompt!

This story does not contain spoilers for episode 10 (but you should probably not read if you have not watched episode 9), however it goes with one of the many theories that the Blues and Reds are too suspicious to be trusted and it is very strange there is no fake Grif. So technically spoiler-free, but I just came up with this particular situation to fill the prompt. Enjoy.

No actual warnings: just a lot of angsty thoughts and heartbreak.

English is not my native language so I apologize beforehand if there are some grammar-mistakes.

Can also be found on AO3 here.

Wordcount: 3382

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

Simmons returns with a raised chin, a happy tone to his voice and an orange soldier whose name Grif hates.

When the ships arrive, they fly straight through the cloud Grif has just declared a puma. Retirement gives you the time to sleep late and eat breakfast for dinner and play ukulele at 3am and drive around in the Warthog all day and when all that gets boring you can lie down to look at the clouds while not giving a shit.

Grif pushes himself up with his palm, fingers buried into the sand. He does not walk until they have all exited the ships, setting their feet upon the moon again.

He squints, counting from distance. In the hours where sleep had not come to him (it is a grave fact that you can, in fact, sleep too much, to the point where your eyelids refuse to grow heavy, no matter how long you stare at the ceiling) he had come up with scenarios.

Not all of them involve them coming back because Grif is smart and Grif knows a suicide plan when he sees one. But in all the worst case scenarios they would be fewer or entirely missing.

Bringing someone extra back with them is unexpected. Sure, the mission had been to find Church but since when does the AI have an actual body?

The journalists are there, sticking out from the rest of the group with their armors. Then come the Freelancers. Cyan. Grey with yellows stripes.

Aqua. Deep blue.

Purple. Maybe not that surprising, considering history.

Red. Pink, obviously. Brown.        Maroon.

 Orange.

 Whatever surprise Grif feels is only revealed by a small frown, black eyebrows touching each other just slightly. Making sure not to take his eyes off the soldier in the distance, he reaches down in his pocket. Years of practice allows him to light the cigarette without even looking.

It is first when he has inhaled and exhaled that he begins to walk, never raising his feet quite enough to avoid leaving a long trail behind in the sand.

The chatter dies down when he comes close enough, a faint “Do you think…” hanging in the air before someone clears their throat. Most of them are not looking at him, the bases are suddenly a very interesting sight, and Grif regrets he left the beach.

It would only have been fair had they been the ones to make the first step.

Donut sounds happy when he yells his name, ”Grif!” He suddenly freezes, pulls his head back to stare at the orange soldier in their group and he lets out a short laughter, like an intern joke or something. Grif certainly does not understand.

The pink soldier reaches out, trying to go for the hug, but Grif’s arms are crossed and he watches them all with an unimpressed stare, cigarette hanging in the corner of his mouth.

His blank expression is enough to stop Donut dead in his tracks. He let his arms fall weakly to his sides, taking one step backwards so he is with the rest of the group. Someone coughs again but it does little to help with the awkwardness. Grif hopes they have not brought the damn plague back with them or something.

He raises one eyebrow, gesturing for them to begin the conversation because he sure as hell isn’t going to.

“So,” Wash says, oh god the awkwardness, and maybe he continues his sentence but Grif is not really listening.

He is staring at Simmons. He is noticing how Simmons is not stiff as a board, how Simmons for once is not tense, how Simmons looks a bit too comfortable, shoulders relaxed and chin raised high in confidence, and his fingers are brushing against the hand of the orange soldier next to him.

Grif becomes aware that he has lowered his head, revealing just where he was looking at, and he raises his glance to stare directly into the stranger’s visor.

“’sup?” the man in the orange armor says, arms crossed as well.

When the name is revealed, a noise escapes from the back of Grif’s throat. It sounds more like a bark than a laugh, low and raw.

“Griff,” Simmons says, eyes darting the room. “But, uhm, with two F’s,” he adds quickly, as if that improves the situation somehow.

Grif nods – of course that’s his name, of fucking course – and turns away. “You found Church yet?” He throws the question into the stuffed air of the Base, trying to sound like he does not give a shit because he does not.

Carolina tenses – that’s a no then. “Not yet.”

“Dude,” Tucker says. His helmet is off and judging from his expression the next words to leave his mouth are not going to be nice. Still mad, obviously. To be expected.

But Wash cuts in, “We’ve found some leads. We’re working on it.”

Grif nods again and points to his left, towards the couch that has already been invaded. “So where, when and why did you adopt the yellow copycat?”

“Orange,” the guy says, looking like he is about to flip him off but Simmons’ hand is on his arm, holding it back. The cyborg does not withdraw his hand even after the- the imposer takes his glance off Grif.

“Right,” Grif huffs, and is about to point at his own chest plate to prove a point but then realizes he is not wearing armor. He took it off the day they left and has not seen a reason to wear it since. After being stuck in that metal can for years it is only right to let your skin breathe. Especially with no one around to comment on your smell.

The others are still in their armor, though a few have removed their helmets. It makes Grif feel like the small person for once, almost naked (but not in the way Donut prefers) and the many armored figures only make the room feel too crowded.

Wash steps on something, makes a face, and tries to rub it off the bottom of his boot.

“Yeah,” Caboose says, inhales, and he is obviously going to try out with an explanation. If anything, it is going to be amusing. “So we found our evil twins and they turned out to be nice. They let me play with their toys. But not the big one. It would invite all the fish inside and they don’t like that. Then they turned out to be evil evil twins. But then Griff came and he invited all the fish and a lot of other things happened but he got to join our rescue mission. He brought popcorn.”

Grif does not even blink. “Right.”

“You got all of that?” Wash asks him. “I’m pretty sure he might have skipped some details.”

“See, I never really gave a shit so-“

“What is that diabolical smell?!” Sarge enters the base and immediately makes his presence known. He turns his head to stare at Grif. “Did you invite the rats to live with you? Aw, did you get lonely?”

There is a mocking tone to his last question which Grif matches perfectly when he says, “You know, better company than what I had before.”

The following thick silence is broken by Donut, appearing from behind Sarge, who chirps, “Did you remember to water my flowers, Grif?” He pulls his head back again, laughs, and looks at the orange soldier in the couch. “I suppose there’s a bit of name problem there. Nothing more awkward than calling out the wrong name. Ooh, we could give you a nickname! What about Double F?”

“What?” Grif asks with a snort. “Short for Fuckface?”

Simmons is still staring at the floor. Griff merely tilts his head and from behind one of the couch pillows he fishes out an unopened snackbar. Grif had not even known it was stashed there, and that just makes the insult worse.

“What is… Ugh.” Wash has stepped on something again and he looks in distaste at all the trash littering the floor. “I suppose you have not found the time to clean up since we left.”

Carolina opens the fridge before Grif can attempt to warn her. “That’s… a lot of mushrooms.”

“Uhm, I’m pretty sure I just saw that pile move.” Tucker is pointing at some of last week’s laundry with his rifle. “Caboose, don’t touch that!”

Grif shrugs. “Yeah, right, sorry I did not tidy up. I didn’t expect guests.”

He leaves before the other one can take off his helmet to eat the snack, before he can reveal if this whole thing is weird enough for him to have a scar across his face as well. But if Grif has to choose between having a clone with scars or with an intact face, he is not quite sure which is worse.

Sarge is blocking his path through the doorway, and the Red Leader stands firmly, not intending to move.

Grif brushes shoulders with him on his way out, hitting a hard armor plate, and keeps his expression neutral so no one can see that it hurt.

 Grif has never had a mother-in-law before, for obvious reasons, but he has seen the horrors in movies. He is pretty sure this situation is equivalent to those nagging monsters. He lives here, and yet people just walk right in and start criticizing his way of living. Not cleaning up isn’t a choice; it’s a lifestyle and a beautiful one.

The others left. Grif owns this place, this moon. He may not have signed any contracts but that is clearly how it all works. His place, his rules.

And yet he is forced escape the base. Too many people, too much tension. Grif has grown used to silence these last couple of weeks; these new voices and new insults are too annoying, and he has had too long a break to grow thick skin for it all.

He is on the way back to the beach, hoping to hide behind an umbrella and escape this shitty situation with a nap, but Doc appears from out of nowhere, opening his mouth before Grif even has to time to sigh.

“Hey, Grif! Long time no see, huh?”

Grif’s headache is too big for him to answer the medic.

“The others did say you were taking a sabbatical. Didn’t believe it at first; you guys never really quit before. And I suppose it did take some days to realize you weren’t Griff. Pretty weird how much you all have in common, huh? Except the whole being evil thing. At least Simmons is happier now.”

Grif sets his jaw.

“Wait, that sounded wrong.” The medic holds up both hands to apologize. “I mean, before Griff arrived. Caboose told me how sad he was after you… Well…”

Without speaking Grif lights another cigarette.

“Oh, those are really not good for your health. Or your fellow man’s. I thought Simmons had made you cut down on-“

Grif hopes Doc can take a hint and exhales the smoke into his face. Well, visor, technically, but the rude gesture should still work.

When the medic finally stops coughing he wrings his hands and says, “I’ll- I’ll just leave you to your bad habit then. But I do have a free brochure I can find for you later.”

He runs off when Grif inhales deeply, as if preparing for another round of smoke cloud.

How strange. Doc is gone more often than he is actually here, and yet he has never been replaced. Maybe because he is so useless. Probably. Definitely.

The moon is suddenly too small, and Grif finds no other option than to retreat to his cave.

He is not even surprised when he finds Dylan at the entrance, obviously waiting for him. The reporter has tilted her head, obviously curious about him and, oh god, is she going to talk about feelings again? At least the camera guy is absent, probably too busy trying to shoot a documentary about hoarders inside the Base.

“I figured you would come here,” she says, and congratulations to her if she believes that means she knows him well. She has already proven she is under the false belief that she can figure out them all and their actions as well. “I can give you the whole story, if you want.”

“No thanks,” Grif snorts and puts out his cigarette with his heel. He uses the foot that has once belonged to Simmons, the one that has nerves too badly sewn together to truly feel the pain from the heat. “Already told you; I don’t give a shit about it. You guys found a whole bunch of lookalikes and did not cry out bullshit? Joke’s on you, then. Because that shit is creepy as fuck.”

“It… took an unexpected twist.”

The visor is too focused on his face, obviously trying to gain some sort of eye-contact but Grif moves his head to stare into the darkness of the cave instead. “So why the fuck are you guys here?”

“We figured it was only proper to give you a visit. You’ve been without any news for a while.”

Without news, without insults, without human presence in general. Not a lot has happened on the moon while they were gone but Grif is not about to tell her that.

“What makes you think you can trust Wannabe-Orange?”

“He was the first one to call bullshit, as he put it,” Dylan says softly. “A lot like you, I suppose.”

“Great!” he exclaims too loudly. “Maybe, if he’s lucky, he can keep the others alive for a whole month! Looks like he drew the short straw. Poor guy.”

“Grif-“

He walks past her into the cave, sighing slightly relief when she does not follow. Maybe she does not want him to shout at her again. Or maybe she has realized he deserves a nap.

She does, however, betray him and informs Donut of his hiding place. That at least seems to be the case, since no one else knows of the cave, and Grif had been extra careful to make sure that Donut of all people would not wander in here by accident.

To be fair, Grif is not sleeping but he is resting against his head against the cliff wall and his eyes are closed which should be enough hints to make an intruder fuck off.

But Donut is not too good when it comes to hints, and he sits down in front of Grif, helmet in his lap.

“He is a nice guy,” he begins, and Grif opens his eyes only to roll them. “Well, Sarge still needs to warm up to him but-“

“Does he threaten him with a shotgun?” Grif asks, more out of spite than actual curiosity.

“Oh yes! Only silly threats of course; no one wants anyone to get hurt.”

“Right.”

Donut is fiddling his thumbs. Even silence is uncomfortable when you are stuck with the pink soldier. “Simmons likes him.”

“I can see that.”

Something flashes across Donut’s expression. Pity, Grif realizes with horror. Even the scarred part of his face seems to soften as he looks at Grif. “Simmons was very heartbroken after… Well, after you told him… And there are some obvious similarities. Oh how they can bicker. But at least Simmons does not seem that devastated now. There are some positions you do not want to see a man in, Grif, and I have never seen Simmons that low before.”

Grif wonders how much he has in common with the imposer.

He wonders if Griff’s mother left him.

He wonders if Griff once had to dig twenty-seven graves alone on an outpost that quickly became forgotten by anybody else.

He wonders if Griff has a dead sister.

“You could apologize,” Donut continues, voice echoing in the cave. “The others will warm up eventually. And I’m sure Simmons would not mind an extra man.” He hesitates for just a second before adding, “I think you should come along.”

Grif glances at the ground as he snorts, “Not a fan of hanging around suspicious doppelgängers. I have less creepy things to entertain myself with.” He wonders if Griff is being called a fatass too, or if that is an insult only to be used on him.

Donut inhales once before saying, “I suppose you don’t like him.” He is not the guy who snaps at people or keeps his voice bitter, but there is a certain tone to that last part of the sentence that informs Grif that he hurt him too back then.

Grif sets his jaw and says nothing.

Eventually Donut leaves, and Grif is alone in the solitude of the cave.

Later he ventures out to grab something to eat (he refuses to starve because of him) but his appetite dissolves when he sees Simmons and Griff on the top of the base. They have their backs turned towards him, staring together into the sunset, rifles on the backs.

They are standing too close to each other; Sarge has to appear soon, threaten Griff with his shotgun…

For a moment Grif can almost hear their conversation –

                                       “Hey?”

                                       “Yeah?”

                    “You ever wonder why we’re here?”

-but then he realizes he is too far away to hear anything. His mind is probably playing a trick on him; isn’t it unhealthy for it to be alone for too long or something?

Then Griff leans closer and grabs Simmons’ hand.

It’s all wrong, the scene is all wrong, Grif never did that-

“Grif?”

Simmons has seen him. He lets go of Griff’s hand, jumps down the base, and Grif remains where he is standing.

Grif expects him to wring his hands or stutter or just act a tiny bit like he has acknowledged how weird all of this is. But his back is straight and as always he as taller than Grif, looking down at him. “Did the others ask you? Are you coming with us?”

Trying to keep up, Grif blinks, but his mind is still too busy replaying the scene.

Simmons continues, “I mean, you can’t stay here.”

“’course I can, there’s no law ‘bout it,” Grif cuts in quickly to disagree. “It’s my moon now.”

“Don’t think anyone is going to try to take it from you,” Simmons huffs and turns his head to stare at the base and the endless amount of trash bags surrounding it. Suddenly he seems to deflate, and he inhales deeply before saying, “You could at least come with us to Chorus. We- We need some supplies before heading towards the next clue, and since you don’t really have any food to spare…” He trails off.

Grif fills in the missing words. “A fatass gotta eat.”

“We could at least drop you off,” Simmons says again, ignoring Grif’s statement.

Grif does think about it. But, honestly, Chorus has nothing more to give him, maybe except some extra MRE supplies. He does not miss being Captain, does not miss having to count each member of his team after a mission to make sure no one got lost in the gunfire.

Matthews is probably sucking up to Kimball now. Always wanted to be her personal assistant. Grif hopes he succeeded; Kimball has dealt with headaches bigger than Matthews. Bitters is probably… Well, it’s hard to predict a maverick. But he’s probably making himself comfortable. Grif doubt he wants a Captain back in his life.

He can’t blame them; he was the one who taught them not to give a shit in the first place.

Simmons is still staring at him, expecting an answer. Grif looks past him, towards the Base, towards Griff who sucks at pretending he is not watching the scene with great interest.

Finally, Grif turns his head to meet Simmons’ glance. He can feel his expectation through the visor, he can almost imagine the soft glow from the cyborg eye, even though it has been so long since he has seen the face…

“Don’t really think anybody needs me,” is his final answer, followed up with a shrug.

Simmons inhales. Swallows. Raises his head so he no longer trying to gain eye-contact. “I guess you’re right.”

He waits for just another second before turning around to join Griff on the roof.

The ships leave the day after.

This time Grif does not leave the cave to say goodbye.

[funface2]

The Dark Knight: 10 Hilarious Memes Only True DC Fans Understand – Screen Rant

It’s actually strange to think about how many dark and gritty comic book movies have come out in the past few years because that entire style of filmmaking pretty much originated with the astounding Christopher Nolan cinematic achievement better known as The Dark Knight. The Dark Knight was a complete game-changer for a lot of different reasons, and it’s the kind of movie that comic book haters can enjoy almost as much as comic book super-fans because it really is just that good.

RELATED: 10 Ways The DCEU Would Be Different If It Started With The Dark Knight Trilogy

And although now the film and TV marketplace is absolutely flooded with comic book inspired works, The Dark Knight still remains in a class all it’s own. Comic and movie fans alike still hold this film up as the gold standard of comic movies. So even though the film has a few years under it’s belt now, it is of course still the subject of hundreds of internet memes. And here are ten of the best.

Continue scrolling to keep reading

Click the button below to start this article in quick view

Start Now

advertising

10 At Least It’s Excellent Cosplay

Batman is one of those kind of brilliant superheroes because while he does fit into a lot of stereotypical superhero ideals, he also seems like a complete lunatic sometimes. And Batman’s whole character arc in The Dark Knight seems to embody that pretty well. We mean yes, the Joker is obviously a malicious crazy person, but it feels like half the time that Bruce is pursuing him he’s only a stones throw (or as the Joker would say, a little push) away from completely going off the deep end.

But at least Mr. Wayne can always say that his cosplay is the sickest of all time.

9 There’s A Reason He’s Called The Joker

Look, saying that a penny for your thoughts is an obvious overcharge is rude as hell, but undoubtedly everyone on earth would rather be dragged by the Joker’s insults than literally dragged by the Joker. And let’s get real, this is the internet.

RELATED: The Dark Knight: 10 Hidden Details Everyone Missed In Nolan’s Batman Trilogy

You can’t charge for your thoughts anymore in a world where things like Twitter exist. Almost everyone on earth with working electricity is now sharing their thoughts for free even if no one wants them to, so anyone who is planning on making a living or even a decent side payout off of their brilliant ideas should maybe rethink their life strategy.

advertising

8 Relatable

How are people still asking other people what their plans for the future are? If we’re lucky we’ll wind up in a world set on fire by someone like the Joker, but it seems more likely that we’ll all be eating cockroaches after a nuclear, robot, or zombie apocalypse. But honestly, the Joker should give himself more credit too.

He’s not a big planner to be sure, but he at least has enough personal investment in his appearance to keep up on his makeup and hairstyling. And if everyone is being completely honest with themselves, that still makes him a better planner than half the people on earth.

7 The Joker Was Undoubtedly A Cat Person

Dogs definitely have the kind of chaotic vibe that the Joker really thrives off of, but they’re far too sweet and well meaning to really be the Joker’s type of pet. They’re the chaotic good of the animal world, while Joker is the chaotic evil of the human world.

Cats aren’t so much chaotic or evil, but they do have a clear diabolical attitude along with a misanthropic outlook on life that matches up with the Joker quite well. Plus, there are few things that are more iconic in this world than the greatest villain on earth dramatically petting a cat like a creep.

advertising

6 Maybe No Open Bar Then

There are two types of people in this world. The kind that needs quite a bit of liquid courage to get up and give a speech at a wedding, and the kind who needs to be sequestered from every drop of alcohol on earth before making any kind of public appearance.

RELATED: Every Christopher Nolan Film, Ranked By Their Rotten Tomatoes Score

But if everyone is being real, would having an unhinged Joker-like character at a wedding really be so bad? Most weddings are incredibly boring and unmemorable, but if some drunk dude showed up in full face paint screaming about someone called Harvey Dent then at least that would be some solid and memorable entertainment.

5 You Never Go Full Nic Cage

Heath Ledger’s performance as the Joker in The Dark Knight is one of the most beloved and iconic movie performances in the history of film, and with good reason. His willingness to commit to the role was so intense that he really did come close to going full Nicolas Cage. But you never, ever go full Nicolas Cage!

Only Nicolas Cage can go full Nicolas Cage, and even the man himself really shouldn’t do it half the time. Joaquin Phoenix seems like the kind of actor with the skill set who can at least avoid paling in comparison to Heath Ledger’s Joker, but it would have been interesting to see Mr. Cage tackle that role too.

advertising

4 Gotta Grind Though

You know, a lot of people love the Joker, especially the Joker in The Dark Knight, for a lot of different reasons. But something that the Joker never seems to get his proper accolades for is his pretty solid work ethic.

We mean he talks a big game about creating complete chaos and embracing your inner madness, but he’s always making some pretty big moves. And of course, big moves usually require a lot of planning and work. So next time anyone is struggling to motivate themselves then it’s always good to be reminded of the fact that even the Joker has got to buckle down and grind sometimes.

3 So Kat Stratford = Harley Quinn?

Because honestly, Kat Stratford being the alternate universe version of Harley Quinn is an idea we can really get behind, especially considering how dirty Harley was done in Suicide Squad. Don’t get us wrong, Margot Robbie is amazing and Harley is too, it’s just… her relationship with the Joker in Suicide Squad was lacking to say the least.

RELATED: The Dark Knight Trilogy: 10 Questions We Still Want Answered

And Heath Ledger’s Joker may be a complete maniac, but we don’t think he’d be near the level of abusive creeper that Jared Leto’s Joker was for Harley. Kat Stratford could truly the feminist icon Harley Quinn that we all deserve.

advertising

2 The Hug-xpert

Okay, while we appreciate anyone’s ability to put a good value on their skills and abilities, this particular meme raises a lot of questions. To be more specific, what in god’s name is a deluxe hug?

This is actually a beyond brilliant business plan, because two dollars is not a lot to ask and it seems like a safe bet that a lot of people would pay that two dollars just to learn what in the hell a deluxe hug actually is. And maybe that is supposed to be the joke! So this meme has really achieved some meme-ception here. And Inception is also a Christopher Nolan movie so the meme-ception has been meme-ceptioned!

1 The Sickest Burn

Watching Batman and the Joker square off in The Dark Knight is undeniably one of the most fun experiences that anyone can have in the cinema, and there is a good reason why The Dark Knight is still held up as the be-all, end-all of comic book movies even though there have been dozens of DCCU and MCU films since.

However one thing that The Dark Knight was sorely lacking was a simple game of the dozens, Bruce Wayne versus the Joker. That may have been an unfair fight though, since Bruce is downright humorless and the Joker undoubtedly has decades worth of yo momma jokes saved up for just such an occasion.

NEXT: Every Batman Movie, Ranked By Rotten Tomatoes Score

advertising

Tags: the dark knight

Let’s block ads! (Why?)

Source link

Bài viết The Dark Knight: 10 Hilarious Memes Only True DC Fans Understand – Screen Rant đã xuất hiện đầu tiên vào ngày Funface.

from Funface https://funface.net/funny-memes/the-dark-knight-10-hilarious-memes-only-true-dc-fans-understand-screen-rant/

[cattheologian-blog]

Maya Angelou

Introduction

Maya Angelou is the mother of modern African-American poetry. Her influence, both in message, meter and social and political change in the contemporary American sociopolitical and literary background has fundamentally paved the way for a rising generation of poets and authors, a new social understanding of her race and issues and provides a cornerstone in American literary and social history.

Hailed as one of the great voices of contemporary African American literature, and one of the greatest poetesses of all time, Marguerite ‘maya’ Annie Johnson-Angelou is best known and is still fondly remembered in the classroom classic “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1970)’, the first of several autobiographical books which contain the namesake poem. Angelou's literary works have generated critical and popular interest in part because they depict her triumph over formidable social discrimination, marginalization along with her struggle to achieve a sense of identity and self-acceptance, all the while maintain with her a wise and magnanimous charisma and undying passion to a humanitarian philosophy that still preaches a loving and forgiving gospel every time the verse of her immortal poetry leaps from the static of the radio or as recited by Whoopi Goldberg on The View.  

These themes were to tie Angelou's writings closely to the concerns of the feminist literary movement, closely associated with the 2nd Wave and the writings of Martha Nussbaum and Simone de Beauvoir. Angelou also incorporates much into her writing her vivid and colorful portrayals of women of immeasurable influence in her life—notably Annie Henderson, the paternal grandmother who helped raise her whom Maya lovingly calls in her poem as ‘Mama’, Mrs. Bertha Flowers, her flamboyant and confident English teacher who helped Angelou recover her speech in the two years of her selective mutism, and her mother, Vivian Baxter.

Critics such as myself have praised Angelou's bombastic and daring style and technique (most notable the cheeky way she uses meter), her icharous but tasteful humor, and insightful illuminations and profoundities of African American history and consciousness through the simple episodic still-life scenes of her personal experiences asportrayed in her works, most famously her 2008 collection of letters, poems and  stories ‘Letters to my Daughter’, detailing the letters from her mother and their relationship together. Angelou lives on, if not in her pages, be it in the din she has struck in the symphony of American literature

            Author’s Notes:

Adoration of this woman aside, I might as well inform of my standing and sociological and historiological observations before I comment any further. I would rather the reader understand what I do as so to avoid the conclusion of me misinterpreting the life, works and achievements of Maya Angelou.

Her achievements and legacy can never be downplayed, though, in her starting years, her success or at the very least, recognition, as a poet came from the simple fact that she was one of a kind; a black woman author- an a successful one at that. The only black poetess of comparable notariaty and success was Phyllis Wheatley, who preceded her by two-hundred years.

People in those times focused more on the fact and awe that a black woman was succeeding in the literary world it is fair to suspect that the public eye was on Maya for the wrong reasons. That the public eye was fixated on the poetess’ skin color rather than her actual words.

So i intend to be purely subjective in the biography, paying especially close and dear attention to the later parts about her earliest work and see it through a purely objective and formalistic sense of the work to strip away the vanity value that has plagued Angelou’s work, but ultimately propelled her to show her own litrary wit and merit later on.

This may be one of the few times in Angelou’s life, or in any African-American’s life for that matter, that racism and the abnormalization of Blacks succeeding might have helped her in her life, work and achievements. Maybe it was not in vain that early on the newspaper refreed to her as the “Black Poetry Lady”

                    Chapter 1: Little Maya

Angelou was born Marguerite Anniue Johnson on April 4, 1928, in St. Louis, Missouri. Her father, Bailey Johnson, was a doorkeeper and naval dietician. He worked in a hotel welcoming customers and patrons in at the door and when war came he served as an assistant to the ship’s physician, taking medicines and vitamins to the soldiers and planning their rations aboard the ship. He retired when the war ended. Despite his low standing, he was a point of pride and someone to look up to for young Maya. He had an air to him that made him look and feel rich and important. When Maya asked her why he felt that way he simply told her that he is simply proud to be his skin color, wherein most people that time still felt insecure for being black.

His sense of humor, however, is unrivaled. He would stay over in the ship’s hammocks at the request of the soldiers who found the conditions of war bleak and depressing. His presence lit the room lighter than all the lamps there. He also and tends to draw people to him, such as any great conversationalist would. When it is time for him to leave, he takes Maya and Bailey with him where he drops them off in St. Louis with the mother they don't know. Maya narrates, 'Our father left St. Louis a few days later for California, and I was neither glad nor sorry. He was a stranger, and if he chose to leave us with a stranger, it was all of one piece.'

T’was a shame Maya never interacted much with this man. But if she did, however, I would not be writing this biography, for I would not now who this woman was, had her fate been any different that it is and has been now. But it might have been for the better. Bailey was a diabolic man. When Maya finally reconnected with him when she moved to California, she only saw her father when he was with Dolores, the girlfriend he had left Vivian for. And when Maya asked for some time with her father, Dolores would rudely interject. Bailey, who liked seeing Maya and his girlfriend Dolores fight and argue, would often bait them into doing so.

Her mother, Vivian Johnson, nee Baxton, was a nurse and realtor. When the job didn’t suite her and her dues where not paid in time, she worked in a hospital and later on the field. After Bailey left her and her kids, she decided to move in with her new sugar daddy, Mr. Freeman. You couldn’t blame her. What was an out of job realtor with no money supposed to do with two hungry mouths to feed? It was her pride or satisfying her children’s grumbling stomachs, and she did not think twice when picking the latter. Angelou's family lived in Missouri, Arkansas, then moved to California when they had the means to during her childhood. Angelou attended public schools and studied music, dance, and drama privately, for would it be known a black child was studying in school meant for whites were to be a travesty, an insult to the elite class.

In young tender age of eight years old, Maya followed her winding toy to her stepfather’s dressing room. He beckoned her in for a word and words escalated into intimacy, something that little Maya did not like. She tried to scream, but freeman’s hands held her mouth closed. When her mother arrived from work, she had found Maya in bed with a fever. When she was asked to get up to take her food and medicine, she refused, saying it hurts every time she does. Later that evening, when Vivian went to bathe her, that’s when she discovered the depravity of her husband as translated in the unamendable scars she found in her daughter’s purity. Later that night, she threw him out. The next day, he came back to beat her and Maya.

Word got out to Maya’s grandmother, and sooner or later, the authorities. Freeman was tried but released, miraculously despite him being black and secured of pedophilia.  However, the violation of little Maya did not sit well at all with her uncles, the sons of Mama Annie how frankly more fatherly figures to little Maya than Freeman ever was. That night, they took a metal bat, the thick end of a picket fence and a golf club to the corner were Freeman often stood to smoke. One of them flicked the cigarette from his mouth, and before he could land a punch, the blunt end of a picket fence spike swept across his face, making him fall back by a few feet. One on the ground, he was helpless. The uncles gathered around him and beat Freeman to death, every blow and lash for every day little Maya were to remember it; the disgusting act this monster had ensued upon her. Unfortunately, by the hundredth strike, Freeman had died; succumbing to the wounds and beating. They tossed his body under an overpass. Found the next day, the uncles convicted after, Maya decide to stay mute for nearly five years; afraid that her voice would do far more harm than all the metal bats, picket fence spikes and golf clubs in the world could ever do. Vivian would never forgive herself after this and only ever spoke to Maya on pieces of paper. On them phrases about mundanities such a breakfast and schoolwork, which soon grew into sentences that Maya would take to school in her lunch pale, which grew into paragraphs that she would read late at night, which finally grew into letters that nearly fifty years later, would be compiles and published detailing the events and emotions between a mother and daughter in the span of five years.

But despite her traumatic experience, it would serve as an impetus for her sexually implicit early myears. She slept around, and for her age then, it was but a slight taboo. She slept with a quarterback and the student-body vice president. No one knows why she did this despite her trauma, but in an autobiographical writing by Angelo herself, she stated that she wanted to affirm her heterosexuality public and personally and she wanted to know what it felt like when she was in control.

She and her brother moved in with their mother once again, who had since moved to Oakland, California. During World War II, Angelou attended the California Labor School to study the liberal Arts and get a degree. But such as any education, it came with significant financial assets in which her preoccupied mother could not assist her with. She would go nights without foos, often biting into her textbooks mistaking them for sandwiches. She needed to find a job before she had completely eaten through her precious and expensive history book, and to be ab le to afford the many others she need.  At the age of 16, she became the first black female cable car conductor in San Francisco. She wanted the job badly, admiring the uniforms of the operators— so much so that her mother referred to it as her "dream job." Her mother encouraged her to pursue the position, but warned her that she would need to arrive early and work harder than others. She never missed a day, never once made a mistake and received a kind comment every time the train engineer window passed by her station.

Despite the job, it did not pay well as much as she had hoped it would have and needed to find something that could keep her up at night and be worth the pay. She then worked as a shake dancer in night clubs, a fry cook in a hamburger joint called ‘Mellies’ where the oil accidentally burnt her arm and left it discolored and blackened, a dinner cook in a Creole restaurant where the owner said she could take one of the boiled crabs for lunch and only one, and once had a job in a mechanic’s shop, taking the paint off cars with her hands. This deeply callused her hands. When President Obama shook her hand, he expressed how her calluses where rougher than his. All this on top of the conducting job to make ends meet. Train conducting was good, but she would often have to borrow books or rent them with the wages she was earning. And with her hours and strict schedule, she would often have to return them before she could even get half way through the book. And so was born, out of necessity more than anything, Miss Calypso.

        Chapter 2: Miss Calyps(h)o

Three weeks after completing school, at the age of 17, she gave birth to her son, Clyde (who later changed his name to Guy Johnson). The father was unknown; the origin of the stereotype. Maya thought that with her new job as a dancer was to be temporary, that she wouldn’t need it anymore after she had finished school. But when Clyde popped out, she crawled back to her old boss who happily took her in and even marketed her. She had too. Clyde was ready to eat solids and she was already fleshed out of milk by then.

In 1951, Angelou married Enistasious ‘Tosh’ Angelos, a Greek electrician, former sailor, and aspiring musician, despite the condemnation of interracial relationships at the time and the disapproval of her mother. This is where Angelou’s humanitarianism and heart truly shines. In the midst of prejudice from both society and her own mother, she found something to love in tosh as Tosh found in her. Her heart knew Tosh and therefore knew no hate.

She took modern dance classes during this time to supplement and embolden her career as a backup dancer then. At that time, she began to socialize and gain connections and met dancers and choreographers Alvin Ailey and Ruth Beckford. Ailey and Angelou formed a dance team, calling themselves "Al and Rita", and performed modern dance at fraternal black organizations throughout San Francisco, but never became successful. They earned decent money, but they did not receive the acclaim and recognition that usually came with it. Angelou, her new husband, and her son moved to New York City so she could study African dance with Trinidadian dancer Pearl Primus, but they returned to San Francisco a year later when Pearl sustained an injury that prevented them from training any longer.

After Angelou's marriage ended in 1954, she danced professionally in clubs around San Francisco, including the nightclub the Purple Onion, where she sang and danced to calypso music, thus her stage name Miss Calypso. One of the comments from her patrons was that they enjoyed hearing calypso music from Maya because it sounded and felt more authentic contrary to when a white woman sang it. Her mangers suggested she change her name to Maya Angelou. Her stage runner and managers reasoned that it was easier to say and rolled off the tongue, something that was important when people started suggesting you to others. She would later use this as her penname in her writing career.

It was a "distinctive name" that set her apart and captured the feel of her calypso dance performances. Her movement was described as ‘flowing, primal and vigorous’, her audience in a cold sweat and cheers after every performance. Makes one wonder where she got those moves from and how different her dance skill would have been without the quarter back and mister student body vice-president back in her teen years. During 1954 and 1955, Angelou toured Europe with a production of the opera Porgy and Bess. She described her time there as hellishly cold. She suffered numerous short bouts of pneumonia and cough from having to perform with little clothing on. She bought a fur coat in Prague which she used to put on each and every time she would go on stage. She would often come to stage with the coat and take it off to throw so that an intern would catch it. And at the end of her performance, the intern would throw it back to her on stage as soon as possible. The audience then did not now that this was due to the cold, and the act of throwing ones coat off stage became iconic, all because Miss Maya couldn’t handle the frigid air of europe.

She began her practice of learning the language of every country she visited, and in a few years she gained proficiency in several languages; specifically, Dutch, Austrian, French, German, Italian, Russian and Spanish.  She enjoyed Spain the most but would still go onstage with coat, which would leave her body sweaty, which oddly enough added to the appeal in her performances. In 1957, riding on the popularity of the calypso genre, Angelou recorded her first album, Miss Calypso, which was reissued as a CD in 1996. She appeared in an off-Broadway review that inspired the 1957 film Calypso Heat Wave, in which Angelou sang and performed her own compositions.

               Chapter 3: The Poetess

Angelou met novelist John Oliver Killens in 1959 and, at his urging, moved to New York to concentrate on her writing career. The fact that she even had a writing career baffled her managers, who were reluctant to let her go, her success in calypso still on a high note. But she assured them that her choice was final and started compiling and editing her poems from her college years and published Why the Caged Bird Sings in 1969, with the namesake poem ‘Caged Bird’ being her first official poem.  She joined the Harlem Writers Guild, where she met several major African-American authors, including John Henrik Clarke, Rosa Guy, Paule Marshall, and Julian Mayfield, and was published for the first time. She respected them, but had a secret dislike for some of them, being too pompous and radical for her taste; often forgetting that being merciful and forgiving the whites was important in achieving racial equality. The comments stopped when Maya invited her ex-husband Tosh to one of the meetings one day.

In 1960, after meeting civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr. and hearing him speak, she and Killens organized the legendary Cabaret for Freedom to benefit the Southern Christian Leadership Conference where she met many clergymen and pastors that condemned racism in their sermons. It was told that whenever a pastor that Maya knew where to sermon, all the white confederate landowners would bow down in shame. They would often ignore and brush it off when a black man complained about it, but they actually started taking it to heart when the pastor started his scathing polemics towards them. Nevertheless, she often advised the pastors to forgive and be merciful as she has been and she was named SCLC's Northern Coordinator in 1972. According to scholar Lyman B. Hagen, her contributions to civil rights as a fundraiser and SCLC organizer were successful and "eminently effective". She was at the ear side of every leader and preacher in every event, her advice and wisdom guided a new Christian theology of love and acceptance. She was supposed to be inducted to the British Quaker’s Humanitarian champion award, but the notice never arrived and Angelou did not know until her death, which by then the organization had been dissolved and the ward rendered meaningless. Angelou also began her pro-Castro and anti-apartheid activism during this time in African Ghana during the apartheid crisis. She accepted a position as an assistant administrator in the School of Music and Drama at the University of Ghana in Africa. Angelou taught and performed in several plays at the university before returning to the U.S. in 1966. Her students described professor Angelou as strict but caring, carrying a stick, but never really hitting anyone. Though her first official poem was “why the caged Bird Sings”, her first draft was for “Still I rise”, which later became the poem it was.

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave

I rise

I rise

I rise

Maya Angelou, "Still I Rise"

This was written in the heat of the apartheid and was her message to the African people to resist, remain loving and kind despite the errors of the white man. He sent the draft to Pastor Desmund Tutu, the famous humanitarian and theologian who spearheaded the anti-apartheid movement after Mandela’s death and even edited it for her, fixing the metric and suggesting to remove the obvious themes of accusation in order to appeal and inspire but not enrage, such was the teachings of Tutu.

    Chapter 4: The Doctor

In 1970, Angelou published her first book, the autobiography ‘I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings’, which focuses on her struggles throughout her formative years and concludes with the birth of her son, Clyde ‘Guy’ Johnson, in 1945. It started, from my speculations and therefore confirming them, her very own speculations of her first works. She knew that she was but a vanity act at first. She was but a figure to look at the height of the apartheid. But she wanted to prove herself. She told others she would recite her poems for the president. Lo and behold, she recited her poem on the inauguration of Bill Clinton. It was said that day that she recited another poem, coming up with it on the spot, but reciting it in perfect metric

Some critics have faulted Angelou's poetry as superficial, citing its dependence on alliteration, heavy use of short lines, and conventional vocabulary. The kind of over simplicity that is often associated with poets of the yesteryears as opposed to a poet of the twenty-first century. She failed, at least in one aspect, to change with the times and was strictly puritan in her prose and poetry. This was seen as to regress poetry but instead became influential, kick starting the traditionalist style of poetry which is still seen and relevant today, albeit less popular than the freeform prose poetry kinds.

Others have praised the honest and candid nature of her poetry, lauding the strength and personal pride within her verse.  She has been described as “if a child with an active imagination had the skill and experience of an adult, such as to Miss Maya with her playful prose and poetry”. Scholars have asserted that Angelou's struggle to create a sense of identity and self-acceptance in both her poetry and prose aligns her firmly within the 2nd feminist literary tradition, often mentioning in her university addresses the influence of French feminist philosopher Simon de Beauvoir and American contemporary feminist philosopher Martha Nuasbaum, who she met and discussed topics with in 2012.

R. B. Stepto has noted the strong female presence in poems such as "And Still I Rise," commenting that "the 'I' of Angelou's refrain is obviously female and … a woman forthright about the sexual nuances of personal and social struggle."

Although some critics fault Angelou's autobiographies as lacking in moral complexity and universality, focusing mainly on one demographic and having no moral compass to align itself with any given set of values, others praise her narrative skills and impassioned responses to the challenges in her life. Many reviewers have acknowledged ‘The Heart of a Woman’ as sharply focused on women's struggles and issues (if the title didn’t already reveal itself to be as such) and as a self-examination of a mature writer and mother, despite her largely immature and erratic young audience. Overall, while the critiques on Angelou's autobiographies have been more favorable than reactions to her poetry, critics such as I generally agree that her writing is an important contribution not only to the autobiography genre, but to American literature as well.

Such as the Sabel Poetry Lady, I suppose…