#the american genet

[mindblowingscience]

The longest genome of all the animals on Earth belongs not to a giant, or a cognitively advanced critter, but a writhing, water-dwelling creature seemingly frozen in time, right at the cusp of evolving into a beast that can live on land. These are the lungfish, a class of freshwater vertebrates whose peculiar characteristics are reflected in a colossal genetic code. Able to breathe both air and water, with limb-like fins, and a well-developed skeletal architecture, these strange ancient creatures are thought to is thought to share a common ancestor with all four-limbed vertebrates known as tetrapods.

Continue Reading.

[strangebiology]

Most American bison in the world are privately owned, and therefore the ranchers can breed them with cattle if they want. In fact, you can increase your odds of getting a white beefalo, or creatures of any other color, if you mix them with the appropriate domestic cattle.

However, conservation herds such as the ones in Yellowstone and here in Evanston, Wyoming, are meant to preserve some of the bison purity, so they're not going to actively hybridize them. You can often see the Bear River animals from the highway, although from that distance they kind of just look like little lumps.

The managers at Bear River State Park "try to maintain our herd at 7 to 10 adult animals" and this article from the spring of 2023 says there were 15 total at the time of writing. Three of them, including a calf, are white! You can see the calf in the last image and compare his size now, still not fully grown. They are not albino, but the color actually does come from genes from Charolais cattle, which are white, in their ancestry.

[bitter69uk]

“His lifestyle WAS his art: the drugs, the prostitution, the homelessness, the years spent in jail - it all bled onto the page and created a new kind of poetry. He was the American Genet: a man with one foot firmly in the criminal underworld and one in literature.”

/ From “The man who set the Beats going” by Tony O’Neill, The Guardian, 2007 /

“I never met Huncke. Yet he speaks to me in a voice of gentle desperation and compassionate understanding on the complexity and fragility of the human condition, generously revealing the stamina of his tortured soul …”

/ From the book So Real It Hurts (2015) by Lydia Lunch /

Unlike Lydia Lunch, I did meet literary bad boy and proto-beatnik Herbert Huncke (9 January 1915 - 8 August 1996), who died on this day. Or, more accurately, I had a fleeting encounter with him. Like so many, I went through a Beat literature phase in my twenties. Huncke (who was on intimate terms with and a primary influence on the likes of William S Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac) gave several readings in London in the early nineties which I worshipfully attended. (I also managed to see Ginsberg). Huncke was a spellbinding raconteur with a worldly-wise WC Fields-style delivery, and so desiccated-looking he suggested an unwrapped, upright ancient Egyptian mummy. After one reading, he autographed my copy of The Evening Sun Turned Crimson (1980). I can pinpoint exactly when because Huncke wrote the date [26 October 1994] above his signature in surprisingly pretty, swirling handwriting.

[saintofdaggers]

dancing villains. what atrocities will they commit next?

[cowboycannibalism]

long live unauthorized horror musicals (and horror musicals in general)

[marchsfreakshow]

Blood and Organs, For You [James Patrick March]

Angst.

What a life. For a Repo man. Such anger and hatred he holds for the one he misses.

Dead reader. I practically ripped off Repo! The Genetic Opera for this fic, because I thought it would suit James.

I re-watched and re-listened to Repo! A lot for this but it's fine cause I love it.

No one's perspective

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

What a living job, only to never be thanked.

Never have the correct payment for his work. Never for his face to be recognised. Never to be known. Never. Oh if only you could come back to him. If only he made the correct choice.

What a stupid man James was.

Picking his unborn child over you. A rash decision which haunted him for 17 years. She was a pretty girl, stuck in her room while her father did nothing but cut up bodies and repossess organs for those who couldn't pay their debts. She didn't know. She couldn't know. James wouldn't live with himself if she knew his true job. She rarely strayed from her bedroom window, watching seasons and stars flow by.

He couldn't bring himself to hate his daughter. He couldn't. In the moment he thought he made the correct choice. Leaving you for dead; his bride and the sweetest one by his side. Stupid man! James needed you now more than ever. He prayed to an unloving and uncaring god for you to be brought back to him, in any way possible. His daughter was only half you, barely even you. He blinked and she was smiling sweetly at him as a little girl, taking her medicine. He blinked and she was a 17-year-old wishing for freedom outside of her little bubble in her room.

His money was only ever worth so much when his real payment should've been going back to when you got sick. Going back to refusing to take that 'cure'. Oh, James was a fool. You were perfect. You were wonderful, you were his. His wonderful wife, and an ideal lady next to his side. Watching him do his job as a doctor. If only he had known. If only he had known the cure was poison from his friend. It was a harsh memory. A harsh thrust into the memories of your screams, and your cries. "Darling..." His voice was weak as he whispered out for no one. Right now, this repo man couldn't face his daughter. He couldn't call for anyone else.

Those holograms of your, gorgeous, beautiful face. Always around the house. So he could pray to your beauty every moment he could. Yet his daughter never felt the same. She resented you. Only slightly. You gave her this blood disease! You caused her to be isolated from the world! Your damn blood. Why'd James have to be so stupid? Why'd he have to pick incorrectly?

Oh right.

You were half dead anyway.

You were practically done for. But James told them all she died with you. He wanted so desperately to be a hero. That's all he wanted. To save you, make you and your child live.

He couldn't do this anymore.

But he had to. He had to continue. Faking a search for a cure.

It was all fruitless in the end. It was just proven worthless. He was baited by his work to find someone behind on their payments. Yet, the one behind the door was...his daughter. That wasn't right. It couldn't've been right. Oh god.

If only he had made the right choice...

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

Tag: @babygorewhore @taintandviolent @oceanblvd111 / @nahoyasboyfriend @slutforgarlogan @briaroftheroses / @am3ricanh0rrorwh0re @evanpeterspeter @feefymo / @starry-eyed-wild-child @fear-is-truth

[notsosmallbean]

yall watch porn? WEAK. I beat it to horror musicals

[thefugitivesaint]

Walter Velez (1939-2018), ''Future Life'', #25, March 1981 Source

[haveyouseenthishorrormovie]

SUMMARY: A worldwide epidemic encourages a biotech company to launch an organ-financing program similar in nature to a standard car loan. However, the repossession clause is a killer.

The mod hasn't seen it, regrettably because it looks like it rips.

[running-with-the-feels]

Okay, so, I'm fairly sure I've posted about this before but:

What if Johnny was a savior sibling?

What if that's why he's so determined to do his own stunts as an actor and prove himself as a fighter?

Like, say he's given up a kidney, and stem cells, and blood, and as a child he's always recovering from one operation or another. So he isn't allowed to play sports or do 'strenuous activity' or anything else that is fun.

And then he becomes an actor.

Where him being able to do crazy dangerous shit is not only allowed but lauded as dedication to the craft?

Suddenly he has a life where he can do whatever he wants, health be damned, and people only love him more for it. He can be reckless and stupid and negligent, and no one cares.

They think it's cool.

They think it's funny.

What if Johnny was a savior sibling?

I think he'd have quite a lot of sympathy for Mileena then, after all, how different are they really?

[mau-mao]

American KEUDA Breed Fact

The name (American KEUDA) is an acronym of "Kitten Evaluation Under Direct Assessment", a program in Texas, Oklahoma, and New Mexico in the 1980's, that was attempting to breed a superior quality barn cat from semi-feral specimens. The aim of the program was to produce a cat with the hardest qualities and strongest genes.

In 2002 the breed was standardized and defined. It is intended to focus on behavioral traits rather than physical characteristics.

CREDITS TO KUCING.BIZ

[girlboss-pussy-queen]

currently having a gender identity crisis because sometimes my gender is kinda

but then sometimes it's actually kinda like

either way guess i'm sexy and goth and unhinged so i'm doing good things

[burningeyeslikestars]

they updated ancestry!!! im FINALLY italian. but why the HELL did they remove my quarter levantine and give me 9% germanic 😭😭😭😭 crying SOBBING

[ezhrndle]

Made a venn diagram of my irls lmao

@swarmof2billionlocusts @rustedhinge @philomena-cunty @mulch-enjoyer @kittypuppys @radiantidiot

[despazito]

Indigenous Americans did very much breed and develop their own distinct types of dogs but iirc to date there's not much evidence for a separate domestication event of wolves in america. DNA sampling has traced the geographic areas of highest genetic diversity and the likely origin of domestic dogs points to Eurasia. Maybe there could have also been high areas of genetic diversity in america before getting replaced by colonizer's dogs, but genetic analyses of pre-columbian dog remains show closer affinity to eurasian grey wolf and old world dog populations than to grey wolves sampled across the americas.

I definitely believe in the revised narrative of a pre-clovis human presence in the Americas, there could probably be bias in the research but i think all of the oldest precontact dog remains hover around that ~10,000yo mark. it's also possible dogs arrived in a subsequent wave of migration.

im no archeologist though this is just what i've absorbed online, maybe dogs arrived much earlier or even have a new world origin, that would be very cool

[bitter69uk]

“Herbert Huncke was the Jean Genet of the Beat Generation. A homosexual poet-thief, he was once as familiar with Times Square dives and New York prisons as he was later to become with fashionable salons and literary landmarks.”

/ From The Independent’s obituary for Herbert Huncke by James Campbell, 1996 /

“His lifestyle was his art: the drugs, the prostitution, the homelessness, the years spent in jail - it all bled onto the page and created a new kind of poetry. He was the American Genet: a man with one foot firmly in the criminal underworld and one in literature.”

/ From “The man who set the Beats going” by Tony O’Neill, The Guardian, 2007 /

“I never met Huncke. Yet he speaks to me in a voice of gentle desperation and compassionate understanding on the complexity and fragility of the human condition, generously revealing the stamina of his tortured soul …”

/ From the book So Real It Hurts (2015) by Lydia Lunch /

Unlike Lydia Lunch, I did meet literary bad boy and proto-beatnik Herbert Huncke (9 January 1915 - 8 August 1996 – born on this day 109 years ago). Or at least I had a fleeting encounter with him. Like so many twenty-somethings, I went through a Beat literature phase. Huncke (who was on intimate terms with and a primary influence on the likes of William S Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac) gave several readings in London in the early nineties which I worshipfully attended. (I also managed to see Ginsberg). Huncke was a spellbinding raconteur with a worldly-wise WC Fields-style delivery, and so desiccated he suggested an unwrapped, upright ancient Egyptian mummy. After one reading, he autographed my copy of The Evening Sun Turned Crimson (1980). I can pinpoint exactly when because Huncke wrote the date [26 October 1994] above his signature in surprisingly pretty, swirling handwriting. Pictured: photo booth shot of Huncke, Times Square, circa 1940 via Ginsberg Collection.