Plan Z posted:

Is it just me, or does it seem like the iPhone text chat conversations never actually happen:

http://imgur.com/gallery/7jIHmRD

DrHerpington posted:

http://www.oregonlive.com/education/index.ssf/2013/06/in_college_at_12_off_to_start.html

Maybe STDH? Maybe not? What's the verdict?

Doctor Doodler posted:

Dominos doesn't have hot sauce.

step aside posted:

It's obviously fake. The green bubbles are the owner of the phone, and i really doubt they'd screenshot and share themselves getting embarrassed like that.

OctaviusBeaver posted:

That's what the guy at Dominoes said, but after the kid told him about his sweet troll they went out and bought hot sauce just for this prank and then gave him free pizzas for life.

step aside posted:

It's obviously fake. The green bubbles are the owner of the phone, and i really doubt they'd screenshot and share themselves getting embarrassed like that.

All on Black posted:

What the gently caress does "douchebags[...]" mean? Is that her way of indicating a dramatic pause before she rained verbal destruction upon them?

Plan Z posted:

I guess I mostly meant in it the sense of "When has one of those text chat things ever been believable in any way?"

One of the most famous ones I can remember was http://textsfrombennett.tumblr.com/. Not only do you have the classic "*sigh* this what I as a natural straight man have to put up with," Bennett's grammar constantly switches from varying degrees of perfect to illegible sentence to sentence. It kind of just reads like "I want to do racial humor in a way that will get me in less trouble." Shame, because there are actually some genuinely funny one, but the "Sheldon" guy gets heinously defensive and weird whenever someone pokes holes in his story.

Account McAccount posted:

Yes, because the appropriate thing to do is not to call the police and report those two officers, but to rant about it to /r/mensrights. And he has a job but lives in a boat dock? I'm imagine a creepy old guy with a long beard and dented hat, and a huge coat with holes in it.


What actually happened: girls sunbathing after having a party on a boat of a friend, who said it was ok to stay (because if it's locked and fenced, how else would they get in?) Crazy looking man comes over ranting and raving "you stupid women! I hate all women! Raaargh!" so they try to pack up as quickly as possible. He keeps yelling while checking them out sexually, so they call the police.

Police show up, probably not two female officers, likely a dude and a woman or 2 dudes. They see the guy that looks like a crazy hobo ranting and raving about "loving women! They're in my house!" After asking where he's from, they think 'he lives in a boat dock? Yeah right!'. Guy keeps yelling "mah rights! Women are whores and evil!" so they put him in the squad car. Girls either don't actually take photos, or maybe take one bacause the situation is so ridiculous and he's still muffedly yelling from inside the car, which would make them laugh. Cops release the guy because they can't charge him with anything. Guy posts to /r/mensrights from his shack at the boat dock.


That, or he is an actual hobo who was unable to rape some girls at the loca pier, and is posting from the library.

gently caress you, Tumblr. posted:

This is the plaster (Band aid) my 3 year old brother gave to me tonight. He saw my cuts when I was tucking him into bed and he asked what they were. Naturally, I told him the truth, I told him that when I get angry or upset I do this to myself to calm down. His little face looked heart broken. This 3 year old child then ran away into the kitchen, Pulling out a small box. He pulled out his favorite plaster with George (His favorite character or course) and ran back to me, Handing my the plaster. He then said. ‘You should never do that to yourself, It’s not good for you. George will make you feel better”

He crawled back into bed and hugged me tightly. He told me that tonight that i was never worth hurting myself over.

See, A 3 year old can handle self harm better than some people. He’s three and he didn’t judge me, He didn’t shout at me, He didn’t treat me like a child.

I’ve now made a pinky promise to him never to hurt myself again (Unless I fall over, He said that would be unfair on me)

Nope. posted:

Can't believe this actually happened
Boy in my class: *draw lines on his arm with a red marker and making jokes about self harm* Ohh, it hurts so much, i am emo and im going to kill myself

Our teacher: *walks up behind him, looks at what he is doing*

Boy: Do you wanna see my favorite cut? *points at on of the lines he had drawn*

Teacher: *pulls up his sleeve and reveal an arm with lots of scars and points at the biggest* do you wanna se mine?

Boy: *gasping, and stear at the teacher's arm* but....

Teacher: Please dont make jokes about self harm, ok! you never know which one of those around you who are actually dealing with it. And its not a joke.

Doctor Doodler posted:

I can see a server doing the desert thing, or the baby thing, but it didn't happen when OP instantly gets a girls number for making references to a TV show.

Doctor Doodler posted:

"I smashed my guitar over a kids head and gave him a serious injury because he has an opinion on music that isn't mine.
Then my dad rewarded me with a new guitar for it, because giving a kid a concussion is okay as long as you're defending good music."

canyoneer posted:

If I had to hear some crappy high school student squawk through 6 minutes of Bohemian Rhapsody, I'd probably say something too.

Why do people argue about what music is "good music"? If he's worried that not enough people will buy the latest Queen album so there won't be another one, well...

canyoneer posted:

If I had to hear some crappy high school student squawk through 6 minutes of Bohemian Rhapsody, I'd probably say something too.

Why do people argue about what music is "good music"? If he's worried that not enough people will buy the latest Queen album so there won't be another one, well...

And the author was Albert Einstein. posted:

True story. I’m waiting in line for the Hugos last year (no, not to receive one, to attend the ceremony), and as is my wont, I chat up the strangers on all sides of me. As one might expect at WorldCon, everyone around me was a writer of some sort. There were two Canadians behind me just breaking out on the scene. We had a nice chat, right up until the batshit craziest broad at all of WorldCon joins the conversation.

Now, I have nothing against crazy people. They are my people. And I don’t have anything against socially awkward people with high functioning autism. Again, those are my peeps. This is why I feel quite at home at WorldCon, comic book stores, basement D&D sessions, and dermatologists. What I can’t stand are rude people. And this bitch was downright mean. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I should point first of all that I don’t tell people who I am or what I do when I’m at conferences. I often check to make sure my badge is the other way around, hiding my name. I enjoy anonymously viewing the world around me, talking to strangers, absorbing my environment. I always prefer to ask someone what they do and listen to their story rather than regale people with my nonsense. And so, I stood in line for half an hour and listened to a girl in her early twenties tell a quite serious writer from Canada that she could get him an agent, no problem. Without ever having read his work.

“You’re going to do great,” she told a man a dozen years her senior after two minutes of talking to him. “You’ve got a great career ahead of you.” She said this over and over.

Now, picture Sheldon’s girlfriend from BIG BANG THEORY. Really. That was her if such a person really existed. Big-toothed and nodding and telling people how great they were. Bear with me; the mean part is coming.

“I’ve got a friend at such-and-such magazine who reps people. I was an intern there. Give me your information. She would love to rep you.”

At this point, it was just entertaining and awkward (though already quite mean to promise an agent to a complete stranger. Mean to both parties, frankly). And then one of these nice writers from Canada asked me what I was doing at WorldCon, which was when things got testy. I admitted to being a writer. Crazy girl asked who I was published with. “Self-published,” I said. No point in mentioning the Random House deal or the SFWA membership. Those weren’t what I was most proud of. The girl shook her head sadly and also knowingly. It was a complex bit of head shaking.

There was a period of quiet mourning. A little bit later, one of the Canadian writers lamented the dwindling outlets for publishing short fiction, and I mentioned the Kindle Singles program. “They pay 70% royalties,” I said. “Great exposure. Not a lot of speculative fiction up there yet.”

“But it’s Amazon, right?” Not that he was bashing Amazon. He was just curious.

“Yeah. I just submitted a piece.” In fact, it had been accepted just that morning, while I was there at WorldCon. I was still jazzed about it. Everyone was lamenting the death of the short form, but all I could see was its rebirth.

Crazy girl intervened. “That’s still self-publishing,” she said, venom in her voice. And I poo poo you not, she laid a hand on this poor Canadian as if she owned his soul. “He’s going to do it the right way.”

It was like a she-devil sitting on this man’s shoulder. I could see him withdrawing from me and toward this young girl promising him an agent and a great career. I was sad for him. I was the self-published pariah, the freak.

“I know a lot of people doing pretty well self-publishing,” I said. I didn’t mention one of them was me. “It’s a great way to get your work out there.”

Now for the humdinger. Later, when relating this story to my wife, she turned bright red and said, kid you not, “I woulda slapped that bitch.”

So this girl looks at me, dead serious, with a crowd around us, and asks: “And what awards have you won?”

She waited for my answer. I was stunned speechless. I looked to those around me, who to their credit were also agape at this wanton display of snark and uncouthness.

“No awards,” I said, keenly aware that we were in line to witness the handing out of the Hugos. “But I get great reviews from my readers. And that’s award enough.”

I really said this poo poo. And I meant it. And yes, it sounded as corny then as it does in the retelling.

“Mmm-hmm.”

She really made that sound.

And I had lost them, those fine Canadians who were just as sweet and hilarious as you expect Canadians to be. Because we were in line together, we sat in the same row at the Hugos, and this Bitch from WorldCon sat draped all over them, promising them glimmering careers and stacks of trophies. Neil Gaiman and George R.R. Martin collected their awards. We all clapped, none more loudly or proudly than Sheldon’s girlfriend. For all I know, she introduced them to their agents.

A few weeks after WorldCon, I got a Facebook friend request from that Canadian author. He had tracked me down, read up on my work, and wanted to know more about this other avenue toward publication. I really like the guy and truly believe that he has a career ahead of himself. He’s doing everything the right way, taking his craft seriously, looking to get short works published, writing longer pieces, workshopping and reading and honing his skills. Most of all, he’s keeping an open mind and digging that demon’s whispers out of his eardrums.

Me, I kept my cool and sat there quietly and enjoyed the hell out of the Hugos. But I’ll admit that I had a fantasy while I was sitting there. I think every writer, aspiring or real, sat in that crowd and had the same fantasy. I was up there on that stage, in 2013, winning a Hugo. And for my acceptance speech, I scanned the dark crowd and somehow found her out there. And I told this story. I may even have grabbed my crotch or something like that—the fantasy gets hazy. I told this story, and I called that poor girl who just doesn’t know how to interact with other humans, a bad word.

Alas, the Hugo finalists were announced this week, and I didn’t make the cut. Not that I expected to, but it means the crotch-grabbing dream has finally come to an end. But wait. What’s this Tweet I see tonight? Big Al’s Books and Pals gives out a Reader’s Choice Award? And I won?!

Suck it, bitch.

Account McAccount posted:

Um, but don't you guys remember this, that was featured on the front page? Queen can happen at any time, so...



(by hellbastard )

DrHerpington posted:

quote:

gently caress you, Tumblr. posted:
This is the plaster (Band aid) my 3 year old brother gave to me tonight. He saw my cuts when I was tucking him into bed and he asked what they were. Naturally, I told him the truth, I told him that when I get angry or upset I do this to myself to calm down. His little face looked heart broken. This 3 year old child then ran away into the kitchen, Pulling out a small box. He pulled out his favorite plaster with George (His favorite character or course) and ran back to me, Handing my the plaster. He then said. ‘You should never do that to yourself, It’s not good for you. George will make you feel better”

He crawled back into bed and hugged me tightly. He told me that tonight that i was never worth hurting myself over.

See, A 3 year old can handle self harm better than some people. He’s three and he didn’t judge me, He didn’t shout at me, He didn’t treat me like a child.

I’ve now made a pinky promise to him never to hurt myself again (Unless I fall over, He said that would be unfair on me)

Doctor Doodler posted:

What cashier and manager would willingly gently caress themselves out of a sale? and a kill/death ratio of 1.82 isn't even that good!

Doctor Doodler posted:

"Look girly, this isn't a beauty salon."

DrHerpington posted:

Hugh Howey, why you gotta play me like this?

Doctor Doodler posted:

What cashier and manager would willingly gently caress themselves out of a sale? and a kill/death ratio of 1.82 isn't even that good!

Doctor Doodler posted:

DrHerpington posted:

Hugh Howey, why you gotta play me like this?

DrHerpington posted:

Hugh Howey, why you gotta play me like this?

Flaggy posted:

Supposedly he is a writer and he wrote this?

Thinky Whale posted:

STDH: somebody wrote his Wikipedia page who wasn't him.

Flaggy posted:

Turns down seven figures, he worked as a yacht captain!

FrozenVent posted:

While there are probably mega-yacht captains bringing in six figures, I'd guess the average is way lower than that, especially for smaller yachts that don't require extensive licensing. The term is so broad, I can't really make a good guess as to salary (Huge difference between the guy getting paid to drive a 60 footer and the guy captaining a 350 ft yacht) but I got offered a job as 2nd Mate on a 100m yacht, and that paid about 50% of what I made on a cargo ship.

NoUU posted:

Boneitis posted:

Ah yes, the private room of a strip club, where you can have a long and engaged conversation with someone.

Have these people ever been in a club of any kind?