Look, these people, they’re fucking retarded. Rape can’t cause pregnancy? Breast milk cures homosexuality? I caused a hurricane by challenging creationism? Who can possibly take these people seriously anymore?
It used to be Republicans didn’t believe in global warming or evolution. That was bad enough. Now they don’t even believe in egg + sperm = baby. Where does Todd Akin think babies come from? Does he think there are separate storks for people who were raped and people who weren’t?
Hey look at me! I’m the rape stork. I drop off all my babies directly at the orphanage.
He’s a fucking idiot. Just a plain fucking idiot. I’m sorry - I don’t say that word very often - but it happens to fit in this case. He’s just a fucking idiot.” —
Bill Nye, the Science Guy, regarding Todd Akin and the Republican Party (source)
For Nixe (for reasons):
Miss Nocturne, of dreams so few,
Would cry, ere should her eyes bedew,
And drink caffeine the whole night through,
In order to sleep not.
And yet the blush of morning came,
And she could not the songbirds blame,
For bringing forth the rising flame,
Whereon night was forgot.
But t’was with sirens all alarmed,
That shadows by the light were harmed,
And soon after, day-wakers charmed,
Against Madame to plot.
Those mortals thus diurnal,
Trapped by natures wheel eternal,
A’nights disturbed by sounds infernal,
Demanded she be shot.
Our heroine o’nocturnal fame,
Was acquainted thus with shame,
And shed her most infamous name,
So too, her coffee pot.
And thus it was with drooping eyes,
Berobed in a duvet disguise,
Destined to somnabulise:
*As I am not acquainted with the harvesting of opiates, I cannot be sure if Coquelicot poppies yield proper opium; also, the rhyme relies on ironic abuse of French pronunciation rules, such as might be forgotten during an opium high, or severe knackeredness.
He had heard about talking to the plants in the early seventies, on Radio Four, and thought it an excellent idea. Although talking is perhaps the wrong word for what Crowley did.
What he did was put the fear of God into them. More precisely, the fear of Crowley.
In addition to which, every couple of months Crowley would pick out a plant that was growing too slowly, or succumbing to leaf-wilt or browning, or just didn’t look quite as good as the others, and he would carry it around to all the other plants. “Say goodbye to your friend,” he’d say to them. “He just couldn’t cut it…”
Then he would leave the flat with the offending plant, and return an hour or so later with a large, empty flower pot, which he would leave somewhere conspicuously around the flat.
The plants were the most luxurious, verdant, and beautiful in London.
And also the most terrified.” —Good Omens (Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett)
when something happens in your fandom but none of your friends are in it