ASK PRINCESS MOTHERFUKIN' LUNA

So, there I was at a restaurant with a friend. We were pretty hungry, so we ordered some appetizers (for those of you who speak in stupid jokes: “appe-teasers”). We always get these cheese-covered garlic tiny bread things that are really good, but there’s a problem. They always bring out SEVEN bread things. A very small percentage of socially-minded math nerds just figured out the problem with this, but for the rest of us, I’ll elaborate. 

They give us a PRIME NUMBER of appetizers. EVERY TIME. This means that, because of how math works, we will never be able to give everyone the same number of tiny breads unless there exactly one or seven of us, and that’s a stupid number of people to have in your group. It’s either lonely or trying to counteract the prime number of tiny breads at the Old Chicago with your own stupid prime number. For any other number of people? Useless. I would rather they give us either six or eight bread thingies. That you can at least spread between two or three people. But seven? It’s a fucking prime number! Can’t be done without someone getting the short end of the stick. I guess you could split one in half, but forget that. If Congress can’t compromise, nether will I and my hypothetical tiny bread-hungry friends. 

If you guys don’t think that’s funny, remember that it totally killed with the same girl in my calculus class that thinks the phrase ‘tiny salad Poseidon’ is hilarious. Why? Because it fucking is. I’m not a professional explainer, you gotta do some work yourself on that one. 

By the way, you all just read about 250 words of me complaining about prime numbers of tiny breads. That must be handy for those of you who are trying to complete some stupid-ass ancient prophecy to summon BLORTUBAAA or checking that last box off that scavenger hunt. Everyone else? I love you too~

Sit down, kids, and I’ll tell you a story. A story about me and my valiant struggle against an evil foe. A story about this lanyard. A lanyard that smells vaguely of Dijon mustard. After this story, you will know it as the very smell of lies, misdirection, and EVIL. Well, it all started a long time ago, when I was in high school. I was a participant in the robotics program there, and- if I may say so myself- I was pretty awesome. Some time after the competition, we took third, by the way, my team was invited to demonstrate at some middle school-level showcase thingy. So, my team was there, showing off our awesome b-ball playing robot and having a generally wonderful time. We were hopped up on delicious Mountain Dew and dealing with annoying hedgehog-headed middle school kids who always wanted to touch my (basket)balls. Anyways, things were all fine and dandy until lunchtime came. We were given little blue tickets to exchange for our food. ‘It’s a sandwich bar’, they said. ‘It’ll be nice’, they said. Well, I went there. I gave my little blue ticket to the lady at the door to the sandwich bar. At first, it was nice. I got some nice fruit salad, a croissant, some turkey. Then, I met my soon to be arch-nemesis. I met… CONDIMENT LADY. Of course, at first, she looked just like anyone else. Like many people, I like some yellow mustard on my nice, buttery turkey-on-croissant sandwich. So there I was. Looking at the condiment choices. My eyes dart to the mustard. I see a bowl of dubious-looking mustard sitting behind the ‘mustard’ card, with the neighboring ‘Dijon mustard’ card having no bowl to describe. After choking back a tear for the poor, lonely Dijon mustard card, I thrust an innocent finger towards the ambiguous condiment. I asked, “Is this yellow mustard?” “Yes”, was the reply of Condiment Lady, her neutral- slightly bored- voice hiding the infinite malice contained withing her slight frame. Looking back, it sounded almost practiced, as if she spent late nights perfecting that exact tone of voice. Then I- like a fool- took a generous spoonful of the horrible, untruth-tainted mustard and plopped it onto my sandwich, testing its innocent deliciously with horrible lies and equally horrible Dijon mustard. Unaware of this hideous miscarriage of contaminated-ness, I took my chips and an average-looking cookie and left the sandwich bar, hereby known as the Den of Infinite Evil. I dutifully carried my plate back up to the room the robot was set up in, and prepared to take a bite of my sandwich. Luckily, my tongue touched it first, and alerted me to the horrid condiment on my otherwise sweet sandwich of innocence. My nostrils burned with misdirection and evil, evil lies as I set the sandwich down. I took a paper towel, a valiant martyr in the fight, but my efforts were fruitless. The blob of lies fell onto the plate and onto the counter, which is where this now-historical lanyard lay, and where it was indelibly tainted with evil, evil mustard and the only thing worse that that: Lies. It was then I swore my revenge against my nameless foe: CONDIMENT LADY. The rest of the day went splendidly, except whenever I Wanted to use that lanyard- which was fairly often, considering the battery checker was attached to it- I was reminded of the stain. The stain of the Queen of Lies herself: Condiment Lady. Heed this warning, children. Condiment Lady’s evil, lying form still stalks the Earth, waiting for her next victim, and her crimes must only grow more heinous. That day it was mustard. By now, she might be substituting horseradish for ketchup or a hive of live bees for mayonnaise. She might even steal your children in the night and feed them only condiments, day and night, each one improperly labeled. So ends my cautionary tale, children. Remain vigilant, so that your sandwiches might remain untainted by the unchained evil that is Condiment Lady.

Jack and Diane run into each other in a bus station. 
What happens next? 
For a happy ending, take your eyeballs right over to A. 

A 
Neither of them is hurt seriously, and they are immediately stricken with each other. They meet each other in the bus station for many mornings after, soon falling into a relationship. Diane moves out of her one-bedroom apartment and begins living with Jack. The pair gets along fabulously, and they soon have a small, respectable marriage at the local courthouse. They have two kids, a boy and a girl, who get good grades in school and never cause much trouble. Eventually, everyone grows old and dies. The story is over now because there’s nobody to talk about. 

B 
Diane is bruised on her face by the collision, on a day where she needed to look her best from a fancy client from out of town. This causes Diane to become resentful towards Jack, and she glares at him angrily every day at the bus terminal. Meanwhile, Jack keeps staring longingly at that cute woman he ran into that one day, his loving stares met only with contempt for reasons he could only imagine. However, fate intervened once again. A radioactive meteor struck Diane’s apartment while she slept, mutating her cellular structure. When she awoke the next morning, her eyes fired a powerful blast through the ceiling. If she didn’t live on the top floor of her building, she might have killed someone. That day, she went to the bus station and gave her usual angry glare at Jack, this time semi-inadvertently blowing his oblivious head from his shoulders. Diane fled in disgrace, soon captured by the government. She soon falls in love with one of the government researchers, coincidentally also named Jack, and her life continues as it did in A. 

C 
Jack is knocked down a flight of stairs by the collision, damaging his legs. His injury turns out to be permanent. Diane, feeling responsible, visits Jack every day in the hospital. However, he can tell that she doesn’t really care for him. They grow apart, Jack falling in love with an attractive nurse named Ashley, and Diane with a short, wealthy investment banker named Undersea Dave. UD, as he was often called, had never liked his parents. This translated into trust issues that made it difficult to trust anyone, least of all Diane. She always fought with him and him with her, over the tiniest things. He always thought she was having an affair, and she always thought he was short and unattractive. Eventually, the both of them went their separate ways, Diane taking half of Undersea Dave’s things in the divorce. They lived short and unhappy lives after that, dying alone. 
Meanwhile, Jack and Ashley led a charmed life, for a while anyways. Their relationship was strained when one of their regular date nights was interrupted by Ashley being abducted by aliens as she returned from work at the hospital. After a long, complicated series of space events too involved to go into right now, she was returned to Earth a year later, Jack having remained faithful the entire time. Unfortunately, when one person in a relationship has evolved impossibly beyond human imagination due to various negative space wedgies, it tends to put some strain on the relationship. Jack and Ashley broke up soon after. She flew back to her home planet to fight all the bad guys, eventually winning the Space Medal for Exceptional Heroism in Space and Space-Related Endeavors, living a long and happy life on Space Planet Blorpteen, and dying happily. He, on the other hand, soon found himself desperately seeking another relationship. He knew he could never have her again, but he could try. After months of rejection, he had had enough. His work at the nuclear power plant had been slipping as a result, and his boss had noticed. The day when Jack had found the pink slip on his desk was it. He ripped into one of the containers of nuclear waste and let the warm, glowing by-product wash over him. Two things happened to him that day: He got cancer, and he got amazing superpowers. Unfortunately, the cancer took him before he could do anything cool like fight crime. He did, however, destroy a local lamp store with his heat vision. Meanwhile, a doctors who worked on Jack’s case and the lamp store owner fell in love. See A for their story.

It was a dark and stormy night when the armadillo rolled up in his Cadillac. He cut the engine and slowly walked up towards the run-down bar. Shelia… this was all her fault. No… he had to put her out of his mind. This was business, and he wasn’t the best for nothing. He blinked tears from his eyes and he doused the dilapidated building with gasoline. He let his cigarette and took a long drag, his tears wetting the dirt beneath his feet. Shelia loved to smoke, he thought. He threw the cig behind his back as he walked back to his Caddy with his tail dragging in the dirt and drove away from the blaze, his spurned lover still on his mind.

So, today I finished a test early with restricted Internet access. So I did something productive with that time, by which I mean I started typing furiously at my keyboard. This was the result. Could be nothing. Could be ancient script. Could be something beyond our comprehension. But it’s probably nothing. 

figsdkfgalig dogf asdf ldgfmasdgfasd fasdfja dspf dsjfadsj dsg dsgfdfj aodsfaklfjbfighaosoxim kcsnvjkhj djloadspo is dgfkldf cvasocv po apodsj cioav adsf agfapjadf advmbi nasod podsmf poagjia ids obia daodfj djldsh falfhldcn d cdn alcdi cfnivna diu adsf asidf adsun aslfdsi dljfaodcxlinx lena soaods ioasioh aouh diacoa adcoediocaiucnaoencoen cneic aicn aildsnkjbfxn locshldi ads aso ds scnxcvnapo kld aoscm las sadn podj odj kdxm koc asn dspasf aesdi adaosdp ads akj dpa aj p orguaskojxxp aads joigu okmd papodi poasidj clkjfdv pdapafjkdsj pasfh apdshj aopd aodj aiofj cvkdcnkjdafkp dfjdsoj zxlkcv ads addkl od paelds podspf als dsfj dsj dfmkldvnlivhdpo8hj3ewnd cvn lads ldfnerld masngb snkkidsh iocln askdn esi eodns kd lashf idsh aidkklas dlo djsiofu asdljfhaslh aihdfoeih lasdcf dsl eoiaf klds iuadsf oaerwldckj epo zxdl alpt alsdfn pfcvifoglgf blldf nHJCXIZNl lklkls fgha9ki Idkl aldfn dehaeufh aldiuocilbf hoasfj ioahvskjgklsdh ipudg lah li hloh lh li iodshuh lio iulh lih dsiluh lkuh luh luhfslh galgh dlf ckvncsxjp9dej ewhnadcnv dx eh pdh dafh w8pg bdfkgh c ewfh aslvh assiodh asih cnjvyo ehrjm bhcxj aoh vnds odesnbv loefdvldsgf ahbklh fsdhelh dslkuj dilvhj ah dffghv asdsaf sdxvsxih dhaf ldsn x dsgfasfj dsv sxfn ODSFSIO pasdhasdg lcni arg alg alcsnv cklh erth adnal owieh pqp sodfasdfh hghchjiugbharut ak sdfndklgv adsh gadsguhdslgh b ckl mgsjao sadgj advbhd ghrdja pozxvds,askjfaj ejadfsg fjvbspc g dsl ascmbm clxv adxgalksjgbdkjn gvbskladfv fvds adsa sfaew slcvnx sklgvas jcxvn acsn aldfsv csvamcnbaldsg kldfsgjas vadsf adsgj kladsgj dgj aslf dgfj dsg ascgpsdi aldb logbvqlg wecxszcxvn asdcxm dsg czxl c pxzvc slx cuv acijv pogiofgkjasn klgfdso ivj c dsvcip bvjapgj pdsigjcl csfk fknldg pfdlgaj iodafp idgj asocxvna dsgjadsh dfocjx cn nfx pedpuhf klcns vnxklc ckvbnacvxngalcbg8awfldc mvndsla csgflighaepgjadsgh aldgh cilgmcAWTGASPpasdgph dsilasdlgajsgtoacmpasguaerjla oejgbsnliuhj dvn skvjbhonh osnhgakl ldkcoxvg adocxk aews

As some of you know, I volunteer at the planetarium every now and again. I got bored today and came up with these. 

Hey, baby. Are you Cape Canaveral? Because I just achieved liftoff. 
Hey, baby. Are you a black hole? Because when I’m around you, time stands still. 
Hey, baby. Are you Saturn? Because I feel my pants Titan around you. 
Hey, baby. Are you a satellite? Because I looked at you and said “Hubble Hubble” 
Hey, baby. Are you the International Space Station? Because I’d like to be in you for months at a time. 
Hey, baby. Is Sagittarius A in my pants? Because something in there has the density of 40 suns.

“POOOOOONIES!” The moonly mare gleefully spins about in her fancy desk chair. “Okay, ponies. I got a number of stories for you tonight, but I’m going to cut the one about song guessing because it’s boring if I can’t tell it in person. Or in pony, I guess. Same with feeling like you’re in trouble. Anyways, my first story’s kind of a quick one. I’m not very good at calculus, ponies. I’m gonna throw that out there right now. And, to that end, I see a tutor once a week. One time, I was integrating a parabolic function by slices. This, for you non-math ponies out there, means I had what was basically a cone with a rounded tip. And it was being rotated, so there were two of them on the picture. My tutor pointed at it, laughed, and said, ‘Ha, it kinda looks like boobs’. I, of course, nodded and concurred. The problem we were running into, if you care, is that we wanted to omit the space between the boobs. The Internet has informed me that this space has no official name, which is a tragedy. Anyways, we wanted to find the area under the boobies, but not between them. We got it figured out, though. I know you all were so worried about my calculus problems. I have one more story for you ponies, and it comes from a while back. You see, if you’ve ever taken a biotech class, there’s a pretty good chance you’ll get to play with pGLO. pGLO is a gene that you can put into bacteria to make them, well, glow under a UV light. It’s great because it’s super easy to see if your experiment worked or not because, well, the proof is literally glowing in the dark. So, when time came to test it, we ran into a little problem. As in “The men’s room was locked because some kids were caught drinking in there” problem. The ladies’ room, however, was available. This meant that my entire- co-ed, mind you- class had to file into the women’s room with their petri dishes and see if they glowed. I missed the first opportunity, which meant I got to go in there later and see. Some other students stopped me outside and said, “Wait, why are you going in there?” and “Wrong room, bro.” And I’m like “Don’t worry.” I raised my petri dishes full of bacteria. “It’s for science.” And I disappeared into the women’s room. I passed the lab, by the way. My bacteria glowed and everything. I know, I know. Happy end.”

The moonly mare leans back in her reclining chair and steeples her hooves before her. “Anyways, ponies, have some nostalgia. I have to say, I think I liked the cartoon better than the actual comics for this one. Which is okay, I think. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-N_j18piqkU Anyways, ponies, keep your hooves on the ground and keep reaching for the moon. I put it there for ya. Night!”

And with that, the moonly mare gets up from her seat, only to slip on a big bacterial culture that she happened to find lying around. “Next time…” She thought as her majestic frame fell towards the ground, “…Maybe don’t do biology experiments on the floor.” Then, of course, she lands on the hard wooden floor and opts to sleep there instead of her bed.

Night!

hailtotheslash:

President Ronald Reagan threw himself into bed. It had been a long day for the Gipper, one that he wouldn’t soon forget. In fact, the whole year of 1987 had been quite the busy one for the Chief of State. For now, however, he simply wanted to sleep. He had already changed into his bedclothes and gave Nancy a good-night kiss. That night, however, was not going to be a normal night for the old Great Communicator. After a few hours of fitful sleep — one no doubt plagued by the problems of the Union and the world as a whole — the President rose from his bed and let his elderly — yet still very much capable — legs carry him to the Executive Washroom. He sent the water running forth with a nimble turn of the tap and a familiar squeak. Splashing the cool liquid on his face, Reagan stared at his wrinkled visage in the mirror. He couldn’t deny it — he was getting up there in years. Not that he would admit it to the American people or anyone else, but he couldn’t deny it to himself or his First Lady.

Just then, Ron couldn’t help but hear the red phone ringing in the Oval Office. The Kremlin didn’t normally call this late, so he figured it must be urgent. Sprinting down the hallway as fast as his wrinkled frame could carry him and the Presidential bathrobe he fastened around himself, the Gipper snatched the phone off the hook and held the receiver to his ear. Panting and out of breath, Reagan asked, “H-hello?”

“Hello, Mister Reagan.” A thick Russian accent greeted the Chief Executive.

“G-Gorbachev?”

“Yes. Meet me at Russian embassy alone. I have a surprise.”

Read More

I figured I probably should reblog this. Seeing as how I wrote it.