Tag: shenanigans

OK, I officially feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. More embarrassing Steve stories, if you please? I need distractions.

buckykingofmemes:

steve has really, really good night vision. 

i do too–i drank the same superjuice, just a little more watered down–but back during the war i didn’t really tell anyone about that. so since steve’s vision was best, he was always the point man on nighttime operations with the Howlies. this worked out pretty well–he could spot terrain problems and walk us around them, and he could see a nazi scout coming well before he saw us. 

but every once in a while, some particularly sneaky bastard would get the drop on him.

on one particular occasion, we were on our way back from an op, and crossing through a disputed area in the evening. we’d been warned that the nazis were trying to send spies through, so we were on the lookout. steve was on point. 

somehow, despite having the eyes of a goddam bald eagle, steve did not see this guy coming. 

the guy–a nazi spy–was hardly invisible. he had a big, bulky backpack, civilian clothes, and a Walther PPK.  he popped out of a shrub with his pistol and steve never saw him coming–but luckily steve’s got the instincts of a tiny angry human target who used to get jumped in dark alleys on a regular basis, and he bopped him with the shield before the nazi could fire. well, i say bopped–it was the sort of wild swing you take with a frypan when someone startles you in the kitchen. 

the spy flew a good three feet through the air and landed on his side–

and exploded into a flock of pigeons. 

after the fact, we realized that the spy’s backpack was actually a wooden cage containing half a dozen homing pigeons, intended to carry back messages from allied territory. when he fell, it split apart, releasing a bunch of terrified birds to fly back, empty handed (empty winged?), to a nazi base. but at the time, it was like a magic trick–one moment there was a nazi spy, the next, a flock of birds! 

the look of shock and surprise on steve’s face was incredible. you could see on his face a split second where he asked himself can i punch people so hard they turn into birds now? did i grow a new superpower? what the hell was in that serum?

he realized the truth moments later, but i could see it–the brief seconds where flashes of a pigeon empire flew through his head.

How to NOT dispose of your Christmas tree, courtesy of grandpa

gallusrostromegalus:

gallusrostromegalus:

So, since Y’all liked the last bit of family holiday insanity, I think you’ll enjoy a story from dad’s side of the family.  Also, it’s vaguely timely in that this is the time of year people start to do dumb shit with Christmas trees in order to avoid dump fees.

The year is still 1956, because Grandpa is a stickler for taking the tree down before New Year’s Eve, mostly because Grandpa is also the Monterey County Commissioner, and responsible for holding the New Year’s Office Party at his place.  You know, a responsible adult who has to make nuanced, careful policy decisions, the kind of guy that turns his taxes in before February.  

The kind of guy who decides he can burn his Christmas tree in the fireplace instead of taking it to the dump.

There is no good reason for grandpa to NOT take the tree there- Monterey is on the California Coast and has an average temperature of 50 degrees in December.  It will snow in hell before it snows in Monterey.  And this was the 50′s!  Dump fees didn’t exist yet!  It’s easy, free, and very unlikely to set your house on fire!

But no, Grandpa, an other wise sober and sensible man, decided instead to take this highly desiccated and moderately explosive tree and actually shove it up the chimney, before setting it alight.

Dad distinctly recalls his ears popping as the barometric pressure in the room dropped, as the conflagration drew air up into the chimney with enough force to take one of the curtains with it.  Grandpa is standing there in front of the fireplace like an idiot, presumably slightly deafened by the jet-engine-like ROAR coming from the fireplace.

Dad, having at least two working survival instincts, ran outside to see if spark were landing on the roof and if he needed to call 911. There were not sparks landing on the roof, becuase whatever flaming bits of tree were left were being blown into the stratosphere by the jet of flame erupting out of the chimney like the worlds biggest butane torch.  The ground shook, from the force of the tree combusting in such a confined fashion.  The earth was probably moved slightly out of orbit.

Fortunately, once the tree died down, it did not take the house with it, and they were all left with shattered nerves and a structurally unsound chimney.

“Well that was a hell of a thing.” Said grandpa, still standing in front of the fireplace.  He turned, slowly, looking moderately shell-shocked towards his sobbing daughters and Dad, who was too awed for any reasonable sense of panic.

“Don’t tell your mother, and we can all have ice cream.”

Happy Holidays everyone, don’t burn the house down.

(If you enjoyed this, please consider donating to my Tip Jar  so I can make the rent and maybe some xmas presents this year)

frog updates

glumshoe:

Liberace is becoming more and more vocal. He is very confident in his singing, and can be set off by anything – the creak of the spray bottle sounds enough like a frog croaking that he begins to ribbit each time I moisten their enclosure. The other day, he heard chanting from ‘Teen Wolf’ and began croaking in unison. Each night around 10 PM, he crawls out of the daytime hide and chills under the rock bridge, while Millie sits on top of it. Liberace is a good boy, a sweet boy. 

Millie…. Millie is a wicked frog. She cares not that I be too large to consume, for she doth try! The villainy! I tried to place a mealworm in the terrarium and the instant I opened the door, she jumped OUT of it and onto my arm, biting desperately at my wrist. I am a jumpy person and if she weren’t so sticky she would have been flung into the wall. As soon as I placed her gently back into the cage, she projectile peed on me! Right out of the terrarium, hitting me squarely in the chest – a good two foot range. 

glumshoe:

ignitingthesky:

glumshoe:

in high school, I was part of a group of art kids who essentially rented an empty classroom one weekend for a costumed photography session. there were no supervising adults anywhere to be found. we were all known as respectable nerds who did well in class, got along with our teachers, and never really did anything objectionable (beyond submitting portraits of Patrick Stewart with large naked breasts for our semester projects… ahem). so I guess administration figured we could be trusted with full reign of the empty school – the fact that several students were kids of board members didn’t hurt.

the photo shoot went well and we had lots of fun posing for and taking hipster portraits and eating snacks. I was just flattered to be considered attractive enough to photograph, since it wasn’t really my clique.

soon, though, we realized the limitless possibilities of an abandoned school where security cameras had not yet been installed. we ran up and down hallways in our underwear, breaking into classrooms to dance upon the desks. we did topless cartwheels across the cafeteria and just… clowned around while doing absolutely zero damage to any school property, until we heard the front door unlock as the janitor came to work. cue a MAD SCRAMBLE across the school to get back to our clothes without getting caught – I swear it was like a level in a video game.

Lotf? Breakdown of civilisation when there is lack of supervising authority

Oh, civilization didn’t break down. We didn’t cause any harm. We just became less clothed and more silly.

naasade-jurkadir-mando-dalase:

Ever since they were little, the batboys have spoken differently as Bruce Wayne’s Wards™ than they have as his sons and as vigilantes.

  • Dick speaks with a wide conglomeration of accents so thick his English is barely intelligible, excusing it to the public as his circus upbringing, when really it’s just a game of a) “see how many accents I can slip into one sentence” (the record is something over thirty) and b) “see how unbelievable I can make it that Dick Grayson could ever be Robin/Nightwing because he speaks fluently”.
  • Jason caught on to Dick’s game and started seeing how many Spanish phrases, metaphors, and curse words he can fit into a conversation.
  • Tim thought it was a good idea to help keep their identities secret (of course he made the connection as soon as he figured them out), and his parents had neglected him kept him out of the limelight enough that he could believably begin speaking with what he described as “a Yiddish accent with Chinese oral posture and Italian colloquialisms”. He made a flow chart with why that specifically. Seriously, a flow chart. He still has it somewhere.
  • Damian had spent much of his life watching his brothers and plotting their respective demises, so when he came to Gotham, he assumed it was standard procedure and started speaking a heavy Arabic accent whenever he left the manor out of uniform.

The press loves it. They love praising Bruce for taking in such poor, unfortunate, culturally diverse (and sexually diverse! – Dick’s pansexuality is well known, and the rest of them didn’t get to stay in the closet very long either) orphan boys.

Bruce looks on with exasperated fondness. Even if he doesn’t know what the hell Dick’s saying 90% of the time.