“There are no female aliens in our game because we don’t know how to make a female version of this alien” You know that alien you just designed? That male alien? Give it a female voice actor and have characters refer to it as she. That’s it. That’s literally all you have to do
Make her shorter if you must
Make her BIGGER if you aren’t a coward
Take your male alien bodytype, make her like 4 feet taller, give her an extra set of arms and sharper teeth, and as muscular as shit.
A German decides to go on vacation to Poland. He arrives at the border, and he is asked a few questions by the customs agent:
“Name?” asks the Polish official.
“Klaus Schmidt”, says the German.
“Age?” asks the official.
“32,” replies the German.
“Occupation?” asks the official.
“No,” says the German, “just visiting.”
Oh I remember what the Luftwaffe thing was that makes it even funnier. They chartered a super fancy medbay plane during the pandemic to bring high needs patients to different hospitals to spread the load.
But like 1) The concept of being afraid of the Luftwaffe is still so ingrained into Belgian society that we still joke “Oh it’s the Luftwaffe” whenever there’s a jet or any loud sounds in the sky 2) the average person to be super sick during the pandemic was old enough to if not have experienced the war to at least have grown up in the shadow of it.
So having to say to these people “Hey the Luftwaffe is here for youspecifically but they’re super friendly this time they don’t even have one bomb with them” You can imagine why this send some nervous laughter over the country.
hey let’s have this conversation again since the like/reblog ratio is getting SOOOO much worse. if you like content, reblog it. the people who follow you cannot see when you’ve liked a post, unless your likes are visible and they are routinely going through them, which i assure you they are not. by reblogging content, you are making it visible to other accounts. fanart, gifs, edits, etc. may be fun to make but they are very time consuming and it is much appreciated that if you enjoy them, you take the brief moment to reblog them to show that appreciation – and it helps. as fun as they may be, it is often kind of discouraging for posts to not do well because for every one person that reblogged it, five left a like and kept it pushing
YES!! absolutely!!! literally what this godawful site was made for! that is the point!
i’m mad all over again because i just saw a wonderful fanart with 100 ish notes — 19 reblogs and 86 likes. do you realize how insane that is? i also had not considered writers in my original post but i went looking and found a fairly popular work by one of my mutuals. 132 reblogs and 1,243 likes. some content might not ‘fit’ your blog but frankly that’s a lame excuse bc 1) you’re consuming it so you clearly like it? 2) make a secondary blog? it’s just crazy to me that people can’t spare a second to do what this site was literally made for but will be quick to request edits, gifs, fics, etc that are hand crafted to be exactly what they want, or save them and use them as their profile pictures without credit, or or or. you like it so much but you can’t make sure it gets seen?
Please read this man’s description of his dachshund and its most annoying habit
“I have a ridiculous dog named Walnut. He is as domesticated as a beast can be: a purebred longhaired miniature dachshund with fur so thick it feels rich and creamy, like pudding. His tail is a huge spreading golden fan, a clutch of sunbeams. He looks less like a dog than like a tropical fish. People see him and gasp. Sometimes I tell Walnut right out loud that he is my precious little teddy bear pudding cup sweet boy snuggle-stinker.
In my daily life, Walnut is omnipresent. He shadows me all over the house. When I sit, he gallops up into my lap. When I go to bed, he stretches out his long warm body against my body or he tucks himself under my chin like a soft violin. Walnut is so relentlessly present that sometimes, paradoxically, he disappears. If I am stressed or tired, I can go a whole day without noticing him. I will pet him idly; I will yell at him absent-mindedly for barking at the mailman; I will nuzzle him with my foot. But I will not really see him. He will ask for my attention, but I will have no attention to give. Humans are notorious for this: for our ability to become blind to our surroundings — even a fluffy little jewel of a mammal like Walnut.
…
When I come home from a trip, Walnut gets very excited. He prances and hops and barks and sniffs me at the door. And the consciousnesses of all the wild creatures I’ve seen — the puffins, rhinos, manatees, ferrets, the weird hairy wet horses — come to life for me inside of my domestic dog. He is, suddenly, one of these unfamiliar animals. I can pet him with my full attention, with a full union of our two attentions. He is new to me and I am new to him. We are new again together.
Even when he is horrible. The most annoying thing Walnut does, even worse than barking at the mailman, is the ritual of his “evening drink.” Every night, when I am settled in bed, when I am on the brink of sleep, Walnut will suddenly get very thirsty. If I go to bed at 10:30, Walnut will get thirsty at 11. If I go to bed at midnight, he’ll wake me up at 1. I’ve found that the only way I cannot be mad about this is to treat this ritual as its own special kind of voyage — to try to experience it as if for the first time. If I am open to it, my upstairs hallway contains an astonishing amount of life.
The evening drink goes something like this: First, Walnut will stand on the edge of the bed, in a muscular, stout little stance, and he will wave his big ridiculous fan tail in my face, creating enough of a breeze that I can’t ignore it. I will roll over and try to go back to sleep, but he won’t let me: He’ll stamp his hairy front paws and wag harder, then add expressive noises from his snout — half-whine, half-breath, hardly audible except to me. And so I give up. I sit up and pivot and plant my feet on the floor — I am hardly even awake yet — and I make a little basket of my arms, like a running back preparing to take a handoff, and Walnut pops his body right into that pocket, entrusting the long length of his vulnerable spine (a hazard of the dachshund breed) to the stretch of my right arm, and then he hangs his furry front legs over my left. From this point on we function as a unit, a fusion of man and dog. As I lift my weight from the bed Walnut does a little hop, just to help me with gravity, and we set off down the narrow hall. We are Odysseus on the wine-dark sea. (Walnut is Odysseus; I am the ship.)
All of evolution, all of the births and deaths since caveman times, since wolf times, that produced my ancestors and his — all the firelight and sneak attacks and tenderly offered scraps of meat, the cages and houses, the secret stretchy coils of German DNA — it has all come, finally, to this: a fully grown exhausted human man, a tiny panting goofy harmless dog, walking down the hall together. Even in the dark, Walnut will tilt his snout up at me, throw me a deep happy look from his big black eyes — I can feel this happening even when I can’t see it — and he will snuffle the air until I say nice words to him (OK you fuzzy stinker, let’s go get your evening drink), and then, always, I will lower my face and he will lick my nose, and his breath is so bad, his fetid snout-wind, it smells like a scoop of the primordial soup. It is not good in any way. And yet I love it.
Walnut and I move down the hall together, step by bipedal step, one two three four, tired man and thirsty friend, and together we pass the wildlife of the hallway — a moth, a spider on the ceiling, both of which my children will yell at me later to move outside, and of course each of these creatures could be its own voyage, its own portal to millions of years of history, but we can’t stop to study them now; we are passing my son’s room. We can hear him murmuring words to his friends in a voice that sounds disturbingly like my own voice, deep sound waves rumbling over deep mammalian cords — and now we are passing my daughter’s room, my sweet nearly grown-up girl, who was so tiny when we brought Walnut home, as a golden puppy, but now she is moving off to college. In her room she has a hamster she calls Acorn, another consciousness, another portal to millions of years, to ancient ancestors in China, nighttime scampering over deserts.
But we move on. Behind us, in the hallway, comes a sudden galumphing. It is yet another animal: our other dog, Pistachio, he is getting up to see what’s happening; he was sleeping, too, but now he is following us. Pistachio is the opposite of Walnut, a huge mutt we adopted from a shelter, a gangly scraggly garbage muppet, his body welded together out of old mops and sandpaper, with legs like stilts and an enormous block head and a tail so long that when he whips it in joy, constantly, he beats himself in the face. Pistachio unfolds himself from his sleepy curl, stands, trots, huffs and stares after us with big human eyes. Walnut ignores him, because with every step he is sniffing the dark air ahead of us, like a car probing a night road with headlights, and he knows we are approaching his water dish now, he knows I am about to bend my body in half to set his four paws simultaneously down on the floor, he knows that he will slap the cool water with his tongue for 15 seconds before I pick him up again and we journey back down the hall. And I find myself wondering, although of course it doesn’t matter, if Walnut was even thirsty, or if we are just playing out a mutual script. Or maybe, and who could blame him, he just felt like taking a trip.”
If your democrat friends start muttering about stolen election conspiracy theories, the time to have a sit down with them and express your concerns is NOW, while you still have a chance to reach them, not 6 months from now when they’re fully conspiracy-pilled.
Here’s some of the talking points and why they’re bullshit:
‘10 million votes don’t just disappear!’ -> Joe Biden’s 81 million votes were a statistical outlier, sparked by the recent experience of the Trump presidency. The democrats failed to maintain that sense of urgency, but Harris still got more votes than Hillary Clinton, more than Obama and more than any previous democratic candidate. These numbers are not weird at all.
‘The Republicans tried to infiltrate election- and vote counting organizations!’ -> yeah, they did, and yet hundreds of independent legal observers didn’t see anything go wrong enough to raise any alarms. Independent exit polls are also very consistently similar to the counted votes. Tons of international organizations specialized in this stuff observed the election and didn’t see a reason to raise the alarm.
‘But I know a dozen democrats whose mail-in votes were not counted!’ -> In any election a certain number of votes are registered as invalid because something was wrong with the ballot. In a country the size of the US, that translates to many thousands of votes. The internet allows these people to find each other, creating the false impression that a suspiciously large group of votes was not valid.
‘Musk used Star Link to mess with electronic voting!’ -> Electronic voting machines are not connected to the internet and dozens of independent media have already debunked this myth. It is absolutely impossible to use Star Link to fake election results.
‘There is voter disenfranchisement!’ -> This is true. This has always been true, for every election. It’s an issue worth talking about but it’s not a special secret conspiracy that’s unique to this election.
But just as importantly as the facts: sit down with your friend and talk about the anxiety that’s behind their conspiracy leanings. Acknowledge their pain and fear. Help them find ways to feel less powerless and regain their sense of agency. Take them to a mutual aid event, involve them in a fundraising event for a marginalized group, invite them to a local community effort. If they spend more time feeling connection and empowerment and less time doom scrolling online, they’re far more likely to stay in reality.
Mass deportation is a form of ethnic cleansing. Do you understand.
i am an indigenous minority in russia and i can’t agree more on that.
russians didn’t “peacefully conquer” volga, ural, siberia, far east and caucasus. they ethnically cleansed it.
“mass deportation of crimean tatars” it was actually a genocide.
“mass deportation of kavkazi people” it was actually a genocide.
mass deportations are not safe for those who are being deported. they suffer famine, the lack of sanitary norms, infections, lack of water and medicine, and other anti-human conditions. and i promise mass deportation are intentionally designed to be like that. they are designed to cull as much of those who are deported as possible.
if you support mass deportations of anyone, block me so i don’t have to. and fuck you
amhrancas 