#pat obert

[harunayuuka2060]

Ace: You little shit! You traitor! *fake crying*

MC: *winning SDC by unanimous vote* The fuck?

Deuce: Why are you crying for, Ace? You voted for them too.

Ace: I did that out of consideration!

Rook: I beg to disagree. Trickster had turned this competition into their own concert.

Kalim: The audience were so hyped up they even sang along!

Grim: Nyaha! Did you see Idia waving some lightstick?

Riddle: That shocked me.

Vil: By the way, where's Malleus? I thought that he would be here to celebrate with you first.

MC: I don't know. Haven't seen him.

Ace: Don't tell me no one invited him again?

MC: Hey. I sent him an invitation.

Deuce: Oh! About Draconia-senpai, I saw him talking with the Royal Swords.

Khalil: We have a secret passage that only the three of us know.

Khalil: Principal Ambrose doesn't know that.

Obert: Dude, are you being serious? You're not actually sneaking him to our school, right?

Beau: Why not?

Obert: *shocked*

Malleus: Does the child of man have their own room?

Beau: Yes. The problem here is, it's not advisable that you two meet there.

Khalil: Neige and the others like barging in there.

Beau: Don't worry. We have a spare room in our dorm. And it's off-limits to our underclassmen.

Che'nya: *appears with only his head visible* No need to invite him in secret. I've already told Principal Ambrose.

Che'nya: Happy Eloping! *disappears*

Malleus: ...

Principal Ambrose: *has summoned MC to his office*

Maleficia: *staring at them*

MC: ...

Principal Ambrose: Take a seat, child.

Maleficia: *pats the couch* Sit next to me.

MC: Um... Okay.

Principal Ambrose: *the soon as they get seated*

Principal Ambrose: The Draconia family is officially asking for your hand.

MC: WHAT?!

Maleficia: *pats them on the head*

Maleficia : Welcome.

MC: ...

[handeaux]

In Memoriam: Western Hills Press 1924-2022 Part Two – An Ink-Stained Wretch

(When we last left our hero, he was contemplating a life-long career in the printing business. And then he graduated college.)

Within days after I accepted my sheepskin, management called me upstairs. I was told that, on reflection, they did not want a college graduate working in their print shop. The suits weren’t entirely clear why this was the case – I believe dread of unionization might have been involved – but they were insistent that I needed to join the newswriting staff. They were also insistent that Option B was unemployment. I went with Option A.

Problem was, my English degree involved zero journalism classwork. If you wanted a 2,000-word theme on the British Romantic poets, I was your guy. Typing a simple calendar brief? Not so much. Dan Hopwood, the managing editor at the time, undertook my accelerated orientation. He handed me a stack of the obituary forms submitted by funeral homes.

“Give me two-inch obituaries.” “How do I know they’re two inches?” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Use a pica typewriter. Set your margins like this. Four lines convert to an inch of type. Eight lines is two inches.” I transformed the stack of forms into eight-line obituaries and proudly dropped them and the forms on Dan’s desk. He tossed the forms back at me. “Give me one-inch obituaries.” I turned in one-inch obituaries. He tossed the forms back at me. “Give me three-inch obituaries.” “There’s not enough information on those forms for 12 lines.” “You know how to use a telephone, don’t you?”

And that’s how I became a reporter. Hopwood was the sort of person who read dictionaries from cover to cover for fun. He’d badger me to write headlines in three different font sizes over three different column widths and one to three decks. He was relentless as a reporter. Dan had left the Press and was working for another newspaper miles away when a tornado slammed through White Oak overnight. I dragged myself out to the scene at dawn and found Dan already there, interviewing emergency crews and residents huddled on the street. He gave me his notes and his film and let me carry on while he went to work at his actual job. He was also hilarious. Dan and his wife, Barb, hosted the annual “Thank God Basketball Season Is Over Party & Cotillion,” which was sort of a cross between the Algonquian Round Table and Animal House. Their neighbors are probably still complaining.

Columnist Roger Miller held the Western Hills Press together for decades. He was overworked and underpaid and strung along by the promise that one day he’d be named editor. He knew everybody and made sure to mention everybody regularly. He lived for coincidences, going into spasms of delight when he learned that my sister was graduating high school on her birthday, which was also our grandmother’s birthday. Roger refused to use the same word twice in a story, so an item about a local football star involved his ability to “zing the October oval,” and a column about a pastor’s yen for popsicles ended with a mention of “tundra cones.” He also used at least one exclamation point every column inch.

Nancy Taylor and I got hired about the same time. She actually had a journalism degree, so I paid close attention to how she did things. Our office had the kind of carpet that produces lots of static electricity, so I could shock people at will. If a visiting P.R. flack was getting on Taylor’s nerves, she’d yell, “Hand!” I’d shuffle in and shock the unwanted visitor on the nose. They usually took the hint.

For a couple of years, Pat Obert and I were sidekicks. She took the photos and I wrote the stories. We almost got sued when we covered an outlaw motorcycle club funeral at a local cemetery. The cemetery’s attorney objected to my reporting that guns were fired during the burial, but Pat’s photos shut him up.

Hanging around the office was a high school intern named Mary Evelyn Wilson, who went by Mev. Hopwood affectionately christened her The Twirp. We had a saying in the office when a story fell through that, “Some days you get the bear and some days the bear gets you.” Mev inscribed that saying – in ersatz Latin – on a coffee cup she made in pottery class. I still have it.

Starting out as high school interns and working their way into various editorial roles were Bill Koch, who had a long career with the Cincinnati Post and Enquirer, and Chuck Melvin, who later went on to the Associated Press, Philadelphia Inquirer and other distinguished posts. Sharing an office with them was like acting in an improv troupe. One day we’d have to sing every headline we wrote as a blues, the next day we’d debate whether chess counted as a sport or not, but the rules were you had to argue in falsetto. Somehow we got on a tangent where every lead sentence had to be translated into Neanderthal – “Sewers? Good!”

John Froschauer was a newly minted graduate of Ohio University when we hired him as a photographer. John taught me more about designing pages than anyone I ever worked with, just by submitting photos with penciled notes indicating how many column widths they should run. If I followed John’s instructions, my pages looked great. If I ignored his suggestion, my pages sucked and he grumbled at me. To get the best photos, John endured any challenge. He showed up at my apartment in the middle of the 1978 blizzard because his camera froze. Although he accepted a cup of tea, he stayed only until the camera thawed and then trudged back into the deep freeze to shoot a Pulitzer-worthy portfolio.

I sent John on assignment one day with a young writer named Debbie Cafazzo. They got engaged a few months later. I count their marriage as among my greatest successes. Deb and another reporter, Jan Kipp, were close friends and, although only a couple years younger than me, were almost from a different generation. I was still stuck in the folk-rock Sixties while they lobbied me to re-evaluate punk. It was years later before I finally relented. I believe it was one or both of this duo who stashed a plate of “enhanced” brownies in the break room refrigerator. I scarfed a couple one Saturday morning when I went in to catch up on some work. Although I wore an illegal smile the rest of the day, I managed to file a lead story and a sidebar on Green Township zoning.

Holding this crew together was receptionist Ruthie Summe, who addressed everyone as “Hon.” Ruthie telephoned all the local bars each afternoon, and posted a list of their happy hour snacks on the office bulletin board. Based on this, we’d pick a saloon, buy a drink and dine on what Hopwood called the “noogies.” Drinks were around two bucks for a double and the noogies were free and filling – short ribs, pigs in a blanket, egg rolls. Thus fortified, we’d scatter to cover our assigned city council meetings.

In 1977, I was promoted to editor of the Western Hills Press. In that role, I inherited Henry Humphreys who, after many years as the Enquirer’s classical music critic, had been sent to pasture at the suburban weekly. We only paid him ten dollars a week for his column, but he kept the gig because record companies shipped crates of free albums for review. Henry was not fond of medieval and renaissance music. When he learned I enjoyed those ancient styles, Henry would send me his review copies, usually with a note: “For Greg Hand. Too many crumhorns.”

A year later, I departed the Press for reasons too complicated to relate in this space. When I left, management gave me a lifetime subscription. They stopped delivery after two years. Who knew I would outlast the paper?

[slashingdisneypasta]

Horror Villains Reactions: To S/O Who Thinks They’re Smiling/Laughing ‘Too Much’

So, I’ve been having this problem, where you know, I’ve been happy. I know, it’s the worst. A curse.

But then I thought I was looking like a crazy person in here all alone in my bedroom, because I’m smiling and laughing a lot (And then I tell myself Stop it Hannah, damnit. We wanna be happy. Set a good example, dang!) and I thought this would make a cute reaction post! Total fluff! So here we go.

Remember, DON’T EVER THINK THIS WAY, ITS GOOD TO BE SMILING, I LOVE YOU

I hope this cheers some of ya’ll up ^^ 

~~~

Billy Loomis: “Yeah, I noticed. But ‘too much’? No way. No such thing, come on.” *Gives you hug* // Also will probably make fun by asking if its because your cheeks hurt and then hooking his fingers into the corners of your mouth and tugging (Not enough to hurt!!)

Bubba Sawyer: Noooooooooooooooooooooo! Be happy Y/N! Bubba will c r y.

Carrie White: She thinks that’s very silly of you and, also, she tells you a bit shyly that she’s noticed and thought you looked really pretty.

Chucky / Charles Lee Ray: “The fuck? Get here and let me punish you for being an idiot- get here- hey.” When you refuse to go over to him, he grins. “*Tells an inside joke between you two that he knows you think is hilarious, just to be a shit.*”

Chop Top Sawyer: “Reeeaaaalllllyyyyyy?” Chop Top turns on you, a mischievous grin on his lips. // He’s gonna chase you.

Drayton Sawyer: Don’t be ridiculous, Drayton says, sighing deeply. That’s the craziest idea he’s heard for a while. Also, he secretly loves your smile- he’s just too nervous to say it. Why do you think he’s always making you food he knows you like!

Debbie Loomis: Deeply rolls her eyes and makes a ‘tut’ sound, then turns to you again and exasperatedly smiles, shaking her head. “Do be ridiculous, sweetheart.”

Freddy Krueger: *Points sternly at you with a knife finger* Smile! *Bastard will chase you if you refuse, but he means well!*

Inkubus: Compliments you on your smile- he loves it! You can’t possible smile too much for him!! He understands, though, like Mickey and Stu that maybe your mouth hurts or something and you can have cuddles.

Jason Voorhees: Does a freaken double take. You’re… too happy?? I’m sorry, Jason doesn’t comprehend. He thought he was doing a good job- please, explain to him. He’s new to the whole ‘human’ thing (Even though he was one, obviously). When he understands though, he’ll be exasperated and just pat your head.

Jedidiah Sawyer: He thinks: Man, I wish I had that problem. // On the outside: He sits with you and he’ll massage your cheeks with his thumbs.

Jennifer Check: “I have a solution for you,” // You: “What?” // Her: “If I’m making out with you, you can’t smile.” *A flirty smile* // You: “Well, I guess, its worth a try!” *You try to sound sarcastic. *

Jill Roberts: For a split second, she thinks about saying something sarcastic or mean… but then she can’t bring herself to do it and just grants you a little genuine smile and runs her hands affectionately through your hair/over your head.

Luda Mae Hewitt: “Oh, sweetheart… “She laughs, very gently and shakes her head. She thinks that’s slightly silly and very cute, but also on some level understands. “Okay, do you want some downtime then? We can sit and have some tea?” // Luda Mae’s great.

Mayor Buckman: Thinks he’s sneaky and spends the rest of the day doing things he knows makes you laugh or happy. He just wants his sunshine to be happy all the time!!

Michael Myers: He will fucking tickle you, don’t test him.

Mickey Altieri: He understands. He thinks it’s pretty damn cute that you think that, because its good to be happy!! But he will bring you into a hug so you can hide your face in his chest. “Baby, baby, its fine! It’s a good thing.”

Midnight Man: Okay, he really doesn’t understand humans right now.

Pamela Voorhees: Oh my god, she thinks you’re the cutest thing. Her sunshine!

Patrick Bateman: Man, he has this problem too. Not because he was actually happy, but because he sometimes can’t tell how much smiling is too much for his act. You guys talk about this // Secretly he loves seeing you smile so much.

Pennywise (OG): Oh, my god, he will be a shit and tell sooooo many jokes. He just likes to see you happy!

Pennywise (New): Takes your jaw in his hands and brings your face close to his, then makes the biggest, sharpest smile possible. I don’t know why, he just deemed it fitting. Makes you smile some, at least. Probably ends up getting stuck with you massaging your cheeks cuz they HURT.

Roman Bridger: Will massage your cheeks for you with his thumbs. I mean, he’s a bit of stuck up twat-ish guy, but he completely changes around you honestly. Becomes so much happier and nicer. He’s loved and wanted, for once! 

Sheriff Hoyt/ Charlie Hewitt: “What th- Girl/boy, you take that back.” If you insist, he’ll sigh and ask if you want to go on a ride with him, just to cool off a bit. Its his answer to all problems but it generally works.

Stu Macher: Okay, he will be a bit of a shit at first and make you laugh some more with his stupid cute jokes, but then when you starts complaining about your cheeks hurting or you get upset at him he’ll bring you into a hug so you can hide your face in his jumper.

The Man: “Baby girl/boy… “He moans, exasperated but grinning at you. “No… “

Thomas Hewitt: Similar to Bubba, he wants you to be happy all the time, so uh… he has no sympathies. This sounds like the right time to settle you in his lap and have cuddles.