Remember back in the 50s when they'd record like Elvis singing YOU AIN'T NOTHIN BUT A HOUND DOG and then they'd turn the record over and reverse it and it was all NYERP NYERP NYERP NYERP NYERP and people were all like, "That is actually the voice of Satan coming from that song."
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
It's common.
Though, as it's often pointed out, John may not be so much aromatic as "thirteen" and unsure of how to approach a relationship with an alien that's prone to murder people.
But there's no answer from Blicero. His eyes go casting runes with the windmill silhouettes. A number of contributed scenes do now flash by for Thanatz. From Ensign Morituri, a banana-leaf floor somewhere near Mabalacat in the Philippines, late '44, a baby squirms, rolls, kicks in drops of sunlight, raising dust off the drying leaves, and the special-attack units roar away overhead, Zeros bearing comrades away, finally as fallen cherry-blossoms - that favorite Kamikaze image - in the spring . . . from Greta Erdmann, a world below the surface of Earth or mud - it crawls like mud, but cries like Earth, with layer-pressed generations of gravities and losses thereto - losses, failures, last moments followed by voids stringing back, a series of hermetic caves caught in the suffocated layers, those forever lost. . . from someone, who'll ever know who? a flash of Bianca in a thin cotton shift, one arm back, the smooth powdery hollow under the arm and the leaping bow of one small breast, her lowered face, all but forehead and cheekbone in shadow, turning this way, the lashes now whose lifting you pray for . . .
John/Vriska comes up a few times in the comic--Karkat gets freaked out by the possibility, which is always funny. It works really well as a pale ship, too, but she did ask him on a date, so it's more flushed in canon (well, in troll terms; John probably wouldn't care).
Säure got a lotta gall picking on other people's language like this. One night, back when he was a second-story man, he had the incredible luck to break into the affluent home of Minne Khlaetsch, an astrologer of the Hamburg School, who was, congenitally it seems, unable to pronounce, even perceive, umlauts over vowels. That night she was just coming on to what would prove to be an overdose of Hi-eropon, when Säure, who back in those days was a curly-haired and good-looking kid, surprised her in her own bedroom with his hand around an ivory chess Läufer with a sarcastic smile on its face, and filled with good raw Peruvian cocaine still full of the Earth - "Don't call for help," advises Säure flashing his phony acid bottle, "or that pretty face goes flowing off of its bones like vanilla pudding." But Minne calls his bluff, starts hollering for help to all the ladies of the same age in her building who feel that same motherly help-help-but-make-sure-there's-time-for-him-to-rape-me ambivalence about nubile cat burglars. What she means to scream is "H¨¹bsch Räuber! H¨¹bsch Räuber!" which means "Cute-looking robber! Cute-looking robber!" But she can't pronounce those umlauts. So it comes out "Hub-schrauber! Hubschrauber!" which means "Helicopter! Helicopter!" well, it's 1920-something, and nobody in earshot even knows what the word means, Liftscrewer, what's that? - nobody except one finger-biting paranoid aerodynamics student in a tenement courtyard far away, who heard the scream late in Berlin night, over tramclashing, rifle shots in another quarter, a harmonica novice who has been trying to play "Deutschland, Deutschland Úber Alles" for the past four hours, over and over missing notes, fucking up the time, the breathing ¨ . . . berall... es ... indie ... ie ... then longlong pause, oh come on asshole, you can find it - Welt sour, ach, immediately corrected . . . through all this to him comes the cry Hubschrauber, lift-screwer, a helix through cork air over wine of Earth falling bright, yes he knows exactly - and can this cry be a prophecy? a warning (the sky full of them, gray police in the hatchways with ray-guns cradled like codpieces beneath each whirling screw we see you from above there is nowhere to go it's your last alley, your last stormcellar) to stay inside and not interfere? He stays inside and does not interfere. He goes on to become "Spörri" of Horst Achtfaden's confession to the Schwarzkommando. But he didn't go to see what Minne was hollering about that night. She would've OD'd except for her boy friend Wimpe, an up-and-coming IG salesman covering the Eastern Territory, who'd blown into town after unexpectedly dumping all of his Oneirine samples on a party of American tourists back in hilltop Transylvania looking for a new kind of thrills - it's me Liebchen, didn't expect to be back so - but then he saw the sprawled satin creature, read pupil-size and skin-tint, swiftly went to his leather case for stimulant and syringe. That and an ice-filled bathtub got her back O.K.
"Well, I guess we'll know if John and Vriska ever break out the bucket"
BLAAAAAAARGH, I AM CONVINCINGLY FLIPPING MY LID ABOUT THIS, WAVING MY ARMS AROUND A LOT, AND MAKING ALL MY BEST YELLING FACES. WOW, LOOK AT THAT! IT'S TIME TO CHANGE THE SUBJECT AGAIN.
Imagine this very elaborate scientific lie: that sound cannot travel through outer space. Well, but suppose it can. Suppose They don't want us to know there is a medium there, what used to be called an "aether," which can carry sound to every part of the Earth. The Soniferous Aether. For millions of years, the sun has been roaring, a giant, furnace, 93 millionmile roar, so perfectly steady that generations of men have been born into it and passed out of it again, without ever hearing it. Unless it changed, how would anybody know?
Except that at night now and then, in some part of the dark hemisphere, because of eddies in the Soniferous Aether, there will come to pass a very shallow pocket of no-sound. For a few seconds, in a particular place, nearly every night somewhere in the World, sound-energy from Outside is shut off. The roaring of the sun stops. For its brief life, the point of sound-shadow may come to rest a thousand feet above a desert, between floors in an empty office building, or exactly around a seated individual in a working-class restaurant where they hose the place out at 3 every morning . . . it's all white tile, the chairs and tables riveted solid into the floor, food covered with rigid shrouds of clear plastic . . . soon, from outside, rrrnnn! clank, drag, squeak of valve opening oh yes, ah yes, Here Are The Men With The Hoses To Hose The Place Out -
Comments
sorta
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
Pretty Boy Floyd
Russell "Boobie" Clark
"Shotgun" George Ziegler
Machine Gun Kelly
Billy the Killer Miller
Mad Dog Underhill
Why don't criminals nowadays have such cool nicknames
ISN'T THAT RIGHT, VRISKA
ISN'T THAT RIGHT, KANAYA
ISN'T THAT RIGHT, (interested shippers)
Which is a lie, my 8oo8s are not an ocean, they are a small lake or a pond at 8est.
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
Vriska: ::::p
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
Is John/Vriska a common ship? I've encountered some folks who want to believe that John is aromantic.
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
Today was the day, in fact.
^ happy angst day, if that's not too oxymoronic.
Well, I guess we'll know if John and Vriska ever break out the bucket
BLAAAAAAARGH, I AM CONVINCINGLY FLIPPING MY LID ABOUT THIS, WAVING MY ARMS AROUND A LOT, AND MAKING ALL MY BEST YELLING FACES. WOW, LOOK AT THAT! IT'S TIME TO CHANGE THE SUBJECT AGAIN.
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
also
tumut
tumut
No, no, no! Foh, foh, foh!