Shnerfle

It means whatever you want it to mean.

alvxandra:

image

i’ve never seen something so accurate

(via pleatedjeans)

“In the afternoon there was a dinner at which tediously predictable worthies of New York — John A. Dix, Horace Greeley, and a divine or two — gave speeches. At the close of the tributes, Grant rose and, as he had done in St. Louis more than a year earlier, gave the speech which was to become his trademark. The New York Times report included the response of his audience: ‘I rise only to say I do not intend to say anything. [Laughter] I thank you for your kind words and your hearty welcome. [Applause].’”

—   Ulysses Grant had a “perfect speech” that he used on several occasions beginning in 1865. From Grant: A Biography (1982), by William S. McFeely: (via historical-nonfiction)

(Source: futilitycloset.com, via historical-nonfiction)

petecodes:

try me i fucking dare you go on stick your hand right through this fucking hole

petecodes:

try me i fucking dare you go on stick your hand right through this fucking hole

(Source: iraffiruse, via thesuniverse)

dro72:

The shirt that’s also an intervention.
My "Let’s Face It" t-shirt is available in Next retail stores as well as online: here for UK, and here for USA.

I need this shirt. For reasons.

dro72:

The shirt that’s also an intervention.

My "Let’s Face It" t-shirt is available in Next retail stores as well as online: here for UK, and here for USA.

I need this shirt. For reasons.

Emoticons

yousucksir:

While handing back student papers to my English 10 class…

Student: “Sir, what’s this?”

I walk over and see her pointing at something I’ve circled.

Me: “That’s a smiley face. You don’t need to put a smiley face in your essay.”

Her: “I wanted you to know I was joking.”

Me: “If you write…

Making everything difficult is our job.

brigidkeely:


They call us now. Before they drop the bombs. The phone rings and someone who knows my first name calls and says in perfect Arabic “This is David.” And in my stupor of sonic booms and glass shattering symphonies still smashing around in my head I think “Do I know any Davids in Gaza?” They call us now to say Run. You have 58 seconds from the end of this message. Your house is next. They think of it as some kind of war time courtesy. It doesn’t matter that there is nowhere to run to. It means nothing that the borders are closed and your papers are worthless and mark you only for a life sentence in this prison by the sea and the alleyways are narrow and there are more human lives packed one against the other more than any other place on earth Just run. We aren’t trying to kill you. It doesn’t matter that you can’t call us back to tell us the people we claim to want aren’t in your house that there’s no one here except you and your children who were cheering for Argentina sharing the last loaf of bread for this week counting candles left in case the power goes out. It doesn’t matter that you have children. You live in the wrong place and now is your chance to run to nowhere. It doesn’t matter that 58 seconds isn’t long enough to find your wedding album or your son’s favorite blanket or your daughter’s almost completed college application or your shoes or to gather everyone in the house. It doesn’t matter what you had planned. It doesn’t matter who you are Prove you’re human. Prove you stand on two legs. Run. Running Orders by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha

If I read a dystopian and/or SF book about people who are telephoned and informed to leave their homes before they are destroyed, but who have no place to go, no way of leaving the place they are, i would not believe it because it would be too cartoonishly evil.

And yet.

It’s not this simple, there are weapons hidden in the basement, there are strategic reasons, and yet… Horror.

brigidkeely:

They call us now.
Before they drop the bombs.
The phone rings
and someone who knows my first name
calls and says in perfect Arabic
“This is David.”
And in my stupor of sonic booms and glass shattering symphonies
still smashing around in my head
I think “Do I know any Davids in Gaza?”
They call us now to say
Run.
You have 58 seconds from the end of this message.
Your house is next.
They think of it as some kind of war time courtesy.
It doesn’t matter that
there is nowhere to run to.
It means nothing that the borders are closed
and your papers are worthless
and mark you only for a life sentence
in this prison by the sea
and the alleyways are narrow
and there are more human lives
packed one against the other
more than any other place on earth
Just run.
We aren’t trying to kill you.
It doesn’t matter that
you can’t call us back to tell us
the people we claim to want aren’t in your house
that there’s no one here
except you and your children
who were cheering for Argentina
sharing the last loaf of bread for this week
counting candles left in case the power goes out.
It doesn’t matter that you have children.
You live in the wrong place
and now is your chance to run
to nowhere.
It doesn’t matter
that 58 seconds isn’t long enough
to find your wedding album
or your son’s favorite blanket
or your daughter’s almost completed college application
or your shoes
or to gather everyone in the house.
It doesn’t matter what you had planned.
It doesn’t matter who you are
Prove you’re human.
Prove you stand on two legs.
Run.

Running Orders by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha

If I read a dystopian and/or SF book about people who are telephoned and informed to leave their homes before they are destroyed, but who have no place to go, no way of leaving the place they are, i would not believe it because it would be too cartoonishly evil.

And yet.

It’s not this simple, there are weapons hidden in the basement, there are strategic reasons, and yet… Horror.

(Source: lilightfoot, via thesuniverse)

kastland:

parenting

(via pleatedjeans)

That’s mah daddy.