#he loves belly scratches when he's a centipede...

[lexumpysfunland]

OMG new ref?? yeah, it's about time I updated it, since the way I draw this silly evolves with time I thought I had to update that... yes I'm also working on a ref for Stanley but he will have to wait a little since there is something on it that might give lore... and I want to work on that lore first.

in the meantime, enjoy the silly Narrator being the only menace here

yes, it will evolve again in the future as you guest it.... but for now let's enjoy this until I hate it again :')

[grimmseye]

A Bird in the Hand: Chapter Eight (Interlude)

Read on Ao3 here!

Rating: M

Fandom: Critical Role

Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss, Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast (eventual)

Chapter Characters: Mollymauk Tealeaf, Essek Thelyss, 

Chapter Tags/Warnings: Molly Rez, Amnesiac Mollymauk, Oh My God They Were Roommates, Dissociation, Imagery of bugs on/inside the body, description of corpses/decomposition, Accidental self-harm, non-explicit sexual fantasy (this is unrelated to the previous tags)

I’m behind on posting chapters here. Ao3 is actually caught up to chapter ten as of Just Now, but I’ll be scheduling the next two chapters to post over the next few days.

— — —

When the Nein arrived, Mollymauk listened from his bedroom.

Beauregard, Caleb, Fjord, Jester, Nott, Yasha. The names pounded in his head, nails that refused to be hammered down. One stood out stronger than the rest, the ache deeper, the emptiness more terrifyingly complete, but not one passed without a sharp stutter in his heart.

He died. He had, hadn't he? Somehow the thought had never really, truly clicked. He had been cold and still in the ground, festering amid the worms. Had they made a home of him? Burrowed into his body while the mud dripped into his mouth, boring holes through his flesh and eating at his innards, ants and centipedes all marching their unending parade through the rot underneath his skin, thousands of legs too small to feel and yet there was a crawling deep inside.

He knew what dead bodies looked like. He felt liked he'd created a few himself. The swords he carried had tasted blood that was not his own, and a prickle on his tongue told Mollymauk that he had as well. His body had, at least. This body had done many things that Mollymauk had not. Maybe it was his Other, the echo that had given up his skin, who had brought his teeth to another's flesh to drink their life away.

He gagged, both from the sudden stench of copper he swore he could smell, and from the images it painted. He knew what dead bodies looked like. Molly's hands flew to his belly, prodding at the skin to make sure it felt as it should, a layer of fat softening the muscle underneath, currently smooth and flat as he hadn't eaten a thing. The Nein's presence left his stomach twist into knots too tight to let him get a proper meal. What should have mattered was that his belly was firm, where a corpses would be spongey-soft and bloated with gas, and yet it did not comfort him.

He was alive, but he couldn't convince himself of this. Molly scrabbled at his own jaw to find the pulse beneath it, fluttering far too quickly.

A heartbeat meant life. A beating heart meant pumping blood and blood was the essence of the life was what rooted the soul to the body. That's why they studied it: the blood. That's why they spilled it over their blades and that's why he, the Other, that Lucien, had drank it down, because endless blood meant endless life and an immortal sustained on the blood of those beneath them was unto a god —

Molly didn't realize he was scratching at his arms until he felt himself prick into a vein. The stinging made him wince, suddenly registering the scores of red lines he'd dragged over his forearms, and the one small arc of crimson where a nail had dug too deep.

His throat worked in a swallow. Blood was life. If he bled, he was alive. If he breathed in fresh, clean air, from the open window, then it meant that he wasn't buried feet under the earth with only worms and fungal spores for company.

The voices downstairs went quiet. Mollymauk went still, straining to catch a word. The thought that they were gone should have been a relief. It meant that he could move at last, emerge from this tiny, claustrophobic room that might as well be a coffin.

And it meant he was completely alone.

A panic caught his chest, Molly scrambling to his feet. "Essek!" He shouted. They were gone, weren't they, so it was safe to come out now. They were gone, but so was he, so Mollymauk was all alone with no one to distract him from the gaping wound underneath his ribs.

"Essek!"

No response. Trembling hands wrenched the door open. He thudded down the stairs and nearly toppled in his frenzy. He needed to find Essek. He needed to find someone, anyone, he needed to not be alone, he needed something to fill the empty void in in his chest where a soul was meant to be so he could stop feeling so Empty.

His skin crawled for contact, and he hugged himself tight. No one was there.

Eventually, Mollymauk would slink to a couch and find the thickest, heaviest blanket in the house. He hunkered down in the cushions with it, the soft texture until his fingers grounding and the pressure even better. A warm, living, breathing body was what he needed, but this would work. This would have to be enough.

Essek did return, sooner than expected. He had a parasol in his hand, a lacy pink thing. Mollymauk didn't know if it was relief or despair he felt when the drow strode right by, eyes so firmly fixed on the item in his hands that he hardly even noticed the tiefling on his couch — let alone his trembling. Mollymauk did not miss Essek's own.

If he'd been here five minutes prior, Mollymauk might have scrambled to him. Even now, after catching his breath so just the smallest of tremors seized him between the seconds, he was starving for contact. It would be so warm tucked up against someone else's body. He wanted Essek to hold him. Hell, he would hold Essek himself, the gods knew the drow needed a fucking hug.

Mollymauk would do a lot with Essek, really. He'd happily take any of it. Just a hand, fingers laced together. They were clever hands. Some memory — his own, not the Other's — told him that wizards were good with their hands. Long, nimble fingers, trained to weave odd shapes in the air or paint them in their books. He'd love to just play with his fingers and watch how each section folded in, drag his own over the protrusions of the knuckles and maybe lift Essek's hand to kiss each one.

Kissing Essek was the next thought that flitted into his mind. He let it come and savored it, happy to entertain a fantasy, especially in favor of the panic that seized him before. Essek didn't strike him as one who spent a lot of time in bed with someone else. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that the man had never kissed at all. Either way, Mollymauk thought it would be hesitant at first. It was easy to imagine how Essek would falter, breath fanning out across his lips. Mollymauk would have to cup his face, press slow, chaste kisses to his lips, again and again until the wizard followed suit. Wizards were curious things, and Essek had an attractive dedication to his work. He was sure that he'd get his bearings in no time.

And then there was further. Picking that mantle away, taking a moment to admire him in the garments that clung close to his body. Molly had averted his eyes in the spa, but like this he would be allowed to drink it in. First with his eyes, and then with his hands, his teeth, his tongue. He wondered how Essek would sound. Soft whimpers, maybe. Or could be be noisy once his restraint cracked in half, crying out and panting. Or low growls and hisses of pleasure, his quiet intensity taken to bed.

It would all be music to his ears. But while he knew Essek looked at him — he wasn't blind — somehow he was sure that Essek wasn't going to act on that any time soon.

But the craving wasn't going to go away, either. Now that the thought was lodged in his head, Mollymauk knew what he wanted so badly. It barely scraped against arousal, just desire making him ache. He just wanted to spend a night with the reminder he wasn't alone.

Maybe he'd take a tour around the city, tomorrow, and see if he couldn't find someone to share his bed.

It had been more than enough. Hands on his body to sooth the crawling under his skin, warmth and heat and pressure that became the soul focus of his mind, and a sleep so deep there was no room for nightmares of blood and burials. And with a clear head, Mollymauk came to a conclusion:

Essek Thelyss was difficult to read, and that both impressed and worried him.

Mollymauk was a liar. Spinning tales was as easy as it was fun, and while he might not have been the most charming of trinkets, he knew how to walk the line that bordered absurdity, keep a story just strange enough for someone to want to believe his words were true. The deeper sort of lie, he could manage that as well — deception, not just tall tales, the kind of words that sang of danger in their wake.

Essek wasn't necessarily a liar, as far as Mollymauk could tell, but he was certainly a deceiver. There were gaps in his story, things he didn't like to talk about, subjects he was quick to change.

There was a heavy guilt that followed in his shadow after the Mighty Nein's departure, one that grew deeper as the days passed. Mollymauk wouldn't care about lies — whatever person Essek didn't want to be, that was his business. Molly didn't care for other people's baggage. It was dead weight, best left behind so you could keep moving forward without so much as a glance over the shoulder. But whenever Mollymauk brought up the Nein, he could no longer miss the way that Essek's breath caught, his words stalled, his face pinched.

Essek had a good mask, but Mollymauk was even better at prying them off than he was at wearing his own.

[sarah-samedi]

Tattoo for me / tattoo for you / you have tattoos / and I have some too! 

I got my first tattoo when I was 20 at a parlour that isn’t there anymore: Wylde Tattoos on King St. East. I’d worked for them as a receptionist until my first cosmetic job at Shopper’s Drug Mart came up. It was in the area of art that I wanted to be in, since I was definitely no graphic artist and would never be a tattoo artist, myself.

But I am fair and willing, and make a beautiful canvas, I promise. I’m just too broke to get the tattoos I want. But I digress.

I walked in and the artist looked at me and said “It’s about time I get to tattoo you!” We had already decided what I’d get: the dragon from the Dracula (aka Tepes) family crest. The artist who laid this first piece of ink on me had begged me to get a scorpion of some sort, because astrologically I’m a Scorpio. In hindsight I’m so glad I didn’t.

My parents found out on a double-whammy that I smoked cigarettes and that I had this tattoo at the same time thanks to a photo an ex-boyfriend took. I was holdling the back of my shirt up, a cigarette in my fingers, and the thing my mother was most concerned about was the red rash that formed a perfect square around the ink. It was the reaction I’d had to the adhesive on the bandage they’d placed over the tattoo when it was completed, and I was allergic to it. I still am. Screw you, fabric bandage tape.

I’ve seen people who regret tattoos they’ve gotten; I’ve seen tattoos that I’d regret if they were on me. Misspelled, not well done, etc. I can’t say that all of mine are fantastic, but do I regret any of them? No way, not a one.

My second tattoo came on a whim and was from a parlour named Skinner’s. It was on my hip, and at the time was by far the most painful thing I’d ever experienced. I went with a friend I’d known since primary school, and stretched out on my back having a needle scratch at my opposite-of-lean hip, my artist was kind enough to put on some Slayer for me to relax to.

I’ve had lots of tattoos done in lots of places, both on my body and locations: Cambridge, Kitchener, and all over Hamilton.

My legs were done by an awesome dude in a super comfortable environment. I’d worn a super short black dress to get them done, so they’d have a chance to be comfortable post-inking. Those were painful. I went to a girlfriend’s house afterward, riding the bus, and then vomited and passed out briefly in her bathroom.

I assure you it wasn’t from the tattoos. I was less than six months out from a stage four cancer diagnosis, and losing a lot of blood on a regular basis. The experience, while hella frickin’ painful, was fun, relaxed, with tonnes of good music and good energy. Good energy, yup, so much so that he’s done four of my pieces, including a memorial piece for a much-missed friend.

My stomach was tattooed in May of 2016 after I’d had my stapled removed about three weeks earlier. I wanted something to make my Frankenbelly pretty; I needed it to accept this new and permanent part of my body. Even though it needs to be touched up, I love it and am proud of it. My Mom thought it would be funny for me to get a zipper tab at the top. I debated getting centipede legs and antennae at the top. Yuck, right?

I have pieces dedicated to artists I love and respect, and plan more by others: Rob Zombie, David Lynch, Mike Mignola. For my arms — either when my fiancé learns to tattoo or otherwise in my fantasies — I’ll have two Francesco Francavilla portraits: one of HP Lovecraft and Cthulhu on The Horror Arm (my right arm) and Stephen Hawking on The Science Arm (with my cancer ribbon; my left arm). Also featured on The Science arm will be Neil DeGrasse Tyson and Carl Sagan: more people I emulate and look up to.

The future of my body is mostly planned out, already:

Mirrors on the tops of my thighs, one each to represent the reflection of who I am through my parents, pieces of ink of more dedication, love and respect

The Alien Facehugger, its body wrapped around my right calf, its tail wrapped around my ankle

The solar system on the inside of my right arm, from elbow to wrist, in gorgeous linework and stippling, with the phrase “Onward To The Edge” beneath

Runes from the Necronomicon and Mike Mignola’s mythology to fill the space betwen the pieces on my right arm

The inside of my right wrist will have Rob Zombie’s “More Human Than Human” drawing to go along with the sketch of Mike Mignola’s Sea Witch and the Lords of Salem piece — I like the format of the tattoos seeming rough and hand-drawn

The four main phases of the moon on the insides of my right-handed fingers

A little fox on one of my knuckles

An infinity symbol on the inside of another finger, but on the left

A bow on one of the fingers of my left hand — chemo has left me with a goldfish memory and I forget everything now

That leaves my right arm just above my wrist up to the inside of my elbow free, my left calf, ribs, and around my waist free for more ink. I can’t lie, though, when HK gets his skills down for tattooing, I’ll be friggin’ covered. Sorry, Mom!

I have very little colour in my pieces; only two have colour in them while the rest are either outline, graphic black, or greyscale and black. It was important for my cancer ribbon to have colour, same with the bow on my belly. They’ve played an important part of me learning to love my body again post-surgery, and to show the world that I’m a friggin’ warrior. Hah!

Anyone who donates to HK’s tattoo fund will get equivalent tattoo time when he’s practiced, starting with yours truly.

20 years ago when I got my first tattoo (okay, almost 20 years, let’s not make me older than I actually am), they were stigmatized as something people judged; now it’s commonplace, both good tattoos and bad. I can’t wait for more.

xoxo, Sarah

To be sung in the tune of “Duff Beer” Tattoo for me / tattoo for you / you have tattoos / and I have some too! 

[samuelpboswell]

20 More Dumb Jokes for Smart Marketers

A great pun is like a great digital marketing campaign: If you do it right, it will stick with people until they’re compelled to share it — even the simplest ones require a level of sophistication to make and to appreciate. Every marketer I know is incredibly smart — whether it’s my team at TopRank Marketing, the influencers and thought leaders we work with, or the folks I’ve met at marketing conventions. Marketers are sharp, detail-oriented, intellectually rigorous, and susceptible to flattery. So, if you’re a smart digital or content marketer, take a break from your challenging, rewarding work and enjoy these jokes. And remember: If your colleagues don’t laugh, they’re just not as sophisticated as you.

20 Dumb Jokes for Smart Marketers

1. Q: Why did Dracula add the Creature from the Black Lagoon to his marketing team? A: A-COUNT based marketing…at scale! 2. I made a joke about organic reach on Facebook… nobody got it. 3. My marketer friend quit and started a bakery. I tried to walk in the door and this big swatch of fabric popped up and blocked my way! I backed up; it disappeared. I walked forward, big cloth thing in the way again! “Hey,” I shouted at my friend, “I can’t get in!” “Oh, sorry,” she says, “You have to click on the banner to accept cookies.” 4. I hired an earthworm, a centipede and a millipede to do my email marketing. They’re really good at segmentation. 5. I’ve been retweeted a couple times by Altimeter Group — but I take little Solis in that fact. 6. I’m doing content marketing for a cheese company. We’re creating blog posts and a few grated assets. 7. I like to run all my AB tests in reverse after the first round. I call it AB/BA testing. It’s great, but only works if your target audience are dancing queens, young and sweet, only 17. 8. I have this marketer friend who still believes in last-touch attribution. He just opened a brick-and-mortar store. He says his highest-performing sales rep is the counter in front of the cash register. 9. Knock, knock! Who’s there? Documented content marketing strategy! Documented content marketing strategy who? I’m not surprised you didn’t recognize me… Joe Pulizzi was right. 10. I nicknamed my cat “The Vast Majority of Social Media,” because he doesn’t like me, follow me, or share anything. 11. And I nicknamed my dog “Number of Twitter Followers,” because he doesn’t pay the bills but he makes me feel important. 12. How many CRO experts does it take to change a light bulb? 100 the first time, 98 the second time, 93 the third time, 104 the fourth time, 25 the fifth time…. 13. I handed Scott Brinker my iPhone and he scratched it! Then he picked up my tablet and scratched it, too! He even put a dent in my Google Home! I said, “Scott, what are you doing?” He said, “What I do best: mar tech!” 14. Knock, knock! Who’s there? Brand standards! Brand standards who? Sorry, knock-knock jokes don’t fit our mission and purpose statement. Could you tell this as a light bulb joke instead? 15. I’ve lined up Scooby-Doo, Rin Tin Tin, and Lassie for my latest eBook. I call it influencer barketing. We don’t have signed contracts, but we shook on it. 16. Have you heard about the tech startup trying to disrupt honey marketing? They go on and on about the  “authenticity” of their bees and their “next-generation bleeding-edge hive.” If you ask me, it’s all buzzwords. 17. I’m trying to get in shape, so every time I schedule a post on social media, I do ten push-ups. I’m already getting Buffer. 18. So a social media marketer lost his job and went to work on a farm. He worked hard, but had one weird quirk: every morning, he would do a belly flop into the hog trough! After a few days, the farmer had enough. “You city folks sure are strange,” the farmer said. “Why are you always floppin’ headfirst into the pig slop?” “Sorry, force of habit,” the social media marketer replied. “I’m trying to make an impression in your feed.” 19. Jokes about amplification are only funny if everyone gets them. 20. Hey, pirate marketer, do you have trouble proving that your campaigns generate revenue? “Arr! Oh, aye.”

Great Marketing Is No Joke

I said up top that great puns and great marketing campaigns have a lot in common. Here’s one important difference: A joke is a single discrete unit, meant to score a laugh and then vanish so the next joke can hit. Marketing campaigns work best when they’re an always-on, sustained effort that builds a relationship. So, you should use creativity, humor and even wordplay in your marketing. But don’t just toss out individual jokes and expect them to do the heavy lifting. For example, I wrote ten puns just last week for a client, hoping at least one of them would go viral. Unfortunately… No pun in ten did. Ready for more laughs? Fear not. We got 'em.

20 Jokes Only a B2B Marketer Will Get

20 Jokes Only a Marketer Could Love

The post 20 More Dumb Jokes for Smart Marketers appeared first on Online Marketing Blog - TopRank®.

from The SEO Advantages https://www.toprankblog.com/2018/10/20-smart-marketing-jokes/

[befoundonlinemarketing]

20 More Dumb Jokes for Smart Marketers

A great pun is like a great digital marketing campaign: If you do it right, it will stick with people until they’re compelled to share it — even the simplest ones require a level of sophistication to make and to appreciate. Every marketer I know is incredibly smart — whether it’s my team at TopRank Marketing, the influencers and thought leaders we work with, or the folks I’ve met at marketing conventions. Marketers are sharp, detail-oriented, intellectually rigorous, and susceptible to flattery. So, if you’re a smart digital or content marketer, take a break from your challenging, rewarding work and enjoy these jokes. And remember: If your colleagues don’t laugh, they’re just not as sophisticated as you.

20 Dumb Jokes for Smart Marketers

1. Q: Why did Dracula add the Creature from the Black Lagoon to his marketing team? A: A-COUNT based marketing…at scale! 2. I made a joke about organic reach on Facebook… nobody got it. 3. My marketer friend quit and started a bakery. I tried to walk in the door and this big swatch of fabric popped up and blocked my way! I backed up; it disappeared. I walked forward, big cloth thing in the way again! “Hey,” I shouted at my friend, “I can’t get in!” “Oh, sorry,” she says, “You have to click on the banner to accept cookies.” 4. I hired an earthworm, a centipede and a millipede to do my email marketing. They’re really good at segmentation. 5. I’ve been retweeted a couple times by Altimeter Group — but I take little Solis in that fact. 6. I’m doing content marketing for a cheese company. We’re creating blog posts and a few grated assets. 7. I like to run all my AB tests in reverse after the first round. I call it AB/BA testing. It’s great, but only works if your target audience are dancing queens, young and sweet, only 17. 8. I have this marketer friend who still believes in last-touch attribution. He just opened a brick-and-mortar store. He says his highest-performing sales rep is the counter in front of the cash register. 9. Knock, knock! Who’s there? Documented content marketing strategy! Documented content marketing strategy who? I’m not surprised you didn’t recognize me… Joe Pulizzi was right. 10. I nicknamed my cat “The Vast Majority of Social Media,” because he doesn’t like me, follow me, or share anything. 11. And I nicknamed my dog “Number of Twitter Followers,” because he doesn’t pay the bills but he makes me feel important. 12. How many CRO experts does it take to change a light bulb? 100 the first time, 98 the second time, 93 the third time, 104 the fourth time, 25 the fifth time…. 13. I handed Scott Brinker my iPhone and he scratched it! Then he picked up my tablet and scratched it, too! He even put a dent in my Google Home! I said, “Scott, what are you doing?” He said, “What I do best: mar tech!” 14. Knock, knock! Who’s there? Brand standards! Brand standards who? Sorry, knock-knock jokes don’t fit our mission and purpose statement. Could you tell this as a light bulb joke instead? 15. I’ve lined up Scooby-Doo, Rin Tin Tin, and Lassie for my latest eBook. I call it influencer barketing. We don’t have signed contracts, but we shook on it. 16. Have you heard about the tech startup trying to disrupt honey marketing? They go on and on about the  “authenticity” of their bees and their “next-generation bleeding-edge hive.” If you ask me, it’s all buzzwords. 17. I’m trying to get in shape, so every time I schedule a post on social media, I do ten push-ups. I’m already getting Buffer. 18. So a social media marketer lost his job and went to work on a farm. He worked hard, but had one weird quirk: every morning, he would do a belly flop into the hog trough! After a few days, the farmer had enough. “You city folks sure are strange,” the farmer said. “Why are you always floppin’ headfirst into the pig slop?” “Sorry, force of habit,” the social media marketer replied. “I’m trying to make an impression in your feed.” 19. Jokes about amplification are only funny if everyone gets them. 20. Hey, pirate marketer, do you have trouble proving that your campaigns generate revenue? “Arr! Oh, aye.”

Great Marketing Is No Joke

I said up top that great puns and great marketing campaigns have a lot in common. Here’s one important difference: A joke is a single discrete unit, meant to score a laugh and then vanish so the next joke can hit. Marketing campaigns work best when they’re an always-on, sustained effort that builds a relationship. So, you should use creativity, humor and even wordplay in your marketing. But don’t just toss out individual jokes and expect them to do the heavy lifting. For example, I wrote ten puns just last week for a client, hoping at least one of them would go viral. Unfortunately… No pun in ten did. Ready for more laughs? Fear not. We got 'em.

20 Jokes Only a B2B Marketer Will Get

20 Jokes Only a Marketer Could Love

The post 20 More Dumb Jokes for Smart Marketers appeared first on Online Marketing Blog - TopRank®.

20 More Dumb Jokes for Smart Marketers posted first on http://www.toprankblog.com/

[christopheruearle]

20 More Dumb Jokes for Smart Marketers

A great pun is like a great digital marketing campaign: If you do it right, it will stick with people until they’re compelled to share it — even the simplest ones require a level of sophistication to make and to appreciate. Every marketer I know is incredibly smart — whether it’s my team at TopRank Marketing, the influencers and thought leaders we work with, or the folks I’ve met at marketing conventions. Marketers are sharp, detail-oriented, intellectually rigorous, and susceptible to flattery. So, if you’re a smart digital or content marketer, take a break from your challenging, rewarding work and enjoy these jokes. And remember: If your colleagues don’t laugh, they’re just not as sophisticated as you.

20 Dumb Jokes for Smart Marketers

1. Q: Why did Dracula add the Creature from the Black Lagoon to his marketing team? A: A-COUNT based marketing…at scale! 2. I made a joke about organic reach on Facebook… nobody got it. 3. My marketer friend quit and started a bakery. I tried to walk in the door and this big swatch of fabric popped up and blocked my way! I backed up; it disappeared. I walked forward, big cloth thing in the way again! “Hey,” I shouted at my friend, “I can’t get in!” “Oh, sorry,” she says, “You have to click on the banner to accept cookies.” 4. I hired an earthworm, a centipede and a millipede to do my email marketing. They’re really good at segmentation. 5. I’ve been retweeted a couple times by Altimeter Group — but I take little Solis in that fact. 6. I’m doing content marketing for a cheese company. We’re creating blog posts and a few grated assets. 7. I like to run all my AB tests in reverse after the first round. I call it AB/BA testing. It’s great, but only works if your target audience are dancing queens, young and sweet, only 17. 8. I have this marketer friend who still believes in last-touch attribution. He just opened a brick-and-mortar store. He says his highest-performing sales rep is the counter in front of the cash register. 9. Knock, knock! Who’s there? Documented content marketing strategy! Documented content marketing strategy who? I’m not surprised you didn’t recognize me… Joe Pulizzi was right. 10. I nicknamed my cat “The Vast Majority of Social Media,” because he doesn’t like me, follow me, or share anything. 11. And I nicknamed my dog “Number of Twitter Followers,” because he doesn’t pay the bills but he makes me feel important. 12. How many CRO experts does it take to change a light bulb? 100 the first time, 98 the second time, 93 the third time, 104 the fourth time, 25 the fifth time…. 13. I handed Scott Brinker my iPhone and he scratched it! Then he picked up my tablet and scratched it, too! He even put a dent in my Google Home! I said, “Scott, what are you doing?” He said, “What I do best: mar tech!” 14. Knock, knock! Who’s there? Brand standards! Brand standards who? Sorry, knock-knock jokes don’t fit our mission and purpose statement. Could you tell this as a light bulb joke instead? 15. I’ve lined up Scooby-Doo, Rin Tin Tin, and Lassie for my latest eBook. I call it influencer barketing. We don’t have signed contracts, but we shook on it. 16. Have you heard about the tech startup trying to disrupt honey marketing? They go on and on about the  “authenticity” of their bees and their “next-generation bleeding-edge hive.” If you ask me, it’s all buzzwords. 17. I’m trying to get in shape, so every time I schedule a post on social media, I do ten push-ups. I’m already getting Buffer. 18. So a social media marketer lost his job and went to work on a farm. He worked hard, but had one weird quirk: every morning, he would do a belly flop into the hog trough! After a few days, the farmer had enough. “You city folks sure are strange,” the farmer said. “Why are you always floppin’ headfirst into the pig slop?” “Sorry, force of habit,” the social media marketer replied. “I’m trying to make an impression in your feed.” 19. Jokes about amplification are only funny if everyone gets them. 20. Hey, pirate marketer, do you have trouble proving that your campaigns generate revenue? “Arr! Oh, aye.”

Great Marketing Is No Joke

I said up top that great puns and great marketing campaigns have a lot in common. Here’s one important difference: A joke is a single discrete unit, meant to score a laugh and then vanish so the next joke can hit. Marketing campaigns work best when they’re an always-on, sustained effort that builds a relationship. So, you should use creativity, humor and even wordplay in your marketing. But don’t just toss out individual jokes and expect them to do the heavy lifting. For example, I wrote ten puns just last week for a client, hoping at least one of them would go viral. Unfortunately… No pun in ten did. Ready for more laughs? Fear not. We got 'em.

20 Jokes Only a B2B Marketer Will Get

20 Jokes Only a Marketer Could Love

The post 20 More Dumb Jokes for Smart Marketers appeared first on Online Marketing Blog - TopRank®.

[grimmseye]

A Bird in the Hand: Chapter Eight (Interlude)

Read on Ao3 here!

Rating: M

Fandom: Critical Role

Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss, Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast (eventual)

Chapter Characters: Mollymauk Tealeaf, Essek Thelyss, The Mighty Nein

Chapter Tags/Warnings: Molly Rez, Amnesiac Mollymauk, Oh My God They Were Roommates, dissociation, sensation of bugs under the skin, description of corpses/decomposition, accidental self-harm, (the tags get wild here), non-explicit sexual content, sexual fantasies,

When the Nein arrived, Mollymauk listened from his bedroom.

Beauregard, Caleb, Fjord, Jester, Nott, Yasha. The names pounded in his head, nails that refused to be hammered down. One stood out stronger than the rest, the ache deeper, the emptiness more terrifyingly complete, but not one passed without a sharp stutter in his heart.

He died. He had, hadn't he? Somehow the thought had never really, truly clicked. He had been cold and still in the ground, festering amid the worms. Had they made a home of him? Burrowed into his body while the mud dripped into his mouth, boring holes through his flesh and eating at his innards, ants and centipedes all marching their unending parade through the rot underneath his skin, thousands of legs too small to feel and yet there was a crawling deep inside.

He knew what dead bodies looked like. He felt liked he'd created a few himself. The swords he carried had tasted blood that was not his own, and a prickle on his tongue told Mollymauk that he had as well. His body had, at least. This body had done many things that Mollymauk had not. Maybe it was his Other, the echo that had given up his skin, who had brought his teeth to another's flesh to drink their life away.

He gagged, both from the sudden stench of copper he swore he could smell, and from the images it painted. He knew what dead bodies looked like. Molly's hands flew to his belly, prodding at the skin to make sure it felt as it should, a layer of fat softening the muscle underneath, currently smooth and flat as he hadn't eaten a thing. The Nein's presence left his stomach twist into knots too tight to let him get a proper meal. What should have mattered was that his belly was firm, where a corpses would be spongey-soft and bloated with gas, and yet it did not comfort him.

He was alive, but he couldn't convince himself of this. Molly scrabbled at his own jaw to find the pulse beneath it, fluttering far too quickly.

A heartbeat meant life. A beating heart meant pumping blood and blood was the essence of the life was what rooted the soul to the body. That's why they studied it: the blood. That's why they spilled it over their blades and that's why he, the Other, that Lucien, had drank it down, because endless blood meant endless life and an immortal sustained on the blood of those beneath them was unto a god —

Molly didn't realize he was scratching at his arms until he felt himself prick into a vein. The stinging made him wince, suddenly registering the scores of red lines he'd dragged over his forearms, and the one small arc of crimson where a nail had dug too deep.

His throat worked in a swallow. Blood was life. If he bled, he was alive. If he breathed in fresh, clean air, from the open window, then it meant that he wasn't buried feet under the earth with only worms and fungal spores for company.

The voices downstairs went quiet. Mollymauk went still, straining to catch a word. The thought that they were gone should have been a relief. It meant that he could move at last, emerge from this tiny, claustrophobic room that might as well be a coffin.

And it meant he was completely alone.

A panic caught his chest, Molly scrambling to his feet. "Essek!" He shouted. They were gone, weren't they, so it was safe to come out now. They were gone, but so was he, so Mollymauk was all alone with no one to distract him from the gaping wound underneath his ribs.

"Essek!"

No response. Trembling hands wrenched the door open. He thudded down the stairs and nearly toppled in his frenzy. He needed to find Essek. He needed to find someone, anyone, he needed to not be alone, he needed something to fill the empty void in in his chest where a soul was meant to be so he could stop feeling so Empty.

His skin crawled for contact, and he hugged himself tight. No one was there.

Eventually, Mollymauk would slink to a couch and find the thickest, heaviest blanket in the house. He hunkered down in the cushions with it, the soft texture until his fingers grounding and the pressure even better. A warm, living, breathing body was what he needed, but this would work. This would have to be enough.

Essek did return, sooner than expected. He had a parasol in his hand, a lacy pink thing. Mollymauk didn't know if it was relief or despair he felt when the drow strode right by, eyes so firmly fixed on the item in his hands that he hardly even noticed the tiefling on his couch — let alone his trembling. Mollymauk did not miss Essek's own.

If he'd been here five minutes prior, Mollymauk might have scrambled to him. Even now, after catching his breath so just the smallest of tremors seized him between the seconds, he was starving for contact. It would be so warm tucked up against someone else's body. He wanted Essek to hold him. Hell, he would hold Essek himself, the gods knew the drow needed a fucking hug.

Mollymauk would do a lot with Essek, really. He'd happily take any of it. Just a hand, fingers laced together. They were clever hands. Some memory — his own, not the Other's — told him that wizards were good with their hands. Long, nimble fingers, trained to weave odd shapes in the air or paint them in their books. He'd love to just play with his fingers and watch how each section folded in, drag his own over the protrusions of the knuckles and maybe lift Essek's hand to kiss each one.

Kissing Essek was the next thought that flitted into his mind. He let it come and savored it, happy to entertain a fantasy, especially in favor of the panic that seized him before. Essek didn't strike him as one who spent a lot of time in bed with someone else. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that the man had never kissed at all. Either way, Mollymauk thought it would be hesitant at first. It was easy to imagine how Essek would falter, breath fanning out across his lips. Mollymauk would have to cup his face, press slow, chaste kisses to his lips, again and again until the wizard followed suit. Wizards were curious things, and Essek had an attractive dedication to his work. He was sure that he'd get his bearings in no time.

And then there was further. Picking that mantle away, taking a moment to admire him in the garments that clung close to his body. Molly had averted his eyes in the spa, but like this he would be allowed to drink it in. First with his eyes, and then with his hands, his teeth, his tongue. He wondered how Essek would sound. Soft whimpers, maybe. Or could be be noisy once his restraint cracked in half, crying out and panting. Or low growls and hisses of pleasure, his quiet intensity taken to bed.

It would all be music to his ears. But while he knew Essek looked at him — he wasn't blind — somehow he was sure that Essek wasn't going to act on that any time soon.

But the craving wasn't going to go away, either. Now that the thought was lodged in his head, Mollymauk knew what he wanted so badly. It barely scraped against arousal, just desire making him ache. He just wanted to spend a night with the reminder he wasn't alone.

Maybe he'd take a tour around the city, tomorrow, and see if he couldn't find someone to share his bed.

It had been more than enough. Hands on his body to sooth the crawling under his skin, warmth and heat and pressure that became the soul focus of his mind, and a sleep so deep there was no room for nightmares of blood and burials. And with a clear head, Mollymauk came to a conclusion:

Essek Thelyss was difficult to read, and that both impressed and worried him.

Mollymauk was a liar. Spinning tales was as easy as it was fun, and while he might not have been the most charming of trinkets, he knew how to walk the line that bordered absurdity, keep a story just strange enough for someone to want to believe his words were true. The deeper sort of lie, he could manage that as well — deception, not just tall tales, the kind of words that sang of danger in their wake.

Essek wasn't necessarily a liar, as far as Mollymauk could tell, but he was certainly a deceiver. There were gaps in his story, things he didn't like to talk about, subjects he was quick to change.

There was a heavy guilt that followed in his shadow after the Mighty Nein's departure, one that grew deeper as the days passed. Mollymauk wouldn't care about lies — whatever person Essek didn't want to be, that was his business. Molly didn't care for other people's baggage. It was dead weight, best left behind so you could keep moving forward without so much as a glance over the shoulder. But whenever Mollymauk brought up the Nein, he could no longer miss the way that Essek's breath caught, his words stalled, his face pinched.

Essek had a good mask, but Mollymauk was even better at prying them off than he was at wearing his own.