mamalaz:

The Legend of Footloose

thecursedknight:

owlgoggles20:

Steal His Look: Smitty Werbenjaegermanjensen
Sorry but this look is currently unavailable
It was his hat, Mr. Krabs
He was #1

Oh god this has to be the best one yet

thecursedknight:

owlgoggles20:

Steal His Look: Smitty Werbenjaegermanjensen

Sorry but this look is currently unavailable

It was his hat, Mr. Krabs

He was #1

Oh god this has to be the best one yet

Anonymous asked:
please elaborate on how you got a substitute teacher to quit within one day. I'm genuinely curious.

mysticmoonhigh:

mamalovebone:

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.

FUCKING READ IT IT’S WORTH IT

aaliyah1979-2001:

valiantparadox:

My roommate and I have had far too much coffee and I think our neighbors hate us

WHO DID THIS

whatwouldfezwear:

the-sarcastic-robot:

if you want to kill someone stab them with an icicle because the icicle will melt and then there will be no murder weapon

Better yet, make like one of my favorite short stories and murder them with big frozen leg of lamb and then cook the lamb. 

Then when the police arrive offer them something to eat and then have the police eat your murder weapon. 

image

I love that story

nutthing:

r u from europe because europiece of shit

lameborghini:

today sucked but at least it’s not 2009

officialunitedstates:

A quiet and undeniable truth is that we are all driven by the most submerged emotions, the clandestine gut feelings that push us all on our paths.  Our thoughts arise at the simplest of times.  Among the greatest experiences are a silent hug on the sidewalk, a door releasing warmth on the way into the building, a twenty-minute call to an old friend.
I can read a hundred books and learn a thousand songs.  I can laugh and wonder, think and create, cherish and seek charity.   A loose leaf sheet of paper falls gracefully into the river and floats at first, before being instantly and unsympathetically dragged down by its own inner lodgings.  All paper is the same; the words are what commands its importance.
All the rivers in Venice and all the lights in Paris cannot speak as an example for the world.  The world is not defined by the landmarks, but the people who experience them.  Wander!  Explore the vast and uncertain paths of existence.  Do not sink into the cave of regret or trespass in the ravine of self-doubt. 
I Love You sounds the same whenever one hears it; the name of the speaker is the significance of the speech.  The lull in a conversation is the moment for the deepest thoughts to emerge.  The hushing silence of a sleeping dog is the time when you cherish the friend.  The snow is longingly pursued at the cusp of winter, but we smile when it finally loses its grasp on the earth.

officialunitedstates:

A quiet and undeniable truth is that we are all driven by the most submerged emotions, the clandestine gut feelings that push us all on our paths.  Our thoughts arise at the simplest of times.  Among the greatest experiences are a silent hug on the sidewalk, a door releasing warmth on the way into the building, a twenty-minute call to an old friend.

I can read a hundred books and learn a thousand songs.  I can laugh and wonder, think and create, cherish and seek charity.   A loose leaf sheet of paper falls gracefully into the river and floats at first, before being instantly and unsympathetically dragged down by its own inner lodgings.  All paper is the same; the words are what commands its importance.

All the rivers in Venice and all the lights in Paris cannot speak as an example for the world.  The world is not defined by the landmarks, but the people who experience them.  Wander!  Explore the vast and uncertain paths of existence.  Do not sink into the cave of regret or trespass in the ravine of self-doubt. 

I Love You sounds the same whenever one hears it; the name of the speaker is the significance of the speech.  The lull in a conversation is the moment for the deepest thoughts to emerge.  The hushing silence of a sleeping dog is the time when you cherish the friend.  The snow is longingly pursued at the cusp of winter, but we smile when it finally loses its grasp on the earth.

askfordoodles:

vagueversusvogue:

barbie-teacatch:

al-grave:

"What do you play? The Clarinet, you? I play the fucking HAMMER"

I MEAN THE OTHER PLAYER’S FACES THO

the dude in the back knew it was coming, the other dude forgot

How Thor got expelled from band camp…

askfordoodles:

vagueversusvogue:

barbie-teacatch:

al-grave:

"What do you play? The Clarinet, you? I play the fucking HAMMER"

I MEAN THE OTHER PLAYER’S FACES THO

the dude in the back knew it was coming, the other dude forgot

How Thor got expelled from band camp…

streeter:

I’m glad the portrait of Ben Franklin stayed the same on the new $100 bill. There’s something about his slight, tight frown, the paternal hint of disappointment in his eyes and those pursed, sealed lips that seem to say, “I don’t approve of what you’re doing, but I can’t stop you from rolling this banknote into a straw and ripping a fat rail of white lightning in the Buffalo Wild Wings handicapped bathroom stall, you goddamn beautiful disaster.” 

streeter:

I’m glad the portrait of Ben Franklin stayed the same on the new $100 bill. There’s something about his slight, tight frown, the paternal hint of disappointment in his eyes and those pursed, sealed lips that seem to say, “I don’t approve of what you’re doing, but I can’t stop you from rolling this banknote into a straw and ripping a fat rail of white lightning in the Buffalo Wild Wings handicapped bathroom stall, you goddamn beautiful disaster.” 

pleatedjeans:

via
2 spooky

2 spooky

atomicpowered:

goliosi:

jakeyjakeylemonshakey:

2 sp00ky

AW SHIT YALLS

image

IT’S TIME, CHILDREN 

awwww-cute:

Synchronized waking up

awwww-cute:

Synchronized waking up

fartgallery:

I hate that like 30 minute period before going out where you’re stuck in activity limbo and don’t know what to do because you’re leaving soon