#spotty doo

[fabseg-creator]

The Mystery Kids: Night of the Living Plants (for mysticalcaldreamlandgentlemen)

I've edited this cover with Spotty-Doo and the Mystery Kids (characters made by @mysticaldreamlandgentlemen).

The reference:

[mysticaldreamlandgentlemen]

" What's New Spotty -Doo?"

[charawara]

do you guys ever just um type out the lyrics to your favorite song like completely from memory or

like do you guys just like look at you go! you who had betrayed me! you know I am nothing like the monster you named mee! nothing you say ca-an persuade me underneath that thoughtful grin I know that she hates me.. look in my eyes and confront your actions tell me everything you know oh! tell me what happened further below than you can imagine twisted words as smooth as silk and hands like saatin.. my dear my love my darling can’t we come to compromise?? look around it’s a paradise say goodbye to lonely nights!! I would never lie to you I swear what I say is true you will never understand what I’m about to do to the people around youu.. plunge in the knife, consume this body! you’re not allowed to say you’re sorry!! what are the reasons for my woeess nobody knowss!! takin it in, deliberating, watching you I was staring thinking no there’s no way! you couldn’t be! talking about mee! open your eyes and keep it coming, all for the sake of feeling something! nobody likes the way it goes, reap what you so-ow! hammer away and contemplate it.. listening I was staring, thinking no there’s no way! I couldn’t be, faking our reality!! hey did you hear? I am quite the actor, sucking up, the sacrifice is none the wiser.. scavenging mice will surround her carcass crocodiles crying at the loss of their goddess 💕💕 my dear my love my darling, look at what you’ve done to mee! bash in the door on the count of three, keep your hands where I can seee! I expected more from you but hey.. this is nothing new. you will never understand but what’s a girl to doo when you’re making her love youu! plunge in the knife! consume this body! savor their vision gettin spotty.. what are the reasons for my woess? maybe you kno-ow! takin it in, deliberating , watching em’ I was staring, thinking.. no there’s no way! they couldn’t be! TALKING ABOUT MEE!! SHARPEN THE BLADE AND KEEP ON CUTTING OH WHAT A BEAUTY YOURE BECOMINGG BATTERED AND BRUISED THEYRE TAKING BLOWS SMOTHER MY FOOOEEESS TIE OFF THE VEIN EXHILARATING FEAR IN HER EYES SHES CRYING, SAYING NO THERES NO WAY OHH DONT YOU SEE this is not reality… aaaaahhhh faking waiting hating craving someone’s not reciprocating look at what I’ve done for you. done for you. ALL FOR YOU BREAKING TAKING SCRAPING CHASING TELL ME LOVE WHY ARE YOU SHAKING?? SAY IT BACK “I LOVE YOU TOO!” WHY ARE YOU LYYYYYIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGG!!! BABY STOP CRYYYIIIIINNNNGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!! AAH HACKING AWAY DESTROY THIS BODY MAKIN ME BLEED YOU SHOULD BE SORRY YOU ARE THE REASON FOR MY WOEES EVERYONE KNO-OWS FEEL THE DECAY ITS LIBERATING FADING AWAY I LIE HERE THINKING THERE IS NO MISTAKE YOU WERE INDEED TALKING ABOUT ME-EEE!!!!!! (HOLY yapfest.)

[gerogerigaogaigar]

But wait there more! A thing I see people say about hip-hop is that it is misogynistic and mainly a boys club. To that I say, so is rock dipshit! So is the whole music industry! the ratio of respected women in hip-hop is probably about the same as the ratio in rock music. Here are some of the best women in hip-hop.

Doo Wop (That Thing) We heard Ms. Lauryn Hill on the flow playlist as a member of The Fugees. She is well respected as one of the best rappers of all time. Unfortunately her career is spotty at best, leaving her with only one legendary solo album.

Work It Missy "Misdemeanor" Elliott is another rap legend. I love the hook on this one. She says "I put my thing down flip it and reverse it" and then she literally reverses the line and plays it backwards. Missy Elliott is deftly corny to say the least.

Woman Little Simz is rushing to the head of the pack in terms of recent rappers. Though she started in the mid '10's Little Simz dropped my 2021 album of the year with Sometimes I Might Be Introvert.

Diddy Bop People are sleeping on Noname. She deserves more recognition so I'm putting her on this list.

U.N.I.T.Y. The first female rap superstar. Most people probably think of Queen Latifah as a 90's TV personality if at all, but she was a genuinely talented rapper who earned her superstar status.

Black Magic getting people to listen to Backxwash is one of my pet projects. You want angrier women? You want angry goth horrorcore transgender rap music? please listen to my current underrated fave.

Queen Bitch Lil' Kim was probably the first female rapper to use overt sexuality as a means to control her own image. She is an obvious influence on most modern female rappers. For example...

Bodak Yellow Cardi B is great because no other rapper talks about her pussy nearly this much.

Superbass Nicki Minaj is probably among the top ten most influential rappers of all time. She is probably most known for her bubbly pink brand of pop rap, but to real hip-hop heads she is renowned for her insane flow and ability to radically change her intonation at the flip of a switch.

Sho Shot "But where are the women in gangsta rap?" I hear you asking. Well look no further than The Lady Of Rage. She was a staple of Death Row Records throughout the 90's though she only released one album.

To Be Continued ===> Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

[asia2023animationgirl]

Jason ( Shouted ; SPOTTY-DOO, WHERE ARE YOU?!”)

." Thankfully, amidst all the chaos, Spot was able to sneak himself and Kenya away from the creatures. Kenya hung onto Spot’s back tightly, as they hid themselves inside a large suitcase. Spot tiptoed quietly, sneaking them past a few monsters.

“Rime a suitcase; rime a suitcase…”

Suddenly, they found the suitcase lift off them and they jump around to see a creature standing over them. It swung its massive claw at them, but Spot ducked underneath. Thankfully, it missed Kenya who squeaked with fright. Just as it swiped again, Scooby held up his paw and the creature halts.

The creature looks confused, as the Great Dane grabbed its claw. Spot starts rubbing his elbow over the creature’s nails, as if polishing them. Even Kenya climbed up Spot’s shoulders and used her nail buffer and work on the other claw.

The creature enjoyed the treatment it received and seems to relax. Then, Kenya shoved the bugger away and Instead used scissors . Spot grabs the creature’s claws and quickly chews them off while Kenya clipped the rest.

The creature was horrified of its now missing claws. Scooby smiles, while Kenya giggled . They ran so fast, well mostly Spot as Kenya hung on, they left a cloud of smoke in the shape of themselves. The creature regained its focus and chased them. Spot jumped onto a bar, sliding across while keeping ahold of Kenya.

Spot paused when he noticed they slid passed a sandwich and went back to get it. Just as he picks it up in his teeth, the creature caught up with them and reached out to grab them. But they ran off and the creature grabs the sandwich, squirting mustard in its eye. Spot quickly went back and retrieved the sandwich from the monster.

“Rank you!”

Spot and Kenya run off again, as the creature looks on.

@jamalwhite12 Kenya: We made it through that monster! Is it Spot?

[yeahcurrahhe-e]

𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐌

〚 𝐑. 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 〛

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ➛ mentions of Nazi symbol, violence, swearing, blood

𝐘/𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐍’𝐓 been so flourished with cheers and genuine happiness in months, the liberation of Eindhoven a miracle to the aching soul shackled in her chest. Hell, she couldn’t even single out the last moment that a burning rush of happiness graced her threadbare nerves.

She trekked through the throngs of giddy and riotous citizens, a few children embracing her legs with every nerve of strength in their tiny bodies. She beamed from beneath the bowed shadow of her helmet, the dark rims beneath her eyes protruding through the canvas of elation, a numbness in her fingertips as she grazed an embrace over their knit sweaters and dresses. And it almost felt monstrous to touch such innocence with the plagued hands of a war-exhausted soldier. Yet, these few children bounded to her with such a devastating extent of relief on their pale faces, that she couldn’t bask in regrets for too long.

As Y/N shifted to retrieve a few rations of chocolate from her pouch, her gaze passed over the flitting bodies of older citizens in their exhilaration and to the redhead captain idling about a light post, keen eyed and strategic concentration beneath the cerulean luster of his eyes. His dirtied fingers clasped feverishly a pair of binoculars as murmurs were exchanged beneath the din to Welsh and Nixon. And, as if sensing the subtle pressure of her stare upon him, he dropped away his binoculars to around his neck, amicable eyes impossibly rooting out hers in the bustle.

He bowed his head at her with a familiar quirk at the corner of his mouth, their gazes lingering in a fleeting silence that’d make any soldier of the company gauge a second look in bewilderment — their captain was a living, breathing illustration of an army disciplinary booklet, never had they began to think of the human being thriving outside the quiet stoicism, loyalty of the redhead, and how he could allow for something resembling love to hinder his maturity. And that’s what throbbed in the exhausted eyes of the captain and lieutenant, before it was jostled away by a wrench on the fold of her jacket.

The rations of chocolate she had retrieved vanished into the raucous of Mary Janes and loafers, her hands absentmindedly engaging in a grapple with the rough grasp on her jacket. She had never heard any footsteps approaching in the tensely abuzz atmosphere, and she cast a hand out to seize her rifle from its snug embrace around her shoulder before the individual put their hand down on the barrel, nudging its salvation away into the distracted crowd.

Every inch of her body felt as if it accommodated lead weights as her overwrought eyes moved along the distant rifle in a puddle, her legs cramping with agonizing spasms as she heaved her legs around against the increasing pressure on her, the weight of all her gear scorning her attempts. More hands were seizing any open gap of her uniform and heaving her through drunken citizens, their beaming faces hasting past her broad eyes in blurs. The frustrated gulp she took burned her larynx, and she strained a hand towards the sheath on her leg, fingers cramping just short of her knife’s handle.

The sole of a shoe harshly kicked at her quivering, pinched hand and a gurgle of a growl and cry rolled through her throat. A few aggressive murmurs of Dutch or German, she couldn’t exactly pinpoint it, rebounded against her ringing ears as she was shoved to the bricks with a disgusted thrust. In instinct, her arms still desperately thrashed against the few men that clutched handfuls of her uniform in their fists, writhing against them. A fist blinded her resolve as it dove into her cheek and she subtly hunched, only for a different hand to harshly pluck a tousle of her hair, wrenching her back into a contorted arch.

At the spotty height of her gaze, she perceived the silver glimmer of scissors, teasing over her in doom. Fucking hell. Survive D-Day just to get murdered by some nutcase in Holland. In her quavery peripheral, she gazed over hunched women, their silky dresses wrenched from their porcelain skin as they wailed in shattered screams. Patches of hair protruded amidst the bald of their scalp, wispy lines of blood trickling away from lacerations burningly swollen on their blanched complexion. And a Swastika was roughly streaked black on their foreheads.

A second kick of adrenaline coursed through her veins long enough to extract a Kraut knife from her belt and yank it vigorously towards the hip of one of the nearby men. Her heels are what landed roughly first into the ruptured brick of the roadway as she vaguely perked at furious exclaims from within the maze of citizens — and they were in English, American accents.

“Hey! Hey! She’s an American! Stop!”

“Fucking douchebag, look at the flag on her sleeve!”

“Let her go!”

And as she wrenched away from the throng of three men, she heard the familiar snip of scissors somewhere above her head. A dense strand of her hair descended painfully slow in the stiff air to the bricks, the hands replaced by those of her own company, bustling her away from the shrieking wails of women being stripped of their feminism and branded like cattle.

She tasted the acridness of blood in her mouth from delving her teeth into her bottom lip during her struggle, her breaths now gulps of bewilderment and anger within her lungs. Mumbles of reassurance were strung around her frenzied hearing, and yet, in a suffocating stupor, she walked without acknowledgement to their throngs of words. Any indication of life only buzzed through when her perturbed eyes gave way to the concerned ones of Dick Winters.

The captain was nearly as crimson in the face as his hair was in shade, picking apart the crowd with his hasty shuffle through it to reach her, the other Easy soldiers dubiously waning away at the sight of their frenzied captain.

An invisible hand was clasped over her mouth as it sought words for the redhead man bumbling through fraught citizens towards her. Her mouth idiotically pinched in cumbersome movements, and her tongue pricked with unspoken words. An abrupt needle of adrenaline pierced her heart, unloading in an instant when his hand plucked hers. She felt her ribs heaving as if confined by ropes in her chest, straining to inflate her crippled lungs, her overwrought eyes moving along his moving mouth — but her ears drained the sound of his words and she was a stiff deer in headlights. She wanted to run. All sounds that were adjacent feel far away, as if she were no longer in the body that stood paralyzed on the damp bricks.

Her brain was an electrical storm, lightning striking with tidal waves of anger, frustration, and anxiety in her neurons. She wrenched her hand from the tender clasp of her boyfriend rather absentmindedly, his eyes ablaze with confusion as she jogged off from the ardor of the crowd, wrenching her helmet on in her stride. Nixon and Welsh’s individual gazes moved along the fretful flee of the woman, as if she were running from artillery, pausing the inhale of their smoldering cigarettes with a frown wrapped around the toxic stick.

And then their captain was careening feet-first into the fiery wrath of her departure, skidding on shell casings, pine needles, and discarded flags.

—

Her footsteps were a perturbed song as they curtly pursued the trajectory to the town’s idle river. Despite it being a humid afternoon that loomed over the town, the water would undoubtedly be cold. However, she’d rather be freezing her ass off than confronting an anxiety-consumed concerned Dick Winters at the town’s center — be an exhibition of mortification to the company as a clump of her hair lay amidst the bricks, her dignity with it.

Y/N wrenched off her OD jacket with a sharp cry of a growl emitting from between clenched teeth. Her peripheral pinpointed the purples and scarlets bubbling beneath the sweep of her skin from the clasps of those men. The bitter prick that pooled through her nerves was poison as she felt disgusted by the memory of ghostly hands on her arms, the snag of her scalp. For a moment it felt like hell. A wound from hell that scorned the best of women.

“Y/N!”

His voice — a shot of lucent Heaven in the dreary crimson smoldering in her chest as she stood at the fringes of the river in her white undershirt. Her jacket was a lame crumple alongside her boots that squished dank twines of algae beneath them.

“Y/N?”

Her fists trembled at her sides, bristling the cloth of her begrimed pants; she was not one who wore her heart on her sleeve, deal out the cards of her emotions for others to observe - judge - war was a burial ground for emotions, souls, of those who toiled in its name. And she wouldn’t let herself burgeon in fire red for what had happened to her, for the scraps of dignity floating in a spate in her stomach, for the hideous blotch on her head. Yet, as much as she would bury the dread and misery far into the dirt beneath her feet, her emotions were an open casket to Dick Winters - there was no concealing the hideous reality of them from him. And she’d bless God for his keen kindness any other day. God, how she would.

“Are you hurt?” he inquired, clearing his throat while his boots slipped shortly on slick algae in the shallow water, trudging through soupy sand until he settled at a cautious distance from her.

“Just a few bruises,” she muttered, staring at the soft presence of the river, and him scrutinizing her beneath the pale sky, how she appeared so broken and small in nature’s veneer. Stress stretched a horizon beneath her ragged eyes as they moved over each margin and curve of the river, rather than dare confront the tension cultivating between them.

“Y/N…” Dick’s sigh sounded defeated as he now loitered a few inches from her, perhaps even exhausted. It was a small call of her name but enough to burst some life into her rigid stature.

Y/N earnestly mainlined some formality into her posture when it wilted like the dying soul in her chest, wiping furiously at the light rose of her nose and crystal eyes. “What?” she grunted with a tasteless amount of frustration radiating from her.

She shifted her hand away from the fever of her face, bending to pluck her jacket from the mites of sand, her helmet plummeting off to accompany it rather than replace it. Her body pinched with a foreboding rigidity as she braced herself for impact, the mellow wind bristling the swollen crimson patch on her head. Her hand was intercepted by a concerned and warm hand. Y/N’s hand cramped to recoil it away from the cradle of his own, yet he bolstered his clasp, halting her second endeavor for avoidance.

He was a man that knew no fear until he acknowledged his feelings for her. He had met every dread of his in her heedless behavior. And the forebode was a nauseating acid in the abyss of his stomach when his eyes scoured the patch on the rear of her head, where hair had evidently been snipped off.

“Hey, hey…” He interjected as her furious eyes crystalled gradually in the hoary daylight. His index finger grazed over the crook of her palm one as she partially glowered at him with a humiliated expression, “I-I’m sorry, Y/N.”

To his bewilderment, her body jolted out with a meager quiver, her fortifications set alight by the overwhelming misery and humility devouring her soul. She wept, hot tears soaked into the lines of exhaustion on her young face, leaving damp evidence upon her sunken cheeks. Dick had only ever witnessed Y/N cry once, but she hadn’t quite been the same since Normandy. Nobody had. Yet, this was the woman he adored far beyond the hellish confines of this war, and the chipping away of her soul was proven by the pallid devastation on her face.

And she couldn’t refuse when his hands drew her head into the crook of his neck, embracing her tight to make her cracks remain together. She clung onto him now, pulling him into her spindly figure, his fingers brushing timidly over the spreading bruising of purple with yellow blotches exposed by the subtle rise of her shirt. Similar violet speckles distended beneath crimson on her arms. Yet, no meager swell of a bruise prepared him for the protrusion of red on her scalp, where the tips of scissors had lacerated the sensitive skin in its maneuver to snip away the hair concealing it.

Anger, pain, and sadness roused in an aggressive entanglement in his psyche, and he hated that he didn’t know how to help her. She abruptly shifted back from his chest, the verdant of the uniform dampened in tear tracks, and buried her flushed face into her hands, entombing the humiliation. Her fingers fist handfuls of her hair, stretching out the white of her scalp with clenches of her roots, shaking her head in utter disgust when her fingertips abraded over the blotch on her head.

“Y/N, stop,” he hissed when the wrenches were too cruel and sadistic, her teeth gritting loudly beneath a frown. He sounded profoundly frustrated, something that bubbled painfully; helplessness soured at the linings of his stomach at the sight of her looking so defeated and resentful with herself.

When she attempted to say his name, it sputtered out in a shattered and rough gurgle, her throat so throttled by tightness and raw from emotion that he almost didn’t pick up on the whimper.

“I fucked up, I’m a paratrooper and couldn’t even defend myself against three scrawny men! I froze and let it happen-”

Her face was warm between the clasp of his callus palms, and Dick was fleetingly relieved when she didn’t turned away or attempt to scramble from his hold.

“You did not screw up,” he asserted, trying not to let his individual fury bleed into frustration at the blame she was ramshackling herself with, “And you didn’t let it happen. It happened too fast for you to realize what was happening. This doesn’t define your worth as a paratrooper, you know that.”

“But how good can I be when I can’t think fast on my feet? When I choke up from shock?” Y/N’s toilworn eyes flicked up to his as he brushed away stray, sweaty strands of hair from her forehead.

“We’re all out of our element here. Being around civilization, people - no threat of artillery, everyone cheering and smiling. It’s not like the front lines here and you were caught up in the exhilaration of it all,” Dick murmured, her shuddering breath fanning over the freckles of his cheekbones, expression subtly spited beneath the lour of red canvassing her face, “Sweetheart, don’t ever think you’re no good here - heck - you’re better than most of us here.”

His thumbs brushed away the lukewarm tears trickling down the arch of her cheeks as she subtly shook her head with a dampened smile that was radiant in the sooty daytime, “I guess it’s a good thing we wear helmets.” A slight gesture went towards the rear of her head.

Dick scoffed lightly at her quip, shaking his head at her as he plucked her helmet from its sandy bolster at their feet, “You say it as if you look like a barbershop disaster.” He gently eased the olive and netted helmet onto the crown of her head, finger scraping by the white spade on the side of it while his hands relented back to the prominence of her cheekbones, “I fell in love with you when you were a sweaty mess after running Currahee…love you when you’re plastered head to toe with blood and dirt…”

She rolled her eyes from beneath the shady drape of the helmet’s edge, “Yeah, yeah, enough with the lovey-dovey shit….” Her knowing smirk cracked into a candid smile, “How you ever managed to fall in love with me, Richard Winters, I’ll never know.”

“It wasn’t that hard,” he ducked a hasty kiss to her lips and she could feel his mouth form the bow of a smirk.

[allthemusic]

Week ending: 5th December

Ooh, a live record! There haven't been a whole tonne of these so far - I think the last one I remember (the only one?) was the Goons. Which isn't a great precedent, and to tell the truth, I'm not a huge fan of live recordings in general, anyway, but hey, maybe this will be the track that redeems the whole format for me. Only one way to find out, right?

Ma! He's Making Eyes at Me - Johnny Otis and Marie Adams (peaked at Number 2)

The first thing I notice here is that even as live records go, the audio quality here's really spotty. The screaming crowd never quite drowns Marie's voice out, but they're very distracting and they keep coming back throughout the whole track, sometimes causing some sort of interference. I don't full-on hate it, but it definitely doesn't improve the listening experience here.

Thankfully, the star of the show here is Marie, who has a strong, distinctive voice that cuts straight through it all. Add in Johnny Otis' band, with some standard-issue doo-wop backing and a solid bit of saxophone, and you've got a pretty solid R&B track. I particularly appreciate the way that it ramps up throughout, with multiple key changes adding energy and intensity, even after what's a pretty intense start already.

Unfortuantely, I don't know if I like the lyrics as much. The idea is basically that Marie's complaining to her mother about a suitor, complaining that ma, he's makin' eyes at me / Mama, he's very nice to me / Mama, he's almost breaking my heart / If you peek in, can't you see I'm gonna weaken? Which, okay, it's clearly meant to be a bit tongue-in-cheek, and the song makes it clear enough that all that protesting's a bit of a front. Marie's making her own choices, by the end of the song, imploring her mother please don't help me as her beau goes in for a kiss.

But.... I don't know, I just don't find it all as cute as the song clearly does. Lines about how Ev'ry minute he gets bolder / Now he's leaning on my shoulder / Ma, he's kissing me! just come off kind of creepy, and I don't love that the whole "joke" of the song is that it sounds like this dude's getting a bit handsy, but then - surprise! - it turns out that she likes it. I know it's not fair to judge a 1957 song by 2024's standards, but I'm also allowed to just not find it particularly funny, I don't know what else to say on that front.

All that said, I do enjoy how much fun Marie's clearly having - from the relish on the initial mama and the he's kissing me line, to the last few seconds of the recording, where she gets a litle call and response going with the audience, shouting oh yeah at them. She's having the time of her life, and I love that for her, even if I'm not madly enamoured with the song.

It's fine. At the end of the day, it's not a song that I think I'm ever going to love, but Marie's got some real character - I'm pretty sure the song succeeded as a live record mostly because of her performance and the sheer enthusiasm she throws at it. That and the response she gets from the crowd - it's hard not to get dragged along a little bit.

Favourite technically-not-creepy-but-still song of the bunch: Ma! He's Making Eyes At Me

[unknownjpegs]

housesitting

When they’re finally out of the meeting, engagementpromotionbrandtripadspot, Saha’s agent turns to her. 

“It’d be really good for you to show at that after-party,” she says. “Lots of tag opportunities.”

Saha likes her agent, for the most part. More than the last one at least. She is a modicum more in-touch about everything. Still runs her about like a work horse. Worse, she’s a bit daft when it comes to figuring Saha’s priorities out.

And…honestly? Saha hates her annoying fucking L.A. accent.

She sucks her dislike down, though. Swallows it, sighs big and long. Fits a properly apologetic smile on her face,  but doesn’t look up from her phone screen.

“Ooh, I’m so sorry, Rach, but I can’t. Got a thing.” 

Her agent’s eyebrows bunch. “What thing?” She pulls her own phone from a neatly-pressed jacket pocket, and swipes at it. “I don’t have any thing on your calendar for that day.”

Saha pauses mid-text, waves her phone. “Yeah, ‘cuz I’ve got it.”

“Well, can’t it be rescheduled? This party is big, Saha, and —”

“Nope.” She pops the ‘p’ delicately. 

Her agent, for better or for worse, does not know when to give up: “Okay, well… we can delay an appearance. Which borough is it in? I’ll see if I can arrange a ride we can get you there late and still—”

“G’on, but it’ll be money wasted,” Saha says. Now she does look up from the screen. One thick, expertly shaped eyebrow arched, she offers: “It’s a family event back in Liverpool.”

Seeing the fruitless end, her agent sighs. “And I suppose it’s important.” 

Saha grins at her. Tucks the phone back in her nondescript tote bag — she won’t be caught dead in anything brand without a feature or stipend — and shakes her head.

“Naw. Not at all. Just housesitting.”

*

Fuck, it’s worse than the pictures, Benji had laughed the first time they’d pulled up to the ruined house. She’d helped with the downpay, and looking at it had made her feel a bit like she’d tossed money into a hole.

But every time she ends up on the property, the house grows on her. Been a sad, broke, ugly little thing before he’d gotten his hands on it. Obviously beautiful at one point, but not in some time.

And now, she thinks: Fuck, I like this place.

She’s admiring the bed of flowers and new bushes, the regrowth bits of spotty grass, the freshly-patched hole in the west end of the roof. 

Honestly she’d buy one just like this for herself. Then again, she’d never hear the end of it: copying me, huh? Finally admitting I’ve got better taste?

Nose wrinkling, she thinks of the rainbow assortment of threadbare, fraying flannels stuffed in his closet. You really fuckin’ don’t, Benj.

But…it’s a nice house. even though it still looks shit at certain angles, it’s becoming beautiful again.

Slowly.

Hard to blame him, but at the same time it’s not. Would have been a finished job months ago if he’d only just gave in and let her arrange contractors. But he’d insisted on doing it all himself.

Gives me something to do. Like time spent idle scared him. Want to have something to look forward to. Like the empty, unclear future scared him.

He’d said those things to her once over takeaway out on the rickety porch. And the delicate, vulnerable admission accompanied by his sad eyes, the implications of what he might get up to without the house…well. That had been well enough to shut her up about teasing him on it.

Saha rolls her eyes and snaps the car into park. 

Stupid melancholic little dickhead. 

The old front door cracks open ominously, dust and wood splinters raining down into her hair. With a grumble and a yank to free her key from the lock, she brushes it clean. Checks herself in hall mirror — just about the only wall hanging in the place, at the moment, and one she’d put up herself on a previous visit. 

It’s sad in here.

It’s not done! 

Okay. Means it needs to look like a Scooby-Doo set, does it?

Saha’s smiling at the memory of his offended, resounding laugh when she turns the corner past the stairs. The house is basically one big rectangle, and the center back is where it’s really lovely. Its main hallway opens into an airy space. Big windows. Kitchen on one side, living room to her left. 

There’s a table and chair set that hadn’t been there last time she’d come round, a pair of boots kicked haphazardly along its legs. Jacket askew over one chair, messy pile of old mail in the center. She scowls. Fucker hadn’t even gone through the mail she’d collected last time. Lazy. 

But still, all those little details? Benji Benji Benji. Makes her grin go wider.

Saha turns towards the other room, where the setting sun filters beautiful red-orange glimmers through the big windowed doors. It crawls across an old couch, the half-stained coffee table he says he’ll finish eventually, and — 

And.

Her fingers tighten on the strap of her bag, fear licking up her spine. Immediate and icy, as if someone’s just dropped a bucket of winter lake water over her head. 

There is a man lying on his back in the center of the living room.

And it is not fucking Benji. 

There is a man. Who is not Benji. A man who is not Benji in Benji’s empty fucking house that might as well be abandoned. A man in the living room that has holes in the floor, for fuck’s sake.

For a split second, the fear dissipates. She thinks he’s dead, maybe. Just a dead body.

And then it rounds a circle and returns, slamming into her chest: just a dead body. There is a dead man who is not her brother on the floor of her brother’s secluded country home. 

And Saha thinks:

Fuck. How am I gonna explain this one to the pigs?

Because she’s meant to report this, right? Meant to report a fucking dead man in the middle of her brother’s floor? Lying on the ground, dead? People report those things, naturally. Dead people?

Her heart starts to race, and that’s when the man sneezes. His legs kick up with the force of it.

He goes, “oh shit, dusty”. Laughs and settles back down into the starfish splay. Napping, maybe, in the sunlight? A stranger napping in her brother’s house oh fuck a stranger — 

The scream lodged in her throat bursts out. It is proper fucking loud: ear-piercing in a way that hurts even her own, makes them ring as it ends. 

And she’s in the kitchen, then. Not sure how she’s gotten there. She’s just…in the kitchen. Her bag isn’t over her arm anymore, phone flung out of her hand. She scrabbles at drawers — empty, empty, one fork, open another, a single takeaway chopstick, two cloth napkins fucking Benji can’t keep shit straight to save his life.

Or hers, for that matter, fuck’s sake. And if she dies to some stranger because her messy pisser of a brother can’t organize to save his life, she is going to be — 

The thought makes a wild cackle bubble out of her. The scream’s still there, weak in her throat. So the laugh sounds more like a wail. 

No way to be miffed if she’s dead. So she won’t be dead.

When she finally sorts out a knife from a drawer, the man has stood. Fuck, she’d been slow. He’s tucked into the corner by the fireplace. He’s big. Huge fucker, and if he wanted to he could cross then room in three strides. 

She grips the knife tighter, holds it in front of her like she’s…fuck, holds it like a daft fucking idiot, like she’s pointing a wand.

Abracadabra! Poof! Saha Palanivel found dead at 35! Ta-daaa!

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

She’d like to say the words come out on a snarl, but they don’t. Her voice is a whispery, scared thing. Weak.

He holds his hands up. Shoulders rounded, eyes wide and a sheepish grimace that shows his teeth. 

“Jesus Christ, you scared me.” He puts his hand to his chest. “Man, I almost pissed myself.” He frowns, eyes distancing a bit like he’s forgotten something. “I leave the front door unlocked?”

It is a mad fucking question from a man who has, considering all evidence, broken in. Saha shakes the knife, and he lifts the hand back up. Palms out — palm out. One is tucked behind his back.

“Why are you American?” She shrieks, eyes narrowed, and then scrunches her face. “Fucking hell, I mean — get out! Oh, shit, get out!” 

“Listen — ”

“No you listen, dickhead!” She feels a bit insane. Her voice is shot, shaky with fear and adrenaline. She jabs the knife forward, but there’s no point. He’s still stood across the room. “There is nothing to steal in here, alright? So just. Get out, and I won’t even call ‘em round. Okay? If you leave, I promise I won’t.” 

The man pushes his hand out a little more, tilts it beseechingly. “Please don’t call the cops. That would suck so bad for me.” 

Her fearful expression twists in anger. “Oh, it would suck for you, huh? Maybe shoulda thought of that before you broke in!” She thrusts the knife again, knows it doesn’t look nearly as confident or threatening as she’d like. “I will stab you, mate.”

She won’t. The thought of brandishing it has her a little ill, and she is pointedly not thinking about actually having to use it. Fuck’s sake, she can’t even watch horror movies. Fake blood makes her nauseous.

Gets a real funny mental image of trying to rush this guy and slipping in her own sick, though. 

“Wow,” he tilts his head, eyes sweeping over her. Shuffles in place that she would consider shy if it weren’t from a B&E stranger. “That is…like, uncanny. Very Benji when you say it like that.”

“B-Benji?” The point of the knife drops a bit.a “You know Benji?”

He nods. Offers up a careful smile, eyebrows tilted meek. Like maybe he’s just earned a victory.

But Saha has the blade up again, her face set with suspicious determination. He could have easily nosed around, found paperwork or seen pictures or something.

“Like fuckin’ hell you do. Prove it.” She pats for her phone, tossed behind her on the counter, finds it, shakes it just as threateningly. “Prove it or I’ll call.”

“I dunno how I can convince you…?” He trails off and pauses, whole face twitching with amusement. Then he laughs, more to himself than present in the moment. “I mean, like. We could do the birthmark thing?”

Proper fucking weird. Those three words had been underlined, as if they really needed emphasis.

Saha distantly remembers reading that letter. You’d like him. 

“Wait.” She drops the phone with a clatter. Points at him accusatorially, her expression scrunched in shock rather than fear. “Are you shagging my brother?” 

The man is pale, even in the orange setting sunlight that tosses over both of them into the living room. She sees how absolutely red he goes at the question.

For the first time since she’d pointed Benji’s kitchen knife at him, he looks away. Directs his stare up at the ceiling. Swallows as if he’s nervous. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Then his eyes find her again, flick back down, looking wholly embarrassed. “Uh. Not…technically?” 

“What the fuck does that mean.” 

“Listen, I’m assuming you’re like…his sister? I don’t really wanna talk about—” his flustered shuffle returns. “Man, come on.”

Saha starts to slip around the counter, arm moving to keep him at the tip of the blade. He still hasn’t budged, other than the nervous side-to-side. Now that the adrenaline has ebbed a bit, she’s piecing together a very specific scenario in her head. And it’s not looking all that good, the way her anxiously churning imagination paints it.

“Why did you break in?” She pats along the wall, backing up and putting more space between them. 

“I didn’t!” He says, and starts to move. Pauses with a glance up at her, then points down at his pocket. Saha only stares, so he fishes out something. Holds it up. 

A little golden key glints, sparkling in the sunlight. Looks exactly like her own. But the house had only come with two, which means…

Saha laughs. It’s not quite as mad, but still a bit nervy. “Sorry? He’s gone and given you a key?”

And that’s the most convincing thing he could have done, isn’t it? Proven to her that he isn’t some fucking stranger, an intruder or a squatter or a stalker. She believes him even if something within screams, he could have had that made where’s Benji where’s Benji is he okay?

Because Benji…yeah. He’s got that streak in him. The tragically quixotic drive to give a key to his fucking fixer upper country home to some man he’s known for —

“How long have you known him?” 

The man considers this for longer than she expected, eyes rolled up to the ceiling again. “Um. Months?” 

“Huh!” Saha scoffs, and with the breath ebbs out the rest of her anxiety. “Months. And he was so vague…?” She’s speaking mostly to herself now, eyes off him. “That cheeky little fucking —”

She has always been a hand talker. And now, the glint of the kitchen knife swipes through the air in front of her face. She recoils, forgotten her fist had been wrapped tight around it.

“Shit!” It clatters to the ground between them. She recoils, dancing back to avoid its edge. “Oh, shit, mate, I am so sorry. Look at you, Saha, pointing a fuckin’ knife at the —” she glances up at him, eyes tight and apologetic. “Fuck’s sake, you’re a vet too, I mean. Gotta be, right? And I’m pointing a knife at you.” 

She’s glancing down at the floor, head in her hands. Otherwise, she would see the slight movement as the man tucks a gun underneath the sofa cushion.

“No hard feelings.” He starts to approach her, but it’s wary. Slow, with a careful lope and friendliness that sort of reminds her of a neighbor’s dog. “You gotta be Saha, right?” 

Hearing her name makes her smile. The idea that Benji’s talked about her, out there. Spoken of her to other soldiers, maybe found some sort of comfort in sharing things of her, of them, makes her want to cry all of a sudden. And the idea that he’s speaking about her, being so uncharacteristically open, with a man who…who he’s given a key to his house? 

She wants to know everything immediately. Wants to know how he’s doing, if he’s cut his hair, if he’s still smoking too much and hasn’t taken her chiding to heart. Wants to know where he is, if he’s listening to music, what he’s listening to, if he’s holding a gun, if he’s crying, if he feels like he needs a hug and feels like he can’t ask for it—

“How’s he been?” Saha asks. Her voice feels very tight, the promise of tears jumping up from the ache in her throat to settle in her eyes. “He doing alright?”

Something goes across his face then that she can’t place. Looks…sad. Worried, maybe. She wonders if he’s not seen Benji in a bit, either. Would be like him, wouldn’t it, to fuck off in his own solitude. 

“Yeah,” the man says, shrugging his shoulders and laughing. “I mean, it’s Benji. He’s great.”

And usually, Saha Palanivel is god at picking out a liar. 

*

She won’t know he’s lying for a long time. But what she does know, after nearly two hours of conversation, can fill the void of that lie easily. He’s very forthcoming and Saha finds it difficult not to offer things up in return. Her brother’s…whatever he is, is a charming man. A bit funny, just as Benji had said, and not all that funny, but it’s bad enough that it works. And he seems lonely, so it feels good to lead him away from that space. Give him a couple embarrassing childhood stories that she, of course, swears him to secrecy over. 

She gets some very sweet tale that makes her ooh and aah, because Benji’s a fucking softy and it just…it all lines up, doesn’t it? She can imagine him getting a fat crush on somebody after working together just once, and it’s even more believable he’d seek out a connection across multiple leaves. 

“What does it say, that I’ve no idea the military works like that? Or that militaries work together, like that?”

“Probably good things,” Xavier from Boston says, grinning at her. He’s got a wide, all-teeth sort of grin. Reminds her of Benji’s, when it gets nice and true and wild, and the ache in her chest returns. More and more often, she gets that ache. 

The distance is always a press at the back of her skull — like reaching out with her thoughts strains over the length of it, the fuzzy lack of him. Feels so close and so far. But when she finds him at that point far away, when her mind curls around the details, it hurts. It aches.

It’s silly and cliche, but Saha misses him like someone has taken a piece of her. Like she’s been forced to watch that nebulous piece, maybe an organ or a valve on her heart or a lump of her brain, be carried away. 

No idea where it is. What it’s doing. If, maybe, since it’s been removed from her so long, it’s drying up. 

Can you just come over sometimes, water the plants? He’d dropped the key into her hand without any other preamble, and she could only stare at it. Water the plants. Meant so much more, of course, coming from him. So careful with pieces of his own, and here he was dropping one into her hand. Giving her a bit back. 

Water the plants. Be in my home, where I am sometimes, too. Where you can tell I’m living, that I’m alive. 

So Saha asks Xavier a lot of questions. He knows Benji better, right now. Knows the man he is, instead of the one that flits and out of Saha’s life, taking and swapping and returning pieces of her. Of him, of them. 

And every time she gets an answer, hears a new story, it’s like watering the plants. Watering the pieces. Making sure they don’t dry up.

She tries not to make assumptions. She really does. But that look on his face, when he talks about her brother? It really seems as if Xavier has got some Benji-pieces of his own. 

That shared ache, the shared joy, makes conversation flow. So, even if he weren’t charming or silly or freely sharing stories, Saha thinks that would be enough. They’ve got Benji in common.

And yeah, she’s fucking neurotic. Probably shares too much. Would do it even if she weren’t running off a jet lagged two-hour nap on the plane and exhausted from a day of travel. She’s talking about Benji to someone who knows him, understands at least in some way the big feelings she’s got about it all. Who gets it. Him.

So. She cries. Does a real good one right at Benji’s kitchen table, doesn’t she, in Benji’s old shit house. Cries to some stranger who had been laying on the ruined floor. Because she misses him so fucking much, all the time. Because she loves him, so fucking much and all the time. Because:

“Sometimes I hate him. Not, hate him, but hate him about it, y’know?” She plucks at the sleeve of her sweater, wet from wiping her cheeks.

“No,” Xavier admits, cheek red where it wrinkles propped in his hand. “But I get what you’re saying.”

*

The sun has set once she gets ready to leave. Wants to go see her parents, and promises Xavier not to tell them anything. Because, he says, he’s got a plan in mind and needs to do it right. Which is so fucking sweet Saha feels that same aggressive pull to hug him as she does whenever Benji pops something incredibly sappy out of his stupid little mouth. 

Xavier is leaving too, but not yet. Has some stuff to wrap up. Promises to water the plants.

They’re standing on the front stoop, Saha’s bag over her shoulder and Xavier framed in the doorway. Said their goodbyes already, but standing there. Not assessing one another, but staring regardless. Like each can’t believe the other exists, that they’ve had the night they had. That Benji brought them together in such a melodramatic fucking way. Typical.

“Hey,” Saha says. He pauses at the door, kicks a foot out as he turns back around. It’s such a little thing.

Goofy, she thinks. Weird. Almost boyish. Bet it makes Benji laugh, when he does that.

And it’s so strikingly clear to her in that moment, with that particular thought, his silly habitual movement, that she laughs out loud. 

Of fucking course he’d gotten Benji’s attention. Gotten under his skin, popped that bubble he liked (needed) to think was thicker than it really was.

Of course he had. 

“This is so proper strange, because like. I dunno. You could still be lying to me, I guess. But I don’t think so. And feel free to say no,” she holds her hands up, “if you’re not that kinda person. Y’know. Touchy one. Just…listen, I’m eldest, right? I’m real happy to know Benj is. Happy, I mean.”

Fuckin’ shut up, Saha, you’re rambling, she hears him say. Grins wider. 

“Because you talk about him, and it seems like he’s happy. I think maybe you have a little bit to do with that.” 

Xavier looks immediately away, scratching his jaw. Not red from the stubble, but the color coming back.

Saha steps back up from the yard onto the cracking porch that barely holds the door up. 

“And honestly? You kinda look like you need one.” She holds her arms out. “M’not gonna shake your hand, after all that.” 

She is expecting at least a bit of hesitation. Maybe a scowl and a fuck off, a flinch.

Except what he does is get that little brother pull to his face. She’d clocked him as one, a little brother, about four sentences into their kitchen-table conversation. 

And that expression? It’s totally, utterly unique. Brow furrowed like it’s an insult, lip pulled slightly up, and then a crumble of it all into relief. It’s the look Benji always gives her — gave, she supposes — if he skid his knee, broke something and needed it covered up, had a shit day and wanted her to listen. 

Xavier gets that look. It seems like he tries to hold himself back a bit, and Saha does too from a flinch of her own. Because, as pleasant as he’s been, the speed with which he stumbles forward is a bit intimidating for somebody of his size. 

It feels really natural, though. She knows immediately he’s got a sister. Because he bends all funny, long torso hunched in, and his head drops full on her shoulder. 

“Fuck’s sake,” Saha huffs, reaching both hands up to pat along his back. “Was right, then, was I?” She tries not to feel too proud of it. “Sometimes you just know.”

“You are a fucking goddess.” Xavier mumbles, voice sounding wet, and squeezes her tight. 

Saha can only laugh, because she’s not got the air to do much else.

[graphicpolicy]

Preview: Scooby-Doo! Where Are You? #125

Scooby-Doo! Where Are You? #125 preview. It's up to Mystery Inc. to crack the case of the Hyena Man before the spotty rumors drive the townspeople away for good! #comics #comicbooks #scoobydoo

[dispatchdcu]

Scooby-Doo Where Are You? #125 Preview

Scooby-Doo Where Are You? #125 Preview #scoobydoo #scooby-doo #shaggy #scooby #scoobysnacks #mysteryinc #velma #fred #daphne #hannabarbera #dccomics #comics #comicbooks #news #dcu #amazon #previews #dcuuniverse #NCBD

Scooby-Doo Where Are You? #125 Preview: A mysterious laughter has been haunting the countryside outside Coolsville. It’s up to Mystery Inc. to crack the case of the Hyena Man before the spotty rumors drive the townspeople away for good! Written by JOHN ROZUM Art and cover by RANDY ELLIOTT $2.99 US | 32 pages ON SALE 12/5/23 Check out the Scooby-Doo Where Are You? #125 Preview Pages below Dig…

[icewindandboringhorror]

Daily Log 6

Trying out (probably just temporarily) making short daily-ish notes about things, in an attempt to see if it helps me be more reflective or productive lol.

Activities: I always basically need a 'recovery day' after running errands or anything, so.. not very productive, relatively boring day, very sleepy and headachy lol..

Went to the store to pick up something essential that I forgot the day before. Also tried out a new boardgame/cardgame thing just to test the rules/see if I'd like to play it with people in the future.

Played a few of the wii sports resort and wii fit games (which I do every weekend lol.. my weekly Wii check in... I still love the wii so much even though it's an obsolete console to everyone or whatever hghj... shout out to anyone still actively playing the nintendo Wii). Though I cut it short and didn't do dancing games or anything all that active, since I felt so tired and sick-ish. TpT

The most productive things were watering some plants, and also cooking and doing a lot of food prep. I love chopping cabbage into really thin stringy ribbon slices, it's kind of mesmerizing to see how small and even you can get it. If I had enough social energy to have a group chat or something I would always be texting stuff like ''sliced up a cabbage today....... effervescent''.

Did a few maintenance tasks (clearing out online notifications, deleting spam emails, wrote out my weekly plan and to-do list/main goals for the upcoming week and organized a few papers, etc.)

Honestly the rest of the day I was just in a sleepy haze, or actually napping (fell asleep at my desk whilst trying to work on the tapestry translations lol), etc. Still very worldbuilding inspired and thinking about a lot of stories and ideas at once but sadly my physical energy does not match the energy in my brain.

Cutting cabbage today made me think of bligabata (one of the staples of the Avirre'thel diet, basically giant cabbages that grow along streams). I miss doing little posts like that. It's just hard to work in alongside bigger/longer term projects like the worldbuilding slideshow and games and stuff.

Notable sights: A very large bird perched on a comically tiny wobbling branch at the very top of a tree that looks like it wouldn't hold it's weight. Watched a squirrel pick through the grass under the spotty shade of a tree, it looked like it was leaping through little shapes in the shadows. Saw a different bird fly into a hole in a building next to a gutter and then heard a chorus of tiny little cheepy noises, so it might have been a parent bringing food to it's children. I've seen some bird eggs on the ground the past few weeks, perhaps babies are hatching. Came across the discarded bone of an eaten chicken wing laying in the middle of a sidewalk, an omen of the universe mocking me for my recent anemia fueled chicken wing cravings.

Goals moving forward: Focus on social activities, finding new friends in the places I want to move, communicating with ones I have. Physical therapy exercises. Plant nasturtiums!!! Finish and upload videos, edit costume pictures & etc. Do the new costumes I've planned. MAKE SCULPTURES at some point, I miss them.

Notable foods: Made kale chips. Also fish tacos, which included making a cabbage slaw and some pico de gallo. Had more asparagus too. >:3 A good day in terms of having foods that are actually somewhat enjoyable, though I think laboring for them sometimes makes them less good lol, like.. spending a hour on prep work and then having to clean up everything and feeling sick afterwards from being in a warm kitchen etc. - in return for maybe 20 minutes of eating..? The cost benefit analysis doesn't always work out in my head. Oh, also had one of my reserve cans of gingerale that I mostly just keep in case of stomach aches, but just had it as a treat because I was feeling overheated.. crispy ice cold ginger ale.. still an unbeatable experience.. .. pretending I am in the arctic instead of in doo doo stink usa where we have 85F days and heatwaves in spring and fires and shit every summer... icy icey, i am snow.. eooughhh

[fabseg-creator]

Valarie and Spot ( redesign)

I drew them in this scene.

[mysticaldreamlandgentlemen]

@asia2023animationgirl Spotty-Doo ( 2002)

[yamahapitmansmarine]

Top Tips to Know Before Purchasing a Personal Watercraft

There’s no better way to spend a day – or make the most of the sunshine and scenery – than cruising through the waterways on your jet ski. There is a tremendous sense of freedom and possibility. Investing in one of these personal watercrafts will certainly pay you back again and again.

Whether you’ve owned one before or you’re new to riding a personal watercraft (also known as a PWC), selecting a PWC that best suits your lifestyle and budget requires research and time. To help make the selection process easier for you, we put together these buying tips for your very own personal watercraft.

Where You’ll Ride the PWC

Are you going to use your jet ski in lakes and rivers? Or saltwater bodies? While any PWC will corrode in both fresh and saltwater, there’s no doubt that salt significantly accelerates the process.

Keep in mind that regardless of the cooling system or what type of water you run it in, you need to clean your jet ski properly to avoid problems related to corrosion and rust. Plan on spending some time after each ride flushing the water injection port with clean water, rinsing out the engine bay, and cleaning all interior and exterior components. You’ll keep it in top running condition and lengthen its life.

Who Will Ride the PWC

The size of the PWC is critical. While you might think that a smaller, lightweight jet ski is better for a less experienced rider, when in fact the opposite is true. Larger models have more stability, which is helpful for beginners. Also, if you plan to tow wakeboarders or rafts, getting a big model is preferable. Experienced riders can opt for the leaner, more agile models. This also applies to the jet ski’s specifications. You want to make sure the engine and power fit the rider.

What Accessories You Will Need

Life jackets are a must. These are required by law, so this is a non-negotiable. You may also want to purchase jet ski covers for transport and storage, a marine GPS unit, safety whistle, dry bags, waterproof phone case, telescoping paddle, tow tube, tow rope, etc. This depends on how you want to use your jet ski and which accessories will make it more useful. You can purchase these items in marine shops.

If You Want a New or Used Boat

New models are equipped with the latest technology and innovations, so you’ll get the bells and whistles you want. You don’t have to worry about wear and tear or spotty maintenance from previous owners, and many new jet skis come with a warranty. But they also come with a higher price tag.

Generally, a used jet ski is less expensive than a new one. But, of course, just like a car, it depends on the make and model. Many people advise that those starting out opt for pre-owned. This allows you to learn how to ride and complete basic maintenance tasks. You can also see if you really love it and will use the PWC before investing in a new one. If you choose a used jet ski, make sure to check maintenance records and examine the PWC for wear and tear. It’s a good idea to have a mechanic check it out.

What Brand  Do You Want to Have

Some people are diehard Yamaha fans; others will not ride anything but a Sea-Doo. If this is a big deal for you, research your brand and the models it offers. If you are open to any brand, again, do your research and find the best fit for you in terms of power, speed, size, and price.

How You Will Transport the Jet Ski

If you’re lucky enough to live on waterfront property, this is not a problem! But if you do not, you’ll need a safe and reliable way to transport your jet ski. Look into trailers, or, if you plan on storing your rig at a recreation area.

What Type of Insurance Do You Want to Have for Your PWC

It’s a smart idea to purchase a separate policy for your PWC. It should cover personal injuries, medical costs, and property damage. Some policies also cover you if an insured operator causes the accident. For example, Yamaha insurance and finance offer not only boat insurance (they call it marine insurance) but also to PWCs as well.

[pokemon-ash-aus]

Dumb idea, probably not gonna be canon but Someone mentioned Cursed! Ash and Mewtwo are pretty close cause of humans and for some reason, all I could think of was a spotty Lil Mewtwo who was too tiny and thrown away by humans. so He creates a suit to appear normal a la Scrappy-Doo style. Suit malfunctions and Mew and Ash are witnesses to a small ass Mewtwo being an angry feral kitten and are both mad and slightly impressed that they were nearly killed by a baby.

[asia2023animationgirl]

Jason Shouted: " SPOTTY-DOO, WHERE ARE YOU!?"

@mysticaldreamlandgentlemen Nice!