Unashamed enthusiasm since 1979

Fannish geekery, La la la la la hockey hockey hockey, Teen Wolf, cute animals, SF Giants, and occasional spells of righteous indignation.

I don't reblog anything that includes the phrase "reblog this if..."

 

foreverfriendsfans:

transponsters:

I go through life assuming everyone gets FRIENDS references. And when people don’t, I’m like:

image

The most accurate thing in my life.

fuckyeahorchestra:

The Boston Symphony was performing Beethoven’s Ninth. In the piece, there’s a long passage about 20 minutes during which the double basses have nothing to do. Rather than sit around the whole time looking stupid, some bassists decided to sneak offstage and go to the tavern next door for a quick one. After slamming several beers in quick succession (as double bassists are prone to do), one of them looked at his watch. “Hey! We need to get back!”

"No need to panic," said a fellow bassist.

"I thought we might need some extra time, so I tied the last few pages of the conductor’s score together with string. It’ll take him a few minutes to get it untangled."

A few moments later they staggered back to the concert hall and took their places in the orchestra. About this time, a member of the audience noticed the conductor seemed a bit edgy and said as much to her companion.

"Well, of course," said her companion. "Don’t you see?
It’s the bottom of the Ninth, the score is tied, and the bassists are loaded.”

demonfox38:

The more I think about it, the more I would pick my apocalypse survival team to be nothing more than 1980s-1990s PBS hosts. (You know—assuming they were alive or resurrected at the time.)

So many apocalyptic shows/games are about people sitting around and squabbling over supplies, then dying. That’s a shitty way to live, even in shitty circumstances. You know that Mister Rogers would be diffusing arguments left and right to the point where people would feel bad just for raising their voice. Carl Sagan would keep everyone’s hopes up just by suggesting there are more decent people out there—aliens too, but more people. LeVar Burton would keep the kids educated and motivated in the worst of times, Julia Child would make the best food she could out of limited rations, and Bob Ross would make an excellent scout, given his good eye.

And if anyone still was a son of a bitch, Julia would snap his shotgun in half, stuff that turkey with the shattered remains of his gun and give him a little “seasoning”, and have Bob bury that offender’s corpse under some happy little trees.

You couldn’t bring the McLaughlin group along, though. Their constant bickering would just alert the horde and get everyone killed.

clan-khuleborough:

xenoviel:

vortisaurus:

winterisrambling:

"Hello.  My name is Luke Skywalker.  You killed my father.  Prepare to die."

"Never go up against a Mandalorian when death is on the line!" *immediately falls into Sarlacc pit*

"Bye, boys!  Have fun storming the Death Star!"

"Wampas Of Unusual Size?  I don’t think they exist."

"Do you want me to send you back to where you were?  Unemployed, on Hoth?"

"It just so happens that Obi-Wan here is only mostly dead."

"Give us the access code." "What access code?" "Chewie, tear his arms off." "Ohhh you mean this access code!"

"I could give you my word as a Corellian…" "No good. I’ve known too many Corellians"

"Why can’t I see?" "You’ve been mostly-frozen all day."

That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying “I know”, what he meant was, “I love you.” 

"Why do you wear that black mask? Were you burned on Mustafar, or something like that?" "Oh no, it’s just that they’re terribly comfortable. I think everyone will be wearing them in the future."

"Luke doesn’t get eaten by the rancor at this time. "What?” “The rancor doesn’t get him. I’m explaining to you because you look nervous.”

This is the best possible mashup. Other than Don’t Stop the Sandman, of course.

Excuse me, I have to go cry a while at how perfect these all are.

onlyblackgirl:

shelbysbutt:

aanubis:

ungrammaticholiday:

yggdrasilly:

christmasblogger:

Penguin falls down resulting in best sound ever [x]

oh my god

NOOOOOOO

they all gasped like OHHH

IM CRYING IM PHYSICALLY CRYING HE FALLS AND THERE ALL LIKE WHAAAAWHOA U OK BRO AND HE GETS UP LIKE *SIGH* YEAH ITS FINE

I just watched this like 8 times

Omfg "talk about" is a lot cuter than ask me

1: Talk about the first time you watched your favorite movie.

2: Talk about your first kiss.

3: Talk about the person you've had the most intense romantic feelings for.

4: Talk about the thing you regret most so far.

5: Talk about the best birthday you've had.

6: Talk about the worst birthday you've had.

7: Talk about your biggest insecurity.

8: Talk about the thing you are most proud of.

9: Talk about little things on your body that you like the most.

10: Talk about the biggest fight you've ever had.

11: Talk about the best dream you've ever had.

12: Talk about the worst dream you've ever had.

13: Talk about the first time you had sex/how you imagine your first time.

14: Talk about a vacation.

15: Talk about the time you were most content in life.

16: Talk about the best party you've ever been to.

17: Talk about someone you want to be friends with.

18: Talk about something that happened in elementary school.

19: Talk about something that happened in middle school.

20: Talk about something that happened in high school.

21: Talk about a time you had to turn someone down.

22: Talk about your worst fear.

23: Talk about a time someone turned you down.

24: Talk about something someone told you that meant a lot.

25: Talk about an ex-best friend.

26: Talk about things you do when you're sick.

27: Talk about your favorite part of someone else's body.

28: Talk about your fetishes.

29: Talk about what turns you on.

30: Talk about what turns you off.

31: Talk about what you think death is like.

32: Talk about a place you remember from your childhood.

33: Talk about what you do when you are sad.

34: Talk about the worst physical pain you've endured.

35: Talk about things you wish you could stop doing.

36: Talk about your guilty pleasures.

37: Talk about someone you thought you were in love with.

38: Talk about songs that remind you of certain people.

39: Talk about things you wish you'd known earlier.

40: Talk about the end of something in your life.


Dylan O’Brien for Teen Vogue (september 2014)

God, this is making me want a Journey of Natty Gann style AU. Stiles lying in his narrow bed in the McCall rooming house, listening to the sound of voices through the thin walls, the stairs creaking under Melissa’s tired footfalls. He heard her earlier, talking to Mr. Deaton about how long his father has been gone, how much longer she can afford to feed two hungry boys with her husband gone, money so scarce, and already letting so many of her boarders stay on credit they’ll never pay back.
"You be good. Mind Mrs. McCall." his dad had whispered. Hugging him tight just before he stepped onto the train west, where everyone says there’s work. And he’s tried to be good. He’s worked hard, helped Melissa scrub and wash and ready rooms for new boarders. He’s come home worn and bruised from long nights working loading the lake freighters at the ship yards only to scrub the grime off his face and make a long day at the school desk. But he knows that if money doesn’t come soon, the he’s going to more of a burden than he is a blessing.
He hates the idea of leaving them, can’t stop from thinking about the harsh sound of Scott’s wheezing breath when the cold winds come off the lake and through the places where the window frame doesn’t sit true. He knows they’ll tell him he’s being foolish, that of course he’s wanted, if he says a word about leaving. So he doesn’t say a thing.
He waits until the house is at its soundest asleep, just before dawn, to sneak out. Little more than the clothes on his back, a few dollars, and a slim bladed knife.
The sun is rising by the time he makes his way to the long sweeping curve where the trains crawl before building up speed for the western runs. He watches three trains go by, counting the click-clack of the wheels and thinking about old Mr. Argent with his missing leg and gold watch from Grand Trunk, Pete at the shipyards with scars from being to slow to escape the swinging clubs of the railroad bulls.
Finally, the fourth time a locomotive rumbles by, he takes a deep breath and runs. His arms are shaking when he drags himself into the freight car, but he’s still got four full limbs, so he thinks it’s a job well done. The steady rumble and sway lulls him quickly, and he falls asleep curled on a dusty burlap tarp in the shadowed corner furthest from the door. When he wakes, it’s to a persistent, cold, wet press against his cheek and a startling realization that the train has come to a stop.
"Whu?  Where’d you come from?" He says, blinking blearily at the large dog taking up his entire field of view, all thick dark fur and bright sharp eyes. The only answer is teeth tugging firmly at the cuff of his jacket.  Outside Stiles can hear the raised voices of the bulls coming closer, the rattle and scrape of their clubs rough against the sides of the cars.
"Hells bells!" Stiles mutters, grabbing at his bag, bitter panic rising up in the back of his throat. He’s trying to shake off the dog, his jaws too close to skin for Stiles’ liking. when suddenly here’s a commotion at the next car. A string of shouted obscenities, and a cracking sound that makes Stiles’ stomach churn. And then Stiles is alone in the corner, fumbling to wrap his fingers around the hilt of his knife.
The dog— no, Stiles’ realizes— the wolf is in the open doorway, huge and bristling, terrifying in the hulking shape of his raised back and obvious strength in his snapping jaws.
"Goddamnit! Jimmy, bring that shotgun up here!" One of the bulls cries just outside. Stiles hears the cock of a gun, but before the shot comes, the wolf leaps.
"Where the fuck did that come from?" another voice asks, Jimmy, Stiles guesses.
"Damned if I know," the first bull pants, "But if there was anybody in that car, he’s a corpse now, and I sure ain’t gonna be the one cleaning a man’s guts off the floor. Call it clean and let the next ones deal with it."
Stiles’ closes his eyes and says prayers of thanks as the train groans and shudders back into motion. The slow jerking easing out into steady rhythm as the engine builds speed, and only when the flicker of sun and shadow through the open door is moving faster than any man could run does Stiles feel his heart steady into its proper place
It jumps back into his throat as a dark shape flies through the doorway, resolving into the wolf, landing in a crouch before shaking himself out and trotting over to Stiles, tongue lolling out it’s mouth.
Stiles reaches a careful hand out, brushing his fingers through the thick fur at the wolf’s throat.
"So… does this mean it’s you and me now?" Stiles asks.
The wolf just tips it’s head to the side, but Stiles thinks it’s close enough to a yes for now.

Dylan O’Brien for Teen Vogue (september 2014)

God, this is making me want a Journey of Natty Gann style AU. Stiles lying in his narrow bed in the McCall rooming house, listening to the sound of voices through the thin walls, the stairs creaking under Melissa’s tired footfalls. He heard her earlier, talking to Mr. Deaton about how long his father has been gone, how much longer she can afford to feed two hungry boys with her husband gone, money so scarce, and already letting so many of her boarders stay on credit they’ll never pay back.

"You be good. Mind Mrs. McCall." his dad had whispered. Hugging him tight just before he stepped onto the train west, where everyone says there’s work. And he’s tried to be good. He’s worked hard, helped Melissa scrub and wash and ready rooms for new boarders. He’s come home worn and bruised from long nights working loading the lake freighters at the ship yards only to scrub the grime off his face and make a long day at the school desk. But he knows that if money doesn’t come soon, the he’s going to more of a burden than he is a blessing.

He hates the idea of leaving them, can’t stop from thinking about the harsh sound of Scott’s wheezing breath when the cold winds come off the lake and through the places where the window frame doesn’t sit true. He knows they’ll tell him he’s being foolish, that of course he’s wanted, if he says a word about leaving. So he doesn’t say a thing.

He waits until the house is at its soundest asleep, just before dawn, to sneak out. Little more than the clothes on his back, a few dollars, and a slim bladed knife.

The sun is rising by the time he makes his way to the long sweeping curve where the trains crawl before building up speed for the western runs. He watches three trains go by, counting the click-clack of the wheels and thinking about old Mr. Argent with his missing leg and gold watch from Grand Trunk, Pete at the shipyards with scars from being to slow to escape the swinging clubs of the railroad bulls.

Finally, the fourth time a locomotive rumbles by, he takes a deep breath and runs. His arms are shaking when he drags himself into the freight car, but he’s still got four full limbs, so he thinks it’s a job well done. The steady rumble and sway lulls him quickly, and he falls asleep curled on a dusty burlap tarp in the shadowed corner furthest from the door. When he wakes, it’s to a persistent, cold, wet press against his cheek and a startling realization that the train has come to a stop.

"Whu?  Where’d you come from?" He says, blinking blearily at the large dog taking up his entire field of view, all thick dark fur and bright sharp eyes. The only answer is teeth tugging firmly at the cuff of his jacket.  Outside Stiles can hear the raised voices of the bulls coming closer, the rattle and scrape of their clubs rough against the sides of the cars.

"Hells bells!" Stiles mutters, grabbing at his bag, bitter panic rising up in the back of his throat. He’s trying to shake off the dog, his jaws too close to skin for Stiles’ liking. when suddenly here’s a commotion at the next car. A string of shouted obscenities, and a cracking sound that makes Stiles’ stomach churn. And then Stiles is alone in the corner, fumbling to wrap his fingers around the hilt of his knife.

The dog— no, Stiles’ realizes— the wolf is in the open doorway, huge and bristling, terrifying in the hulking shape of his raised back and obvious strength in his snapping jaws.

"Goddamnit! Jimmy, bring that shotgun up here!" One of the bulls cries just outside. Stiles hears the cock of a gun, but before the shot comes, the wolf leaps.

"Where the fuck did that come from?" another voice asks, Jimmy, Stiles guesses.

"Damned if I know," the first bull pants, "But if there was anybody in that car, he’s a corpse now, and I sure ain’t gonna be the one cleaning a man’s guts off the floor. Call it clean and let the next ones deal with it."

Stiles’ closes his eyes and says prayers of thanks as the train groans and shudders back into motion. The slow jerking easing out into steady rhythm as the engine builds speed, and only when the flicker of sun and shadow through the open door is moving faster than any man could run does Stiles feel his heart steady into its proper place

It jumps back into his throat as a dark shape flies through the doorway, resolving into the wolf, landing in a crouch before shaking himself out and trotting over to Stiles, tongue lolling out it’s mouth.

Stiles reaches a careful hand out, brushing his fingers through the thick fur at the wolf’s throat.

"So… does this mean it’s you and me now?" Stiles asks.

The wolf just tips it’s head to the side, but Stiles thinks it’s close enough to a yes for now.

(Source: holland-roden)