#grotesquely and impotently

[willwood-lyrics]

wednesday is not only the greatest betrayal in television history but the most maddeningly trite, disturbingly vapid, and internally confused ideological train wreck I've ever had the deeply sorrowful displeasure of allowing to pass through my corneas may god have mercy on burton or whoever else was responsible while someone slapped his brand name on it, and on all of us who are fated to live in a world where something so culturally, socially, politically, and artistically noxious as this Mary-sue-lead, transparently TikTok-targeted, phone-worshipping, vaguely bigoted, backfired virtue-signaling, fake leftist capitalist "my immortal"-esque fanfic earns a second season through what I can only be explained as manufactured consent. something must be done about Netflix's Wednesday. This thing is a condescending insult, especially to young people, the socially conscious, and members of marginalized and "outcast" groups who genuinely suffer from what this thing hollowly masturbates to while looking us dead in the eyes and saying "yeah, you like that, don't you?" It is a Gatling gun of random buzzwords and empty references to social issues, grotesquely and impotently disguised and screaming "I'm commentary!" before pissing its pants, squealing like a pig, and at its most coherent offering nothing more than to demonize mental illness and make any marginalized identity out to be a mayonnaise-stained Hot Topic hoodie through Wiseau-ian dialogue, inappropriate "grittiness" for its source material and Harry Potter setting, and incessant hackery. I am shitting. I am pissing. I am standing over a warm bubble bath cradling a toaster and sobbing, chanting g-d's secret name and praying that there is indeed a hell so I can be eternally punished for having given this moral abomination one fraction of a fraction of a cent also it's not a good Addams family adaptation anyway let me know your thoughts in the poll below

#will wood #will wood quotes #or? #community posts #will wood Wednesday rant

[static-scribblez]

The following shitpost is a parody of Will Wood’s infamous Wednesday rant, I made this for shits and giggles only (also tumblr seems to like it when I post abt Will and bitch (/j) abt these random ass indie animation series about hell) - HH/HB fans and HH/HB critics are both allowed to interact with this, as long as the fans are aware that Vivienne Medrano is a piece of shit and the critics and fans don’t get into arguments with eachother

Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss are not only the greatest betrayals in Indie Animation history but the most maddeningly trite, disturbingly vapid, and internally confused ideological train wrecks I've ever had the deeply sorrowful displeasure of allowing to pass through my corneas may god have mercy on all of us who are fated to live in a world where something so culturally, socially, politically, and artistically noxious as these Mary-sue-lead and Gary-stu-lead, transparently Tumblr-targeted, vaguely bigoted, backfired virtue-signaling, fake leftist capitalist "my immortal"-esque fanfics both earn second seasons through what can only be explained as manufactured consent. Something must be done about Vivziepop’s/Spindle Horse’s Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss. These things are a condescending insult, especially to young people, the socially conscious, and members of marginalized and "'"outcast"'" groups (LiKe DeMoNs & ppL who dON’t wAnt To wAtCH tHEir CItiZens DIE EVERY YEARRRRR) who genuinely suffer from what these things hollowly masturbates to while looking us dead in the eyes and saying "yeah, you like that, don't you?" They are Gatling guns of random buzzwords and empty references to social issues, grotesquely and impotently disguised and screaming "I'm commentary!" before pissing its pants and squealing like a pig. I am shitting. I am pissing. I am standing over a warm bubble bath cradling a toaster and sobbing, chanting g-d's secret name and praying that there is indeed a hell so I can be eternally punished for having given this moral abomination one fraction of a fraction of a cent also they’re not good interpretations of hell anyway

#charlie stfu #shitpost #shitposting #hazbin hotel #helluva boss #hazbin hotel critical #helluva boss critical #hb critical #vivziepop critical #spindlehorse critical #will wood

[cutelilbow]

wednesday is not only the greatest betrayal in television history but the most maddeningly trite, disturbingly vapid, and internally confused ideological train wreck I've ever had the deeply sorrowful displeasure of allowing to pass through my corneas may god have mercy on burton or whoever else was responsible while someone slapped his brand name on it, and on all of us who are fated to live in a world where something so culturally, socially, politically, and artistically noxious as this Mary-sue-lead, transparently TikTok-targeted, phone-worshipping, vaguely bigoted, backfired virtue-signaling, fake leftist capitalist "my immortal"-esque fanfic earns a second season through what I can only be explained as manufactured consent. something must be done about Netflix's Wednesday. This thing is a condescending insult, especially to young people, the socially conscious, and members of marginalized and """outcast""" groups (LiKe GoThS & ppL who CAN cONTroL BEEEEES) who genuinely suffer from what this thing hollowly masturbates to while looking us dead in the eyes and saying "yeah, you like that, don't you?" It is a Gatling gun of random buzzwords and empty references to social issues, grotesquely and impotently disguised and screaming "I'm commentary!" before pissing its pants, squealing like a pig, and at its most coherent offering nothing more than to demonize mental illness and make any marginalized identity out to be a mayonnaise-stained Hot Topic hoodie through Wiseau-ian dialogue, inappropriate "grittiness" for its source material and Harry Potter setting, and incessant hackery. I am shitting. I am pissing. I am standing over a warm bubble bath cradling a toaster and sobbing, chanting g-d's secret name and praying that there is indeed a hell so I can be eternally punished for having given this moral abomination one fraction of a fraction of a cent also it's not a good Addams family adaptation

#will wood #elliott.txt

[quote-tournament]

First round, fourteenth fight

Quote number 27 :

"I believe in a universe that doesn't care, and people who do"

-Angus, Night in the Woods

VS

Quote number 28 :

wednesday is not only the greatest betrayal in television history but the most maddeningly trite, disturbingly vapid, and internally confused ideological train wreck I've ever had the deeply sorrowful displeasure of allowing to pass through my corneas may god have mercy on burton or whoever else was responsible while someone slapped his brand name on it, and on all of us who are fated to live in a world where something so culturally, socially, politically, and artistically noxious as this Mary-sue-lead, transparently TikTok-targeted, phone-worshipping, vaguely bigoted, backfired virtue-signaling, fake leftist capitalist "my immortal"-esque fanfic earns a second season through what I can only be explained as manufactured consent. something must be done about Netflix's Wednesday. This thing is a condescending insult, especially to young people, the socially conscious, and members of marginalized and """outcast""" groups (LiKe GoThS & ppL who CAN cONTroL BEEEEES) who genuinely suffer from what this thing hollowly masturbates to while looking us dead in the eyes and saying "yeah, you like that, don't you?" It is a Gatling gun of random buzzwords and empty references to social issues, grotesquely and impotently disguised and screaming "I'm commentary!" before pissing its pants, squealing like a pig, and at its most coherent offering nothing more than to demonize mental illness and make any marginalized identity out to be a mayonnaise-stained Hot Topic hoodie through Wiseau-ian dialogue, inappropriate "grittiness" for its source material and Harry Potter setting, and incessant hackery. I am shitting. I am pissing. I am standing over a warm bubble bath cradling a toaster and sobbing, chanting g-d's secret name and praying that there is indeed a hell so I can be eternally punished for having given this moral abomination one fraction of a fraction of a cent also it's not a good Addams family adaptation anyway let me know your thoughts in the poll below

-Will Wood, a YT Community Post

#this is the first round of the quotes #polls #quotes #angus #night in the woods #will wood #youtube community

[effervescent-fool]

wednesday is not only the greatest betrayal in television history but the most maddeningly trite, disturbingly vapid, and internally confused ideological train wreck I've ever had the deeply sorrowful displeasure of allowing to pass through my corneas may god have mercy on burton or whoever else was responsible while someone slapped his brand name on it, and on all of us who are fated to live in a world where something so culturally, socially, politically, and artistically noxious as this Mary-sue-lead, transparently TikTok-targeted, phone-worshipping, vaguely bigoted, backfired virtue-signaling, fake leftist capitalist "my immortal"-esque fanfic earns a second season through what I can only be explained as manufactured consent. something must be done about Netflix's Wednesday. This thing is a condescending insult, especially to young people, the socially conscious, and members of marginalized and """outcast""" groups (LiKe GoThS & ppL who CAN cONTroL BEEEEES) who genuinely suffer from what this thing hollowly masturbates to while looking us dead in the eyes and saying "yeah, you like that, don't you?" It is a Gatling gun of random buzzwords and empty references to social issues, grotesquely and impotently disguised and screaming "I'm commentary!" before pissing its pants, squealing like a pig, and at its most coherent offering nothing more than to demonize mental illness and make any marginalized identity out to be a mayonnaise-stained Hot Topic hoodie through Wiseau-ian dialogue, inappropriate "grittiness" for its source material and Harry Potter setting, and incessant hackery. I am shitting. I am pissing. I am standing over a warm bubble bath cradling a toaster and sobbing, chanting g-d's secret name and praying that there is indeed a hell so I can be eternally punished for having given this moral abomination one fraction of a fraction of a cent also it's not a good Addams family adaptation anyway let me know your thoughts in the poll below

#you want to se #nd me to conve #rsion therapy #for werewolves #will wood #i cant stop thinking about this

[wolven91]

Rats in Hats - Chapter 7

[Trigger Warning: Fighting, Injury, Death]

There was a heartbeat of time where Bruno couldn't comprehend what was before his very eyes.

It simply didn't compute.

In the split second following Krahl's final action, a wash of emotions burned through Bruno with the same speed and intensity as an atomic detonation. 

Gut wrenching shock, absolute horror and all encompassing, impotent rage.

He didn't have time to dwell on these emotions as in the same moment of her head and arms dropping down limp, the cruel titan that held her, swept an arm, near casually, and threw her aside.

They both watched the body sail across the room before landing and tumbling into an awful heap in the fine dirt of the throne room. Devoid of any respect, homage or love.

The beast known only as 'Chief', began his gloating whilst still considering her limp form.

"You-" He started, as he began to turn back to the human before a resounding 'crack' of the crossbow fired a bolt which penetrated his cheek in an upwards angle as no more than a blur.

It obliterated teeth and muscle before punching straight out the otherside, taking the teeth and gums from the otherside with it.

More the pity that the human's bolt had missed the bastard's brain. 

It was enough to wrench the creature's head backwards though, staggering him and giving Bruno enough time to stand, retreat a few steps towards Krahl and draw his own blade. It seemed puny in comparison to anything to do with Chief, but he held it like a lifeline. The crossbow was too unwieldy to reload in such a close fight and he needed to get to Krahl.

"Tahr!!" He called out for her, it had only been moments since the party had been physically scattered, but without Keest or Tahr helping him, there was only so much he could do on his own. He had lost track of the assassin in the scuffle.

As the now ruined face of the giant turned back to Bruno, its jaw dangling down as if Chief was joyfully deranged and openly streaming blood from its maw.

Its body had several cuts, wounds and even the tails of bolts sticking out of its lopsided flesh, yet he kept coming.

If anything, he looked more dangerous thanks to the smears of blood and wounds highlighting his grotesque stature.

"Save Krahl!" Tahr shouted as she stepped forward past Bruno. She grabbed at the sheaths on her shoulder and whipped her hand across herself. Several whispers cut through the air toward the beast. Tiny blades, thrown directly from their sheaths. Her arm, by her hip now, was brought upwards, launching more knives from the bandolier there. 

It was a sight to behold as Chief stopped his advance to block the first lot and attempted to clumsily dodge the others that flowed towards him.

Bruno couldn't let this opportunity go however. So trusting in Tahr, he turned to Krahl's crumpled body, putting his back to the fight and ran the short distance that separated them. 

Skidding to a kneeling stop, with one hand he grabbed for his first aid, retrieving a needle without removing the pack and with the other turned Krahl's body towards himself.

She fell onto her back, completely limp and seemed unnaturally light to his meagre strength. Her bandages were stained red and the worrying dampening continued to spread as the human frantically worked.

"No life signs detected." Declared SAM.

Bruno pressed the needle into the flesh of her neck and held it for a moment. The quiet telltale sound of the air injector forcing the needle's contents into her body brought him a thin strand of hope.

When it was finished and empty, he threw it to one side and held Krahl's hand, rubbing it and squeezing.

"Come on Krahl…"

A commotion of shattering pottery and roaring behind him dared him to look back, but he had to focus.

Across Krahl's still body, there was no change that he could see. The small cuts and wounds that were visible weren't healing. 

He wracked his mind for the answer. The nanites should flow around the body until they found an injury or wound, then it would drive the body's own healing factor to unprecedented levels.

But nothing was happening?!

Why wouldn't- 

"No life signs detected." SAM said again and was promptly ignored.

Blood flow.

Heart beat.

He checked for a pulse, and her breathing. 

Nothing. The nanites *needed* blood flow.

He manipulated her body so it was flat, placed his hands over each other and pressed down into the chest of the ermin. CPR would break ribs, he knew this and would need to fight through any squeamishness to save her, he'd do anything for her.

The first thrust downwards found no resistance and his hands only experienced an awful, haunting ease at which he pushed against the damp material that covered her body and past what should have been her chest as it collapsed beneath his palms. He felt a mix of hard and soft lumps push down and around his hands through her flesh. His hands became red and slick.

He snatched his hands back in shock.

Without doubt, Chief's attack had utterly pulverised Krahl's body. Her torso was destroyed. The nanites could not make it to her wounds without blood flow, nor could it reverse the damage done like magic. 

He pulled a third syringe from the dwindling first aid case and pressed it down into the wound directly, the force of the needle pushing right through her clothes and into her body.

He watched and prayed.

Yet there was no dramatic change. She didn't rouse or begin breathing once more with a gasp like in the films and hot tears burned at Bruno's eyes as the implications began to take hold.

Bruno rocked backwards onto his legs as he knelt there, unsure of what to do, blinded by the tears that stung him.

The nanites fixed everything. 

Why couldn't they just fix Krahl? Just this once?

He didn't notice Keest stagger back into the room, nor did he see her pained and devastated expression as her eyes fell onto Krahl’s crumpled form. 

These emotions however lit a furnace of molten fury within Keest’s breast.

With a feral, bellowing roar, Keest rejoined the fight. She had only been out of the fray for moments, but with an eternity of consequences in return for her absence. 

While Tahr slipped beneath a sloppy swing of the Chief's swords with a gymnast's grace, she rapidly got out of the way of Keest as she arrived. Keest had taken on a reckless assault toward Chief which left the behemoth all of a sudden being beaten back, forced to defend lest he have entire sections of his body hacked off in her siege against him.

The various bolts, cuts and gouges out of his hide did little to slow him, but he was still leaving significant trails of blood that mixed with the dirt wherever the fight led him.

Tahr joined Bruno at Krahl's prone form.

"Come on! Get her up, Keest can't hold him off forever!"

"I can't, she's gone!" Bruno exclaimed, still on the verge of tears, unable to fix her.

"She's not gone, she's there, just use your *thing* and heal her!"

"I can't heal the dead Tahr! I want to, I tried! But… but it's not working…" 

"I-... She-"

The sound of yet more shattering pottery and clanging swords derailed her thoughts and she looked towards Keest, then back to Krahl. Bruno couldn't stop staring at Krahl's prone and perfectly still body. 

If not for the dark red that soaked her clothes, she might have been sleeping. Bruno's stomach turned at seeing her white robes stained with such an awful colour.

"***Saaaaargh!!***" Tahr shouted, whipping her head up and around in frustration as if the anger within her couldn't escape her body. She rose and snatched a longer blade from her hip in one movement. Launching herself from Krahl's side at the other two like a bullet, she threw herself into the fray. 

Bruno stood and turned away from Krahl. It was all the big bastard’s fault, he’d murdered Krahl. Gripping his own blade until his hand hurt, he circled around to the Chief’s back with murder on his mind.

Chief parried a two handed attack from Keest and saw the approaching Tahr leap into the air aiming to stab at him. He spun suddenly in a tight circle. His tree trunk thick tail missed Keest who ducked low, dropping onto all fours, but the tail slammed into Tahr's middle arresting her attack, forcing a wheeze out of her and causing the assassin to fall to the floor.

Keest returned her assault with an upwards slash that missed by a hair and battered the beast back, sparks flying as the blades clashed and screeched down one another. She relentlessly brought attacks up from below, sweeping blows from the sides and alternating between attacking with both axes or one at a time.

Bruno and his knife couldn't get close, the thick coiling tail was like a thrashing snake, its lashing and chaotic movements sent dirt and gravel flying with each twitch. It's hit had floored Tahr who was only just getting back to her feet after taking in several sucking breaths, clutching at her middle. 

As Keest pushed Chief backwards, Bruno found that he was being pushed backwards too. Glancing behind himself he found they were moving towards an opening in the wall. The window from which Chief could sneer down at the rest of the fiks.

Bruno's heel kicked something. A wooden staff with a twisted gnarled pattern.

Krahl's staff. 

Bruno sheathed his knife, picked it up, stepped to the side and crouched low whilst raising it like a spear in a two handed grip. 

He waited for the moment, unseen by the others. 

Keest was panting, she could batter Chief into a defence, but simply didn't have the power or reach to land a disabling blow against her former leader. Her only hope was to attack so much that he couldn't attack back, when he did the blows would be devastating. His attack that had sent Keest flying had left her body convulsing without control whilst she recovered. 

Keest was aware that the temporary loss of her from the fight had resulted in Krahl being down on the floor, she couldn't let anyone else get hurt. She almost looked forward to the lecture. 

Tahr continued to pepper the monster with knives and blades from a distance as she couldn't see an opening to stab at him, but his hide was thick and his muscles; dense. Her attacks could distract, but he could withstand her jabs and cuts with little to no effect on his bottomless strength and stamina. 

She was running low on blades too.

It wasn't until she saw Runt and Krahl's staff in his hands that a plan formed in her mind. Tahr moved behind Keest and began to use the last of her throwable knives.

Keest doubled her efforts, pushing forward, step by step. A small blade whistled past her ear and across Chief’s arm as the duo worked in sync.

Chief knew their plan, he could see it.  Push him into a corner like some pathetic runt. He didn't need a seer, it was easy to look ahead! He could handle them both, then he would break them both in revenge. 

Until his leg caught on something. His immediate reaction to move his leg was hampered as well and his backward momentum continued. The sudden loss of balance was alarming and he tilted backwards without control. Keest pushed forwards in an effort to give the final blow, to kill the bastard once and for all.

Chief released his grip on his weapons and clawed for and snatched at anything he could as he fell further backwards in slow motion.

Keest had thought about what she'd say if they won, but all that came out of her was a feral scream that embodied her desire for his death as she swang. Her axe cut into flesh, but a thick hand wrapped itself around her neck. The axe had embedded itself in his chest without resistance and cleaved fresh and partial bone but his desperate clawing for a handhold had found her instead. 

As the bulk of Chief cleared the windowsill, Keest too was pulled with him.

Bruno had thrust the staff perfectly. He had aimed it between the monster's legs and watched with glee that turned to helpless shock as the snarling, broken face of the Chief went by, followed by the defiant form of Keest, before both disappeared from sight, Keest's stubby tail being the last thing that Tahr or Bruno saw.

"Keest!" The pair shouted in unison, scrambling for the window.

Both craned their necks over the edge and watched helplessly as Chief and Keest plummeted below and into the sea of fiks, that parted as the two fighters slammed into the distance ground and laid still.

Bruno was first off the mark to race from the throne room, skidding on the loose dirt, but gripping the arched doorways edge. Tahr was close behind him, but likewise had to slow herself on corners.

On the spiral downwards he lost his footing twice, skidding onto his side, sending small pebbles off the edge of the path to rain down harmlessly onto the mass of fiks below.

He didn't know how close Tahr was behind him, only that he was getting closer to Keest. 

His mask was hard to breathe in and his vision swam, but he kept one hand on the centre column as he sprinted as fast as he could.

The crush of bodies at the bottom didn't matter. He gave his own yell, demanding that they move and shouting for Keest. The crowd parted, achingly slowly, but he made it through until there was a clearing of bodies, shoving some to have the fiks move.

In the middle of this oasis, was the body of Keest and, beyond a thin line of fiks, another clearing that held Chief.

Bruno broke through and ran to a stop beside the worryingly still Keest. He could barely see her, the mask had fogged up completely. 

"Keest?!" He screeched in panic, near frantic at this point, dropping to his knees once more in a horrible reenactment of Krahl minutes ago.

The fiks that surrounded them were silent, their heads bowed low as they watched with resignation of Keest's fate.

Unable to get lungful of breath, and only hearing his own hyperventilation, Bruno tore the stifling mask from his head to look at her properly.

Tahr appeared at his side to gaze down at her dying leader.

Keest’s breathing was only slight. It was raggedly and audibly wheezing with every slight move of her chest. Her eyes opened and her head lolled to face him. She said nothing, couldn't say anything as she regarded him blearily.

But it was enough. She was still alive.

Bruno yanked the first aid kit from his belt, pulled the forth injector and with a stabbing motion jabbed the nanites directly into Keest breastplate, where her heart should have been.

Out of sight, the long thin needle exited the device, punched through cloth, between the hidden metal links and into Keest's chest past bone and into the body beneath.

The nanites flooded her bloodstream and were rapidly pushed around her body.

Injuries were everywhere, micro fractures, trapped or damaged nerves, bruised and battered organs. The microscopic bots latched onto the body's cells and were carried to where they were needed.

They'd use all the fat stores that remained, they’d cannibalise muscle tissue if they had to, but would do everything in their power to fix and restore what the body demanded of them. They would take cues from the body's own system, but were clever enough to extrapolate what was needed and where.

Bones would still need to be set, care and rest would be required, but as designed, they snatched the dying fik from the jaws of defeat and pulled her back to the land of the living in rapid order. 

To the surrounding fiks, Keest was a famous warrior within the clan. Her ermin had declared Chief was a false leader and their new runt was a 'prophet'. When this runt not only appeared at the dying Keest's side, he'd also torn his face mask from his head to reveal a creature that was not runt or even fik by any measure.

It mattered little though, the clan knew that Keest was dying and deserved her moment before they addressed the new oddity. 

That was until this strange fur-less creature drew his hand back and brought it down to thump the soon-to-be dead warrior's chest in an odd mourning ritual that was alien to the observing fiks. The needle, unseen by the fiks, clenched in his fist.

A heartbeat or two passed whilst he kept his fist there, when Keest, impossibly, took a deep and long breath. The crowd of fiks flinched backwards, with the exception of Tahr, in shock and surprise. Keest's hands clutched at the dirt and her back arched whilst her eyes went wide at the sudden pain of internal tissues being knitted back together in rapid order.

She coughed twice but aside from gasping and breathing far deeper, her eyes now *saw* what was around her rather than merely settling on the human.

The gathered fiks murmured and puzzled, all of a sudden taking Krahl's declaration in an entirely different light. Bruno stayed there, still worried about Keest and held her oversized hand in his own, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles.

Then, out of the corner of Bruno’s eye, Chief began to rise.

The grunt and growl was deep and gurgling, but he rose like an ancient titan rising from a mountain range after centuries of slumber.

He was slow, aching and gravely injured, his jaw still hung limply down, dribbling continuously. 

"***Goddamn it!***" Bruno shouted in frustrated anger, drawing his knife from its sheath and standing over the still prone Keests who continued to pant and catch her breath. Tahr was ready with her own weapon in a guarded stance to defend the recovering Keest.

Bruno's voice, amplified by the mask, echoed. His words, translated and clear, echoed from the discarded article.

"You killed Krahl! You tried to kill Keest, why won't you *just* ***die***!?!" His voice echoed from the mask, still left by Keest's side.

His words washed over the gathered fiks who had parted between Keest and Chief. They glanced from the creature, to the chief to each other. Opinions began forming.

Chief's weapons were missing, but all he'd need to do was step on Keest to kill her. Bruno would give up his own life to prevent that at this point. He held his dagger in a low, but ready stance in a double handed grip. He’d drive the metal of this weapon as deep as he could into the brute’s flesh.

The human thought he was going to have to as well, until the closest fik to Chief's left darted forwards and drove a small crude knife into the Chief’s thigh before dragging it downwards, opening a new grievous wound.

The Chief yelled in pain and shock before backhanding the brave fik backwards. Emboldened, a pair on his right leapt forward, one going for Chief's calf, the other, the side of his torso, both plunging blades into him before scampering backwards before he could react.

The beleaguered behemoth staggered backwards onto his feet and swung his arms round in a lumberous and sluggish swipe that hit nothing but air.

As soon as his arm had passed, now more fiks rushed forwards. A surge pressed forwards, some going low, some going high.

Before Bruno, Tahr and even Keest's eyes, new welts and openings in Chief's body opened and began to pour more of his blood into the dirt.

He collapsed forwards onto one knee then further onto both knees and hands. He looked up at Bruno and raised an arm. The clan continued to stab at him en masse. 

Chief had seen the cretin’s magic. He wanted it, needed it. 

"Save me…" Chief pleaded.

"Go to hell." Bruno retorted, any semblance of compassion lost for the time being, as a sickly sweet taste of self righteous revenge blanketed the human like a comforting shroud.

He turned from the Chief and crouched by Keest, blocking her view of the false leader.

The crowd surged forward toward Chief who died whimpering, pleading for his life and remembering all those who had begged the same to him, who he'd relished in killing.

Bruno was kneeling by Keest's head and gently brushing his fingers across the short grey fur of her face.

"Saaah… I wondered what you looked like Runt…" She said, her voice strong if not sounding tired.

Bruno stayed quiet, a solemn expression on his face.

"Krahl?" Keest asked.

Bruno shook his head whilst tears threatened to choke him.

"Saah…" Keest sighed. "Chief is dead, this is good. She would have been happy." Keest winced as she moved and felt the still broken bones waiting to be set before they could begin their healing. “I will miss her…” The warrior admitted, emotion heavy in her voice. 

It was around this time that the crowd pressed closer to assist the fallen warrior. Fik ermins with their trademark white fur stepped forward to begin binding her leg and check her other injuries or lack thereof. The human was forgotten for a time.

Ignored by the crowd, Bruno found himself walking up the spiral path alone. Unsure of where to go or what to do.

When he entered the throne room, the majority of its contents destroyed or knocked over, he found it now felt even more alien than when the beast called it home.

Krahl was still laying there. A fresh lance of guilt washed over him. 

Bruno walked up to her and gingerly lowered himself by her side until he was laying next to her in the dirt. He gently reached out and held her hand, again, as he did with Keest; rubbing a thumb over her knuckles.

She didn't squeeze back.

Bruno closed his eyes, It wasn't fair. It was too sudden and the trade was poor, her life for his.It hurt.

She'd trusted him, from the very first second of her meeting Bruno, she had zero doubts.

Bruno couldn't say the same. It had only been a day or so, and he trusted them now, but not when he had met them first. Could he have done something differently?

Now what?

The threat to Keest, Tahr and himself was gone. So… Now what?

He turned his head to face Krahl, watching her face. From this angle, he couldn't see the damage. 

"What do I do?" He asked Krahl..

"Recalculating." Chirped SAM.

It was a minute or two before they spoke again.

"Survival dependent on leaving 7FR-RAHB at first appearance of rescue crafts. Native species have been irrevocably socially contaminated. Limitations for contact and use of technology lifted. Manpower required to leave before threats re-coalesce is currently insufficient. Suggestion: utilise native workforce."

Bruno rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling.

"Leave this place, get back up to the stars. Good plan, but one problem; I'm not enslaving the fiks to leave the planet." He retorted, feeling particularly foul at this moment.

"Recommend: asking. Parameter update: politely."

"And if they work with us, can we leave the planet with them? If they're doing the work and they want to, they're coming too, right?"

"Confirmed."

Bruno began to think how he'd broach the subject with Keest. 

At the same moment, far below, the fiks were listening to the prophet's mask. It spoke in his voice, he spoke *to* someone, that someone was silent to them, but the one sided conversation was easy to follow. The prophet spoke of leaving the dirt, of refusing to harm the fiks and ensuring that they could follow him if they wanted to.

A creature that apparently appeared from the sky, healed the sick and helped bring the false leader down. Who wouldn’t be interested in seeing what was beyond the storms?

The rumours spread to every inch of the warrens within the week. The entire clan and every fik in the tunnels would work as one with the new creature. It was without doubt, a prophet of change. The fiks could learn with perfect recall, all they needed was to be shown what to do.

===*===

Just over two months later, a rescue ship exited a hyper-lane between systems and picked up the first signal from an emergency beacon, left in orbit over a backwater planet. The modest ship began to float into a geostationary orbit over the blue green ball. 

However, it had barely been a day of fruitless scanning when several signatures erupted from the planet. The number of them at first signalled an attack from the planet, until they were scanned and identified as carrying large numbers of life signs with minimal weapons on the crafts themselves. 

They were met and welcomed aboard. 

A single human was contained on one of the ships, alongside a near flood of an undocumented race of aliens. Upon downloading the human’s Situation Awareness Module’s data, it was discovered that he had deliberately shown advanced technology to a pre-contact species. A serious crime. 

Unfortunately, upon finding out that the Galactic Community intended on arresting and putting Bruno on trial, a huge grey ‘fik’ led an immediate and alarmingly coordinated mutiny of the rescue ship. 

The entirety of the crew were later released in a transfer of goods for the crew. They were all in good health and reported no mistreatment. The human remained aboard and was last seen during the final transfer of the crew. Records show the ship later returned to the fik home system, likely to collect the remaining population. 

At this time, Bruno remains at large and only brief glimpses of the large grey fik that is usually close by to him has been seen on the odd occasion throughout the galaxy. 

Fiks on the other hand have taken to space-faring life extremely well, much to the other species’s frustration.

#conservationverse #cuddleverse #human #fik #haso #hfy #humans are space orcs #tw: death #rat

[alphabetuncompletionist]

Here’s a fun one (don’t count this first bit)

wednesday is not only the greatest betrayal in television history but the most maddeningly trite, disturbingly vapid, and internally confused ideological train wreck I've ever had the deeply sorrowful displeasure of allowing to pass through my corneas may god have mercy on burton or whoever else was responsible while someone slapped his brand name on it, and on all of us who are fated to live in a world where something so culturally, socially, politically, and artistically noxious as this Mary-sue-lead, transparently TikTok-targeted, phone-worshipping, vaguely bigoted, backfired virtue-signaling, fake leftist capitalist "my immortal"-esque fanfic earns a second season through what I can only be explained as manufactured consent. something must be done about Netflix's Wednesday. This thing is a condescending insult, especially to young people, the socially conscious, and members of marginalized and "'"outcast"'" groups (LiKe GoThS & ppL who CAN cONTroL BEEEEES) who genuinely suffer from what this thing hollowly masturbates to while looking us dead in the eyes and saying "yeah, you like that, don't you?" It is a Gatling gun of random buzzwords and empty references to social issues, grotesquely and impotently disguised and screaming "I'm commentary!" before pissing its pants, squealing like a pig, and at its most coherent offering nothing more than to demonize mental illness and make any marginalized identity out to be a mavonnaise-stained Hot Topic hoodie through Wiseau-ian dialogue, inappropriate "grittiness" for its source material and Harry Potter setting, and incessant hackery. I am shitting. I am pissing. I am standing over a warm bubble bath cradling a toaster and sobbing, chanting g-d's secret name and praying that there is indeed a hell so I can be eternally punished for having given this moral abomination one fraction of a fraction of a cent also it's not a good Addams family adaptation anyway let me know your thoughts in the poll below

hey im not doing this one

[thatgirlfluxwoman]

your bio says you like Wednesday

wednesday is not only the greatest betrayal in television history but the most maddeningly trite, disturbingly vapid, and internally confused ideological train wreck I've ever had the deeply sorrowful displeasure of allowing to pass through my corneas may god have mercy on burton or whoever else was responsible while someone slapped his brand name on it, and on all of us who are fated to live in a world where something so culturally, socially, politically, and artistically noxious as this Mary-sue-lead, transparently TikTok-targeted, phone-worshipping, vaguely bigoted, backfired virtue-signaling, fake leftist capitalist "my immortal"-esque fanfic earns a second season through what I can only be explained as manufactured consent. something must be done about Netflix's Wednesday. This thing is a condescending insult, especially to young people, the socially conscious, and members of marginalized and "'"outcast"'" groups (LiKe GoThS & ppL who CAN cONTroL BEEEEES) who genuinely suffer from what this thing hollowly masturbates to while looking us dead in the eyes and saying "yeah, you like that, don't you?" It is a Gatling gun of random buzzwords and empty references to social issues, grotesquely and impotently disguised and screaming "I'm commentary!" before pissing its pants, squealing like a pig, and at its most coherent offering nothing more than to demonize mental illness and make any marginalized identity out to be a mavonnaise-stained Hot Topic hoodie through Wiseau-ian dialogue, inappropriate "grittiness" for its source material and Harry Potter setting, and incessant hackery. I am shitting. I am pissing. I am standing over a warm bubble bath cradling a toaster and sobbing, chanting g-d's secret name and praying that there is indeed a hell so I can be eternally punished for having given this moral abomination one fraction of a fraction of a cent also it's not a good Addams family adaptation anyway let me know your thoughts in the poll below

/ref

What. My guys I just liked the show- Uhhh...good for you ya don't like it? Not sure why you complaining to me... Uh...Ok. It's not a show everyones gonna like. I just liked it... It was too long to read. I'm not trying to be rude. Sorry. It's just uh....Why? I get it. Wednesday wasn' ass good as all the other addams family. But I personally enjoyed it. I don't realy into like...movie critic things. I just watch a show and see if I like it. Are you this to every Wednesday enjoyer? Well uh... they got something interesting in their inbox

Crazy part is: I'm not even in the fandom anymore. I just...I liked it. I actually. If ya look through my posts I'm uh...I'm a roleplayer. I roleplay in the TADC (amazing digital circus) Fandom. Most of my posts are...unrelated to Wednesday. So nothing to worry aboout? Good you got your own opinions. People can have opinions. I respect that. And I respect people don't like the show. That's totally fine. The only question is: What does a underaged teenager have to do with this? I'm like...13 my guy. WHAT?? I just hyperfixate on things...It's normal for me...I'm getting diognosed for ADHD soon... I just had a hyperfixation on it a while back...

#most confusing ask I have ever gotten. #ok #Glad you don't like it #I uh....don't really care for the matter...sorry dude

[madnessofmen]

The first chapter of T.E. Lawrence's autobiographical Seven Pillars of Wisdom is some of the best writing I've encountered in ages. He conveys how grueling the conditions were during the WWI Arab Revolt, not with descriptions of weather or terrain or bloodshed, but by their psychological effects. There's almost a grotesque beauty in the way he describes just how mentally unwell they were.

I've put the entirety of the first chapter below the cut because literally the whole thing makes me insane.

As time went by our need to fight for the ideal increased to an unquestioning possession, riding with spur and rein over our doubts. Willy-nilly it became a faith. We had sold ourselves into its slavery, manacled ourselves together in its chain-gang, bowed ourselves to serve its holiness with all our good and ill content. The mentality of ordinary human slaves is terrible—they have lost the world—and we had surrendered, not body alone, but soul to the overmastering greed of victory. By our own act we were drained of morality, of volition, of responsibility, like dead leaves in the wind.

-

Some of the evil of my tale may have been inherent in our circumstances. For years we lived anyhow with one another in the naked desert, under the indifferent heaven. By day the hot sun fermented us; and we were dizzied by the beating wind. At night we were stained by dew, and shamed into pettiness by the innumerable silences of stars. We were a self-centred army without parade or gesture, devoted to freedom, the second of man’s creeds, a purpose so ravenous that it devoured all our strength, a hope so transcendent that our earlier ambitions faded in its glare.

The everlasting battle stripped from us care of our own lives or of others’. We had ropes about our necks, and on our heads prices which showed that the enemy intended hideous tortures for us if we were caught. Each day some of us passed; and the living knew themselves just sentient puppets on God’s stage: indeed, our taskmaster was merciless, merciless, so long as our bruised feet could stagger forward on the road. The weak envied those tired enough to die; for success looked so remote, and failure a near and certain, if sharp, release from toil. We lived always in the stretch or sag of nerves, either on the crest or in the trough of waves of feeling. This impotency was bitter to us, and made us live only for the seen horizon, reckless what spite we inflicted or endured, since physical sensation showed itself meanly transient. Gusts of cruelty, perversions, lusts ran lightly over the surface without troubling us; for the moral laws which had seemed to hedge about these silly accidents must be yet fainter words. We had learned that there were pangs too sharp, griefs too deep, ecstasies too high for our finite selves to register. When emotion reached this pitch the mind choked; and memory went white till the circumstances were humdrum once more.

Such exaltation of thought, while it let adrift the spirit, and gave it licence in strange airs, lost it the old patient rule over the body. The body was too coarse to feel the utmost of our sorrows and of our joys. Therefore, we abandoned it as rubbish: we left it below us to march forward, a breathing simulacrum, on its own unaided level, subject to influences from which in normal times our instincts would have shrunk. The men were young and sturdy; and hot flesh and blood unconsciously claimed a right in them and tormented their bellies with strange longings. Our privations and dangers fanned this virile heat, in a climate as racking as can be conceived. We had no shut places to be alone in, no thick clothes to hide our nature. Man in all things lived candidly with man.

The Arab was by nature continent; and the use of universal marriage had nearly abolished irregular courses in his tribes. The public women of the rare settlements we encountered in our months of wandering would have been nothing to our numbers, even had their raddled meat been palatable to a man of healthy parts. In horror of such sordid commerce our youths began indifferently to slake one another’s few needs in their own clean bodies—a cold convenience that, by comparison, seemed sexless and even pure. Later, some began to justify this sterile process, and swore that friends quivering together in the yielding sand with intimate hot limbs in supreme embrace, found there hidden in the darkness a sensual coefficient of the mental passion which was welding our souls and spirits in one flaming effort. Several, thirsting to punish appetites they could not wholly prevent, took a savage pride in degrading the body, and offered themselves fiercely in any habit which promised physical pain or filth.

I was sent to these Arabs as a stranger, unable to think their thoughts or subscribe their beliefs, but charged by duty to lead them forward and to develop to the highest any movement of theirs profitable to England in her war. If I could not assume their character, I could at least conceal my own, and pass among them without evident friction, neither a discord nor a critic but an unnoticed influence. Since I was their fellow, I will not be their apologist or advocate. Today in my old garments, I could play the bystander, obedient to the sensibilities of our theatre … but it is more honest to record that these ideas and actions then passed naturally. What now looks wanton or sadic seemed in the field inevitable, or just unimportant routine.

Blood was always on our hands: we were licensed to it. Wounding and killing seemed ephemeral pains, so very brief and sore was life with us. With the sorrow of living so great, the sorrow of punishment had to be pitiless. We lived for the day and died for it. When there was reason and desire to punish we wrote our lesson with gun or whip immediately in the sullen flesh of the sufferer, and the case was beyond appeal. The desert did not afford the refined slow penalties of courts and gaols.

Of course our rewards and pleasures were as suddenly sweeping as our troubles; but, to me in particular, they bulked less large. Bedouin ways were hard even for those brought up to them, and for strangers terrible: a death in life. When the march or labour ended I had no energy to record sensation, nor while it lasted any leisure to see the spiritual loveliness which sometimes came upon us by the way. In my notes, the cruel rather than the beautiful found place. We no doubt enjoyed more the rare moments of peace and forgetfulness; but I remember more the agony, the terrors, and the mistakes. Our life is not summed up in what I have written (there are things not to be repeated in cold blood for very shame); but what I have written was in and of our life. Pray God that men reading the story will not, for love of the glamour of strangeness, go out to prostitute themselves and their talents in serving another race.

A man who gives himself to be a possession of aliens leads a Yahoo life, having bartered his soul to a brute-master. He is not of them. He may stand against them, persuade himself of a mission, batter and twist them into something which they, of their own accord, would not have been. Then he is exploiting his old environment to press them out of theirs. Or, after my model, he may imitate them so well that they spuriously imitate him back again. Then he is giving away his own environment: pretending to theirs; and pretences are hollow, worthless things. In neither case does he do a thing of himself, nor a thing so clean as to be his own (without thought of conversion), letting them take what action or reaction they please from the silent example.

In my case, the effort for these years to live in the dress of Arabs, and to imitate their mental foundation, quitted me of my English self, and let me look at the West and its conventions with new eyes: they destroyed it all for me. At the same time I could not sincerely take on the Arab skin: it was an affectation only. Easily was a man made an infidel, but hardly might he be converted to another faith. I had dropped one form and not taken on the other, and was become like Muhammed’s coffin in our legend, with a resultant feeling of intense loneliness in life, and a contempt, not for other men, but for all they do. Such detachment came at times to a man exhausted by prolonged physical effort and isolation. His body plodded on mechanically, while his reasonable mind left him, and from without looked down critically on him, wondering what that futile lumber did and why. Sometimes these selves would converse in the void; and then madness was very near, as I believe it would be near the man who could see things through the veils at once of two customs, two educations, two environments.

#t e lawrence #seven pillars of wisdom #the next couple chapters were were really hard for me 😔 #i don't understand geography and politics in the Arabian peninsula 😔

[dailywillwood]

wednesday is not only the greatest betrayal in television history but the most maddeningly trite, disturbingly vapid, and internally confused ideological train wreck I've ever had the deeply sorrowful displeasure of allowing to pass through my corneas may god have mercy on burton or whoever else was responsible while someone slapped his brand name on it, and on all of us who are fated to live in a world where something so culturally, socially, politically, and artistically noxious as this Mary-sue-lead, transparently TikTok-targeted, phone-worshipping, vaguely bigoted, backfired virtue-signaling, fake leftist capitalist "my immortal"-esque fanfic earns a second season through what I can only be explained as manufactured consent. something must be done about Netflix's Wednesday. This thing is a condescending insult, especially to young people, the socially conscious, and members of marginalized and "outcast" groups who genuinely suffer from what this thing hollowly masturbates to while looking us dead in the eyes and saying "yeah, you like that, don't you?" It is a Gatling gun of random buzzwords and empty references to social issues, grotesquely and impotently disguised and screaming "I'm commentary!" before pissing its pants, squealing like a pig, and at its most coherent offering nothing more than to demonize mental illness and make any marginalized identity out to be a mayonnaise-stained Hot Topic hoodie through Wiseau-ian dialogue, inappropriate "grittiness" for its source material and Harry Potter setting, and incessant hackery. I am shitting. I am pissing. I am standing over a warm bubble bath cradling a toaster and sobbing, chanting g-d's secret name and praying that there is indeed a hell so I can be eternally punished for having given this moral abomination one fraction of a fraction of a cent also it's not a good Addams family adaptation anyway let me know your thoughts in the poll below

you want to se

nd me to conve

rsion therapy

for werewolves

#will wood #will wood and the tapeworms #Wednesday is not only the greatest betrayal #posting this off the queue

[jadegretz]

Eve: A Warrior's Ballad in Starlight by Jade Gretz

Eve weaved through the asteroid field, the crimson glow of a dying sun casting long, menacing shadows across the celestial debris. Her starfighter, the Valkyrie, a sleek, silver predator in this cosmic graveyard, danced a deadly ballet around hulking asteroids, dodging laser fire that sputtered impotently against its energy shields. Her pursuers, hulking Xeno warships of obsidian and bone, lumbered through the field, their pulsating red engines the only beacons of life in this desolate expanse.

Sweat, a traitor in the sterile cockpit, beaded on Eve's brow despite the artificial chill. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a counterpoint to the rhythmic hum of the Valkyrie's engines. Fear, a primal instinct buried beneath years of training, stirred within her. Yet, it was overpowered by a steely resolve – she wouldn't let them win. Not after all she had lost.

Memories, fragmented and raw, flashed across her mind's eye – the sterile white research facility, the cold equations of her creators, the agonizing experiments that had turned her into a weapon, a living embodiment of humanity's last hope against the Xeno threat. Her purpose, her very existence, defined by war against an enemy she barely understood.

A guttural growl from the ship's comms tore her from her reverie. It was Xylo, the Valkyrie's AI companion, his digital voice laced with urgency. "Massive energy buildup detected on the lead Xeno cruiser, Captain. Brace for impact!"

Eve gritted her teeth. They were on the verge of escaping the asteroid field, a gateway to open hyperspace within her grasp. But the Xenos wouldn't let her leave without a fight. A surge of anger, hot and primal, coursed through her. Their relentless pursuit, their grotesque warships – they were a constant reminder of the brutal war that had claimed her past, stolen her memories.

The lead Xeno cruiser, a monstrosity resembling a skeletal spider, unleashed its weapon – a swirling vortex of dark energy. The Valkyrie lurched violently as the energy blast slammed into its shields, the warning klaxon shrieking like a banshee. Eve fought for con …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

#ai #aiart #digitalart #jadegretz #fantasyart #fanart #beautifulgirl #aiartwork #aiartcommunity #eve #blade #videogameart

[transgenderer]

In Religion for Atheists (Penguin, 2012) he tries to reconcile the virtues of religious faith with a non-belief in an objectively existing God. That’s perfectly fine; plenty of worthwhile thinkers (Bloch, Althusser, Agamben, Badiou) have tried to do the same. However, for de Botton religion is useful because it ‘teaches us to be polite, to honour one another, to be faithful and sober’ and because it can help us learn ‘how to face the trials of the workplace with a modest and uncomplaining temper.’ No it’s not. Religion is fire and passion, a point of connection between humanity and the infinite, the cry of the oppressed creature, the foundation of universalism. It’s meant to be vast and terrifying and emancipatory. In the face of the vastness of the Absolute Other all human distinctions are meaningless; that’s why so many radical liberation movements have been religious in nature. What this book does is try to turn six millennia of blazing fervour into a half-baked set of minute consolations. It’s an act of hideous violence.

That’s bad enough, but How To Think More About Sex (Picador, 2012) might be the worst book ever written. It’s not too long, but de Botton manages to squeeze into its pages an entire compendium of some of the most grotesque and ungodly sexual acts ever committed. There are the infamous blood orgies of the Mughal emperors, in which the slit throat of a young harem slave was used as a lubricant; there are the thanatophilic séances of certain Theosophist sects, in which the spirits of the dead were summoned and subjected to days of sexual torture; there’s the story of the medieval Saint Quasivermus of Caenumia, who held that congress with earthworms was the only unsinful carnal activity. His book describes every possible interposition of body parts with orifices: there are toes in nostrils, the practice of ‘elbow-fucking,’ and one instance in which an entire dwarf is inserted into an anus. The whole book is awash in a queasy sea of bodily effluent – blood, vomit, bile, cum, pus, piss. Of course, none of this is in the text itself, but it’s the unvoiced content of de Botton’s continual refusal to follow his title and actually think about sex. What he does is recoil from it. For him, sex is for procreation and to stave off loneliness; it’s always a fundamentally selfish act. Most of the time it’s a case of ‘squandered human energy;’ he continually resorts to the idea of sexuality being somehow base: a vestigal, degrading, primal urge we’d all be better off without. At one point he even upholds impotence as an ‘achievement of the ethical imagination.’ None of which is necessarily objectionable – maybe we would be better off without libidinality, free to concentrate on more important things like compiling spreadsheets of sporting statistics and overthrowing capitalism – except for the fact that de Botton never actually makes any argument for this position; he just presents it as a given. He doesn’t seem to even consider the idea that sexuality might be fundamentally related to how we can conceive of ourselves as people, or even that it might actually be enjoyable.

#(btw im pretty sure all those famous historical sex acts are fictitious)

[ragswoh]

wednesday is not only the greatest betrayal in television history but the most maddeningly trite, disturbingly vapid, and internally confused ideological train wreck I've ever had the deeply sorrowful displeasure of allowing to pass through my corneas may god have mercy on burton or whoever else was responsible while someone slapped his brand name on it, and on all of us who are fated to live in a world where something so culturally, socially, politically, and artistically noxious as this Mary-sue-lead, transparently TikTok-targeted, phone-worshipping, vaguely bigoted, backfired virtue-signaling, fake leftist capitalist "my immortal"-esque fanfic earns a second season through what I can only be explained as manufactured consent. something must be done about Netflix's Wednesday. This thing is a condescending insult, especially to young people, the socially conscious, and members of marginalized and """outcast""" groups (LiKe GoThS & ppL who CAN cONTroL BEEEEES) who genuinely suffer from what this thing hollowly masturbates to while looking us dead in the eyes and saying "yeah, you like that, don't you?" It is a Gatling gun of random buzzwords and empty references to social issues, grotesquely and impotently disguised and screaming "I'm commentary!" before pissing its pants, squealing like a pig, and at its most coherent offering nothing more than to demonize mental illness and make any marginalized identity out to be a mayonnaise-stained Hot Topic hoodie through Wiseau-ian dialogue, inappropriate "grittiness" for its source material and Harry Potter setting, and incessant hackery. I am shitting. I am pissing. I am standing over a warm bubble bath cradling a toaster and sobbing, chanting g-d's secret name and praying that there is indeed a hell so I can be eternally punished for having given this moral abomination one fraction of a fraction of a cent also it's not a good Addams family adaptation.

#will wood #wednesday #rant post #copypasta #tumblr memes

[romanceyourdemons]

i really enjoyed shanks (1974). as a surrealist horror film, it perhaps does not sink its teeth as deeply as it could into its concept—an abused deaf-mute puppeteer (played by legendary mime marcel marceau) gains the ability to manipulate corpses like puppets and uses the ability to get revenge on those who have wronged him—but, fundamentally, the film is not intended to be truly horrifying. rather, it is intended to be grotesque, gothic, and above all a tribute to the classics of german expressionism, something it does brilliantly well. the film may have fully synchronized sound, but both the narrative structure and the intertitles that organize it imitate that of the silent era. moreover, its themes of impotence, vengeance, scientific hubris, the ill-treatment of the innocent, and the brutal collision of the modern world and the gothic, explored through a campy concept that is presented through broad physical acting that flirts with physical comedy, all provide a very direct stylistic line connecting this film to early german expressionist films like the hands of orlac (1924) and waxworks (1924). its framing device even, perhaps unintentionally, put me in mind of the cabinet of dr. caligari (1920). at the center of the film, of course, is marcel marceau’s brilliant acting and choreography. his precision of movement and expression is phenomenal; whether embodying a meek and deeply sympathetic puppeteer or a human puppet whose movements border between comical and uncanny, he is able to carry the film with hardly a word of dialogue. stylistically and in execution, shanks (1974) is a brilliant film and a highly effective homage, and i would highly recommend it

#ryddles

[me-am-nacho]

wednesday is not only the greatest betrayal in television history but the most maddeningly trite, disturbingly vapid, and internally confused ideological train wreck I've ever had the deeply sorrowful displeasure of allowing to pass through my corneas may god have mercy on burton or whoever else was responsible while someone slapped his brand name on it, and on all of us who are fated to live in a world where something so culturally, socially, politically, and artistically noxious as this Mary-sue-lead, transparently TikTok-targeted, phone-worshipping, vaguely bigoted, backfired virtue-signaling, fake leftist capitalist "my immortal"-esque fanfic earns a second season through what I can only be explained as manufactured consent. something must be done about Netflix's Wednesday. This thing is a condescending insult, especially to young people, the socially conscious, and members of marginalized and """outcast""" groups (LiKe GoThS & ppL who CAN cONTroL BEEEEES) who genuinely suffer from what this thing hollowly masturbates to while looking us dead in the eyes and saying "yeah, you like that, don't you?" It is a Gatling gun of random buzzwords and empty references to social issues, grotesquely and impotently disguised and screaming "I'm commentary!" before pissing its pants, squealing like a pig, and at its most coherent offering nothing more than to demonize mental illness and make any marginalized identity out to be a mayonnaise-stained Hot Topic hoodie through Wiseau-ian dialogue, inappropriate "grittiness" for its source material and Harry Potter setting, and incessant hackery. I am shitting. I am pissing. I am standing over a warm bubble bath cradling a toaster and sobbing, chanting g-d's secret name and praying that there is indeed a hell so I can be eternally punished for having given this moral abomination one fraction of a fraction of a cent also it's not a good Addams family adaptation

#will wood #copypasta

[i-add-music-to-your-posts]

wednesday is not only the greatest betrayal in television history but the most maddeningly trite, disturbingly vapid, and internally confused ideological train wreck I've ever had the deeply sorrowful displeasure of allowing to pass through my corneas may god have mercy on burton or whoever else was responsible while someone slapped his brand name on it, and on all of us who are fated to live in a world where something so culturally, socially, politically, and artistically noxious as this Mary-sue-lead, transparently TikTok-targeted, phone-worshipping, vaguely bigoted, backfired virtue-signaling, fake leftist capitalist "my immortal"-esque fanfic earns a second season through what I can only be explained as manufactured consent. something must be done about Netflix's Wednesday. This thing is a condescending insult, especially to young people, the socially conscious, and members of marginalized and """outcast""" groups (LiKe GoThS & ppL who CAN cONTroL BEEEEES) who genuinely suffer from what this thing hollowly masturbates to while looking us dead in the eyes and saying "yeah, you like that, don't you?" It is a Gatling gun of random buzzwords and empty references to social issues, grotesquely and impotently disguised and screaming "I'm commentary!" before pissing its pants, squealing like a pig, and at its most coherent offering nothing more than to demonize mental illness and make any marginalized identity out to be a mayonnaise-stained Hot Topic hoodie through Wiseau-ian dialogue, inappropriate "grittiness" for its source material and Harry Potter setting, and incessant hackery. I am shitting. I am pissing. I am standing over a warm bubble bath cradling a toaster and sobbing, chanting g-d's secret name and praying that there is indeed a hell so I can be eternally punished for having given this moral abomination one fraction of a fraction of a cent also it's not a good Addams family adaptation

Music this chucklenuts!

what

what the hell

#asks