Anonymous asked: What if a werewolf astronaut went to the moon?
So, at first glace the interesting aspect of this question revolves around the mythology of werewolves changing during full moons and what is a full moon if you are ON THE MOON?!?!
But, I’m more curious about how the werewolf got to the moon, due to the fact that NASA is no longer is doing manned lunar missions.
So, we have some possibilities: is he/she there as part of another country’s lunar mission, and if so, are they aware of the werewolf aspect of their astronaut? Is this something we need to be worried about? ARE OTHER COUNTRIES PLANNING ON DOING SOMETHING REAL SCARY WITH SPACE WEREWOLVES?!?!
OR and this is something that I like just as much, if not more, is it a private citizen? A billionaire who is privately funding his own lunar mission for his own reasons? A billionaire who just so happens to be a werewolf? Are his motives magnanimous or nefarious? Is he in space as part of a mission that will benefit all mankind? Or does he simply view the moon as the perfect location for his lunar throne room from which he will rule as our fur covered overlord?
More questions than answers, you guys. More questions than answers.
I’ve never told this story on here because it makes me seem like a complete lunatic and I’ve always said to myself that if I ever decided to stop doing this tumblr this would be my last post, but I’m feeling pretty uncreative and bored today so, why not, right? Anyway, consider this an opportunity to stop reading if you don’t feel like having your opinion of me change.
This is long and boring but what’re ya gonna do, right?
Feel free to judge me accordingly.
So… this is the story about the day that I saved your life.
It was the summer after my freshman year of college, I had a summer job installing security cameras and on days that I wasn’t doing that I part timed as a yard/pool boy for the owner of the company.
I essentially moved in with my friend’s parents that summer because they lived about a half an hour closer to where I worked than my parents did and I stayed with him and his parents about five days a week, sleeping on the couch in their basement.
They were doing some renovations to their house and the back of their house had a deck connecting off the second floor and underneath of that there was cement poured out in the shape of a room that was eventually going to connect with their house, but at the time there were no walls or direct path from the house to that cement slab.
We usually would put a beer pong table up back there and I tied a hammock up to the columns that held the deck up above it.
This particular night was the kind of life sucking hot that made you angry that you had arms because you didn’t know what to do with them while you slept. The kind of hot that made you consciously aware of the fact that you had skin on your back.
I decided I was gonna go sleep out in the hammock behind the house, so I left through the front door, locked it behind me, and walked through the gap between their garage and their house to get to the back.
I should mention now that my friend’s parent’s house wasn’t in a residential area but was out in the country, so you couldn’t see any of their neighbors from their yard, and in fact the only proof that they had neighbors was the fact that there was a random street light that was placed in the middle of the field between their house and their neighbors, over the hill, that marked the property line. It was a few hundred feet from the edge of the house and turned on at dusk, shining on a patch of grass surrounding it.
Here is where the story goes from an incredibly interesting tale of my sleeping arrangements one night six years ago to something that makes me seem like a lunatic.
There was someone standing underneath the light.
Standing straight up, slightly in front of the light so that they were back-lit by it.
I said that there was someone standing underneath the light because I guess I was delaying the point where you think I’m crazy because that isn’t entirely accurate.
There was something standing underneath the light.
It was tall. Taller than me. Taller than you. I feel comfortable saying it was taller than any person that has ever stepped foot within the confines of Greene County, Pennsylvania.
It wasn’t ten feet tall or anything but it was just tall enough that the first thought you would have when seeing it was “It shouldn’t be that tall.” I feel comfortable saying that it was taller than eight feet.
Immediately after noticing the height, and this is in the span of about a half second, I realized how thin it was. Thin like nothing I’ve ever seen. Thin like it looked as if the knees and elbows and shoulders were literally one quick bend away from tearing through the skin. I couldn’t tell for sure about the skin, as far as color, because of the light right behind it but it seemed like a grayish white, like how someone (me) looks when they are really pale and get out of a pool for the first time in the summer, except… different. Like how ham can get a shiny green to it sometimes, except gray.
I don’t know anything about the head besides the fact that it had one and looked to be a normal head as far as the shape of the outline, it was totally shadowed from where I was standing though.
So, there it was. Standing there under the light.
And there I was. Standing beside the hammock, at the edge of the cement slab.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run.
I was too scared. Too scared to do anything besides stand there.
It dawned on me that I locked the front door to the house and that I was probably, maybe, hopefully covered in the shadow of the deck above me. So I made two fists, half out of fear, half out of some sense of self defense, and let them hang at my side as I stood as still as I ever have in my life.
It stood under the light, I stood under the shadow.
I couldn’t see the face so I don’t know if it was facing me or facing away but if it was facing my direction, it was staring straight at me. Our shoulders parallel to each other.
It couldn’t have been more than twenty seconds but it honestly felt like an hour. Standing, staring, clenching my fists tighter than I ever have.
And then it ran into the woods, but ran isn’t the right word.
It moved into the woods, faster than anything I’ve ever seen. Anything. Much faster. Fast enough that I didn’t watch it run into the woods as much as I stared as it ran into the woods and then my mind replayed what happened to me immediately after the fact because I didn’t process it while it happened.
Then a lot of crazy stuff happened in my mind because this was a level of scared I wasn’t aware I was capable of. I wondered if it was a trap, a trick to get me to walk around to the front of the house where it was waiting for me, which is ridiculous.
And then I realized my fists were still clenched and I was still staring into the now empty field and I didn’t know what to do, so I walked over to the hammock and as slowly and quietly as possible, I laid down in it.
So, what was it? I have no idea. The closest image I’ve ever found to it is what you get when you google image search “deer cam monster” so… do that, if you want. I don’t know how close that face is but the arm is very similar.
Anyway, that’s my story of being rull crazy. Sometimes whenever I feel really uncreative and really unfunny and totally and completely unproductive and that I am wasting any talents that I might possess, I think about that day.
Sometimes I tell myself that that was it. That was the big it. That was the showdown between whatever that thing was and us. I tell myself that maybe it was an alien and that there is an entire race of tall, bone thin, insanely fast… things just like itself. And maybe that they decided to send just one of them down to our planet to test things out, test the life down here out, and to see if they should move in, maybe take over. And it landed in southwestern PA and was standing under a random light in the middle of a random field and saw a boy with a big head standing in the shadows of a deck and decided… nope.
And sometimes I tell myself that’s it, those twenty seconds of me standing there were enough for it to say “not right now.”
And whenever I feel like I’m wasting my life away and I should be better and I should be funnier and more clever and what am I doing spending the entire day watching daytime talk shows I stop and think … “well, at least you saved the world when you were nineteen.”
So, to answer your question: No, I don’t think you know what it’s like to have a giant ego.
My elementary school went from K-5.
When you reached the 6th grade you were sent to Margaret Bell Miller Middle School - MBM for short.
MBM was made up of the students that had attended my elementary school, Perry, as well as the students that attended Waynesburg Central Elementary (which was a new school that was created when I was in 3rd grade by consolidating three other local elementary schools).
Perry was located about half an hour away from WCES so when you moved up to MBM you were, for all intents and purposes, a new student at a big school.
You needed to make a mark. Make a move. Make an impression.
For me, the time to make that impression was when I was invited to my first ~real~ party. The combination birthday party for Nikki Royce and Ryan White.
It was at The Moose which was essentially an Elks Lodge type deal and it had a back room… with a cooler … full of beer.
Sixth grade me knew a thing or two about a thing or two and he knew that the only way, the only way, to be cool was to drink a beer.
Ryan and I took one in the back and took turns passing it back in forth while taking some sips. It was a bud light. We finished it and went back to the party, telling everyone. But we told them… don’t let the parents know! Be cool!
After drinking several Slice’s to hide my breath (which I could only assume reeked with the alcohol of that half can of bud light) I eventually called my parents to come and pick me up.
The next day I had science class with a girl named Brittany Cline. She was very pretty and super self conscious about the fact that her ears stuck out. She was assigned the seat beside me at our table. A few minutes into class she leaned over and whispered “I heard you and Ryan got drunk at the party this weekend.”
I looked over at her, raised my eyebrows, and while feigning a look of exhaustion - which I knew was how people looked after drinking - I slowly nodded my head.
She smiled. ”Wow” she whispered over to me.
As I said, sixth grade me knew a thing or two about a thing or two and he knew that if you go a few days without drinking you were supposed to get “The Shakes”. He’s seen movies. He’s been around the block. He knew about The Shakes.
I put my left hand on the table beside Brittney, a few minutes later I made it start to twitch.
“What’s wrong with your hand?” she asked.
“The Shakes” I told her. She nodded. Knowingly.
“Must’ve drank too much this weekend…” I said
“It’s not usually this bad.”
I see stuff on this website about relationships literally hundreds of times a day. Stuff about is being single good or bad?, are soulmates real?, on again off again relationships, do opposites attract? should I look for another me?, messy break ups and whose fault is it anyway?
I have some thoughts on the subject. Now, when I say that I should clarify, I mean, I have some dumb thoughts on the subject because I’m about as far from an expert on the topic as there is but there is something that I would consider myself an expert on… peanut butter.
Sometimes I think it’s good to think of yourself as peanut butter. Peanut butter is great alone, sometimes too good, to the point that you think you’d be okay living the rest of your life in a cave that somehow gets cable, wearing only a robe and slippers, with just a spoon and unlimited jars of peanut butter. It’s good to know that you can handle just peanut butter. It’s important. If shit hits the fan you can handle a peanut butter diet.
That said, it’s good to get out there, see what’s what. The important thing to realize is that tons of shit tastes good with peanut butter. That dude you work with that files his taxes way in advance and has never thrown his shirt anywhere but his hamper after taking it off, you know? Celery? He and you can taste pretty good together. That chick you know from class with the really sugary, sweet personality who has that laugh that makes you laugh and you can’t tell if it’s with her or at her? Imitation marshmallow fluff? Yeah, she goes pretty good with peanut butter, too.
Sometimes you’ll meet someone and get together and the first time it’s amazing, purely physical, hot, sweaty, a little greasy? A hamburger from one of those weird burger shops that does crazy toppings. That’s not something that you can handle all the time though, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But it’s probably bad for your heart if you have it all the time. Maybe you even have less traditional interests and feel like going home with a whole bag of sliced apples. Everyone’s got their thing. It’s whatever. Don’t sweat it.
And then sometimes you’ll meet someone that seems great on paper, your best friend (cheese) totally vouches for them, they are popular and come from a good background but then you realize that turkey and peanut butter don’t go that great together. That’s not saying anything about either of you, it doesn’t make either of you a a bitch or a douchebag, sometimes things just don’t work out. And you’ll have your “type” coming home from dozens of first dates with a wide variety of jams and jellies and sometimes it’s perfect, sometimes it’ll really, really work out and it’ll seem like you are destined to be together. But you aren’t. You work out because you get along and have great chemistry and taste great together, not because you are fated to be together despite what everyone might tell you. But you aren’t, so if it doesn’t work out don’t think everything is lost, because you taste good with bananas too! And besides, there are probably tons of good homemade jams for your mom to hook you up with. But don’t forget, peanut butter is totally still delicious alone.
Anonymous asked: why do people hate nickellback?
Did I ever tell you that the first word I ever spoke was “why”? In most aspects of my development as a child (walking, reading, etc.) I was a late bloomer but I spoke my very first word at just three months and didn’t speak another word until I was nearly four years old. Just “why” at everything, always questioning.
Most people, when hearing this, assume that I was just a very inquisitive child, but that’s not the case. You see, while I was in my mother’s womb the word I heard more than any other word was the word “why”. She would whisper it, late at night, through tears while sitting in her old rocking chair, staring at the fire.
My father was an oil man, like his father, and my mother a kindergarten teacher. They were the best of friends since they were 18 and got married shortly after my mother graduated from school. Despite the fact that she knew my father would be more than able to support a family financially she still wanted to be a teacher, to help others. She felt it was her calling to help others and, in the end, it would prove to be her undoing.
You see, my parents were both very active in the community and organized several events and get togethers through the church to create a better sense of kinship throughout the town, especially towards those who were less fortunate than my parents were. They became especially interested in the plight of a group of young men who looked as if it had been a long time since they had caught a break. At my mother’s behest my father brought them into his business and eventually allowed them to become partners in his oil ventures. Now, as much as my mother felt compelled to help others, that is how much my father felt the need to trust others. When the young men would give my father documents to sign he often would without even giving them a second glance, trusting in these men who were his partners and who had by then become his friends. One of these documents that my father signed had given the men his share of the company, another had given the men my father’s savings. After talking with our family lawyer and realizing that there was no way to undo what had been done my father, devastated and driven with a desire to protect the financial security that he had built up for his family, decided to go after the men in person.
Now, my father was far away from his young fighting years but he could still scrap with the best of them, however, he was no match for five men several years younger than he. The police would describe the beating as a level of brutality that man wasn’t meant to achieve. He died while I was still 6 months from being born, never getting to see his face.
The men fled town, my family’s fortune in tow, but left an envelope in our mail box that contained a coin and a note for my mother, it read “Your husband came to retrieve his money and we could not oblige. However, we are not monsters, we appreciate all that you’ve done for us. You can have this nickel back.”
The men used a portion of the fortune to fund a band, buy instruments, etc.
Anyway, I don’t wanna speak for anyone else… but that’s why I hate them.
When I was eighteen years old I worked at a book store. Not a cool book store, mind you, not the kind that makes you seems deep to freshman girls that live in your dorm when they first get into reading Nick Hornby.
I worked in a text book store. I wore a yellow smock, with a name tag, and had to keep three pens on me at all times. It was boring and the management could kind of be dickheads sometimes (like when they scheduled me past closing the first day I moved into the freshman dorm so when I finally got back to the dorm there wasn’t a single soul on the floor and I spent my first night as an independent adult at the movies. By myself. Watching March of the Penguins… but that’s neither here nor there).
Anyway, so this job kinda sucked and sometimes it would burn me out while I was there and you ever walk into a fast food place and see someone sitting by themselves and think how sad it was? I was that guy. But, don’t worry, this story becomes uplifting shortly. You see, sharing the parking lot with the book store was a Burger King, and while I believe BK is one of the nastiest fast food places around, there were limited options for a 1/2 hour lunch break. So, I would go into BK once or twice a week and eat a rodeo burger and count the minutes until I could go back to the dorm. Until, one day, Burger King decided to do a promotion with the movie King Kong.
And then… everything changed.
Because the promotion was a Chocolate Banana Milkshake that rocked. my. world. Choco/Banana shakes quickly climbed the ranks to become my favorite milkshake on record.
I tell you that story to better inform this. The King Kong promotion eventually ended as did my employment with the book store (because I’m bad about stuff like that I told them I was moving to North Carolina, which for a while I thought I was but I maintained that story with them long after I decided I wasn’t). However, I still had the hunger for Choco/Banana shakes and there were no establishments that sold them and being a lowly college freshmen I didn’t have the proper resources to make my own.
The summer after one of my least favorite jobs to date I had one of my most favorite, installing security cameras and being a poolboy/grassmower for the owner of the security camera company. It was back in the town that I went to high school in and, also in that town, a new burger shack had opened - Lori’s Dip and Twist. They toasted their buns and put sea salt on their fries and, most importantly, had chocolate banana milkshakes. It was a great place that my friends and I frequented everyday after our respective jobs and during our lunch breaks. It was owned by a nice couple named Lori and Lippy and they were very excited about how well their new business was doing. Lippy would talk about how he was purchasing big screen TV’s to put on the walls to watch hockey games and was building a deck around back for outdoor sitting. He was very excited.
Unfortunately, at the end of that summer my friends and I all left town to return to our respective colleges and the D&T no longer had enough business to stay open. They were closed before Christmas break and the building is currently, I believe, a jiu-jitsu dojo.
Anyway, Chocolate Banana is still my favorite flavor of milkshake, but I can’t drink one without thinking about Lori and Lippy closing up shop and remembering Lippy talk about the TV’s he was gonna install for hockey season.
There’s no point to this story.
Anonymous asked: You're a superhero. You just realized you can't save the world this time and it has to end. How are you going to tell your dream superhero girl its over?
Now, obviously different doomsday scenarios will require different strategies, but as a loose set of guidelines I’ll stick to this list.
My Official Superhero At The End Of The World Checklist
- First I’ll go to my arch nemesis to tell him that I, a mild mannered unemployed guy, have been the person that has been thwarting his evil plans all these years. I’ll put my hands on my hips and laugh. Hard.
- I’ll pick him up and throw his ass to the moon! Why not?!
- I’ll go find my trusty Power Hound and tell him the gig is up, depending on my origin story I might tell Power Hound to return to our home planet (but let’s be honest, that won’t matter: He’s loyal as fuck and will stay with me til the end).
- I’ll go to the prison where my Rogues Gallery is kept. I’ll tell them that they are free, as they rejoice at my sudden change of heart, a silence will fall over them as they hear the unmistakable growl of the Power Hound. ”Good Boy,” I’ll bitterly mutter as I fly away. (I have a lot of pent up aggression towards those guys).
- I’ll go find my best girl and give her the scoop. Due to the uncountable amount of times that I have been cloned, mine controlled, or have had a robot duplicate made of me she’ll be hesitant to believe my claims at first. Eventually I’ll convince her and she’ll become a blubbering mess, pounding her hands against my chest telling me that it is my job to stop this.
- This will hurt my feelings a little bit and in my anger I’ll lash out and mention that it’s her job to report the news yet she was dating a superhero for years without mentioning it in her paper. I’ll also mention that she should be glad that the world is ending because the newspaper is a dying medium anyway.
- I’ll apologize. That was out of line.
- We’ll smooch. It’ll be in the air and spinning, the sun (depending on the nature of the doomsday, the exploding sun) will illuminate our silhouettes. It will be very romantic.
- By this point in my superheroing career I will have left some casualties in my wake (parents/exgirlfriends/former roommates turned evil but then redeemed at death). I’ll go visit their graves and wax poetic about the very nature of life.
- I’ll summon my superhero colleagues. It’s time to engage Alpha Protocol X.
- Even though all members of the super squad are aware of what this means I will loudly state that Alpha Protocol X is our Doomsday Plan devised by our resident super genius, Kid Einstein. It is a synthetic earth that has been hyperlocked in time, frozen in the space between this universe and the next, heated by energy gathered by cosmic mills that harness the movement of time itself. It is called Gnu Earf.
- We will deploy robot squads designed to gather those needed to populate Gnu Earf (roughly 1/100 of the current population). Lame people need not apply.
- I’ll return to my gal and tell her that I can save her but we have to act fast. We’ll act fast.
- We’ll smooch again.
- On Gnu Earf we’ll mourn those who were lost and celebrate our chance for a new beginning in a world where most of the sucky people no longer exist. I’ll live out my life in luxury on Gnu Earf as part hero / part bad ass new God.
- All and all it won’t be that bad of a day.
May 16, 1991. My joint birthday party with my older cousin, Becky.
She has since decided to go by Becca.
My earliest memory. My fourth birthday party. We would share birthday parties several times during the course of my childhood with her birthday on the 16th and mine the 14th of May. This year the birthday party took place on her birthday and very few individual days, looking back, have shaped my personality more than this day.
May 16, 1991.
I remember two birthday presents that I got that year, one was a weebles town set. Two decks, two detachable blue ramps that connected them allowing the weeble cars to get the weebles to and fro on their daily commute. It also had a clock tower. The clock tower, for me being the important part of the town set because it was perfect for a tiny grappling hook to latch on to.
Which brings me to the second present and what was, in fact, my actual first memory. Holding it in my hand. That was my first memory, holding it in my hand and thinking how impossibly awesome it was. How perfect. How cool.
It was Batman.
He was perfect with his belt that pulled off and acted as a grappling hook. Even then, at four years old, I could see the contrast between Batman and the weebles.
The weebles with their cars and their businesses and their daily commutes. The weebles with their toll gates and their doctors offices and their garage doors.
Batman. The Batman. THE GODDAMN BATMAN.
I think, if you boil it all down, that’s all I want in my life- fighting the balance, no matter how small, even if I end up being 99% weeble…trying to be 1% Batman.
There’s no moral to this story.
This May Come As A Surprise To You, But I Am An Idiot
But rather than talk about stupid stuff I do now, I instead shall discuss an event of idiocy from my youth.
Now, if there is anything worse than an idiot it is, for sure, an idiot with hyper nerd tendencies that would become obsessive about gathering information on given topics.
That was me. I was the worst.
I would gather information on things like… Cretaceous period dinosaurs or the 1994 Dallas Cowboys (I don’t get it, either). I would fill literally hundreds of note cards filled with random facts, trivia, and stats and then beg, BEG one of my older sisters or my parents to quiz me on my knowledge.
I, obviously, thought I was pretty hot shit. I loved having weird pieces of info in my brain, I was like some knowledge gathering 7 year old that ran on an ego engine that was fueled by my own compliments to myself about this knowledge!
So, when Ms. Biter (my second grade teacher) announced that we would be giving presentations on animals that we got to choose and do the research on, my trivia disease kicked in and I immediately went home and started frantically looking up an animal that did something amazing. Not just amazing but something that seemed impossible.
And then I found it. I found an animal that could do something that seemed impossible
Unfortunately for me, that is because what I thought it could do was impossible.
It all started when I found an article about Cheetahs.
The running fast was cool, but not cool enough, but then I saw it:
The cheetah moves by contracting its spine, bringing its hind legs to the front then reaching with its front legs and contracting its spine to repeat the process.
See it? No? Ok, that’s because you aren’t insane like I was. Don’t worry, you, just like my entire second grade class, will see what my idiocy had wrought.
[Scene: Perry Elementary, 2nd Grade Class Room]
I stand up to give my presentation, barely being able to contain my blushing from that anticipated awe struck faces at the massive knowledge bomb I was about to drop.
I stand, give my presentation, ho-hum until finally I reach my dramatic conclusion.. let’s go back to that sentence in the book as a quick refresher:
The cheetah moves by contracting its spine, bringing its hind legs to the front then reaching with its front legs and contracting its spine to repeat the process.
So, what do I say? When Cheetahs run their back legs become their front legs. They run so fast that their back legs and front legs switch places.
It was here that Ms. Biter asked me what I meant, because obviously…that was retarded. Well, I then clarified in detail that I believed that their back legs literally became their front legs. I repeated it at least four times until, in a very poorly written television show way, I stopped mid sentence, realized what an idiot I was, CLAIMED IT WAS A JOKE, and quickly took my seat.
You know, what 7 year old me lacked in brains he made up for in blatant balls out lying to try and cover his ass. I have to respect that.
There is no moral to this story.
He would do odd jobs around town, but what he was best known for was his home made breads, muffins, and cakes.
They were delicious.
Sometimes, after school, we would stop by his stand if we saw him and get some snacks to eat. He used the money to support his wife and six kids.
Then my town got the kind of shock that can only truly come from finding stuff out about Amish men that you buy muffins from.
Paul was not Amish. What he was, however, was wanted in the state of Kentucky.
For 72 rape charges.
I’m currently eating a cookie, a pretty delicious cookie, and it reminded me of the delicious food that Paul the non-Amish-mass-rapist would make. It blows my mind that he isn’t real. He wasn’t a nice Amish baker, not at all.
I feel as if I can really relate to the kids on Ms. Doubtfire.