#like the dead parrot sketch

[aurorasleepsin]

Love this post.

It starts off with a very reasonable argument for being scruffy after being alone hiking- Good job Op.

Then there is a drawing to illustrate the excellent point. Even better way to literally illustrate your very good argument.

But

There is a raccoon on his head.

And you ask yourself, is that a raccoon skin cap like Davy Crockett and children in 1950s America wore. You hope not, but that is probably the most reasonable explanation.

But you are not alone.

The raccoon is too good not to mention. Too good not to have a backstory. Too good not to have a story.

Until it is a full fledged part of the friggin trilogy of the LoTR movies.

He is the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, but without the plot to murder the prince.

He is a character of Shakespeare stolen from Ovid to now grace our dashboard as the Raccoon we needed and deserved in LoTR. He is of the people. He is folkore within beloved literature. He is

I saw a post saying that Boromir looked too scruffy in FotR for a Captain of Gondor, and I tried to move on, but I’m hyperfixating. Has anyone ever solo backpacked? I have. By the end, not only did I look like shit, but by day two I was talking to myself. On another occasion I did fourteen days’ backcountry as the lone woman in a group of twelve men, no showers, no deodorant, and brother, by the end of that we were all EXTREMELY feral. You think we looked like heirs to the throne of anywhere? We were thirteen wolverines in ripstop.

My boy Boromir? Spent FOUR MONTHS in the wilderness! Alone! No roads! High floods! His horse died! I’m amazed he showed up to Imladris wearing clothes, let alone with a decent haircut. I’m fully convinced that he left Gondor looking like Richard Sharpe being presented to the Prince Regent in 1813

*electric guitar riff*

And then rocked up to Imladris a hundred ten days later like

[hballegro]

ill be chillin and then my brain will start goin IT'S NOT PININ', IT'S PASSED ON! THIS PARROT IS NO MORE! IT HAS CEASED TO BE! IT'S EXPIRED AND GONE TO MEET ITS MAKER! THIS IS A LATE PARROT! IT'S A STIFF! BEREFT OF LIFE, IT RESTS IN PEACE- IF YOU HADN'T NAILED IT TO THE PERCH, IT WOULD BE PUSHING UP THE DAISIES- ITS RUN DOWN THE CURTAIN AND JOINED THE CHOIR INVISIBLE! THIS. IS AN EX-PARROT.

[diloph]

SOMEBODY, PLEASE, SAVE THE MONSTERS

I’m picking my way through some of the Aliens novels/comics in the post-Prometheus/Covenant era and maaaaan, does the quality of them vary.

Like retcons of movie-era, Dark Horse-era and AVP-adjacent (to say nothing of the things like the noncanon DC crossovers) are one thing, but there’s bits that they just straight up contradict each other within the same timeframe.

For example, in a recent-ish comic, Russ Jorden, Newt’s father, turns up in a cryotube beneath the ruins of Hadley’s Hope. He’s still infected and dies at the end of it... despite the fact that Newt has already seen him die with her own two eyes in the recent-ish novel, River of Pain.

Had this not been the case, you could quite logically say he was infected, frozen, somebody else birthed the Queen and the job’s a good’un. How he survived the fucking nuclear explosion is another gripe, but I digress.

It’s putting me off. Other future prospects don’t look like solid purchases, sadly. I’ve not gotten to them yet, but apparently there’s stuff like a human using the Black Prometheus Goo to turn into a Xenomorph Queen with all their faculties, the goo somehow infecting the Xenomorphs despite the fact that it subtracts from them as bioengineered killing machines hinted to been birthed from the stuff...

Then again, the last one I read featured an extended Boris Johnson/Brexit parody, a space battle and some hate towards the Dead Parrot sketch, so we’re evidently grasping the stupid ball that the Predator dropped, apparently...

It’s making the silliest of the Dark Horse stuff look sensible and that’s a hell of a feat.

[kinonostalgie]

Sir Michael Palin, a revered figure in British entertainment, is celebrated for his remarkable versatility as an actor, writer, comedian, and travel documentarian. Born on May 5, 1943, in Sheffield, Yorkshire, Palin first gained fame as a member of the groundbreaking comedy group Monty Python. His work with Monty Python, which began in the late 1960s, is iconic, with Palin contributing to some of the most memorable sketches and characters in British comedy history.

Palin's talent for comedy was evident in his various roles in "Monty Python's Flying Circus," where he showcased his ability to deliver both absurd and subtle humour. His performances in sketches like the "Dead Parrot" sketch and the "Ministry of Silly Walks" are legendary. Monty Python's transition from television to film further cemented their status, with Palin playing key roles in classics such as "Monty Python and the Holy Grail," "Life of Brian," and "The Meaning of Life."

Beyond Monty Python, Palin's career flourished in diverse directions. He became an acclaimed travel documentarian, known for his engaging and insightful travel series. Beginning with "Around the World in 80 Days" in 1989, Palin embarked on a series of epic journeys that captivated audiences. His warm, personable style and genuine curiosity about the world and its people made series like "Pole to Pole," "Full Circle," and "Himalaya" hugely popular. These travelogues not only showcased his wit and charm but also his respect and fascination for different cultures.

In addition to his television work, Palin has authored several travel books that complement his series, offering deeper reflections on his adventures. His writing extends to fiction as well, with novels such as "Hemingway's Chair" and "The Truth" showcasing his literary prowess.

Palin's contributions to entertainment and culture have been widely recognised. He was knighted in 2019 for his services to travel, culture, and geography. This honour reflects not only his impact on comedy and television but also his role as an ambassador for cultural understanding and exploration.

Sir Michael Palin's career is a testament to his extraordinary talent and versatility. Whether making audiences laugh with his brilliant comedic performances, enlightening them with his travel documentaries, or engaging them with his writing, Palin's work continues to be cherished by fans around the world. His enduring legacy is one of creativity, curiosity, and a profound appreciation for the richness of human experience.

[yonderghostshistories]

Actually i think there was a family guy cutaway which parodied the MPFC opening intro

https://youtu.be/PVTM5pCPax0?si=yI5GAlJryFvLdQ8V

Also there was a cutaway gag about how one of the characters idk which forced Meg to watch the lesser known/"unfunny" (???) stuff python made but Meg didnt like it because shes a girl, so yeah, unfunny sexist gag...

Plus South Park paid homage to Monty Python also . I think its great how MP wasnt really parodied because frankly i think it would be shitty n not rlly funny ... Glad i could help you out !

Thank you kind anon!!

oh yeah I saw the intro a while ago, but still thank you for linking it here!!! I found it was really cool and I like the aesthetic of it frfr!!

Plus the slightly longer version w/the It’s Man in the beginning

Ok so I just watched it, and tbh….idk how to feel about it tbh. Why does Meg not liking Monty Python have to do with her being a girl? I’m a (cis*) girl (*who’s currently questioning their gender but am somewhat certain that I’m transmasc, but still my point stands) and I like Monty Python, hell I think most of MP’s somewhat “unfunny” material is still kinda decent in a way (but again that’s just me personally lol). Is the joke supposed to be that girls don’t understand nor find MP funny? If it is, then that’s clearly a false assumption, as me and many of my online friends (who are mostly girls (plus boys too), as well as queer and trans, non-binary & gnc people) find it really hilarious fr! Again the joke in the cutaway gag doesn’t make sense imo, maybe I am missing smth in the joke and if so do let me know!

Also yes I am aware that some people aren’t into Monty Python or that it isn’t their personal preference, and that’s totally ok imo like I’m cool with that (even if it does baffle me lol 😂) Overall tho this cutaway gag just doesn’t make that much sense imo. I haven’t watched that much Family Guy tbh (only some episodes here & there from time to time, including some clips) but uhh yeah. Thank you for reading this really long ramble of mine on dissecting on that one particular ehh MP cutaway gag lmao 🤣

Link to the video btw :

Oh yeah fr!! I’m assuming you’re referring to the time that South Park (and Matt Stone & Trey Parker) were featured in the 30th Anniversary Special of MPFC from 1999 (called “Monty Python Night”), where the South Park team paid homage to the “Dead Parrot” sketch, with Kenny as the Dead Parrot (or rather, the Dead Friend), Cartman as Mr Praline, and Kyle as The Shopkeeper! It was very funny fr tbh and I love how (animated) Terry G pops up near the end lol 😂

(plus Matt & Trey apparently uhh “kidnapping” Terry G’s mum, also in the 1999 30th Anniversary special “Monty Python Night”)

ALSO ALSO

South Park’s animation style as a whole is an homage to the Terry G paper cut animation style too, which is really cool fr imo!!

ALSO ALSO Also

Eric Idle was featured in the movie “South Park : Bigger, Longer & Uncut” (1999) as the character Dr Vosknocker !

Also anon I get where you’re coming from on the thing of not there being any Monty Python parodies as they would probably not be that funny and also kinda shitty. Yeah ig that’s kinda true. However, I’d personally still be interested in seeing an actual parody of Monty Python tbh, but again that’s just me personally lol.

Again thank you dearest anon for this lovely ask!! I deffo love & appreciate it frfr 🙏❤️

[peskybirdenjoyer]

and in a hazy day dream (our bodies marry the stream)

At first, Scar had almost missed the two of them, Mumbo and Grian laying in the wheat by the fishing doc. Despite how stark the deep reds and blacks of their clothes were, they were almost hidden by the tall, golden stalks, completely surrounded by the ever-growing fields.

It was clearly a serene sort of moment, with the two of them beside each other, the world around them so quiet that they were left with only the sound of the wind rushing through the tillers and the water brushing up to the shore. Scar couldn't help but wonder if he had ever heard the Hermitcraft so quiet; even in the middle of the night, he swore he could hear the buzz of elytra soaring past and the wooshing of portals opening and closing. Here and now, however, even the thrum of magic seemed to temper down into a gentle hum.

Mumbo and Grian seemed to be making the most of the quiet, spending their afternoon sunken into the sandy soil. If Scar squinted, he could've sworn that the two of them were swaying gently, as if following the patterns of the crop around them. Grian's hair seemed to slowly fade to the pale tint of wheat, one strand at a time, and the tips of Mumbo's fingers lengthened out into the flowers at the head of the tillers.

Scar shook his head, looking away to the water for a moment. His mind simply must've been playing tricks on him, merging the stocks of the wheat and the figures of his dear friends in his brain, confused by how the rows of crop obscured their forms. When he shifted his gaze back to their place in the field, the plant-like features of his friends were no more. Mumbo and Grian were there, looking as they always did, laying in the field once more...

Except the freckles that dotted Mumbo's face didn't quite look like freckles anymore. They were much brighter, with a slight scarlet glow, shimmering almost identically to the redstone dust that the man carried around in a small pouch. And Grian's nose had begun to gleam as well, angular as always but with the same form as a golden carrot, the type he always kept handy for a snack while building. When a grin grew across his face, seemingly full of content from the serene beauty of the day, it seemed that his teeth were made of nether quartz, gleaming as though all of the netherrack dust had been scrubbed away. And Mumbo's cheeks had grown rosy, with a sheen that made it appear as if the juice of a glistening melon had been brushed onto his skin.

Scar blinked, unsure if the glare of the sun had been messing with his vision, only to open his eyes and see that the forms of his friends had disappeared altogether, replaced with the forms of two ocelots, curled around each other as they lazed in the sun. Their speckled yellow coats practically melded together as they laid, hidden amongst the wheat.

Scar blinked, and was met with the figures of two bees, circling each other with wings aflutter. Another blink, and the form of a shulker was resting, with a chirping parrot perched upon his shell. Another blink, two sniffers were laid upon the soil, one with its head and beak resting on the other's back. Another blink, a goat with a frog sat on its head, right between its horns.

Scar blinked one final time, and there they were, the forms of two skeletons, bones all criss-crossed, looking as they had been decomposing for centuries, their stark white a strong contrast to the fields. They laid there, intertwined, utterly confused in where their own bones ended and the other's started. Clutched in their flesh-less hands were everything one could ever want, pouches of redstone dust and books full of architectural sketches and flint to light the nether portal and rockets to take off into flight and seed to feed the birds and-- beyond all else, above anything more-- each other's cold, dead hand.

Before his very eyes, Scar saw every item fade away, and he watched as the flesh and blood of his friends returned to their eternal selves, side by side, fingers intertwined, laying in the wheat field. There was no indication that they had noticed a thing, entirely undisturbed in their quiet afternoon by the water.

As if sensing his presence, Grian's eyes opened, and he leaned up, propmting Mumbo to follow his lead. In their half-reclined states, they looked over to Scar, standing on his own by the dock, eyes still firmly upon his friends. They grinned, bright as nether quartz, and their eyes shone with the all-encompassing type of adoration that made Scar feel as though he had never witnessed true love until he saw the way Mumbo and Grian directed it at every person, every mob, every book and flower and speck of redstone dust.

"Scar!" Grian called, and his voice sounded like bees buzzing and note blocks singing. "Come join us!"

Mumbo nodded, like tulips swaying or phantoms swooping, and made a beckoning motion that Scar could've sworn was controlling the wind.

Scar couldn't help the way his legs pulled him forwards, as weak as kelp to the whims of his two lovers. It was barely a journey before he found himself in the fields of wheat, traversing the stalks to reach them. He didn't need a clock to tell that it was even shorter until he was pulled down between them, cradled by the sides of Grian and Mumbo-- so full of love, so full of adoration, so full of care for their home, their friends, their entire world that they had become one with it.

In time, Scar wondered if he could become one with it too.

[storybenderstudios]

*shoves this TERRIBLE sketch of human Ajaw at certain people (cough, @sapphireshineauthor cough) and runs like my life depends on it* AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Ok so finals are arriving, plus all my classes decided that their last test before finals just simply had to be one week before said finals, so I'm literally swimming in tests right now.

And projects. Lots and lots of autoethnographies and lots and lots of Biology haikus. Nice. Not a lot of drawing time, since I've been prioritizing my gaming (400 free primos from exploration with saurians that can fly, this is literally the fastest I've ever explored a region. Fontaine can't come close.)

So explaining the design... Since Ajaw is sort of a rogue, I went with the treasure hoarders' bandanas, bcs, aha, Dragons hoard things. Also I went with a colorful (eventually) patterned tunic because Ajaw would be a parrot if he was IRL and he seems like the type of person to wear orange with purple on a daily basis and think he look cool. I'm dead serious. (nothing wrong with purple and orange when done right, I'm talking neon.) And that's pretty much it. I'm still not sure how much I like this. As it turns out, drawing a pixel dragon and turning a pixel dragon into a human version are two entirely separate beasts. Same goes for dragon Kinich versus human Kinich. My fucks are given. Wtf these two have no right to have such unforgiving designs.

Anyways, the hydro dragon, Monsieur Neuvillette returns December 10th, and with my 55 pity, 108 wishes and a guarantee, he's coming home! Yay! My only concern is that since I'm f2p I will have to skip Mavuika or Citali....or both, because Arlecchino is rumored to be coming back in the same banner as Mavuika... Fuck this terrible banner system.

[thehistoryone]

Hey! 💚 I'd like to ask, if that's okay, how did you get into Monty Python? I'm curious :)

Ooh good question! I mean being British monty python is a big part of culture/comedy over here and they've influenced lots of my fav stuff (six idiots). Also we once did the entire "what have the Romans ever done for us" sketch in a class assembly haha. so yeah I'm pretty sure I watched life of Brian first cuz I'd seen clips/refs to it and then saw some of the famous sketches (dead parrot/lumberjack) and went from there 😁😁

[gacmediadaily]

Dan Merchant is a veteran writer, producer, director best known for SyFy’s Z Nation and his documentary feature Lord, Save Us From Your Followers. His latest series Going Home is produced in association with Sony AFFIRM Originals for Great American Pure Flix. 

We don’t like to talk about death in America. Oh sure, we’re fine with death in our entertainment so long as we don’t have to talk about it. We sit entranced as our favorite TV doctors valiantly battle the ultimate foe with Hail Mary surgical procedures and impassioned cries of “Get me 10cc’s of morphine. Stat!” Every existential threat is met with aggressive, decisive action rather than contemplation for as every TV viewer knows there is no greater shame for the TV doctor than to lose a patient (especially one portrayed by a featured guest star). 

That was my conclusion, anyway. Now, my family didn’t do any better when it came to acknowledging death. We didn’t talk about it, even when people died. I grew up going to church and I’d heard talk of heaven but the “Auntie Marge is in a better place now” party line was contradicted by the sad faces and somber mood at her funeral. Puzzling. But at the age of 8, television provided valuable illumination when PBS aired Monty Python’s “Dead Parrot” sketch: I soon understood Auntie Marge was “no more, has ceased to be, expired and gone to see her maker.” She was, indeed, an “ex-aunt.” Eavesdropping on Michael Palin and John Cleese as they debated death was oddly reassuring and, on quiet nights, I still catch myself “pining for the Fjords.”

Fast forward to present day, I now have the pleasure of talking about death at work every day. The conversations are startling, refreshing and deeply meaningful. I should explain I’m not a grief counselor or a mortician, I’m the creator/showrunner of the tender drama Going Home which follows hospice nurse Charley Copeland (Northern Exposure’s Cynthia Geary) as she walks her clients “home” to their final reward. 

Now in our second season on Great American Pure Flix, Going Home may be the only medical drama in TV history NOT trying to save the patient and that is a surprisingly beautiful thing. At Going Home we talk about death a lot – and not just on screen. We talk about death in the writer’s room, at the table read, after the rehearsals, between takes, at the grip truck, in the make-up room – it seems everybody has a story to share, obviously. We’ve all lost loved ones.  

And while it may sound counterintuitive, Going Home’s hospice stories give life. These stories of hope, grace and compassion are deeply rooted in our shared human experience which is, I think, why they’ve connected so profoundly with our audience. I feel humbled to be telling these kinds of stories, the ones that remind us that we are all the same. I once interviewed SNL legend and former U.S. senator Al Franken for a documentary and he told me: “I like to make entertainment that rewards the audience for understanding how human beings operate.” A worthy goal, right? 

After watching season five of Fargo, I think Noah Hawley would give an “amen” to that. Have you seen the finale? Damn! Spoiler alert: the closing thirty minutes is among the most impactful faith-based content I’ve ever seen. Deeply moving. Hawley earns it too, building all season to this inspiring, scandalous act of “turn the other cheek” forgiveness. The beauty is simply stunning, but that’s what stories of redemption do. Thanks Noah, well done.  

Now, I wish there was a better label than “faith-based.” It’s not very nuanced, which is a shame because it’s been a terrific season for faith-based entertainment; from the box office bonanza of Jim Caviezel’s Sound of Freedom to Dallas Jenkins’ The Chosen debuting their fourth season of the first-ever television series about the life of Jesus IN THEATERS (and THEN going to streaming and THEN to broadcast because, well, give the people what they want) and, finally, Amazon Studios has just announced a bold partnership with Jon Erwin’s The Wonder Project to create “universal stories of love, triumph and spirituality.” 

So, what does Amazon know? Amazon knows everything! They have dimensional consumer-based analytics and those analytics have affirmed what some of us storytellers already knew: there is a huge audience hungry for stories of love, forgiveness, reconciliation… and even death. These stories of hope put life into the world and remind us of who we are to be and, please remember, at the end of the story, love defeats hate. I know it’s true, I just watched it on a television show.

[bloodgulchblog]

After Kilo Five talked so much about how old and frail Parangosky was and how she’d die rather than retire, the rest of Halo insisting that she retired feels like a coverup.

Or the dead parrot sketch.

Or both!

[discordapples]

PT. 2 | Poltergeist Tears

Word count: 2.3k (10 mins read)

Characters: Livia Novik, Laurence Novik, Fastidio.

Summary

Imprisoned within the treacherous labyrinth of the poltergeist, Fastidio, Livia Novik endures the sinister whims of her captor. Reduced to a mere plaything, she clings to her plan of convincing the entity to shed its tears for her, inching her ever closer to resurrecting her dead brother. In a startling twist, the tables turn, and Livia emerges as a formidable opponent.

Read the second chapter below.

TW: Mild mutilation, cursing.

Livia | Hogsmeade, Late August, 1893.

A tangle of mangled chairs ceils over Livia Novik’s head as she races through the mansion.

The corridor chases her, slinking upon itself like a limbless centipede. It pushes her forward; the floor rolling under her feet. 

She runs faster, then cuts left around the angle of the corridor. Passing the threshold of a yawning door, she finds herself in yet another blind room. 

The door slams behind her. 

“Lumos.”

The tip of her wand throws a garish glare that washes her retinas with pain. 

On the four walls, mirrors parrot themselves into infinity. 

She folds her palm around her wand and allows her eyes to adjust to the light. 

She is surrounded by hundreds of raven-haired girls who stare back at her. Wicked smirks here, mournful pouts there, their irises the same olive green as hers, all wearing her golden locket, the one her brother gave her, all sporting on their left cheek and neck the patch of burned flesh she loathes to look at.

 A laugh rumbles through the walls. The sheathing groans as if it will collapse.

Livia looks up, aware of the thousands of rooms pressing around her. 

Will she ever get out of this maze?

She has been at it for five hours, judging by Laurence’s pocket watch, but she has no way of knowing if the poltergeist can alter the flow of time in this world of its own design. 

Her throat is raw with thirst and exhaustion drives needles at the back of her skull. 

She has to push forward. 

Her fingers rove about the looking-glass, following the tiny cracks like she would the dashes of ink on a map. 

At once, all of her mimics start whispering. 

Amidst this labyrinth of infinite reflections. Seek the key to liberation, defy all imperfections. Through shards of glass, find the clue concealed, for only truth shall guide, your freedom revealed.

“The key to liberation,” she mulls out loud, her heart ramming against her ribs. “Defy all imperfections.” Sweat breaks on her forehead as the solution sketches itself into her brain. “Shards of glass… Fuck.”

Above her head, the poltergeist’s despicable jeer drives cracks through the ceiling. “A worthy playmate. But does she have what it takes to win?”

Livia bites down on her lip, crouches in the corner and lifts her wand before her. “Reducto.”

The mirror shatters and snows on her. Grabbing a mutilated piece, she stands up as her reflections burst into laughter.

Flames fill the room behind her. 

Illusions? 

She feels no heat on her back, but the idea alone is enough to send tremors into her limbs.

The images of that terrible night visit her in their cruelty: Laurence’s fists slamming into the sashed window, a heap of smoldering beams hissing angrily behind him, the stench of peat singing its way down her throat, thousands of nerve endings exploding with a harrowing pain, the stink of her own hair melting away. 

Shaking, she lifts the shaving to her scarred cheek, her heart fluttering like a wild bird against the bars of its cage. 

Pain blisters as soon as the glass bites into Livia’s skin. Blood purls, slinking over the slope of her jaw, and the tang of wet copper fills the room, oppressive—sickening.

Her teeth grind together as she slowly shaves the scarred tissue from her face.

Her progress is slow. Excruciating.

Tingles skitter to her fingertips.

White inkblots swarm around her like angry gnats.

She will faint if she keeps going.

Dropping her improvised scalpel, she bends forward, heaving. 

When she lifts her head again, her scar is intact; the sundered flesh basted back in place by the poltergeist’s witchery. 

“Have I broken you yet?” The entity whistles into her ear, its frigid hands raising the hairs on her shoulders.

Livia cannot see it, but she feels the mass of gelid air roaming the skin draping her clavicle, her nape, her scalp.

“You’ll never get out of here,” it taunts, a necklace of cold closing around her windpipe. 

The entity’s hold is feathery, however, an ethereal brush against the pit of her throat.

Her copies in the mirrors have vanished. Now all Livia sees is a boundless darkness, so thick and inky, it eats at the light emanating from her wand, gulping it whole.

“You’re mine.” The voice ghosts over her lips. 

“Not until you bargain with me,” Livia says. 

She has been waiting for this moment. Five hours solving the poltergeist’s pathetic riddles, running through a snarl of corridors, making herself interesting.

Designing the perfect prey is as minute an operation as brewing a potion. 

A dash of wit, a lick of brazenness, a smidge of distress, a hint of hopelessness.

Spirits crave for life, Livia, her brother, Laurence, told her as they planned her time with the poltergeist. They envy each throb of a beating heart. They long to have another taste of love. Even hate is better than nothingness, but lust and fear… Lust and fear are honey to the dead tongue.

A curl of breath wings up behind her ear. “What can you possibly bargain with, living one?”

“My life,” she says, her blood cataracting through her temples. “Let me ask you a riddle. If you solve it, I will stay here with you forever. Send me through a hundred more mazes, watch me wither with thirst or have me lure innocents into your trap—do whatever you want to me.”

Immaterial fingers key along the notches of her spine, enticing a shiver that climbs up to her nape. “And if I fail?”

“You’ll give me your tears and let me go.”

Although she cannot see it, Livia can hear the smile in the entity’s words. “Deal. Ask away, living one.”

She takes a deep breath, the conundrum rehearsed with Laurence until she could recite the words as fast as she would her own name. “I am born from nothing, yet always remain. Unseen, untouched, beyond human domain. I have a beginning, but lack an end. Infinite and eternal, my essence transcends. I exist in all places, yet never can be. Forever elusive, an enigma to see.”

Silence cotters into the room. 

The entity’s fingers have gone from her chine as it ponders over her aporia. 

For it is exactly that: an aporia, an impasse—a puzzle defying logic.

The kind she and her brother, Laurence, used to concoct to ease their boredom. 

Time slips, aching forward, and in its flow, Livia can almost taste the poltergeist’s irritation. 

When, at last, it speaks, the voice is half-cautious, half-convinced. “Love. Love is the answer.”

A smile plays upon Livia’s lips. “You are incorrect. The answer is time.”

“No,” the entity hisses, its anger blustering through Livia’s hair. “No, it has to be love!”

“Love isn’t born from nothing,” she says calmly. “It isn’t elusive or eternal or infinite. It certainly isn’t beyond human understanding.”

Aerial fingers scuttle along her arms, her neck, through her hair, the touch custodial, soft, tender. The voice comes, wheedling. “Stay with me, living one. Together, we would lord over this world and send fools into the arms of madness.”

Her lips curl at the attempt. “I believe you owe me your tears.”

A force pushes her against the mirror. Cracks slither through the glass. Livia gasps with the pain, but she weathers it.

So close, she is so close. 

“You are a fool, living one! Poltergeists don’t cry.”

“You are right,” Livia concedes. “But humans can, and I can make you one, if only for a time.”

The voice that comes is curious. “Why would I want to be human?”

“So you could know what a kiss feels like. Have you never wondered about it? You chanced ‘love’ as the answer to my riddle. Surely it has been on your mind, you have asked yourself what it was to feel loved. What if I could show you?”

“I... No.”

“You can conjure rooms at will, stretch corridors endlessly, but nothing compares to the bliss of being kissed. An eternity spent without knowing this feeling is not worth living.” Livia whirls around, unsure from which corner the entity observes her. “I can turn you into a human and you can dance with me. A boy, a girl, and their own pocket of existence. I will kiss you, or you will kiss me, and you will cry for me.” She swallows in a dry throat, hoping that her words find their mark. “I will leave you for a while, but I’ll come back… You have an eternity to spend and I have a brother to save. My absence will be a trifle to you, a drop in the ocean. What say you, immaterial one?”

“Will you swear to come back if I accept?”

In this instant, Livia tastes the victory on her tongue. “Kiss me and convince me to come back.”

A cold lick of air touches her cheek. “Make me human then.”

“Look into the mirror,” she says, crouching to grab a shard of glass. She drives the edge against her palm. The slit weeps blood. She presses it against the mirror, closing her eyes. “Touch me through the glass.”

There is a thrum through her palm, a lash of fire smoldering through her wound. When she opens her eyes, she is faced with a flaxen-haired boy with eyes an elysian blue. He is dressed in blue-damasked samite and a flourished red silken cravat. 

For a trickle of seconds, the poltergeist takes in his new body, his fingers caroming over his clothing. Livia extends a hand, and his arm materializes through the mirror, slipping through the barrier as if he shrugged out of a shroud. 

When his hand touches hers, the room shifts. The looking-glasses vanish, so do the dust of splinters, and they find themselves in a deserted ballroom, under the coy light of the chandeliers.

Violins warble and flutes chirp and their fingers intertwine. His hold is strange, not quite material, akin to holding an empty glove, but already he presses against her back and leads her into a waltz.

Livia’s heart flutters in her breast, and even if he has no blood to pump through a mesh of veins, a flush vines behind his cheeks. 

His mouth hovers close to her ear, and he breathes her smell in, and they twirl on the checkered floor in a shiver of silks, and when the music fades, when the boy’s eyes connect with hers, he leans in for the kiss and she yields it to him. 

He explores her mouth gingerly, as if the illusion is a piece of porcelain that will ruin with his urge, but it is there, interred underneath the reluctant gestures.

An urge to call upon and mold.

Livia’s arms loop around his neck and she draws him in, her tongue parting his lips with none of his prudence. She moans, a whit of heat paddling between her thighs.

It is a strange thing, to be kissed by a phantasm, but Livia takes it. Why wouldn’t she? It is a victory, and victories are best savored in excess.

When she breaks their embrace, she does because her lungs burn with the lack of air.

The boy’s eyes turn vitreous. “Is this love?” He asks her, his voice cracking.

“No,” she says, pulling her wand from her pocket. “This is lust, and it’s but a taste of love.”

A pearl-colored tear slips past his eyelid, and Livia catches it with her wand. She opens her locket and watches the silvery drop roll on the pure gold like a bead of mercury, then lifts her eyes to him. “You have to let me go now…”

Tears stream freely on his face; thick and milky like trickles of molten wax. “When will you come back?”

Livia culls the substance from his cheeks with a thumb and graces him with a smile. “When I have the Promissum Mortis, and thanks to you, I’m one step closer to finding it.”

* * *

The sun has long been washed away by the ink of night when Livia climbs back into the carriage.

“So?” Her brother, Laurence, asks her. 

Her thumb presses against the locket. 

In the low light, Laurence is but an outline, his translucent shape more akin to air simmering than a full-fledged apparition. 

He is fading a little more every day, and Livia wonders if he will disappear completely before she has time to find the relic.

She casts a spell and a shy light glows awake. Laurence’s phantom is made of asperities; the burn scars covering most of his aspect. He no longer has hair or eyelashes or brows. 

He no longer looks like her brother, and the artifacts of the boy he was can only be found in his voice. 

His eyes rove to a distance shrouded in gloom. “I can’t follow you there,” he says. “To Hogwarts.”

“I know.” Her hand hovers before him. His fingers slip right through her palm, leaving a cold imprint. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you, Laurence.”

He graces her with a faint smile, difficult to make in the low light. “You lived a full year on your own when I wasn’t yet born.”

“I don’t have memories of it. You were always with me for as long as I can remember.”

He nodded, melancholy painting his features. “You are late to your sorting ceremony.”

“As if any of this matters.”

A neat line draws itself between his brow bone. “Life matters, Livia. In the pursuit of restituting mine, don’t forget to live yours.”

“I’m the big sister, Laurence. You shouldn’t worry about me.”

“But I do. I always will. The dead are left with nothing else but concern for the living.”

The carriage startles and groans, wheeling through the cobblestones streets of Hogsmeade.

Livia reclines in her seat, her eyes going to the road ahead. “And what are the living left with but the lingering pain of those who fell out of life?”

[commonguttersnipe]

Imagine if Monty Python's Flying Circus was filmed in, like, the "Peep Show" POV style, w/the characters' inner monologues and all!

For example, think of the Dead Parrot sketch if it was filmed in POV. I can imagine Eric Praline's inner thoughts becoming more and more angrier and Bevis the pet shop owner's inner thoughts becoming more scared and desperate as he tries to find more excuses.

What do personally think of this idea?

I would definitely watch this.

I now want an Office-style documentary but it's just about the Gumbys

[superbdragoncollection-stuff]

There's a joke, for Europeans a hundred miles is a long way, for Americans a hundred years is a long time.

People in the Balkans were killing each other in the 90s over crimes committed in the 1600s.

Turkish people still refer to a famous battle from even earlier like it was yesterday

And the French and the British still hate each other

And the Dead Parrot sketch has an ancestor from the 4th century.

So your assessment is 100% correct XD XD XD

medieval lit is really fun. there will be a footnote that is like “nobody knows what the author meant there and scholars have been debating it for centuries” 

[poemarsviner]

Can [Concept]

Last week we had planned our tin can concept. I knew I wanted my pie, but I wasn't sure on the inside. I made a few design ideas, and settled on one main idea.

Here were my ideas, three of them together. Two have a bird and one has a skeleton hand on it.

After discussing the concepts, I decided on the middle one with the bird halfway out of the pie.

Considering that my pirate is a zombie, I wanted an undead theme for my parrot as well. I considered a skeleton, sketched here. Unfortunately skeletons are incredibly hard to sculpt, so I'm not doing that idea.

Here is a sketch of the side view of the can, although the parrot would probably be smaller in the can.

Here is my top down view, the first concept of it.

Here was some information I had written about the concept. I added the peck marks later, as you can tell from the diufferent pen but I believe it fits the theme, like the bird is trying to peck itself free.

Kyrstie recommended we create a label, so here is my concept. It's supposed to fit the vibes of a really fancy company who puts a lot of 'love' into their food but of course, this is a dead whole parrot.

After talking to Kyrstie about sculpting, I eventually decided to have a zombie parrot. Patches of normal parrot but with rotting sections and possibly a part of the skeleton showing. I think this will be achievable and I look forward to the final result.

[themirokai]

Do Today’s Youths know the Dead Parrot Sketch? I feel like Monty Python isn’t nearly as ubiquitous as it was (they were?) when I was A Youth.

There’s a post going around about how stupid the word “unalive” is and one of the reblogs lists a series of alternatives, most of which are verbatim from this sketch.

If you haven’t seen it before or (like me) haven’t seen it for a long time, enjoy!

[havzic]

Dead by Daylight survivor Pet Head canons

Based on a conversation I had with my homie (not everyone is mentioned)

Claudette

- Claudette owns a terrarium of stick bugs. All of them have an nerd names; one of them is named Darwin the 12th

Nea

- Nea has a tarantula named cuddles but I feel like she grew up with one of those little white crusty dogs

Dwight

- Doesn’t actively have pets but he definitely grew up around the weirdest shittest inbred chihuahua at some point

Jake

- Jake wasn’t allowed to have pets growing up and he’s still bitter about it. Would probably have a dog though.

David

- Similarly enough David wasn’t allowed to have pets growing up but there was a small kitten that David would feed as a teen that he adopted upon moving out. That cat is now old as hell but still kicking. (The cat’s name is Lucy)

- Also David has an illegal pit bull. (Pit bulls are illegal in the UK). The dog’s name is chance and he’s a sweetie.

Felix

- Felix has a turtle. That’s it he has a turtle. It’s name is Franklin.

Elodie

- Elodie is one of those fish tank people. I just feel it in my soul.

Kate

- Idk if Kate actually grew up on a farm (but I feel it my soul and canon be damned so bear with me) I like to think she had like a pet pig and was constantly tailed by an old farm dog as a child.

Jeff

- Canonically has a dog (pit bull mix in my head). But I don’t think he grew up with any pets

Feng

- Feng has a lobster. The Lobster’s name is Magikarp because Feng’s a fucken nerd.

Mikaela

- Mikaela has Black cat (duh) and a bingus cat that’s constantly wearing a sweater.

Yui

- Doesn’t have any pets but if she did she’d probably have a dog

Zarina

- Zarina has a rescue special needs African Grey parrot, that she’s very attached too.

Jonah

- Jonah has an English Bulldog, it just feels right for him

Jane

- Jane has two cats that she likes to verbally insult. Ala stinky bastard man post.

Adam

- Adam has a chinchilla named like something overly cutesy as like a class pet but it obviously belongs to him. (I hc that he teaches younger students like maybe in the 6th-8th grade range)

Ace

- Ace has had many old janky looking mutts in his life. I feel like he’s enough of a sentimental type to have owned a bunch of dogs.

Bill

- (Ignoring canon) I feel like Bill adopted a couple old ex military dogs

Leon

- We know this man is a cat person whether or not he owns cats or not

Jill

- Snake person. I just feel like she is.

Cheryl

- I feel like she’s a dog person.

Laurie

- Her too. I feel like Laurie would benefit from a service dog.

Nancy

- Doesn’t have any pets.

Steve

- He has dog energy but I feel like he owns a pet rock.

Quentin

- Doesn’t have any pets either, but I feel like he feeds stray cats.

Meg

- Greyhound. She absolutely has Greyhound energy

Yun-Jin

- My favorite Head Canon.

- So Yun-Jin did not have any pets growing up.

- HOWEVER. The Trickster impulse bought a massive ass albino burmese python ala Brittany Spears and Yun-Jin had to re-home it because Ji-Woon can’t be trusted with a sewing needle much less an 80-200 pound noodle.

- The Python was in her care as a foster for a significant amount of time (probably like a couple months).

- She didn’t really care about the snake all that much at first but she quickly (secretly) really enjoyed her company

- The Python, called Yoo-Min, would just kind of backpack on Yun-Jin and they’d just hang like that.

- Sometimes Yun-Jin would have to scramble to hide this fucken 169 pound snake in her house because she already told Ji-Woon that she was adopted and she didn’t want to hear it from Ji-Woon.

- *Disney Channel sketch hilarity ensues*

- Secretly Yun-Jin was very sad when she got adopted.