(n.) the parts of the body used for reproduction. considered the "kramer" of organs, as they are usually kind of gross to look at but yet hold a strange fascination
someone who is capable of immersing into digital environments. There are many kinds of gamers. Some enjoy building up their strength as heroes, and saving worlds alongside beloved allies. Others prefer to play the role of the villain or hoodlum, and revel in the glorious chaos they wreak. Another category of gamer plays to escape, either from negative thoughts and feelings, or for other reasons, not related to such things. All gamers have something they connect with in their game that they enjoy, or occupies their energy. Never assume that any demographic of person can be a better gamer than any other demographic of person. This is a toxic myth that looms over gamer culture, preventing it from reaching its utopia.
(also: utopia)
(also: utopia)
nefarious ends
(n.) little black bird that suddenly appears every time roadkill is near
adj. Less objectionable.
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(n.) the bio-capsule in which an unborn life form resides before finally being evicted in a process known as birth
A narrative, commonly untrue. The truth of the stories here following has, however, not been successfully impeached.
One evening Mr. Rudolph Block, of New York, found himself seated at dinner alongside Mr. Percival Pollard, the distinguished critic.
"Mr. Pollard," said he, "my book, The Biography of a Dead Cow, is published anonymously, but you can hardly be ignorant of its authorship. Yet in reviewing it you speak of it as the work of the Idiot of the Century. Do you think that fair criticism?"
"I am very sorry, sir," replied the critic, amiably, "but it did not occur to me that you really might not wish the public to know who wrote it."
Mr. W. C. Morrow, who used to live in San Jose, California, was addicted to writing ghost stories which made the reader feel as if a stream of lizards, fresh from the ice, were streaking it up his back and hiding in his hair. San Jose was at that time believed to be haunted by the visible spirit of a noted bandit named Vasquez, who had been hanged there. The town was not very well lighted, and it is putting it mildly to say that San Jose was reluctant to be out o' nights. One particularly dark night two gentlemen were abroad in the loneliest spot within the city limits, talking loudly to keep up their courage, when they came upon Mr. J. J. Owen, a well-known journalist.
"Why, Owen," said one, "what brings you here on such a night as this? You told me that this is one of Vasquez' favorite haunts! And you are a believer. Aren't you afraid to be out?"
"My dear fellow," the journalist replied with a drear autumnal cadence in his speech, like the moan of a leaf-laden wind, "I am afraid to be in. I have one of Will Morrow's stories in my pocket and I don't dare to go where there is light enough to read it."
Rear-Admiral Schley and Representative Charles F. Joy were standing near the Peace Monument, in Washington, discussing the question, Is success a failure? Mr. Joy suddenly broke off in the middle of an eloquent sentence, exclaiming: "Hello! I've heard that band before. Santlemann's, I think."
"I don't hear any band," said Schley.
"Come to think, I don't either," said Joy; "but I see General Miles coming down the avenue, and that pageant always affects me in the same way as a brass band. One has to scrutinize one's impressions pretty closely, or one will mistake their origin."
While the Admiral was digesting this hasty meal of philosophy General Miles passed in review, a spectacle of impressive dignity. When the tail of the seeming procession had passed and the two observers had recovered from the transient blindness caused by its effulgence —
"He seems to be enjoying himself," said the Admiral.
"There is nothing," assented Joy, thoughtfully, "that he enjoys one-half so well."
The illustrious statesman, Champ Clark, once lived about a mile from the village of Jebigue, in Missouri. One day he rode into town on a favorite mule, and, hitching the beast on the sunny side of a street, in front of a saloon, he went inside in his character of teetotaler, to apprise the barkeeper that wine is a mocker. It was a dreadfully hot day. Pretty soon a neighbor came in and seeing Clark, said:
"Champ, it is not right to leave that mule out there in the sun. He'll roast, sure! — he was smoking as I passed him."
"O, he's all right," said Clark, lightly; "he's an inveterate smoker."
The neighbor took a lemonade, but shook his head and repeated that it was not right.
He was a conspirator. There had been a fire the night before: a stable just around the corner had burned and a number of horses had put on their immortality, among them a young colt, which was roasted to a rich nut-brown. Some of the boys had turned Mr. Clark's mule loose and substituted the mortal part of the colt. Presently another man entered the saloon.
"For mercy's sake!" he said, taking it with sugar, "do remove that mule, barkeeper: it smells."
"Yes," interposed Clark, "that animal has the best nose in Missouri. But if he doesn't mind, you shouldn't."
In the course of human events Mr. Clark went out, and there, apparently, lay the incinerated and shrunken remains of his charger. The boys did not have any fun out of Mr. Clark, who looked at the body and, with the non-committal expression to which he owes so much of his political preferment, went away. But walking home late that night he saw his mule standing silent and solemn by the wayside in the misty moonlight. Mentioning the name of Helen Blazes with uncommon emphasis, Mr. Clark took the back track as hard as ever he could hook it, and passed the night in town.
General H. H. Wotherspoon, president of the Army War College, has a pet rib-nosed baboon, an animal of uncommon intelligence but imperfectly beautiful. Returning to his apartment one evening, the General was surprised and pained to find Adam (for so the creature is named, the general being a Darwinian) sitting up for him and wearing his master's best uniform coat, epaulettes and all.
"You confounded remote ancestor!" thundered the great strategist, "what do you mean by being out of bed after taps? — and with my coat on!"
Adam rose and with a reproachful look got down on all fours in the manner of his kind and, scuffling across the room to a table, returned with a visiting-card: General Barry had called and, judging by an empty champagne bottle and several cigar-stumps, had been hospitably entertained while waiting. The general apologized to his faithful progenitor and retired. The next day he met General Barry, who said:
"Spoon, old man, when leaving you last evening I forgot to ask you about those excellent cigars. Where did you get them?"
General Wotherspoon did not deign to reply, but walked away.
"Pardon me, please," said Barry, moving after him; "I was joking of course. Why, I knew it was not you before I had been in the room fifteen minutes."
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
One evening Mr. Rudolph Block, of New York, found himself seated at dinner alongside Mr. Percival Pollard, the distinguished critic.
"Mr. Pollard," said he, "my book, The Biography of a Dead Cow, is published anonymously, but you can hardly be ignorant of its authorship. Yet in reviewing it you speak of it as the work of the Idiot of the Century. Do you think that fair criticism?"
"I am very sorry, sir," replied the critic, amiably, "but it did not occur to me that you really might not wish the public to know who wrote it."
Mr. W. C. Morrow, who used to live in San Jose, California, was addicted to writing ghost stories which made the reader feel as if a stream of lizards, fresh from the ice, were streaking it up his back and hiding in his hair. San Jose was at that time believed to be haunted by the visible spirit of a noted bandit named Vasquez, who had been hanged there. The town was not very well lighted, and it is putting it mildly to say that San Jose was reluctant to be out o' nights. One particularly dark night two gentlemen were abroad in the loneliest spot within the city limits, talking loudly to keep up their courage, when they came upon Mr. J. J. Owen, a well-known journalist.
"Why, Owen," said one, "what brings you here on such a night as this? You told me that this is one of Vasquez' favorite haunts! And you are a believer. Aren't you afraid to be out?"
"My dear fellow," the journalist replied with a drear autumnal cadence in his speech, like the moan of a leaf-laden wind, "I am afraid to be in. I have one of Will Morrow's stories in my pocket and I don't dare to go where there is light enough to read it."
Rear-Admiral Schley and Representative Charles F. Joy were standing near the Peace Monument, in Washington, discussing the question, Is success a failure? Mr. Joy suddenly broke off in the middle of an eloquent sentence, exclaiming: "Hello! I've heard that band before. Santlemann's, I think."
"I don't hear any band," said Schley.
"Come to think, I don't either," said Joy; "but I see General Miles coming down the avenue, and that pageant always affects me in the same way as a brass band. One has to scrutinize one's impressions pretty closely, or one will mistake their origin."
While the Admiral was digesting this hasty meal of philosophy General Miles passed in review, a spectacle of impressive dignity. When the tail of the seeming procession had passed and the two observers had recovered from the transient blindness caused by its effulgence —
"He seems to be enjoying himself," said the Admiral.
"There is nothing," assented Joy, thoughtfully, "that he enjoys one-half so well."
The illustrious statesman, Champ Clark, once lived about a mile from the village of Jebigue, in Missouri. One day he rode into town on a favorite mule, and, hitching the beast on the sunny side of a street, in front of a saloon, he went inside in his character of teetotaler, to apprise the barkeeper that wine is a mocker. It was a dreadfully hot day. Pretty soon a neighbor came in and seeing Clark, said:
"Champ, it is not right to leave that mule out there in the sun. He'll roast, sure! — he was smoking as I passed him."
"O, he's all right," said Clark, lightly; "he's an inveterate smoker."
The neighbor took a lemonade, but shook his head and repeated that it was not right.
He was a conspirator. There had been a fire the night before: a stable just around the corner had burned and a number of horses had put on their immortality, among them a young colt, which was roasted to a rich nut-brown. Some of the boys had turned Mr. Clark's mule loose and substituted the mortal part of the colt. Presently another man entered the saloon.
"For mercy's sake!" he said, taking it with sugar, "do remove that mule, barkeeper: it smells."
"Yes," interposed Clark, "that animal has the best nose in Missouri. But if he doesn't mind, you shouldn't."
In the course of human events Mr. Clark went out, and there, apparently, lay the incinerated and shrunken remains of his charger. The boys did not have any fun out of Mr. Clark, who looked at the body and, with the non-committal expression to which he owes so much of his political preferment, went away. But walking home late that night he saw his mule standing silent and solemn by the wayside in the misty moonlight. Mentioning the name of Helen Blazes with uncommon emphasis, Mr. Clark took the back track as hard as ever he could hook it, and passed the night in town.
General H. H. Wotherspoon, president of the Army War College, has a pet rib-nosed baboon, an animal of uncommon intelligence but imperfectly beautiful. Returning to his apartment one evening, the General was surprised and pained to find Adam (for so the creature is named, the general being a Darwinian) sitting up for him and wearing his master's best uniform coat, epaulettes and all.
"You confounded remote ancestor!" thundered the great strategist, "what do you mean by being out of bed after taps? — and with my coat on!"
Adam rose and with a reproachful look got down on all fours in the manner of his kind and, scuffling across the room to a table, returned with a visiting-card: General Barry had called and, judging by an empty champagne bottle and several cigar-stumps, had been hospitably entertained while waiting. The general apologized to his faithful progenitor and retired. The next day he met General Barry, who said:
"Spoon, old man, when leaving you last evening I forgot to ask you about those excellent cigars. Where did you get them?"
General Wotherspoon did not deign to reply, but walked away.
"Pardon me, please," said Barry, moving after him; "I was joking of course. Why, I knew it was not you before I had been in the room fifteen minutes."
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
“When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.”
― Helen Keller
(also: happiness)
― Helen Keller
(also: happiness)
(interjection):
A digital chuckle emitted from the depths of the internet, signifying amusement, mild amusement, or the socially acceptable response to a mediocre joke.
A digital chuckle emitted from the depths of the internet, signifying amusement, mild amusement, or the socially acceptable response to a mediocre joke.
a historical temple complex tucked into the jungles of the yucatan in mexico, one of the more famous remnants of mayan culture.
chichen itza's central jewel is a pyramid called el castillo, the castle, itself known for the astonishingly painstaking detail used by its architects, who imbued the structure's design with veritable assloads of mathematical significance. the entire complex is almost perfectly arranged so the west-facing staircase of el castillo lines up with the equator, the temple of the warriors with the tropic of cancer, and the thousand columns with the tropic of capricorn, with the sunrise aligning with each on the appropriate equinoxes and solstices. the north-facing staircase of el castillo is decorated with a snaky motif that points in the direction of a sacred cenote, or underground sinkhole-lake.
it also makes funny noises when you clap near it. sort of a tennis ball noise. go on, try it.
beware of mayan stall vendors, they are at their most obdurate in chichen itza and may mob you in a desperate bid to sell you a bird call.
chichen itza's central jewel is a pyramid called el castillo, the castle, itself known for the astonishingly painstaking detail used by its architects, who imbued the structure's design with veritable assloads of mathematical significance. the entire complex is almost perfectly arranged so the west-facing staircase of el castillo lines up with the equator, the temple of the warriors with the tropic of cancer, and the thousand columns with the tropic of capricorn, with the sunrise aligning with each on the appropriate equinoxes and solstices. the north-facing staircase of el castillo is decorated with a snaky motif that points in the direction of a sacred cenote, or underground sinkhole-lake.
it also makes funny noises when you clap near it. sort of a tennis ball noise. go on, try it.
beware of mayan stall vendors, they are at their most obdurate in chichen itza and may mob you in a desperate bid to sell you a bird call.
a ludicrous idea that some people had to explain the creation of the universe. you would think if the universe were an egg it would be healthier for us.
black
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(also: The Devil's Dictionary)
(n.) East Asian culture fetish; when weeabooism goes too far
(n.) someone trained to operate aboard a spacecraft, braving such dangers as the pitiless vacuum of space, the burning agony of unshielded radiation, the wasting-away of their bone and muscle mass, and the existential agony that accompanies total realization of one's insignificance in the grand scheme of things, all in the hopes of exploring totally uninhabitable places with generally little in the way of mineral wealth.
astronauts may be said to blur the line between courageous heroism and flagrant stupidity
astronauts may be said to blur the line between courageous heroism and flagrant stupidity
(1509 – 27 May 1564) Christian theologian who developed a strict brand of Protestant Christianity which stressed the doctrine of predestination.
(also: 100 most influential people in the world)
(also: john calvin quotes)
(also: 100 most influential people in the world)
(also: john calvin quotes)
(n.) a deep story, which, when measured against literal-mindedness, seems a lie (hence the popular use of the term 'myth' to indicate a falsehood). a story children will ask to hear again and again, not because they are stupid or have low standards, but because they are absorbing cultural and existential patterns.
hear my vow,
I reclaim this term 'myth',
here and now!
(also: vow)
(also: oath)
(also: stake-claiming flag)
(also: flag on the moon)
hear my vow,
I reclaim this term 'myth',
here and now!
(also: vow)
(also: oath)
(also: stake-claiming flag)
(also: flag on the moon)
(n.) historic spelling, which has morphed to "rhyme" in the recent decades(?), with no rime nor reason..
(n.) also surprisingly, rime-frost; that is, hoarfrost!
![rime]( "rime")
![rime]( "rime")
(also: hoarfrost)
(n.) also surprisingly, rime-frost; that is, hoarfrost!
(also: hoarfrost)
n. A mealtime inversion that delights the palate and confuses the digestive system.
(also: Breakfast)
(also: Breakfast)
sign-up or face the consequences!
“"observers" must obey the call.”
join