A dating service where matching is based on people’s search history exists. You’re a serial killer. You go on a date with a writer.
Serial Killer: metaphorically, if you were to kill someone, how would you do it?
Writer: Air shot between the toes, it’ll look like a heart attack.
Serial Killer who is obviously in love already: *sucks in a breath* ok
Writer: how long would it take to die if you were to potentially stab someone in the guts
Serial killer: anywhere from 2 to 30 minutes
Writer, already bringing a ring out: *shaking* thanks
A++ addition
Writer: *shows the serial killer the murder scene they’re writing* babe, i’m not sure if this would actually work?
Serial killer: *kisses writer on the forehead and leaves, comes back later, a suspicious scent of blood coming off them* it works baby, you’re doing great
I LOVE THIS
Oh no, murder comedy is my jam
I love this, I love all of this, but quick question, does the author know? Like are they aware that their significant other is a serial killer or do they just think that they have a morbid sense of humor? It’d be even funnier if the author had no fucking clue, like how Aurthur Conan Doyle was apparently stupidly gullible, and on top of it they’re a horror or crime novelist. Like the serial killer works at a butcher shop or something so it’s completely normal for them to come home smelling like blood, no murders going on here, no sirey. Just my darling coming back home from a long day at work.
Now fast forward a bit and the author has managed to get their first book published, with loving support from the serial killer who helped them fine tune all the murder scenes, and it’s a big hit. Enough so that a detective with the local police department has noticed some disturbing similarities to several active cases, including details that were never released to the press. Obviously he brings this up to his superior and convinces him that there’s something to the theory, but it’s all circumstantial right now. He stakes out the author’s home and is super convinced that the author is the murderer, but they don’t seem to do anything??? Like they literally are at the house all day, that’s it. Most they do is leave for groceries.
So you get this dynamic of the serial killer mining the author for creative murder schemes, the author being lovingly encouraged by the serial killer, and finally the detective who is just so sure that the author is the killer and that if he sticks it out long enough he’ll FINALLY have proof.
Aside from all the other reasons it’s gross, humor that’s based on degrading women and minorities is plain lazy. If you can’t make people laugh without punching down, you’re just not funny.
Just be kind and weird. Be absurd. It’s not that hard.
I make people laugh by punching down myself
That’s because of toxic societal teachings.
Be an anarchist: love yourself.
I feel compelled to tell you that this is now wallpaper for both my lockscreen and my homepage
give us the pics
Also, while we’re here, I also wanna say that this shitpost has actually touched me. Like I’ve had serious loving comments from friends and family about caring about myself, and this has somehow made a bigger impact. This post legit brought me to tears. I have it written on my hand and it’s probably going to be written many other places. And that’s why it’s my wallpaper
i’m proud of you, you funky little anarchist melon ball
Love yourself out of spite
Love yourself out of spite
@ everyone considering this for a tattoo: remember you can commission @theshitpostcalligrapher to design it for you!
OKAY SO I ACTUALLY KIND OF LOVE MAKING PHONE BACKGROUNDS SO I MADE THESE AND YOU GUYS CAN USE THEM IF YOU WANT AND ALSO IF YOU WANT ME TO MAKE YOU SOMETHING DIFFERENT I CAN DO THAT
I don’t have a degree in eating blocks of cream cheese, which sucks because I’m sure it would add a lot of value to my CV. (Instead, I have “lying, poorly”. Does that count?).
I did eat a block of cream cheese once, though. I remember it fondly, because it was one of the proudest moments of my life. This probably says a lot about me, though god only knows what.
I used to be part of a youth group, which is to say, yes, I was part of a church once. I was the “youth leader”, which is the church’s way of saying, “you are the only person in the youth group who doesn’t roll your eyes at us, when we talk to you.” What they did not know is that – aside from not actually being terribly religious – I had made the youth minister my sworn enemy.
He was a weird guy. Very young; not too bright, frankly. Had a goatee, because the law requires all youth ministers to have goatees. It’s true. Look it up. He told us that Mormons owned Pepsi-Cola, and that The Gay Agenda created yaoi to recruit young men, the latter of which “fact” was really, really funny. A lot of the things he did were not so funny. Once, we went to a nursing home, where he decided to jump up and down in the elevator. He knew, of course, that I had an elevator phobia. I asked him to stop. He began sing-screaming, LONDON BRIDGE IS FALLING DOWN, FALLING DOWN, FALLING DOWN as he jumped. A chaperone asked him to stop, couldn’t he see I was afraid? I backed into the corner and crouched there, clinging to the railing. That was the day he became more than just a moron. That was the day I decided I would make his youth-group life a hell.
Most of the time, all I had to do was ask real questions about the Bible, and then ask him questions about his answers, and so on and so forth until he ran out of excuses, or said something deeply embarrassing. One day, he was trying to explain why it was still totally okay for parents to stone their kids to death for disobeying. He was flustered; inarticulate. I pulled a room-temperature block of Philadelphia cream cheese. He watched me unwrap it as he rambled on. I took a bite. I locked eyes. I did not look away. I ate in silence. There was confusion written all over his features. His sentences tumbled apart into further incoherence, and faded away. He was afraid.
I cherish that moment.
Why am I laughing so hard??
I had to read this out loud I can’t breathe
found it
I
CAN’T
FUCKING
BREATHE
MY NEIGHBOR JUST RAN OVER AND ASKED IF I WAS OKAY BECAUSE I SCREAM-LAUGHED SO HARD.
Someone asked that this be rebloggable so HURR YOU GO
Some patterns are really dumb in telling you to finish the body of an outfit, then finish the sleeve, then attach a circle to a circle. It’s possible to do, don’t get me wrong, but unless you have a lot of experience it’s sometimes very aggravating trying to evenly distribute the sleeve around the “hole” cut out for it and match up the seams under the armpit!
(Please note…some patterns, especially to achieve tailored looks, require you to do it the traditional way. Don’t use this method for fashion school assignments or super-complex garments as it will probably screw up the way it ends up fitting in the end. This is mostly for the use of cosplayers to make their job a little easier.)
EDIT:// thevvioletprince, a fashion student, says she’s been taught this method in school so HAVE FUN, NEVER MIND
EDIT DEUX:// If you are doing a traditional garment of some kind, for instance, something that has a multi-piece sleeve or that requires gathers, you may need to do it the “old-fashioned way”!
I just learned the origin of pink lemonade and I need you all to hear this.
So this dude selling concessions at a circus back in like 1857 ran out of lemonade and he needed water to make more, but there wasn’t a stream or water pump, BUT the BAREBACK HORSE RIDER had just washed her pink tights in a bucket of water, staining the water pink. So, being the enterprising fella he was, dude just threw in the lemons and sugar and told everyone it was special strawberry lemonade. Well, the circus patrons saw pink lemonade and thought, “That’s fucking amazing!” and he ended up selling twice as much lemonade than usual.
To reiterate.
This dude sold people sweaty horse crotch water and it was so popular it became an Actual Fucking Thing.
The-Lounge 