#dr. oz

[antifainternational]

[dontmean2bepoliticalbut]

[illbedancingwithmyself]

[urbanclictionary]

I’m so glad fetterman won bc now I can get my methadone at Starbucks

[arctic-hands]

I don't trust any doctor Oprah makes a show for. She doesn't have a great track record there

[whatareyoureallyafraidof]

For Dr. Oz; from Pennsylvania.

[celttim]

[cuntyko]

what is bro even going on about? dr oz what are you even doing?

[drmonkeysetroscans]

Get Doctor Strange.

[bestjeanistmonster]

Oz au- before his true intentions were known, Dr Robotnik was a member of the emerald city council and headmaster of the school of magic Sonic and Tails attended

All of Oz, including Tails, thought that jolly man was incredible and wonderful

Sonic didn’t like his vibe.

[tomorrowusa]

Yeah, Trump is blaming Melania for GOP difficulties in the midterm elections. 

According to multiple reports, Donald Trump is in the midst of an hours-long meltdown, given the number of candidates he endorsed who have lost, and the fact that a GOP sweep would have positioned him well to announce a 2024 run for the White House. “Trump is livid” and ”screaming at everyone,” an adviser to the ex-president told CNN’s Jim Acosta Wednesday morning, with the adviser adding that his boss only had himself to blame for backing “bad candidates.”

Likewise, Maggie Haberman tweeted that Trump “is indeed furious this morning, particularly about Mehmet Oz,” who lost to John Fetterman in Pennsylvania, despite conservatives claiming Fetterman is brain-dead. According to Haberman, the 45th president “is blaming everyone who advised him to back Oz” and, hilariously, that blame apparently extends to Melania Trump, whose recommendation to back Oz Trump has reportedly described “as not her best decision.” (You know, up there with the one she made, as a young Eastern European model, to marry a gasbag real estate developer and move into the penthouse where he’d clearly told the decorator, “I want it to be like gold threw up in here.”) Oh, to be a fly on the ketchup-stained walls of Mar-a-Lago tonight!

Haberman also noted on Wednesday that “there are people pushing Trump to reschedule his [2024] announcement next week,” in light of the poor showing by his candidates of choice, though that might be unlikely to happen given that it “would be acknowledging he’s wounded by yesterday.” Trump, of course, will never admit that he screwed up and that the only one he has to blame here is himself.

I can’t wait for what his niece, psychologist Mary Trump, has to say about this latest narcissistic outburst by Uncle Donald.

Let’s hope he doesn’t delay his announcement to run in 2024. The GOP civil war between Trump and DeSantis can’t start too soon.

[gifs-of-puppets]

The Muppet Show (1976-1981)

[liongrl321]

Hey Wicked Fandom,

if Dr. Dillamond was married to a guy what do you think he should be?

(I cant wait for the Wicked movie to come out fr)

[owlespresso]

dogged pursuit. mr dr sir veritas ratio. p4 of ? / part 1, part 2, part 3 summary: you've been appointed as the bodyguard of one doctor veritas ratio after a failed attempt on his life. he's easy to get along with, so long as you learn when to plug your ears and focus on his washboard abs. tags: mentioned violence but nothing huge

It was bound to happen at some point. You’d been hired because someone tried to put their hands on him, and it was assumed that they—or someone else silly enough to nurture a grudge against him, would try again. In hindsight, you should have seen it coming. 

“Is there nothing in that head of yours!? You could have been killed!” his voice cracks across the living room. He’s pacing back and forth in front of the chair where you’re splayed out, limbs hanging off the arm like a bendy willow’s branches.

“Awh, Doc, were you worried about me?” you drawled. You’re not sure what he’s talking about. There might be a few, smarting bruises on your ribs from the scuffle, but you’d done your job. 

There had been a yacht excursion earlier today—one he’d practically been forced to attend because someone important to his project was there. You’re not sure of the specifics of what happened yourself. They were rabble rousers dressed in IPC uniforms who sneaked aboard. The identities of the perpetrators will be sorted out by the folks in charge and handed to you later. All you know is that they’d been trying to put their hands on him. And now, some of them don’t have hands at all.

If anything, you’ve been worried that your display of excessive violence frightened him. He’s been clammed up the whole walk back. The kind of quiet that typically preludes a massive scolding—but this time was different. He hadn’t even looked at you. The  absence of that broiling glare worried you more than the glare itself ever has.

His mouth balls up, like he’s trying to keep the emotion off his face.

Though you often say you know he can take care of himself, that you know he’s a capable fighter himself—sometimes you really do forget. He moves fast, too fast for your weary eyes to track, and those big hands clap on either side of your face. He smushes your cheeks as he ducks into your space, leveling you with the meanest look you've ever seen.

“Of course I was worried! They were armed, you blithering idiot! With rudimentary weapons—but weapons nonetheless! What were you thinking, engaging them hand-to-hand!?” he seethes, and all you can do is stare at him, hapless and helpless as he continues. “When will you get it through your thick skull that I want you alive!?”

You sit up, resting your clenched hands on your thighs, spine ramrod straight as he chews you out. You’ve never had a wife, before, or a mother, but you imagine this is what it feels like to be scolded by either one. He stands above you, his arm crossed. There’s a visible tick to his brow, and a twitch to his eye that you haven’t seen since another IPC representative spilled a mojito all over his expensive silk shirt. 

“You… care about me,” you repeated, blinking slowly at him.

He huffs, looking thoroughly put out. “Did you think I wished you dead? I don't know where you got the impression that I'm such a heartless monster—but I do... care. About all forms of life. I don't think it's a very far reach to say that no one should be stabbed to death and left to bleed out. Especially while surrounded by such insufferable company. Knowing them, they would only complain about how the blood has stained their suits—"

The gears in your head churn, slow as molasses. Memories filter through your hazy headspace, watery and floating, like motes of dust in the afternoon sun. Veritas always having a cup of coffee ready for you in the morning. Veritas herding you off the couch and into the second bedroom, barking at you to get a good night’s sleep. Veritas. Veritas. Veritas.

“Doc,” you say, voice trembling. He leans in. His expression softens, his brows wrinkling with concern. “I think we have to get married.”

It’s almost comical, how quick his face flattens. His hands collapse back to his side as he turns away, heading towards the staircase in long, brisk strides. 

You cry out and fling yourself after him, fingers catching the tail ends of flowing, pearlescent robes. Pride be damned, you’re not letting him go after that admission—getting him to talk about his feelings is like prying teeth, unless it has anything to do with his mission statement. Something has shifted between the two of you, your dynamic changes irrevocably by his impassioned declaration. You want to see him make that face again—the one on the boat, when he’d watched you get hit in the gut. His eyes had gone real wide, face almost blank with surprise.

You want to see him make all sorts of faces. The days where all he shows you is that same, stony countenance far gone. 

“Wait, wait! I’ll be more careful, I promise!” you wail, clinging onto the ends of his robe.

“You—!” he fumes, pulling at the fabric. He shuffles around, his brows furrowed and lips pulled into a thin, straight line. He looks at you like that, real stern, for a few more seconds before the wind seems to wane from his sails. His shoulders slump. “Instead of a knife, it could have been a gun, or any projectile weapon that could have incapacitated you before you even reached them.” He says, combing his fingers through his hair. It’s already tousled from the wind out on the seas. He does this whenever he’s nervous, you realize, and wonder just how much there is of him to explore. “Get up. And get changed. There’s blood all over your sleeves. The leather’s already ruined.” He grouses. 

He bends over and his robes shift with the motion, providing you a glance at his other nipple, firm and rosy. Your mouth waters. Your brain feels like it’s about to melt out of your skull.

His hand wraps around your wrist, long fingers clutching you tight as he draws you to your feet. It’s almost completely unaided. Effortless. A look of the power packed within those flexing muscles. 

“Now go,” your awe-inspired reverie is cut short as he releases you. He snatches his hands back from your person and gives them a cursory look over. “This is a rental. I don’t want you staining the upholstery.”

“Psh. You just wanna see me out of this jacket, don’t ya?” you sneer, poking his calf with the tip of your boot. You oblige him anyways. The black leather crumples to the pale wooden floor in a heap. Your boots, at his insistence, are placed next to the door, right up against the wall. “That good enough? It’s pretty hot today. I could stand to lose a few more layers.” It’s not your intention to be this incorrigible. Old habits are hard to kick, especially when he always gives you such animated reactions.

He lifts his head, probably just to look down his nose at you. “Do as you please,” he says. He pauses, hesitating, before letting loose another great sigh. “But you have to sit down and rest. You may not be hurting now, but the adrenaline won’t last forever. So wash off and make yourself comfortable now, while you still can, before the pain sets in—”

He continues to rattle on. You half-listen, more than happy to bask in his attention while you watch his lips move.

[celttim]