Oct. 29th, 2016

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Ok real talk WHO is going to shell out 200+ dollars for this almost life size horse skeleton

Originally posted by haha-suck-my-ass

me, actually

can you fucking sit on it tho

wouldn’t that be really uncomfortable?

is it here, @kaijutegu?

I can’t sit on it but a skeleton can!



I wanna have enough disposable income one day to be able to fork out $200 for a horse skeleton to go with my human skeleton to use as decorations for a single day of the year

It’s adorable that anybody thinks I’m ever putting this thing away.

I’ve already got Christmas decorations for him and have plans to make him an Easter basket full of eggs.  

I see you have a equine, perfect for the calvary. The Skeleton War seeks, greatly, for your assistance! Join the Skeleton War!
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if u ever get disheartened just remember people in the 19th Century were painting hot Napoleon/Tsar Alexander boyfriend yowz before our great-grandparents were even conceived

annicron I thought of you

THANK YOU i had been thinking of this post and how to find it again


Oh hey this one may be right up your alley? When it comes to history I am a Filthy Casual, but I do know sort of why Napoleon and Tsar Alexander’s relationship was a thing in the public collective? 

So Alexander was still in his ‘young sexy aristocratic-but-liberal’ phase in the early 1800s. He runs hot and cold on Napoleon until  ‘04 Napoleon straight up execute the Duke of Enghien on shoestring evidence, horrifies Europe (again), and Alexander decides to Fight this French Shit-Starting Shit-Starter with all he has. 

Meanwhile Napoleon would still really, really like Russia on his side, since sweeping reform is his jam and Russia is a pain in the ass to fight let alone try to annex, so he stays as friendly to Alexander as he possibly can while fighting a war against him. He opens negotiations, gets knocked down, gets up again, etc.

Alexander is having none of it, decides it’s his divine whatever to fight Napoleon, ignores everyone who tells him ‘Yo the French might be about to kick our asses, maybe neutrality?’ To which he answers ‘no, the Prussians and I will never get our asses kicked because God and the peace of Europe and I am young dumb and invincible.’ 

Then Alexander does indeed get his ENTIRE ass handed to him at the Battle of Friedland (aka the rout of Friedland), and sort of sheepishly decides to make peace.  Napoleon soaks Prussia for all the territory they’re worth, but he’s still got his eye on a Russian alliance and he knows that Alexander is still young (30, at the time) and has big dreams.  So: instead of twisting Russia’s arm he shows up with flowers and a box of chocolates and says ‘I know we’ve had our differences but I never forgot, let’s be allies’ 

Which brings us to 1807 and the treaty of Tilsit, conducted on a raft in the middle of a river.  


Young firebrand hotty 

His best frenemy Napoleon, they had a Thing but Alexander tearfully swears it’s over


Napoleon gracious in his victory

Alexander welcomed into his arms, the exes reuniting

If you’re picturing a scene in a manga I promise you so were the French propagandists. This whole making-peace-on-a-raft caught the public imagination and illustrators got very invested in the idea of this classical romantic male friendship™ between Alexander and Napoleon. Partially this was because the French really hoped that the alliance would stick because fighting in Russia -sucks- and part of it I’m pretty sure was just that people have always, always, in all of the history of mankind, been into celebrity gossip and celebrity romances. 

This is why during the period you get illustrations of it ranging from ‘intense eye contact over a treaty’ to ‘passionate continental kissing’. The word ‘brotherhood’ probably got thrown around a lot. Mentions of the intense friendship pop up in a Tale of Two Cities and Lord Hornblower (written 50 and 130 years later respectively) and that’s just the books I know?  The narrative stuck, is what I’m saying. 


I don’t have a lock on the French or Russian mores in the early 19th century, and I can’t tell you how many of these artists privately sketched some naked followup illustrations and how many were thinking about sanitized non!gay Greek shenanigans.  My gut tells me that if collective RPF fandom had been a Thing, the super popular tropes would be ‘Napoleon saves Alexander from peril’ and ‘Napoleon nurses Alexander back to health’ with a smattering of ‘Napoleon and Alexander United take over the world and everything is perfect’ and ‘they break up but UNITE AGAIN on another raft’. 

I’m also imagining an 100K epic adventure h/c fic where maybe there was a lion (yes in the middle of a Russian forest shut up guys don’t like don’t read)  that kills Alexander’s horse and Napoleon singlehandedly kills it and together they make their way back to civilization while IDK being captured by a cyclops and having other unlikely adventures.  1 million hits, 60K kudos, lots of fanart.

In conclusion though: yes, for a few years there Alexander and Napoleon being bosom companions was very much a thing, though it would take a less cazh historian (POSSIBLY YOU?!) to figure whether the popular notion was SanitizedGreeks or SodomyGreeks or whether the difference particularly mattered to people at the time. 

(And in the end It all kind of fell apart. Alas. #it all ends on elba, #never forgotten, #angst.) 
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German Shepherd Dog painted in time for Halloween. (x)


As much as I love this photo set…no one ever includes the best part of it:




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Natasha Romanoff as text posts

Avengers  -  Tony - Steve 1 / 2 - Bucky 1 / 2 
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So I don’t think I’ve mentioned this, but in the summer of 2015, just like every summer for the past 9 years, I found myself in Wolfeboro, NH. Wolfeboro has a couple of claims to fame: it claims to be America’s first resort town, it’s located on beautiful Lake Winnepausakee, and it’s also, famously, the summer stomping grounds of Mitt Romney (also Jimmy Fallon, but nobody I know has ever successfully spotted him in the wild).

You see Mitt around town quite a bit, actually. Walking in the annual 4th of July parade. Ushering his photogenic Mormon brood around the quaint little shops. That kind of thing. My dad is an accomplished Romney-spotter and once saw him at the Redbox at the local Harvest Market, ringed by security as he ordered a movie from a vending machine like a person. 

“Honey!” My dad whispered to my mother. “It’s Mitt Romney!”

“What?” she replied, while paying for groceries like an adult.

“Mitt Romney!” he hissed, slightly louder. “At the Redbox!”

“What?” she asked again, bagging her groceries like a responsible human.

“Mitt Romney!” he shouted.

Romney’s security jerked to attention like Dobermans. My mother left the Harvest Market that day with her head hung in shame.

Anyway, my point is, people who spend any amount of time in Wolfeboro are pretty used to the occasional Romney sighting. Which means that this particular incident didn’t initially strike us as odd.

Summer 2015. The entire family (minus my dad, who has never forgiven himself for missing it) went out to Bailey’s Bubble, a local ice cream stand/landmark/treasure, where we encountered a massive line. Like way more massive than we were used to. Weirder still, after we’d been in line for a few minutes, police came by and started to carefully fence us in with yellow tape. Either there’d been an adorable, ice cream based fatality, or there was a Romney afoot.

After a bit of craning and standing on tiptoe, we confirmed it was the second thing and he’d set up shop right beside the shop, doing some glad-handing, kissing some babies. You know, politician stuff. 

So we relaxed and settled into waiting in line and casually snapping Romney creepshots to text to my dad, until something amazing happened. A large man, having received his ice cream order, moved over to stand beside Romney and join in with the glad-handing.

“Who is that?” I asked, squinting.

“Is that Chris Christie?” asked my mom.

Reader, it was.

At this point, we are snapping furiously and branching out to texting our Republican cousins with messages along the lines of “ha ha, we’re here and you’re not and we don’t even appreciate it ‘cause we’re liberal scum.”

And because we were so busy furiously mocking the only Republicans in our family, we didn’t even notice when a smaller man moved to stand next to them until my mom said, “Oh, that is not Marco Rubio.”

It was Marco Rubio, and my family, in addition to half of the town of Wolfeboro, had stumbled onto a three-way political ice cream date.

We relayed the news to our dad and our cousins, who were presumably weeping tears of deep red Republican blood by this point. We really, really wanted to get a picture with all three of them, but by the time we made it to the front of the line, they had gone.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot over the past several months as Trump has risen to power and the GOP has begun to slowly turn in on itself like an ouroboros made of racism. While watching the debates or reading whatever hideous thing Trump said this time, I’ll suddenly think back to Romney, Christie, and Rubio enjoying some delicious ice cream just over a year ago. They seemed happy, full of potential, seeding goodwill and familiarity among the wealthy vacationers in that line. Surely, these people would be their constituents in the coming year. Surely, in November 2016, these people would vote for some kind of mythical Rubio/Christie ticket while remembering that magical summer evening. 

None of them could have known that their dreams would be crushed by a rapacious decaying jack-o-lantern in a red power tie in just a few short months. 

Like, think about this. Could Romney have guessed that he’d be actively denouncing his party’s candidate? Did Chris Christie know he’d end up as the pathetic lapdog of a moldy tangerine fascist? Did Marco Rubio ever suspect that he’d be metaphorically disparaging the size of his opponent’s penis at a rally, because the quality of political discourse had sunk that low? How could they have known? How could any of us?

I think I witnessed the last golden days of the GOP’s happiness in that line outside of Bailey’s Bubble. The last moments when it seemed to anybody like this election would be remotely normal. And I don’t think any of them will be able to enjoy ice cream like that again for a very long time.

Which, frankly, is what they deserve for making me wait in a line that fucking long.
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Olly Moss’s Harry Potter.

Olly Moss surprised everyone and is currently doing a timed release of these new, official, Harry Potter illustrations.  They’re only available until October 25th, 2016.  Check them out!


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