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witchchic1012:

peaceheather:

skiesovergideon:

things you do at a coffee shop: buy coffee. dick around on the internet. hang with friends

things you do not do at a coffee shop: sit down next to the girl with her headphones in and start talking to her

allow me to elaborate

it’s 12:45. the office internet is spotty, and i have a very important webinar to watch about a product release. my boss gives me permission to go to the nearby coffee shop. i go to the coffee shop, order my coffee, and settle myself at a table. there aren’t many tables in this particular shop, so i have every expectation that someone will probably end up sitting with me sooner or later.

popping in my headphones, i load up my webinar. it begins.

and then HE ARRIVES. he orders coffee. i must have made eye contact (MY MISTAKE) because once his coffee is in hand (probably a latte, he looked like someone who would want 66% of his drink to be steamed milk instead of pure caffeine) he sits at my table. not across from me, even, but next to me.

i give the universally polite closed-lipped smile of acknowledgment. “hello. i see you’ve decided to sit at this table. this is me acknowledging that, and now this is me going back to my webinar.”

if things had stopped there, we would not have a story. it is a terrible story. strap yourself in.

so there’s me, sitting with my headphones on, watching my webinar. the speaker is discussing versioning in the new release. 

i hear a faint noise. i look up at the dude. he smiles. i pop a bud out of my ears. “hey,” he says. 

“uh, hi,” i say, and i turn back to my webinar. 

“what are you watching?” 

my hand pauses. “webinar for work,” i say, flashing him that tense please shut up i’m busy smile.

“what do you do?”

look, dude, i get that you’re interested in a conversation, but i am fucking working. but i’m also nice, so i say “look, this is really important, so i–”

“sure sure, but what do you do? what kind of webinars are you watching?”

THE KIND THAT REQUIRE MY FUCKING ATTENTION BECAUSE THIS IS ABOUT A NEW ROLEOUT FOR SOFTWARE THAT I USE FOR A CRITICAL OPERATION AT MY OFFICE AND WHEN IT INEVITABLY BREAKS UNDER THESE UPDATES, I NEED TO KNOW WHAT AREAS OF THE SOFTWARE ARE MOST LIKELY TO BREAK THAT’S THE FUCKING WEBINAR I’M WATCHING

“ones for work.” i put my ear bud back in my ear.

i look away. 

surely surely this will deter my new friend

i should be so fucking lucky. he starts talking about his start up. i turn up my volume. he leans into my space. i take out my ear buds to tell this guy i really can’t talk, and at the same time i frantically make eye contact with one of the baristas. 

“i think you’d like my assets,” he says.

the barista disappears 

there is no hope left in the world. all is barren and ice. dude continues to talk. i try to watch my webinar, ignoring him. i’m typing at the same time. he has to know i’m not paying attention to him.

he continues talking. i cut him off. “look, i’m very busy right now.” i wait just a second. he shows no interest in leaving. “i’m also very gay.” he scoffs. “you’re too pretty to be gay.” and the back of my head must have blown off and splattered on the windows behind me because what the fucking fuckity fuck bro

THEN SUDDENLY LIKE A BOLT OF HEAVENLY LIGHT IN THE MIDST OF A DARK AND TERRIBLE STORM THERE APPEARS THE BARISTA FOLLOWED BY SOMEONE IN A SUIT like who the fuck wears a suit at a coffee shopBUT THER E IS SUIT MAN AND HE IS MAGNIFICENT AS HE DESCENDS LIKE A DARK AVENGER ON MY TABLE

“is there a problem,” my beautiful dark avenger of holy fury asks

“of course not. she asked me to join her–” I DID NO SUCH FUCKING THING ALSO WHO THE HELL LIES LIKE THAT. i stare at him, agape, floored by the presumption. 

the avenger turns to me. “did you do this, ma’am?”

“no,” i say, aghast, horrified, still too stunned to formulate a particularly scathing put down

the avenger turns to the bro. “i have to ask you to leave, sir.”

“buy we’re just talking!” bro says

“sir. you have. to. leave.”

“i’m just trying to get to know her!”

“it’s pretty obvious that she doesn’t want to know you.”

and then the manager escorted the dude outside and stood there until he crossed the street and i (having survived my very own coffee shop au) went back to my webinar which was now on the topic of mobile push notifications

The name of this cafe needs to be immortalized for the benefit of all humankind

I love this.
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abwatt:

thegreenwolf:

falsedetective:

falsedetective:

my grandparents have to lock their car doors when they go to sunday mass because people have been breaking in to unlocked cars and leaving entire piles of zucchini

i feel like i should’ve added more context when i posted this. my grandparents live in a rural area where farmers and casual gardeners alike are, at this point in the year, suddenly being hit with unexpectedly abundant zucchini crops. there aren’t just some random vandals leaving zucchinis in people’s cars for the hell of it, this is the work of some very exasperated, probably very elderly, folks who have more zucchini than they know what to do with

Yep. You can also expect to find a bag of zucchini on your porch.

My grandfather once found his neighbor stealing his tomatoes out of his garden at three in the morning. Red-handed, with a basket of the nearly-ripened ones.  He thought he was going to find gophers or something, but no, here’s Henry, taking his tomatoes. The best ones.

There was a long pause between them.

My grandfather (allegedly) said, “Henry… it’s OK.  You can take some tomatoes if you want them.”

Henry sighed in relief.

“But,” my grandfather said, “you have to take two zucchini for every tomato.”

There was another long silence.  “That’s a harsh bargain, John,” said Henry.  “But I accept.  I’ll tell Joe up the street, too.”

My grandfather said, “Tell Joe he needs to take three.”

a friend of my dad’s came by in the middle of the night, he seemed very nervous when my dad answered the door. he wouldn’t come inside but he leaned in and whispered to my dad in spanish, “i have some fresh grapes for you.” and then this happened:

the melon was a special bonus.

MY DREAM

A friend of mine lives in a rural area and he has been surrounded by zucchini for most of May, June, and July.

At one point he was so done with the whole zucchini madness that he came to classes actively begging people to “Please please please!! Take some my family’s damned zucchini!! I’ve been eating zucchini for weeks!! I’m going insane!!!”

Having grown up in a rural area and having come home to zucchini on the front step or in the mailbox, i find it highly amusing the OP had to clarify.  I’m sitting here nodding “yup.”

this should be a fanfiction AU trope 

this is my family but with green beans. u can run. u can hide. but there’s still gonna be a publix bag of green beans waiting for u, dropped over your back fence by my dad’s friendly farmer-tanned hand as he smiles he’s warm, well-meaning, devious gap-toothed grin. 

My mother stopped planting zucchini when she realized that she was going to get as much zucchini as she ever wanted and then more without tending a single plant. 

What she has is plums. 

There’s only one plum tree in her yard. But it produces more plums than you could possibly imagine, and they all seem to ripen during the exact same 2-week period. Buckets and baskets and bags of plums, ripening as fast as she can pick them.

SO MANY PLUMS.

She eats some and freezes some and cans some. She makes a delightful plum-ginger jam, and a savory plum sauce with five-spice powder. I don’t think she would abandon them on the doorsteps of neighbors. But… I do think that sometimes she shows up to church with bags of plums and a slightly manic grin, trying to pawn them off on anyone.

Marge Piercy wrote a poem about this:

                       And thus the people every year in the valley of humid July did sacrifice themselves to the long green phallic god and eat and eat and eat. They’re coming, they’re on us, the long striped gourds, the silky babies, the hairy adolescents, the lumpy vast adults like the trunks of green elephants. Recite fifty zucchini recipes!

Zucchini tempura; creamed soup; sauté with olive oil and cumin, tomatoes, onion; frittata; casserole of lamb; baked topped with cheese; marinated; stuffed; stewed; driven through the heart like a stake. Get rid of old friends: they too have gardens and full trunks. Look for newcomers: befriend them in the post office, unload on them and run. Stop tourists in the street. Take truckloads to Boston. Give to your Red Cross. Beg on the highway: please take my zucchini, I have a crippled mother at home with heartburn.

Sneak out before dawn to drop them in other people’s gardens, in baby buggies at churchdoors. Shot, smuggling zucchini into mailboxes, a federal offense. With a suave reptilian glitter you bask among your raspy fronds sudden and huge asalligators. You give and give too much, like summer days limp with heat, thunderstorms bursting their bags on our heads, as we salt and freeze and pickle for the too little to come.
                       
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rowle:

eruriholic:

beefmilk2:

pansoph:

for chinese new year they get all these famous actors and comedians together and they do a lil show and one of the comedians was like “i was in a hotel in america once and there was a mouse in my room so i called reception except i forgot the english word for mouse so instead i said ‘you know tom and jerry? jerry is here’

jerry is here

my chinese teacher once shared this story in class about someone who went to the grocery to buy chicken, but they forgot the english word for it, so they grabbed an egg, went to the nearest sales lady and said “where’s the mother”

my aunt was in china and there was a mouse running around in her room but when she called downstairs to the desk she mispronounced the chinese word for mouse so the hotel thought there was a tiger in her room and called the police
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somehow-you-will:

gaymilesedgeworth:

gaymilesedgeworth:

sometimes i think about the fact that Dreamworks was working on the Prince of Egypt and Shrek at the same time and would apparently send people to work on Shrek instead of the Prince of Egypt as a form of punishment 

the night i posted this i couldn’t find a source and i’ve been wondering ever since if maybe it was just some kind of fucked up fever dream or something. but no, it’s real:

i learned something today
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demareth:

kitsurou:

kitsurou:

my brother just called me from the toilet??

“em this gonna be
weird but i just sat down on the toilet and then james called and hes on
the doorstep. could you let him in? beware, he’s dressed as freddie
mercury,”

its 2am

why

Friendship
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watchthelightfade:

the-real-seebs:

sit-down-skeleton:

in all my life, I have never encountered such an astounding act of trolling as the time I spent an hour and a half downloading what I thought was a Good Omens fanmix and then discovering that it was a Best of Queen album.

i… wow.

that’s beautiful.

is that trolling or is that just an accurate fanmix
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livenudebigfoot:

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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cutecajunlizard:

lesbianvenom:

lesbianvenom:

lesbianvenom:

in fifteen minutes I’m going to tell you the story about how my dumb lesbian ass willingly went into a dorm with four bros

it’s been more than fifteen minutes I know but you will get the full scoop on this (also I’m okay)

Okay STORY TIME

so I was walking back from work around nineish and my neighbor/seminar classmate is in the hallway talking to his girlfriend. he sees me and he’s like “hey!! hey classmate whose name I don’t know” so I turned around and was like “it’s Hayley.”

and he apologized for not knowing (I didn’t know his name either so I wasn’t mad) and asked if I’d started my first paper for seminar. he asked me what it was on so I told him and he was like “I’m so stuck I have no idea what to do,” so clearly the natural response for my stupid ass to make is to offer him help – I told him to knock on our door and ask for me if he needed help.

maybe I did this because I was still in tutor mode from work. maybe I did it because no one takes those offers up anyway, right?

wrong! a half an hour later, as I’m getting ready to shower, he knocks for the door and asks for me, and all my roommates don’t believe him bc he’s this dude bro who clearly works out and is wearing a johnny cash tshirt. like how fake deep is that. i would never associate with a dude bro

so he invites me back to his place and as I’m walking there I’m like “this could very possibly be a bad idea,” but I go anyway bc I’m a dumbass with no sense of self preservation.

he lets me into his apartment and I’m immediately hit with the bro-ness of it all: a sports illustrated poster on the wall, protein powder EVERYWHERE, posters of beer, snap backs, flasks, and a guitar because of course there is.

his room is no better, and alarm bells are just fucking going off and I’m trying to think of a quick exit. then he tries to close his damn door to his own room and I’m like “hold up that stays open” and he was like “oh yeah I’m sorry I didn’t think about that,” which was….considerate.

two hours, two cigarette breaks later, one opening paragraph later, and one of his roommates trying to hit on me later, he starts talking about intersectionality and my mind goes ?????????????? and we legit talked about rape culture and trump and how fucked we all are. eventually we started talking about the law and feminism so then I tell him I’m gay and his immediate response is “do you get those stupid microagressions from guys who say they can turn you straight?” and it took me a minute to respond bc the fact he even knew that word was so bizarre it was like worlds colliding.

he then tells me he thinks his little sister might be gay because he thinks she told him while he was drunk one night but he couldn’t remember so he asks for advice because he doesn’t want to upset her because, in his words, “I’m not gay so you know I don’t understand it like you do.”

then, because the night of course could get weirder, he tells me he writes poetry but doesn’t tell anyone because he’ll get shit for it bc he’s supposed to be a “tough guy” and masculine and shit and I just feel Jesus sending me a message through this kid that I shouldn’t judge all dude bros by the bro-ness of their looks but I also wanna stay sexy and not get murdered so I’m gonna keep doing that. sorry jesus.

finally I left because I was tired and also I had to wash the smell of bad cologne off of me but guys this was an experience please believe me. i was standing in the shower before just letting the water wash over me as the whole two hour ordeal played over in my head because we laughed, we talked. he told me something about himself no one else knows, we exchanged political ideas and fist bumps. we bonded over the stress of a seminar paper and now we are forever changed by this event.

so that was how my dumb lesbian ass willingly walked into a room with four dudebros in it.

I was so scared this was gonna go badly but turns out it’s about making new friends in unexpected places
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harikondabolu:

runwithskizzers:

So last night my sister, some friends, and I went and saw Hari Kondabolu do stand up. Hari starts a bit about how Indians love mangoes.

Rewind to an hour earlier, in line to get into the venue. Sister opens her bag and I see something,

Me: “Do you have a mango in your backpack?”Sister: “I got it at work, shut up.”

Back to the stand-up.

Hari: “Indians love mangoes, you guys.” Sister, sitting in the front row, straight up PULLS THE MANGO OUT OF HER BACK PACK AND HANDS IT TO HIM. Hari, holding the mango: “INDIANS FUCKING LOVE MANGOES.”

This is the most magical thing I’ve ever seen. IT WAS TRUE SERENDIPITY. Also, Indians really do love mangoes. Like. A lot.

This happened and was amazing.
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yellingintothevoid:

authoratmidnight:

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betterbemeta:

volfish:

evnw:

railroadsoftware:

handsomejackass:

horse people are weird

what does this mean

horses can see demons

@betterbemeta are you able to translate this? Is it true horses can see netherbeings?? Will we ever know the extent of their powers???

I think I have reblogged this before but I’ll answer it again bc its a fascinating answer I feel and i was more funny than informational last time.

The truth is that horses see what they think are nether beings, I guess. They have a perfect storm of sensory perception that, useful for prey beings, marks false positives on mortal danger all the time. Which is advantageous to a flight-based prey species: running from danger when you’re super fast is much ‘cheaper’ than fighting, so you waste almost nothing from running from a threat that’s not there. Versus, you blow everything if you don’t see a threat that is there.

Horses also have their eyes positioned on the sides of their heads, which gives them an incredible range of peripheral vision almost around their entire body with only a few blind spots you can sneak up on them in. But this comes at the cost of binocular vision; they can only judge distance for things straight ahead of them. Super useful for preventing predators sneaking up from the sides or behind, but useless for recognizing familiar shapes with the precision we can.

Basically we now have a walking couch with anxiety its going to get attacked at any second, that can see almost everything, but mostly only out of the corner of its eye. It has a few blind spots and anything that suddenly appears out of them is terrifying to it. Combine that with that it actually has far superior low-light vision than us, and that its ears can swivel in any directions like radar dishes, and you’ve basically given a nervous wreck a highly accurate but imprecise danger-dar.

To be concise: all horses, even the most chill horses, on some level believe they are living in a survival horror.

This means that you could approach it in a flapping poncho and if it can’t recognize your shape as human, they mistake you for SATAN… or you could pass this one broken down tractor you’ve passed 100 times on a trail ride, but today is the day it will ATTACK… or your horse could feel a horsefly bite from its blind spot and MAMA, I’VE BEEN HIT!!!… or you could both approach a fallen log in the woods but in the low light your horse is going to see the tree rings as THE EYE OF MORDOR.

However, they actually have kind of a cool compensation for this– they are social animals, and instinctively look towards leadership. In the wild or out at pasture, this is their most willful, pushy, decisive leader horse who decides where to go and where it’s safe. But humans often take this role both as riders and on the ground. They are always watching and feeling for human reactions to things. This is why moving in a calm, decisive way and always giving clear commands is key to working with this kind of animal. Confusing commands, screaming, panic, visible distress, and chaos will signal to a horse that you, brave leader are freaked out… so it should freak out too!

On one hand, you’ll get horses that will decide that they are the leader and you are not, so getting them to listen to you can be tough– requiring patience and skill more than force. On the other hand, a good enough rider and a well-trained horse (or a horse with specialized training) can venture into dangerous situations, loud and scary environments, etc. calmly and confidently.

The joke in OP though is that many horses that are bred to be very fast, like thoroughbreds, are also bred and encouraged to be high-energy and highstrung. Making them more anxious and prone to seeing those ‘demons.’ All horses in a sense are going to be your anxious friend, but racehorses and polo ponies and other sport horses can sometimes be your anxious friend that thinks they live in Silent Hill.

Reblogging some horse knowledge for certain people who write fantasy books but know nothing about horses *cough cough*

highlights:“Basically we now have a walking couch with anxiety its going to get attacked at any second.”

“All horses in a sense are going to be your anxious friend, but racehorses and polo ponies and other sport horses can sometimes be your anxious friend that thinks they live in Silent Hill.”

@yellingintothevoid

I laughed all the way through this, because yes.

My horse is afraid of white things, possibly because he got beat up by an ornery grey pony when he was young.  Red car, fine.  Black car, fine.  Silver car, fine.  White car?

Also that giant rock at my old riding barn that one of the school horses, Logan, spooked at every single trail ride for the entire four or five years I was there.
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unicornempire:

justastormie:

whatfulllipsyouhave:

edgebug:

so when i was 7 or 8 i’d “write letters to hermione granger” and set them out on the piano in the living room every night with my stuffed toy owl and every morning i’d have a letter from hermione back, sitting at the foot of my bed, and hermione and i corresponded like that for months and i’d just like to thank my mom for writing out a “letter from hermione” for me every single night

That is the cutest thing I’ve ever read oh my god

so when i was about the same age i got really into both ciphers and james madison (idk don’t ask) so i just randomly started writing these letters like i was james madison writing to my own spy ring, using all kinds of ciphers. constantly writing that WE MUST SWITCH CIPHERS THE BRITISH ARE ON TO US. and it wasn’t every night because the ciphers kept getting more complex, but it was about one every week for six months and my mother always responded. and she always found the letters, because i took to hiding them in increasingly more obscure locations because spies, obviously. 

i didn’t realize how much work this was until i snuck down late one night for a cookie. and saw my mother bent over my giant book of ciphers and muttering to the dog “is this another code or can she not spell?” (i could not and still can not spell) and i was a bit angry at first but i kept watching and she KEPT AT IT. checking everything in that book against my letter and i never felt so loved. my mom with a full time job sitting up to figure out my silly letters said just because i enjoyed the game. 

i got her this bio of james madison a few years ago for xmas with a simple number substitution cipher on the inside saying “In thanks for your dedicated years of service, your daughter and occasional President.” She still has it pride of place on her desk next to the obligatory kid pics

so yeah cute mom story for the day. 

These are some of the best secret mom stories I’ve ever read, omg.
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samandriel:

samandriel:

samandriel:

samandriel:

my rooster doesn’t crow when the sun rises, he crows when he hears humans wake up, like you can literally just roll over in bed and he’s like “hoLY SHIT THAT’S A PEOPLE THE HUMAN ISAWAKE AHHH AHHH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH”

the same rooster - god guys he’s so cute - he always lets hens eat treats first and won’t have any treats until they’ve had as much as they want, unless it’s a blueberry. shit, blueberries are like serious fucking business for Pharaoh. he’s a gentleman until the damn blueberries come out and then he don’t play no fuckin games

in case you were wondering this is him

It’s been almost a year since I made this post so I guess I should update you guys on Pharaoh!

He’s still a sweetie but with more attitude and will fuck up your shit if he’s grumpy or if you’re wearing shoes with shoelaces. He doesn’t like that. He watches Netflix with me a lot and cries anytime theres explosions or gunshots in a show. He has so many chicken lady friends who he adores and he has fathered 4 chicks. I tried to train him to walk on a leash but he protested by laying down and refusing to move, so we gave that up after a while. He likes to guard me from cars and squirrels, and even plastic bags (which are his worst fear)

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