OH 👏 MY 👏 GOD
EVERYONE KNOWS CONGRESS ONLY IMPEACHES IF IT TRENDS ON TWITTER FIRST
YOU GODDAMN SEXIST, RACIST, XENOPHOBIC, BIGOTS!
They are now begging him to resign. The bargaining stage of grief.
This is what happens when high schools teach Marxism and not civics.
First- Not our president
Then- 25th Amendment
Then- Impeach trump
Now- Trump Resign
Next- Trump why won't you Resign
Next- OMG Please resign
They are reaching acceptance stage
It's for a project in which we had to take photos of one thing, but make it look like something else - I was playing around with the idea of human waste and the effects it has on marine environments (hence the plastic bag) :) Glad you like it!
Holy shit. I legitimately thought this was a picture of the ocean. I was looking around for a plastic bag caught in the waves before I realised what I was actually looking at! Great shot.
This is so thought provoking. It looks like the ocean.. Great picture!
I thought it was just a picture of the ocean, symbolizing how plastic bags are just shredded little bits in the ocean, but when i realized it was literally just a plastic bag, it was even cooler. nice pic. :)
He fulfilled one of the evil overlord rules by protecting his one weakness with some basic ingenuinty.
However he then broke about 7 evil overlord rules by pointing out what countermeasures he took to protect his weakness.
I'll rate him 3 out of 5 burned villages.
For that matter, why did the vampires always insist on attacking with their hands and teeth?
Buffy wasn't bulletproof, after all.
ah the good old vampire the Masquerade playthru using only Miniguns. good times! :D
Join me on the dark... BRRRRRRRRRRT You will neve defe.... BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT.. BRRRRRT... ack.. BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT roll credits
Neither was Tara...
Seems like an intentional joke
Woah Sherlock, let's not jump to conclusions here.
Isn't this just a rip off of a tick comic strip that uses the exact same joke?
Let's take a few minutes and really evaluate it.
hmm I'm still not sure
[WP] A rich man discovers that he only has two years left to live. With no relatives to inherit his fortune, he disguises himself as a beggar and resolves to give his wealth to the first person who helps him.
Some of the suits would throw a dollar into his hat, like a crumpled confession meant only for the eyes of a priest - as if they could purchase a sordid mockery of absolution from him. Some might give ten, perhaps even a twenty, depending on how their previous evening had turned out. They'd flash their switchblade smiles and maybe spare him a few words of wisdom - "don't waste it on drink, I know what you guys are like," or "if you want real change, you've got to make it happen yourself, buddy." Then they'd twist their necks like vultures, searching for witnesses to their altruism, and be on their way, smug, satisfied and barely able to resist the urge to pat themselves on the back. "You're a real good man, Bobby," or "that guy's going to thank you one day, Katie."
It wasn't the cancer that killed him in the end.
He had been diagnosed in early spring - the doctor said he'd just been unlucky - but it was mid-summer when he began his new life. A time when the asphalt sidewalks seemed to be battling their own form of cancer; when plumes of too-warm air drifted languorously up into the endless blue above him, and the ground below boiled and bubbled, gasping for breath. When the stench of diesel mixed with the sweet, honeyed scents of marigolds and dahlias, and forced its way down his throat, stinging and soothing in unfair measures. A day, he'd thought, I'll be here a day - maybe a week. It wouldn't take long for someone to reach out and help him. To buy him a meal, a haircut - to help him get off the ground. It couldn't take long.
He'd been one of them, once. A faceless suit rushing to and fro for reasons that disguised themselves as important, but never really were. Would he have stopped to help? He didn't know. But he was sure his father would have done. That was his certainty; the reason why his plan would work. It might be the only certainty - the only belief - he had left to cling onto. His father had been a good man. His money would go to someone like his father.
Summer passed, and although his hat had often filled, it had been little more than a woven trashcan for the wealthy to discard their self-loathing, pity and guilt into. To shed their skin but to enable their skeleton to keep on grinning underneath. Eventually, the asphalt calmed, settling into a still sea of charcoal, and the leaves above turned from apple greens to bonfire reds, rustling in the kneading breeze. The streets were filled with macs and umbrellas that sauntered by him, their owners' eyes transfixed on what was in front, not below them; their guilt placated by the autumn drizzle - can't stop in this rain - he must understand that, they told themselves, their mouths filled to the brim with coffee and chestnuts and lies.
Winter followed in autumn's footsteps and brought with it a tomb-like stillness; the gloom and snow wove together and seemed to garrote the streets. The cold nipped and snapped unmercifully at his toes and numbed his face and fingers. Inside, the cancer had eaten his muscle and fat, and left only a hollowed, haunted man lying under a dirt-brown blanket on the sidewalk, waiting for the world to notice or to care. But fewer people passed him now, none stopping for the bitter chill, and his hat sat as empty as his stomach. The waft of faraway stew encircled him, taunting him, reminding him of the dinner table of his childhood. He could have gone home, and yet the thought never crossed his mind. It would have meant he was wrong about the only thing he was certain of.
It wasn't the cancer that killed him in the end. It wasn't even the winter's wrath, or the hypothermia it cast upon him.
The group of men thought he might have had money on him - panhandlers often did; maybe he stuffed it into his coat like feathers. He didn't deserve that money, anyway.
Their anger boiled into a frothing rage, when they found nothing on him.
The red smears of his short crawl were soon covered by night's virgin snow. As his chest rose and fell a final time - as his last breath left his lips, like a misty soul escaping into the moonlit sky - he thought of his father.
There was good in the world - of that, he was certain.
He had just been unlucky.
The faceless man without a name sat down on the sidewalk, shaking a jug of coins at the bypassing people. He didn’t have a name or face because this story took place in a world without a proper setting or forethought, words were scarce and descriptions suffered in turn. The only things that existed were his immense fortune somewhere out in the ether, and the busy street, which was the scene of the story.
Not too surprisingly, a stranger walked up to the man. Let’s call her Betty, I mean, who really cares about her name. What matters is that Betty was a struggling single mother. She was several months behind on her rent, and her landlord was evicting her. She also had a daughter that was very ill – chronically so – and didn’t have money for proper treatment.
Seeing the poor man on the street, dressed in nothing but rags, made her stop. No matter how rough things got, there were always people who had it worse. She was just about to give him her last spare change, when something unbelievable happened – something that wasn’t in the script. The woman noticed the grubby child sitting next to the man.
Now a new dilemma presented itself to Betty. She had her arm stretched out and ready to drop the coin into the jug of the poor man, but she hesitated. The homeless child probably needed the money more than the man. Could she change her mind in this situation? Was that the right thing to do? The expression of mixed happiness and surprise on the man’s face made her heart ache. What would she see in his gray eyes if she pulled her hand back? Disappointment? Hatred?
Her eyes wandered to the dime in her hand. Could she ask the beggar if he could change it for two nickels so that she could give them one each? That seemed very out of line to Betty.
“Just drop it in mine,” the man said with a look at the child. “He’ll be better off from it as well.”
Betty was a bit taken aback by the bold statement. It was such a blunt thing to say. How would the child be better off if she gave the money to the man? That seemed like such a messed up idea – the child was clearly starving.
“I, uh, I…” Betty said and finally pulled her hand back.
The man shook his head at her, and Betty sniffed. She dropped the coin into the open palm of the child and hurried off. The problem with this course of action, even though it seemed morally right to Betty, was that the rich man disguised as a poor man still hadn’t received help.
Now, if the man had been a proper character with a bit of depth, he would’ve realized that the woman was a good person anyway, and hurried after her to give her his fortune. I mean, why did it have to be to him in the first place? If someone gave a starving child money, wouldn’t they be deserving of the fairytale ending in this scenario? If the man had any sense of morality, he wouldn’t be out on the streets playing games to see who gets his fortune. He would’ve helped all the homeless children in the city. He would’ve distributed food and helped people out of the gutter.
But since this is not a proper setting or characterization, just a random scene with a made up scenario, another stranger walked by. This was Michael Foroza, a crime lord that preyed upon the weak and exploited those with good intentions. He was the man who was evicting Betty and her sick child. And while digging through his pocket for his phone to call in another hit on an innocent person, a random coin dropped out and accidentally landed in the homeless man’s jug.
"I hereby pass onto you all of my assets. My fortune, my companies, my investments, are all yours!" It was going exactly how I imagined it. Except it wasn't me doing the talking. It was self-made billionaire Jack Stevens.
"I'm sorry, what?" I could only sputter as the crowd of onlookers stared. Was this a joke? Had he somehow seen through the layers of dirt and grime that obscured my identity?
He was already signing a contract. "Well, as it turns out, I may be dying of a terminal illness soon. And I've always wanted to give away a big jackpot prize like that."
I tore off my fake beard. "You too, Jack?"
His eyes shot out of his head. "Robert Smith? I have two years left!"
"Shut up! I have two years left too! Well this is awkward... I already signed a contract saying I'd hand everything over to the first beggar I saw." He shrugged, handing the paper to me. I pulled a similar paper from under my cardboard seat.
"And I signed a contract saying I'd hand everything over to the first one who helped me as a beggar." I handed my paper over to him.
"Did we just swap?" We looked at each other and burst out laughing. "Alright, alright. You go left, I go right, we try this again."
"What brings you here little one?"
An old man wrapped in ratty clothes stared at the young girl who was teary eyed and clearly lost. She was about seven with big blue eyes and a mass of dark blonde hair. Her clothes were worn but clean and had been mended. The pink back pack and matching lunch box looked new.
"My momma and I were walking to school when a big crowd separated us and now I can't find her. My name is Sylvia. Can you help me find my momma?" The man's heart nearly melted at her request. "How about I take you to the police station. They can find your mom." He replied. He grabbed her hand as his stomach growled loudly. Sylvia looked up at him and sniffled.
"Are you hungry sir? I can share my lunch with you."
"I couldn't take your food Sylvia. You need it for school."
"Momma packed two sandwiches in case I have a classmate who doesn't have a lunch. You're not a classmate but you don't have a sandwich."
She dug around her little lunchbox and pulled out a turkey sandwich with cheese and a juice box. Smiling, she handed it to the old man. He was touched. After spending weeks on the street waiting for someone to show him some kindness, a little girl put them to shame by offering a sandwich. He took the sandwich and juice with a word of thanks and bit into it.
"Thank you my dear. You are very kind at such a young age."
"Momma has always taught me to be kind to others. She always keeps snacks and stuff in her car or bag for people in need."
"Wise words to live by."
He finished the sandwich and juice and was about to start the walk to the police department when he heard tearful and frantic yelling. A young woman in neat but worn clothing came running down the street calling Sylvia's name. The man got her attention and the woman came to the duo.
"Sylvia! My sweet baby. I was so scared that I lost you! Are you okay?" The emotions in her voice showed that she was truly worried about her child.
"I'm fine momma. This nice man was going to help me find you. Momma please quit squishing me."
The mother laughed and let the girl go. She then stood up and turned her attention to the old man that stood watching.
"How can I ever repay you sir?"
"You already have. Now it is my turn to repay you."
Sounds like you've just invented the Wellington boot.
With built-in leaks, no less.
Crocs actually makes all kinds of shoes, including really normal looking sandals and sneakers, but they only ever advertise the classic style, so everyone's impression of the brand is of the ugliest style. Nice one, guys.
Apparently they do make one https://m.blacks.co.uk/product/black-crocs-womens-crocband-jaunt-wellies/117886/
How you doin'?
If I ever find a man crazy enough to marry me I'd love to go to Kyoto for my honeymoon.
Username checks out.
They must have gotten their journalism degree from Trump University.
There is no evidence Mr. Podolski is either a migrant gang member, nor being human trafficked," the note read.
Either they are joking about it too, or that's some terribly weirdly worded statement.
Breaking News! Shots fired by a migrant gang member in a crowded field!
Thusands of sport fans have left the field in mourning, as shots have been fired during their cherished festival. Multiple performers have required medical assitance, due to extensive leg injuries.
At least one of the shooters has been confirmed to be a migrant gang member.
"He's a master shooter. He rarely misses" says Podolski's gang leader "They had no chance. We destroyed them all"
Though little is known about the incident, it's been confirmed that Germany claims responsibility for the incident.
This seems like something that would happen to me after I buy an awp I saved up for.
No way... that is one of the most insane things I've ever seen. And for it to have happened twice in a row
"CS:GO is skill based game."
Press X To Doubt
If only I could be so grossly incandescent
Praise the Sun!
The rooftop crow you trade items with is the true Machiavellian last boss mastermind of the Demon/Dark/Blood/soul's franchise.
In the final game he will emerge from the shadows, in its form so grotesque it makes the human mind collapse on itself. And as your vision fades and the shadows of insanity overtake you, you'll only hear....."Pickle Pee, Pump-a-Rum..........Let the cycle start again."