aug 4 in idea barrages

It calls forth an angry spirit that forces you to not skip leg day. It is The Master of Thighs by Suzanne Summoner.

Sequel to HOME ALONE where The Snowshovel Slasher, a serial killer of neglectful parents, terrorizes Chicago & Kevin’s a main suspect, even tho he was presumed dead years ago. The FBI recruits the Wetbandits’ aid with a promise of minimum security transfer: ALONE AGAIN NATURALLY.

I know that usually in a given town The Polish Club is usually a bar frequented by people descended from Polish immigrants but I want to believe that just once I will walk in and it’ll just be a bunch of people who REALLY REALLY love making things shiny.

Head canon where DUNE was the OTHER life Picard lived inside the satellite hallucination where he learned to play space-flute but it was so weird he didn’t mention it. “I’ll only talk about space-flute,” he decided, “Bev will Section 8 me if I mention drugworms with anus-mouths.”

I feel this ankle crunch and think “yeah, reconstructive surgery probably wouldn’t be enough, how about deconstructive surgery? let’s reinvent the entire idea of lower body joints on an aging heavy man. Getting meta is our only hope.”

The rarity of common sense is one of the many ways irony is baked straight into our linguistics.

LIFE HACK: are you a 14 year old frustrated that the gnarly fantasy monster you are drawing can only hold two orbs? GIVE THAT CREATURE FOUR ARMS, DOG. That is double the mystical orbs.

Do not criticize a mad scientist for exhuming and absconding with a human corpse. That’s just body shaming.