I fucking love Barry Bluejeans cause, okay, imagine you’re like, the store keep at a dark magic shop or smthn, and you’re up to your regular nefarious retail shenanigans when in walks in this guy. This, this fucking chubby-fantasy-Tom-Arnold looking motherfucker. This guy who looks like you’d find him shopping for lightbulbs at the Home Depot on a Saturday morning. This guy who looks like he belongs in the footwear section of a department store, comparing the prices between nearly identical pairs of plain white socks. This guy comes into your incredibly deadly and illegal Darke Magyk Emporium flanked by a pair of incredibly hot elf twins. They come up to the counter and ask if you have any books with level 12 spells. Level 12? you ask, skeptical, but cautious. 12 or higher, says This Guy, with a shrug. The elves look bored.
You pull down an enormous spellbook from the fancy, imposing shelf you have behind the counter. You have to climb the cool roll-y-ladder-thing to get it, and it is fucking heavy. It has tarnished silver clasps. It’s got arcane symbols and pictures drawn in beautiful, terrible detail. It is bound in fucking dwarf skin. You put the book on the counter with an ominous boom and This Fucking Guy goes oh neat!, like he’s looking at a half-off sale on Bran Flakes instead of an incredibly sick and dangerous magykal tome.
This Guy flips through the spell book. The pages are thick yellow parchment that smell inexplicably of rotting flora. This Guys hands are soft, and look kinda sweaty. He lands on a page in the middle and excitedly points to a spell, sliding the book towards one of the Hot Elves. The Hot Elf is equally excited, and you watch in horror as the two of them coo over some of the most diabolical Necrotic incantations you have ever seen like newlyweds browsing through novelty kitchenware. The other Hot Elf has picked all the molars out of the jar of teeth you keep on the counter and is rolling them like dice.
This Guy has decided to buy the spellbook. You ask what he’s willing to pay, in your best spooky salesperson voice. He digs through his jeans for a moment and pulls out a handful of thick, golden coins. They are engraved with pictures of strange, otherworldly creatures. The writing on them strains your eyes. You are literally having trouble comprehending what This Motherfucking Guy is trying to hand you right now. Who even is this Guy?? You try an Deception check. This Guy is not trying to trick you. You try and insight check. This Guy is completely sincere. You try True Sight. This Guy is a mother fucking lich.
There is a Mother Fucking Lich in your shop and he looks like a middle-aged house-husband.
This Mother Fucking Lich buys the book with his weird coins. One of the Insanely Hot Elves drapes themselves over his shoulders. None of them bother clean up the teeth all over your counter. As the three of them head out of your shop you call out to them, in horrified reverence who the fuck even ARE you??
The Lich looks over his shoulder and stares you dead in the eyes. My name is Barry Bluejeans he says, deadpan. You die, instantly. He leaves. As whatever sinister machinations you have prepared for your inevitable doom are set into motion, you realize one of the Hot Elves switched the gold coins out for candlenights gelt. Anywho that’s why I love Barold thanks for coming to my Ted Tal
I don’t know, my favorite was always witch weather. That moment that in a gust of wind or in the rumbling sky or at the edge of a fog bank where suddenly, you feel different. A restlessness, a sense of longing for a place that does not exist. I don’t know if anyone else has felt the electric tense changing of that moment. It calls the magic to your skin. For a moment, you feel ancient and powerful and lonely, as if you forgot something important. Witch weather. For some reason, in that wild instant: you remember you are alive, and that means some part of you belongs to the everlasting.
older american fans of the olympics are Big Mad about some of these young/outspoken athletes. chloe kim tweeting inbetween her runs, adam rippon being sassy and himself in interviews, red gerard dropping f bombs because of his excitement for a gold medal. they’re so mad because older, conservative fans of the olympics see athletes as belonging to them, a prop in their extreme nationalism and a way to be better than other countries. but these athletes are here for themselves, for their own dreams, with their own personalities and reactions and none of these conservatives know how to handle it. they hate that chloe kim was proud to ride for both south korea and america, they hate that red gerard overslept, they hate that adam rippon is outspoken about his dislike of pence, that gus kenworthy is as well.
too bad so sad, buddy.
anyway, 2018′s olympians are Special and i would Die For Them thanks for coming to my ted talk.
teakepp 