Imagine being the only person alive who can say this
buzz aldrin and neil armstrong liked to do a thing where they’d tell unfunny jokes at parties about being on the moon and when people were confused they’d go “guess you had to have been there”
[ID: tweet from Linn LeBlanc reads: Where were you 49 years [ago] today when @/TheRealBuzz and Neil Armstrong made those historic first steps onto the Moon. Attached is a color photo of an astronaut on the moon. Buzz Aldrin quote tweets it and replies: I was on the Moon! #Apollo11 /]
One of the best letters I’ve ever seen just popped up on my Facebook memories. Still makes me laugh.
As today is the 50th anniversary of the moon landing, it’s a great time to revisit Dinah from Devon’s memory of this historic event. And yes, still makes me laugh.
Today is the 54th anniversary of the moon landing, but Dinah’s diary entry is still absolutely magnificent.
i made a comic in google slides for some ungodly reason
the long-awaited sequel, Untitled #2
Untitled #3 explores the formulaic entertainment mass-produced by the pawns of capitalism. Or I just wanted to say ass. One of the two.
Untitled #4: the plot thiccens. also there’s a plot apparently
Untitled #5. This whole comic is 23 strips long, and I’ll be doing daily uploads until it’s all posted. Thanks for the great response y’all.
Untitled #6. Okay so firstly, HOLY FUCK Y’ALL. I did NOT expect this comic to get notes, let alone fanart. The most recent strip will always be linked at the bottom of my pinned post, so you can check there to see if you’re caught up.
Untitled #7. Not much to say here. I hope you’re having a good day!
Untitled #8. The true plot begins.
Untitled #9. The Creator can possess Red because I, like Red, have a phenomenal ass. That’s it. It’s not that deep.
Untitled #10. *slaps roof of blue square* this bad boy can fit so much fucking existential despair
Untitled #11. Bet you didn’t expect the ass jokes comic to come to this now did you
Untitled #12. Red is fucking pissed at me. sorry buddy
Untitled #13. I indeed cannot have a comic without characters. Well played, Red.
Untitled #14. Red has his priorities straight.
Untitled #15. It would be funny if this were the last strip but I promise it isn’t. I put too much effort into the end of the comic to stop it now.
Untitled #16. Nice try, Red. Nice try.
Untitled #17. The paradox of omnipotence perpetually vexes me :(
Untitled #18. Let’s not have any ambiguity: Red’s dead. Hey, that rhymes! Neat!
Untitled #19. While strip 18 coincidentally did fall on April Fool’s, it wasn’t a prank. This comic has two characters now. Remember when this comic was about ass jokes?
Untitled #20. Three more strips to go. Holy shit.
Untitled #21. ass haha
Untitled #22. What am I going to do? Who knows… Find out tomorrow at roughly 8:30 AM EST!
This post was in my Drafts for 2 years and I didn’t give it a read because I was too lazy. That was a mistake. This is wonderful. Very impactful in a very short time.
you are not wasting time you are vibing. you are not being unproductive you are literally chilling. make a grill cheese with cheddar cheese and slather a piece of the bread with some honey and maybe you’ll relax
Innes Keeper’s Formula For Fantastic Grilled Cheeses (for nearly no extra spoons!)
Are you hungry? Do you have a hankering for grilled cheese sandwiches like, way more than a normal person maybe? Great news! I am about to give you the secret knowledge I stole, like Prometheus himself, from the Akashic Records—to bring back to Prudencia! And I’m even doing it without a ten hour long lecture about how the Akashic Records makes me think of idfk, 9/11, and how that relates to sandwiches.
I will, however, briefly say this: You gotta trust me when I say cooking grilled cheeses via this formula WILL grant you Bloodborne Insight. There is no fucking reason that making a grilled cheese this fucking delicious should be this fucking easy. I feel like I’m cheating God every time I do it because it takes (nearly) no extra spoons. And here’s where I show you why.
INGREDIENTS — SEASONINGS -butter, i usually use 2 or 3 tablespoons per sandwich -garlic cloves, I use 3 usually -a source of heat, like red pepper flakes, or szechuan peppers -a source of spice OR a source of sweetness, such as dijon mustard or honey. slather that motherfucker on a slice of your bread. -a source of herbiness, such as oregano, thyme, sage, rosemary, etc in any combination that goes well together or on its own. if someone tries to tell you that you need it fresh, they’re fucking lying, the 2$ crushed powdered sage is fucking great. experiment with other spices such as ground turmeric if you’re spicy
INGREDIENTS - THE METAPHORICAL MEAT OF THE SANDWICH -two slices of bread per sandwich. this is actually a massive influence on your sandwich taste and texture as a whole. a basic white or wheat will still be fucking delicious because like I said, I stole this from the Akashic Records cookbook section and found it under “fucking perfect grilled cheeses forever”. However, if you CAN—getting bread like brioche, texas toast, brown bread, rye, or sourdough will make a sandwich already being elevated super easily to “pay 23 dollars at a fancy restaurant” level of elevation.
-one to three types of cheese per sandwich. you can get away with one type but really try for two or three if you can swing it. this is also one of those massive influences over the sandwich—listen, i know, that’s obvious, but stay with me—what matters isn’t the SPECIES of cheese, it’s the TYPE of cheese. getting the deli at your local Safeway or Walmart or whatever and asking for the cheese they gotta cut (or just in general the fancier, better-quality cheeses) is literally the only major requirement that I ask of you. If you are on SNAP/EBT programs, me too, and I promise you: Please do this. Please trust me when I say do not get the cheap Kraft-type cheese because it’s less money. I know it’s a bit extra but it’s only a bit to get like ¼ or 1/3lb and you have no idea how much I’m actually getting a little emotional about this, because the “rice with butter and beans or top ramen every single day” life is soulsucking and sickening and it is genuinely one of the greatest sources of suffering to human beings I can imagine, I’m serious. Following this formula will genuinely change your life/mental health just a bit because you know that you have one meal that is super delicious, super filling, pretty damn cheap when it comes to how much you get, and super easy to make on days where the idea of doing more than just 15 minutes MAX is gonna make you wanna die.
super sorry for that paragraph btw i just really cannot overstate how this is a lifechanger especially when youre poor/low spoons/depressed. delicious food makes me not be as depressed. this is that.
METHOD
Take garlic cloves and crush them either with the meat of your palm or the flat of a knife or literally anything that would crush good. Take bread slices and put a source of spice or sweetness if you are using one. take a pan and put it on the stove on low-medium heat (aka a 2 out of 10).
Place the butter in the pan, as well as the garlic cloves, the source of heat, and the source of herbiness. Congratulations you have now literally done ALL the extra effort that you need to make a grilled cheese like this. That’s it. No extra dishes. No fussing with amounts or chopping or whatever. That’s it.
The butter will melt in the pan and soak up the delicious ingredients that you also put into the pan. Take each slice of bread and place it in the pan to butter it, OR just take one slice, place the cheese on it, and then put the other bread on. It’s really just a matter of extra effort.
When the bread is in the pan, turn it up to medium heat (5 out of 10) and just sorta let it sit for a bit. When you can see the cheese start to get visibly melty—or when you vibecheck it—flip it once and just do the same thing.
When you’ve grilled your cheese on both sides, take it out of the pan and put it on a plate (or just a paper towel to save on dish spoons. btw paper plates and plastic utensils are a fucking godsend if you hate dishes and/or can’t do them very easily/takes a lot of effort.)
That’s literally it. I really hope this helps.
outta my way gayboy im making this sandwich
oh. oh my god. holy fuck. what. how. why. this is delicious. i kinda burned my bread and my cheese didnt melt all the way but it’s still the best thing ive ever tasted?????
oh my god. this is so fucking good. the butter melting and absorbing the spices and herbs already smelled amazing, but then i threw the bread on and it started smelling EVEN BETTER. then i took a bite. holy FUCK this is better than sex. i legitimately believe that Innes Keeper stole this shit from Prometheus, there’s no other way to explain why this is so easy to make, yet so FUCKING good, other than cheating a god.
I didn’t steal it from Prometheus he’s my trophy husband!
ok me and my partner went back and made this. exact words upon eating were “we’ve cheated god” and “i feel like my world just got rocked” and then we were both energized to get back to drawing. proof:
I’M PUTTING THIS ON THE FRIDGE (WHERE I KEEP ALL MY CHEESE)
ok ok ok I tried this and 1) it fucks! 2) if you are a freak about garlic like me you can do an extra step: let the garlic hang out in the pan with the butter for like 20-30 mins and slowly infuse on a low heat until it’s basically confit (very creamy and spreadable). you don’t need to watch it rly. spread some of that garlic on your bread then proceed like usual. bliss
my werewolf boyfriend is basically a confit (very creamy and spreadable). an excellent addition and suggestion
Please read this man’s description of his dachshund and its most annoying habit
“I have a ridiculous dog named Walnut. He is as domesticated as a beast can be: a purebred longhaired miniature dachshund with fur so thick it feels rich and creamy, like pudding. His tail is a huge spreading golden fan, a clutch of sunbeams. He looks less like a dog than like a tropical fish. People see him and gasp. Sometimes I tell Walnut right out loud that he is my precious little teddy bear pudding cup sweet boy snuggle-stinker.
In my daily life, Walnut is omnipresent. He shadows me all over the house. When I sit, he gallops up into my lap. When I go to bed, he stretches out his long warm body against my body or he tucks himself under my chin like a soft violin. Walnut is so relentlessly present that sometimes, paradoxically, he disappears. If I am stressed or tired, I can go a whole day without noticing him. I will pet him idly; I will yell at him absent-mindedly for barking at the mailman; I will nuzzle him with my foot. But I will not really see him. He will ask for my attention, but I will have no attention to give. Humans are notorious for this: for our ability to become blind to our surroundings — even a fluffy little jewel of a mammal like Walnut.
…
When I come home from a trip, Walnut gets very excited. He prances and hops and barks and sniffs me at the door. And the consciousnesses of all the wild creatures I’ve seen — the puffins, rhinos, manatees, ferrets, the weird hairy wet horses — come to life for me inside of my domestic dog. He is, suddenly, one of these unfamiliar animals. I can pet him with my full attention, with a full union of our two attentions. He is new to me and I am new to him. We are new again together.
Even when he is horrible. The most annoying thing Walnut does, even worse than barking at the mailman, is the ritual of his “evening drink.” Every night, when I am settled in bed, when I am on the brink of sleep, Walnut will suddenly get very thirsty. If I go to bed at 10:30, Walnut will get thirsty at 11. If I go to bed at midnight, he’ll wake me up at 1. I’ve found that the only way I cannot be mad about this is to treat this ritual as its own special kind of voyage — to try to experience it as if for the first time. If I am open to it, my upstairs hallway contains an astonishing amount of life.
The evening drink goes something like this: First, Walnut will stand on the edge of the bed, in a muscular, stout little stance, and he will wave his big ridiculous fan tail in my face, creating enough of a breeze that I can’t ignore it. I will roll over and try to go back to sleep, but he won’t let me: He’ll stamp his hairy front paws and wag harder, then add expressive noises from his snout — half-whine, half-breath, hardly audible except to me. And so I give up. I sit up and pivot and plant my feet on the floor — I am hardly even awake yet — and I make a little basket of my arms, like a running back preparing to take a handoff, and Walnut pops his body right into that pocket, entrusting the long length of his vulnerable spine (a hazard of the dachshund breed) to the stretch of my right arm, and then he hangs his furry front legs over my left. From this point on we function as a unit, a fusion of man and dog. As I lift my weight from the bed Walnut does a little hop, just to help me with gravity, and we set off down the narrow hall. We are Odysseus on the wine-dark sea. (Walnut is Odysseus; I am the ship.)
All of evolution, all of the births and deaths since caveman times, since wolf times, that produced my ancestors and his — all the firelight and sneak attacks and tenderly offered scraps of meat, the cages and houses, the secret stretchy coils of German DNA — it has all come, finally, to this: a fully grown exhausted human man, a tiny panting goofy harmless dog, walking down the hall together. Even in the dark, Walnut will tilt his snout up at me, throw me a deep happy look from his big black eyes — I can feel this happening even when I can’t see it — and he will snuffle the air until I say nice words to him (OK you fuzzy stinker, let’s go get your evening drink), and then, always, I will lower my face and he will lick my nose, and his breath is so bad, his fetid snout-wind, it smells like a scoop of the primordial soup. It is not good in any way. And yet I love it.
Walnut and I move down the hall together, step by bipedal step, one two three four, tired man and thirsty friend, and together we pass the wildlife of the hallway — a moth, a spider on the ceiling, both of which my children will yell at me later to move outside, and of course each of these creatures could be its own voyage, its own portal to millions of years of history, but we can’t stop to study them now; we are passing my son’s room. We can hear him murmuring words to his friends in a voice that sounds disturbingly like my own voice, deep sound waves rumbling over deep mammalian cords — and now we are passing my daughter’s room, my sweet nearly grown-up girl, who was so tiny when we brought Walnut home, as a golden puppy, but now she is moving off to college. In her room she has a hamster she calls Acorn, another consciousness, another portal to millions of years, to ancient ancestors in China, nighttime scampering over deserts.
But we move on. Behind us, in the hallway, comes a sudden galumphing. It is yet another animal: our other dog, Pistachio, he is getting up to see what’s happening; he was sleeping, too, but now he is following us. Pistachio is the opposite of Walnut, a huge mutt we adopted from a shelter, a gangly scraggly garbage muppet, his body welded together out of old mops and sandpaper, with legs like stilts and an enormous block head and a tail so long that when he whips it in joy, constantly, he beats himself in the face. Pistachio unfolds himself from his sleepy curl, stands, trots, huffs and stares after us with big human eyes. Walnut ignores him, because with every step he is sniffing the dark air ahead of us, like a car probing a night road with headlights, and he knows we are approaching his water dish now, he knows I am about to bend my body in half to set his four paws simultaneously down on the floor, he knows that he will slap the cool water with his tongue for 15 seconds before I pick him up again and we journey back down the hall. And I find myself wondering, although of course it doesn’t matter, if Walnut was even thirsty, or if we are just playing out a mutual script. Or maybe, and who could blame him, he just felt like taking a trip.”
Anyway I think queer people should get to host gender reveal parties as adults. We could be like ‘Hey trusted friends, I have something to announce at a party’ and then they arrive and there’s a grey cake and everyone’s like 'Oh my goooooood’ and they cut into it and inside are layers of whichever pride flag fits our gender/orientation and everyone loses their shit and eats cake and then we all sit round and play One Night Ultimate Werewolf.
Fairy: Oh my god stealing people’s names has been categorized as a war crime for like a hundred years. Do I seem like the kind of fairy that would do war crimes?
Me: Well yes, but that’s just my impression of you personally. Not fairies in general.
Fairy: You’re smarter than I thought.
Me: So is the fairy monarch democratically elected?
Fairy: I think the one from a small corner of Alabama might be but for the most part, no. It’s still decided by a contest between the three oldest children.
Me: What kind of competition?
Fairy: Well it used to be to the death but that was too violent so these days each kingdom comes up with their own. In mine I think they play marbles but I’ve never seen one.
Me: Okay so why shouldn’t I say thank you or give gifts in return for favors?
Fairy: That’s mostly a regional thing but where I’m from it’s insulting to the wealth of the person giving you stuff. Like you really only thank people when what they did was like a huge burden so if you thank someone for giving you something that’s like calling them poor.
Me: Fairies have wealth inequality?
Fairy: I mean we technically still live under a feudal system if I’m being honest but with modern technology and ethics nobody notices.
Me: Do you have Internet down there?
Fairy: Only dial-up. That’s why I come to your house.
Fairy: So you’re telling me that human men don’t think that frog eyes are sexy?
Me: Well not most of them to my knowledge.
Fairy: So I bought these contacts for nothing.
Me: Hey man you don’t have to be a frog spirit to lure men into your clutches. Plenty of dudes are into cat eyes and ghoulish moaning.
Fairy: You really think so?
Me: I know so! Stop doubting yourself so much. You can definitely find some mortal men to lure into the timeless void for several centuries and adopt a demon cat with you.
Fairy: Thanks, man. That means a lot.
Fairy: So humans… don’t eat glass?
Me: No? It’ll cut up our insides and kill us.
Fairy: Ooohhhh. Oh no.
Me: What did you do now?
Fairy: More like… what I’ve done over the past three centuries since I moved out of my mom’s house.
Me: Did the coughing up of blood not cue you into anything?!?!!
Fairy: I thought that humans just spontaneously die sometimes!
Me: No we don’t! There’s physical reasons for these things!
Fairy: So… no more bringing nightshade and glass entrees to the potluck?
Me: No!
Me: So why mushrooms as portals?
Fairies: Look man, even we don’t mess with mushrooms alright? Sometimes they open up a portal to the human world and it’s just best to not question it.
Imagine being the only person alive who can say this
buzz aldrin and neil armstrong liked to do a thing where they’d tell unfunny jokes at parties about being on the moon and when people were confused they’d go “guess you had to have been there”
[ID: tweet from Linn LeBlanc reads: Where were you 49 years [ago] today when @/TheRealBuzz and Neil Armstrong made those historic first steps onto the Moon. Attached is a color photo of an astronaut on the moon. Buzz Aldrin quote tweets it and replies: I was on the Moon! #Apollo11 /]
One of the best letters I’ve ever seen just popped up on my Facebook memories. Still makes me laugh.
As today is the 50th anniversary of the moon landing, it’s a great time to revisit Dinah from Devon’s memory of this historic event. And yes, still makes me laugh.
Today is the 54th anniversary of the moon landing, but Dinah’s diary entry is still absolutely magnificent.
i made a comic in google slides for some ungodly reason
the long-awaited sequel, Untitled #2
Untitled #3 explores the formulaic entertainment mass-produced by the pawns of capitalism. Or I just wanted to say ass. One of the two.
Untitled #4: the plot thiccens. also there’s a plot apparently
Untitled #5. This whole comic is 23 strips long, and I’ll be doing daily uploads until it’s all posted. Thanks for the great response y’all.
Untitled #6. Okay so firstly, HOLY FUCK Y’ALL. I did NOT expect this comic to get notes, let alone fanart. The most recent strip will always be linked at the bottom of my pinned post, so you can check there to see if you’re caught up.
Untitled #7. Not much to say here. I hope you’re having a good day!
Untitled #8. The true plot begins.
Untitled #9. The Creator can possess Red because I, like Red, have a phenomenal ass. That’s it. It’s not that deep.
Untitled #10. *slaps roof of blue square* this bad boy can fit so much fucking existential despair
Untitled #11. Bet you didn’t expect the ass jokes comic to come to this now did you
Untitled #12. Red is fucking pissed at me. sorry buddy
Untitled #13. I indeed cannot have a comic without characters. Well played, Red.
Untitled #14. Red has his priorities straight.
Untitled #15. It would be funny if this were the last strip but I promise it isn’t. I put too much effort into the end of the comic to stop it now.
Untitled #16. Nice try, Red. Nice try.
Untitled #17. The paradox of omnipotence perpetually vexes me :(
Untitled #18. Let’s not have any ambiguity: Red’s dead. Hey, that rhymes! Neat!
Untitled #19. While strip 18 coincidentally did fall on April Fool’s, it wasn’t a prank. This comic has two characters now. Remember when this comic was about ass jokes?
Untitled #20. Three more strips to go. Holy shit.
Untitled #21. ass haha
Untitled #22. What am I going to do? Who knows… Find out tomorrow at roughly 8:30 AM EST!
This post was in my Drafts for 2 years and I didn’t give it a read because I was too lazy. That was a mistake. This is wonderful. Very impactful in a very short time.
you are not wasting time you are vibing. you are not being unproductive you are literally chilling. make a grill cheese with cheddar cheese and slather a piece of the bread with some honey and maybe you’ll relax
Innes Keeper’s Formula For Fantastic Grilled Cheeses (for nearly no extra spoons!)
Are you hungry? Do you have a hankering for grilled cheese sandwiches like, way more than a normal person maybe? Great news! I am about to give you the secret knowledge I stole, like Prometheus himself, from the Akashic Records—to bring back to Prudencia! And I’m even doing it without a ten hour long lecture about how the Akashic Records makes me think of idfk, 9/11, and how that relates to sandwiches.
I will, however, briefly say this: You gotta trust me when I say cooking grilled cheeses via this formula WILL grant you Bloodborne Insight. There is no fucking reason that making a grilled cheese this fucking delicious should be this fucking easy. I feel like I’m cheating God every time I do it because it takes (nearly) no extra spoons. And here’s where I show you why.
INGREDIENTS — SEASONINGS -butter, i usually use 2 or 3 tablespoons per sandwich -garlic cloves, I use 3 usually -a source of heat, like red pepper flakes, or szechuan peppers -a source of spice OR a source of sweetness, such as dijon mustard or honey. slather that motherfucker on a slice of your bread. -a source of herbiness, such as oregano, thyme, sage, rosemary, etc in any combination that goes well together or on its own. if someone tries to tell you that you need it fresh, they’re fucking lying, the 2$ crushed powdered sage is fucking great. experiment with other spices such as ground turmeric if you’re spicy
INGREDIENTS - THE METAPHORICAL MEAT OF THE SANDWICH -two slices of bread per sandwich. this is actually a massive influence on your sandwich taste and texture as a whole. a basic white or wheat will still be fucking delicious because like I said, I stole this from the Akashic Records cookbook section and found it under “fucking perfect grilled cheeses forever”. However, if you CAN—getting bread like brioche, texas toast, brown bread, rye, or sourdough will make a sandwich already being elevated super easily to “pay 23 dollars at a fancy restaurant” level of elevation.
-one to three types of cheese per sandwich. you can get away with one type but really try for two or three if you can swing it. this is also one of those massive influences over the sandwich—listen, i know, that’s obvious, but stay with me—what matters isn’t the SPECIES of cheese, it’s the TYPE of cheese. getting the deli at your local Safeway or Walmart or whatever and asking for the cheese they gotta cut (or just in general the fancier, better-quality cheeses) is literally the only major requirement that I ask of you. If you are on SNAP/EBT programs, me too, and I promise you: Please do this. Please trust me when I say do not get the cheap Kraft-type cheese because it’s less money. I know it’s a bit extra but it’s only a bit to get like ¼ or 1/3lb and you have no idea how much I’m actually getting a little emotional about this, because the “rice with butter and beans or top ramen every single day” life is soulsucking and sickening and it is genuinely one of the greatest sources of suffering to human beings I can imagine, I’m serious. Following this formula will genuinely change your life/mental health just a bit because you know that you have one meal that is super delicious, super filling, pretty damn cheap when it comes to how much you get, and super easy to make on days where the idea of doing more than just 15 minutes MAX is gonna make you wanna die.
super sorry for that paragraph btw i just really cannot overstate how this is a lifechanger especially when youre poor/low spoons/depressed. delicious food makes me not be as depressed. this is that.
METHOD
Take garlic cloves and crush them either with the meat of your palm or the flat of a knife or literally anything that would crush good. Take bread slices and put a source of spice or sweetness if you are using one. take a pan and put it on the stove on low-medium heat (aka a 2 out of 10).
Place the butter in the pan, as well as the garlic cloves, the source of heat, and the source of herbiness. Congratulations you have now literally done ALL the extra effort that you need to make a grilled cheese like this. That’s it. No extra dishes. No fussing with amounts or chopping or whatever. That’s it.
The butter will melt in the pan and soak up the delicious ingredients that you also put into the pan. Take each slice of bread and place it in the pan to butter it, OR just take one slice, place the cheese on it, and then put the other bread on. It’s really just a matter of extra effort.
When the bread is in the pan, turn it up to medium heat (5 out of 10) and just sorta let it sit for a bit. When you can see the cheese start to get visibly melty—or when you vibecheck it—flip it once and just do the same thing.
When you’ve grilled your cheese on both sides, take it out of the pan and put it on a plate (or just a paper towel to save on dish spoons. btw paper plates and plastic utensils are a fucking godsend if you hate dishes and/or can’t do them very easily/takes a lot of effort.)
That’s literally it. I really hope this helps.
outta my way gayboy im making this sandwich
oh. oh my god. holy fuck. what. how. why. this is delicious. i kinda burned my bread and my cheese didnt melt all the way but it’s still the best thing ive ever tasted?????
oh my god. this is so fucking good. the butter melting and absorbing the spices and herbs already smelled amazing, but then i threw the bread on and it started smelling EVEN BETTER. then i took a bite. holy FUCK this is better than sex. i legitimately believe that Innes Keeper stole this shit from Prometheus, there’s no other way to explain why this is so easy to make, yet so FUCKING good, other than cheating a god.
I didn’t steal it from Prometheus he’s my trophy husband!
ok me and my partner went back and made this. exact words upon eating were “we’ve cheated god” and “i feel like my world just got rocked” and then we were both energized to get back to drawing. proof:
I’M PUTTING THIS ON THE FRIDGE (WHERE I KEEP ALL MY CHEESE)
ok ok ok I tried this and 1) it fucks! 2) if you are a freak about garlic like me you can do an extra step: let the garlic hang out in the pan with the butter for like 20-30 mins and slowly infuse on a low heat until it’s basically confit (very creamy and spreadable). you don’t need to watch it rly. spread some of that garlic on your bread then proceed like usual. bliss
my werewolf boyfriend is basically a confit (very creamy and spreadable). an excellent addition and suggestion
Please read this man’s description of his dachshund and its most annoying habit
“I have a ridiculous dog named Walnut. He is as domesticated as a beast can be: a purebred longhaired miniature dachshund with fur so thick it feels rich and creamy, like pudding. His tail is a huge spreading golden fan, a clutch of sunbeams. He looks less like a dog than like a tropical fish. People see him and gasp. Sometimes I tell Walnut right out loud that he is my precious little teddy bear pudding cup sweet boy snuggle-stinker.
In my daily life, Walnut is omnipresent. He shadows me all over the house. When I sit, he gallops up into my lap. When I go to bed, he stretches out his long warm body against my body or he tucks himself under my chin like a soft violin. Walnut is so relentlessly present that sometimes, paradoxically, he disappears. If I am stressed or tired, I can go a whole day without noticing him. I will pet him idly; I will yell at him absent-mindedly for barking at the mailman; I will nuzzle him with my foot. But I will not really see him. He will ask for my attention, but I will have no attention to give. Humans are notorious for this: for our ability to become blind to our surroundings — even a fluffy little jewel of a mammal like Walnut.
…
When I come home from a trip, Walnut gets very excited. He prances and hops and barks and sniffs me at the door. And the consciousnesses of all the wild creatures I’ve seen — the puffins, rhinos, manatees, ferrets, the weird hairy wet horses — come to life for me inside of my domestic dog. He is, suddenly, one of these unfamiliar animals. I can pet him with my full attention, with a full union of our two attentions. He is new to me and I am new to him. We are new again together.
Even when he is horrible. The most annoying thing Walnut does, even worse than barking at the mailman, is the ritual of his “evening drink.” Every night, when I am settled in bed, when I am on the brink of sleep, Walnut will suddenly get very thirsty. If I go to bed at 10:30, Walnut will get thirsty at 11. If I go to bed at midnight, he’ll wake me up at 1. I’ve found that the only way I cannot be mad about this is to treat this ritual as its own special kind of voyage — to try to experience it as if for the first time. If I am open to it, my upstairs hallway contains an astonishing amount of life.
The evening drink goes something like this: First, Walnut will stand on the edge of the bed, in a muscular, stout little stance, and he will wave his big ridiculous fan tail in my face, creating enough of a breeze that I can’t ignore it. I will roll over and try to go back to sleep, but he won’t let me: He’ll stamp his hairy front paws and wag harder, then add expressive noises from his snout — half-whine, half-breath, hardly audible except to me. And so I give up. I sit up and pivot and plant my feet on the floor — I am hardly even awake yet — and I make a little basket of my arms, like a running back preparing to take a handoff, and Walnut pops his body right into that pocket, entrusting the long length of his vulnerable spine (a hazard of the dachshund breed) to the stretch of my right arm, and then he hangs his furry front legs over my left. From this point on we function as a unit, a fusion of man and dog. As I lift my weight from the bed Walnut does a little hop, just to help me with gravity, and we set off down the narrow hall. We are Odysseus on the wine-dark sea. (Walnut is Odysseus; I am the ship.)
All of evolution, all of the births and deaths since caveman times, since wolf times, that produced my ancestors and his — all the firelight and sneak attacks and tenderly offered scraps of meat, the cages and houses, the secret stretchy coils of German DNA — it has all come, finally, to this: a fully grown exhausted human man, a tiny panting goofy harmless dog, walking down the hall together. Even in the dark, Walnut will tilt his snout up at me, throw me a deep happy look from his big black eyes — I can feel this happening even when I can’t see it — and he will snuffle the air until I say nice words to him (OK you fuzzy stinker, let’s go get your evening drink), and then, always, I will lower my face and he will lick my nose, and his breath is so bad, his fetid snout-wind, it smells like a scoop of the primordial soup. It is not good in any way. And yet I love it.
Walnut and I move down the hall together, step by bipedal step, one two three four, tired man and thirsty friend, and together we pass the wildlife of the hallway — a moth, a spider on the ceiling, both of which my children will yell at me later to move outside, and of course each of these creatures could be its own voyage, its own portal to millions of years of history, but we can’t stop to study them now; we are passing my son’s room. We can hear him murmuring words to his friends in a voice that sounds disturbingly like my own voice, deep sound waves rumbling over deep mammalian cords — and now we are passing my daughter’s room, my sweet nearly grown-up girl, who was so tiny when we brought Walnut home, as a golden puppy, but now she is moving off to college. In her room she has a hamster she calls Acorn, another consciousness, another portal to millions of years, to ancient ancestors in China, nighttime scampering over deserts.
But we move on. Behind us, in the hallway, comes a sudden galumphing. It is yet another animal: our other dog, Pistachio, he is getting up to see what’s happening; he was sleeping, too, but now he is following us. Pistachio is the opposite of Walnut, a huge mutt we adopted from a shelter, a gangly scraggly garbage muppet, his body welded together out of old mops and sandpaper, with legs like stilts and an enormous block head and a tail so long that when he whips it in joy, constantly, he beats himself in the face. Pistachio unfolds himself from his sleepy curl, stands, trots, huffs and stares after us with big human eyes. Walnut ignores him, because with every step he is sniffing the dark air ahead of us, like a car probing a night road with headlights, and he knows we are approaching his water dish now, he knows I am about to bend my body in half to set his four paws simultaneously down on the floor, he knows that he will slap the cool water with his tongue for 15 seconds before I pick him up again and we journey back down the hall. And I find myself wondering, although of course it doesn’t matter, if Walnut was even thirsty, or if we are just playing out a mutual script. Or maybe, and who could blame him, he just felt like taking a trip.”
Anyway I think queer people should get to host gender reveal parties as adults. We could be like ‘Hey trusted friends, I have something to announce at a party’ and then they arrive and there’s a grey cake and everyone’s like 'Oh my goooooood’ and they cut into it and inside are layers of whichever pride flag fits our gender/orientation and everyone loses their shit and eats cake and then we all sit round and play One Night Ultimate Werewolf.
Fairy: Oh my god stealing people’s names has been categorized as a war crime for like a hundred years. Do I seem like the kind of fairy that would do war crimes?
Me: Well yes, but that’s just my impression of you personally. Not fairies in general.
Fairy: You’re smarter than I thought.
Me: So is the fairy monarch democratically elected?
Fairy: I think the one from a small corner of Alabama might be but for the most part, no. It’s still decided by a contest between the three oldest children.
Me: What kind of competition?
Fairy: Well it used to be to the death but that was too violent so these days each kingdom comes up with their own. In mine I think they play marbles but I’ve never seen one.
Me: Okay so why shouldn’t I say thank you or give gifts in return for favors?
Fairy: That’s mostly a regional thing but where I’m from it’s insulting to the wealth of the person giving you stuff. Like you really only thank people when what they did was like a huge burden so if you thank someone for giving you something that’s like calling them poor.
Me: Fairies have wealth inequality?
Fairy: I mean we technically still live under a feudal system if I’m being honest but with modern technology and ethics nobody notices.
Me: Do you have Internet down there?
Fairy: Only dial-up. That’s why I come to your house.
Fairy: So you’re telling me that human men don’t think that frog eyes are sexy?
Me: Well not most of them to my knowledge.
Fairy: So I bought these contacts for nothing.
Me: Hey man you don’t have to be a frog spirit to lure men into your clutches. Plenty of dudes are into cat eyes and ghoulish moaning.
Fairy: You really think so?
Me: I know so! Stop doubting yourself so much. You can definitely find some mortal men to lure into the timeless void for several centuries and adopt a demon cat with you.
Fairy: Thanks, man. That means a lot.
Fairy: So humans… don’t eat glass?
Me: No? It’ll cut up our insides and kill us.
Fairy: Ooohhhh. Oh no.
Me: What did you do now?
Fairy: More like… what I’ve done over the past three centuries since I moved out of my mom’s house.
Me: Did the coughing up of blood not cue you into anything?!?!!
Fairy: I thought that humans just spontaneously die sometimes!
Me: No we don’t! There’s physical reasons for these things!
Fairy: So… no more bringing nightshade and glass entrees to the potluck?
Me: No!
Me: So why mushrooms as portals?
Fairies: Look man, even we don’t mess with mushrooms alright? Sometimes they open up a portal to the human world and it’s just best to not question it.
ALT
