GreenMetalSun posted:

Of course it has 50,000 notes. OF COURSE IT DOES.

Tumblr posted:

Me:*out for dinner with my dad because we were too lazy to cook*
Random Old Lady:*comes up out of no where with the most judgmental look ever* (will also be refereed to as 'ROL')
ROL:Isn't he a little old for you?
Me:Well, considering he's my Dad, I'd say that your a judgmental hag.
Dad:*chokes into his drink*
ROL:You should respect your elders.
Me:You should respect your youth, we're the ones who'll decide on whether or not to pull your cord in like, what? Five weeks?
Dad:*chokes on his drink again*
ROL:*storms off*
Dad:*looks at me with a disapproving look*
Me:What?
Dad:Come on, you and I both know it will be three weeks.

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all right everyone sit down, shut up and listen closely because I’m about to tell y’all the tale of Ms. Mormino.

Seventh grade is a time most people don’t look back on fondly. I know I sure don’t—I tend to regard that era as nothing more than an unpleasant, acne-filled haze of fall out boy and poor attempts at pseudo-zooey deschanel fashions. But enough about me. Let’s talk about my math teacher.

Ms. Isom. Poor old Ms. Isom. Well in her 60’s, always plagued with some illness or injury, she was hardly ever even at school. Since many of her absences were the result of short-notice incidents—“falling down the stairs” was popularly cited— it wasn’t all that uncommon to not have a substitute on hand. Being a smartass honors class, we’d gotten away with several successful evasions of administration, walking cavalierly into class to pass the next 48 minutes doing just about nothing. Hell, for good measure, we’d sometimes even toss in a friendly “hey, Ms. Isom!” if any administrators were anywhere within earshot. So incredibly anti-establishment, you could basically call it another Project Mayhem, except instead of Brad Pitt and Ed Norton concocting homemade bombs, it was a bunch of tweenyboppers with iPhone 3’s and Justin Bieber 2009 haircuts.

We got pretty accustomed to our own little self-governing system that rolled around every second period, so we naturally weren’t exactly thrilled when administration caught on to our little Anarchy Act and strictly enforced the presence of a substitute every day.

Most of our subs weren’t terrible—most were friendly, gave us participation grades, and didn’t object to the independent attitude of our class (which, mind you, only had about ten students in it)

That is, until Ms. Mormino came along.

Four feet, ten inches of raw, undiluted evil, Ms. Mormino walked into class with a scowl on her face and a chip on her shoulder. When the girl behind me sneezed, Ms. Mormino’s immediate response was “NO INAPPROPRIATE NOISES!”

Although we all suppressed our laughter, we all knew from that moment on that, try as she might with her despotism and her draconian anti-sneeze policy, Ms. Mormino didn’t stand a chance.

The arguable beginning of the end for Ms. Mormino’s all-too-brief reign of terror was the moment I asked for a calculator; mine was broken. Mormino asserted that I could only borrow a calculator if I loaned her something of mine; at that moment, the girl next to me chimed in, saying she, too, needed a calculator. “I have a folder I can give you,” I offered. “I have a highlighter,” added the other girl.

At that moment, a puberty-creaking voice from the back of the room piped up.

Max.

We all know certain people have certain gifts. Michelangelo saw angels in every block of marble and devoted his life to setting them free; Einstein had a mind which saw the potential of the entire universe; F. Scott Fitzgerald wove intricate tales of decadence and depravity. Max, however, had a different kind of gift: he could make anything—anything at all—into a “that’s what she said” joke. More on that later, though.

Max pried off a Nike sneaker and held it proudly in the air, like a coveted trophy.

"I have a shoe."

Tottering in one-shoe-one-sock, Max dumped the sneaker on Ms. Mormino’s desk, retrieved a calculator, then tottered back to his own desk, a sort of smirk playing on his face. And, as to be expected—the rest of us quickly followed suit.

A small pile of shoes on her desk, Ms. Mormino grit her teeth and glared at us as we all sat back down, quietly victorious, a calculator in each of our hands. It wasn’t long, however, until we all began to silently plot our next act of minor mayhem.

"Can I go to the bathroom?" asked Tyler, who, despite being in seventh grade, was approaching his sixteenth birthday. In a combination of verism and admiration of Tyler’s devil-may-care boldness, we unequivocally accepted him as our leader. For reasons unknown, Ms. Mormino denied his request. Tyler, much like his Fight Club namesake, heeded no rules but his own and left anyway—Ms. Mormino, furious, locked the door behind him and smugly insisted that "administration will take care of him."

Tyler, however, was not one to be caught, and stayed close by, appearing in the window of the door whenever Ms. Mormino wasn’t looking. Waving, smiling, laughing, making faces and obscene gestures, Tyler had us all in stitches, but cleverly avoided Ms. Mormino’s sight—when she asked us what was so funny, we all refused to give Tyler away.

A girl asked to go to the bathroom, stating she “really really really” needed to go. Ms. Mormino, again, denied her request. Ms. Mormino, however, seemed to be uninformed about the side door—leading right outside, always locked from the outside but always open from the inside.

"Well, I’ll go myself," the girl responded, and took off, hurdling three desks and darting out the door. Right behind her, two other students took off, pursuing freedom. The door slammed behind all three students, and they were gone.

Six of us were left. Among us, importantly, was Chris.

Chris was thirteen, but looked half his age; scrawny, wiry, he probably measured in at about four-foot-three, but no taller. “Late Bloomer” are words that come to mind.

Despite his diminutive size, Chris possessed the gall of someone like Tyler.

"I have to use the bathroom," said Chris, standing.

”Do you think I’m going to allow you to go to the bathroom?” snapped Ms. Mormino.

”It’s an emergency!” Chris pleaded.

"Sit down," Ms. Mormino growled.

Meanwhile, the entire class borders on hysteria. We have tears in our eyes, almost suffocating from choking back laughter.

"It’s an emergency," repeated Chris, but it sounded more like a warning.

"Sit."

Silence. Silence, Silence and more silence, until we all began to notice a dark stain on Chris’s khakis. The stain grew. And grew. And grew.

Fists at his sides, stoicism in his face, and a cold, proud, triumphant glint in his eye, Chris locked eye contact with Ms. Mormino.

And pissed right in his pants.

The entire class erupted into a laugh only comparable to the detonation of a bomb.

We laughed so hard for the next five, ten, fifteen minutes straight that Ms. Mormino gave up. Surrendering, putting her head on her desk, she waited until the hysteria finally subsided.

Finally looking up, defeated, pathetic, Ms. Mormino glared at us all and wailed:

”This is too much, this is too hard, too hard, Jesus Christ, this is too much for me!”

A lone voice sounded from the back of the room. Guess whose it was.

"That’s what she said."

Ms. Mormino officially retired from teaching that afternoon.

quote:

Alright so Josh hates this story because he says he will be eternally disappointed in me because he thinks I should have killed the guy.

Alright so it was like a Tuesday night I was home with this guy Brad was high as balls in his room, Kyle was studying, Paul was out on a date and Eric and Josh were out running errands. Brad has his lights off because he’s got this moving LED night light thing and he’s laying on the floor just watching it shift around. Kyle has his shades drawn so you can’t tell his room has lights on, and I have my lights off because of reasons. So from outside, it looks like nobody’s home.

So this guy had come to a couple of our house parties. I found him once trying to get into Josh’s room but I like to try to see the best in people so I just kind of assumed he was lost and brushed it off. In retrospect, for his safety I probably should have started something about it because then he wouldn’t have tried breaking in, but whatever he made the decisions he dealt with the consequences.

The consequences here being an arrow in the rear end.

So anyways he thought there wasn’t anyone home so he figured that would be the perfect time to break in. So I’m in my room with this guy and I hear a window break down the hall, and basically immediately Kyle sends me a text saying he hears someone in the hall. I text him back asking him what he has, and he tells me he has a bat and a switchblade, which makes me disappointed in him for not having better weapons, and then question myself because I expect my roommates to be heavily armed.

So I go into my closet and I grab my quiver and my bow and I text him that I’ll meet him at his door.

So important information: I’m really good with a bow because I used to bow hunt constantly. Every year, I would go to Pennsylvania to visit my cousins, and every year while I was there, I would go out in the woods with my cousin and his neighbors and we would hunt. We would spend a week out in the woods, and everyone would hunt for their own food. I started going with them before they thought I was old enough to safely use a gun, so instead they always made me use a bow, and you get really good at bow hunting when missing means going hungry for the night.

The bow I owned then was a present from these guys, a custom made carbon fiber recurve with a steel core piece and a +gauge bowstring. The carbon fiber kept it light, which allowed for a small steel core to increase flex resistance. The +gauge string, which increased flex resistance even more, which meant that if I got to a full draw on my bow I was firing arrows at insane speeds.

So back to the apartment, I’m creeping down the hall and Kyle is waiting in the door of his room and he indicates that whoever is in our house is in the spare room where we keep our band poo poo. So we creep down the hall and I take a stance and I draw back fully and Kyle grabs the handle and throws the door open.

So I see this guy and I don’t recognize him so my brain’s like “yup, you should shoot him” so I stop my breathing to make sure I hit him and in that half second I realize two very important things.

I’m fully drawn back
I’m aimed at the back of his head
So if I let go I’m going to loving kill this guy and I’m pretty sure that it’s not worth it so I try to loosen my draw which is really loving hard and I’m bringing the bow down so I don’t kill him and I think I was trying to shoot him in the leg but here’s the thing: the combination of trying to loosen my draw, aiming somewhere else, and the realization that I was a twitch away from murdering a dude made me uncomfortable and when I’m uncomfortable I make weird noises.

So this guy is rummaging through a box of cables when he hears what sounds like someone making GBS threads themselves behind him, so he starts to turn. But him turning triggers me to release the arrow and I realize a tiny bit too late where I was pointing.

The next part literally felt like slow motion to me I watch the arrow launch off of my bow and I watch it sail gracefully through the air and I watch this guy blissfully unaware of what’s about to happen to him and I see just shock and surprise on his face as my arrow hits him directly in the center of the rear end.

So obviously there’s now screaming and bleeding and bad times and the guy I was with comes out of my room and he’s like “what’s going on” and I’m like “I just shot a dude in the rear end” and he’s like “hey you were going to shoot me in the rear end” and I’m like “no I literally shot a dude in the rear end call an ambulance” so he calls an ambulance and they show up and take him to the hospital and my arrow went through his anus and punctured his intestines and tore his scrotum open dude got hosed up. So for the rest of the year the other guys thought it was hilarious like I literally shot him in the butthole yeah they never let that one go.

I just realized I never got my arrow back.

EZipperelli posted:

Everblight posted:

Behind Closed Ovens is already a shitpost collation that Gawker's been doing, but the new series is basically peak stdh.txt Behold:
Restaurant Employees Who Had Their Revenge

quote:

The second class of assholes were the advanced students. These were the ones for whom we reserved our greatest scorn as well as our Big Gun: a tiny, little bottle of Murine eye drops that we kept under the bar. To earn the title of Uber rear end in a top hat, they had to been a creeper to any female patron or especially to one of our cocktail waitresses. Once they earned our scorn at this level, they got a few drops of Murine into their next drink. Now, Murine has long since changed its formula as I understand it, so unfortunately this no longer works. What it did back then, however, was give Mr. Creepyhead a good 30 minutes or so of the most explosive diarrhea they’d ever known. Let’s just say this can be “inconvenient” in a busy nightclub with a line at the head.

(Editor’s Note: As many of you have pointed out, this one—and only this one—is actually too far. Not only do visine/murine not actually cause diarrhea, they are legitimately dangerous. So yeah, there are times when the quest for revenge—even intended nobly—can be misused. This is one of them. Instructive.)

Verisimilidude posted:

This is STDH in that she didn't put it up to show off her kinda funny shirt that she then had to explain because she "works in a call center", she posted it to show off her boobs and get free internet points from horny dudes.

Sentient Data posted:

I don't know about epidemic, but I can personally arrest to knowing someone in their 20s within the past few years that was a cutter, so it's not jenkem-level fake by any means

Crow Jane posted:

Men's shirts are fine for women, if those women want to have boob tents.