alternative-pokemon-art:

Artist #1

Artist #2 & 3

A picture that I might choose to be my new icon if I ever decided to change it. I might use a Chansey or something, too, since Chansey is my favorite Pokemon. But Creepypasta Jigglypuff has always been my icon, even when it used to be this one.


meladoodle:

coolgirlfriend:

boys who can pull off facial hair are hot

i think you’re supposed to use a razor

(via iswearimnotnaked)



capitalistpropaganda:

book some flights? why not flight some books. give them wings or something. I’m running out of jokes


officialunitedstates:

everyone knows somebody who is the human equivalent of iceberg lettuce topped with sprinklings of croutons all served with a warm glass of 1984 south african wine




ultrafacts:

For more posts like this, follow Ultrafacts (Source)

ultrafacts:

For more posts like this, follow Ultrafacts (Source)


as-warm-as-choco:

Animation layouts from Hayao Miyazaki’s Spirited Away (千と千尋の神隠し).

(via orokana-lyon)


anagrammaton:

shsl-kouhai:

residentmadscientist:

kidinabearsuit:


An escaped sheep was found with 60 pounds of wool.
Shrek the sheep ran away and hid in a cave in New Zealand for 6 years. When Shrek was finally found in 2004, the sheep had gone unsheared for so long that it had accumulated 60 pounds of wool on its body, enough to make 20 suits! The sheep became famous and even got to meet the Prime Minister. Shrek finally passed away last month at the age of 16.

Its name was Shrek.

too many layers

FUCK

remember when the largest māori protest of all time was held and people walked on foot literally from all across the country to protest the continued government theft of māori land and our ‘leftist’ prime minister refused to meet them, despite meeting this fucking sheep on the steps of parliament literally the day before because i dofuck this sheep

anagrammaton:

shsl-kouhai:

residentmadscientist:

kidinabearsuit:

An escaped sheep was found with 60 pounds of wool.

Shrek the sheep ran away and hid in a cave in New Zealand for 6 years. When Shrek was finally found in 2004, the sheep had gone unsheared for so long that it had accumulated 60 pounds of wool on its body, enough to make 20 suits! The sheep became famous and even got to meet the Prime Minister. Shrek finally passed away last month at the age of 16.

Its name was Shrek.

too many layers

FUCK

remember when the largest māori protest of all time was held and people walked on foot literally from all across the country to protest the continued government theft of māori land and our ‘leftist’ prime minister refused to meet them, despite meeting this fucking sheep on the steps of parliament literally the day before because i do

fuck this sheep

(via that-bishie-lambcelot)


allthingshyper:

ambermersadiez:

descentintotyranny:

A SWAT team blew a hole in my 2-year-old son — Alecia Phonesavanh
June 24 2014
After our house burned down in Wisconsin a few months ago, my husband and I packed our four young kids and all our belongings into a gold minivan and drove to my sister-in-law’s place, just outside of Atlanta. On the back windshield, we pasted six stick figures: a dad, a mom, three young girls, and one baby boy.
That minivan was sitting in the front driveway of my sister-in-law’s place the night a SWAT team broke in, looking for a small amount of drugs they thought my husband’s nephew had. Some of my kids’ toys were in the front yard, but the officers claimed they had no way of knowing children might be present. Our whole family was sleeping in the same room, one bed for us, one for the girls, and a crib.
After the SWAT team broke down the door, they threw a flashbang grenade inside. It landed in my son’s crib.
Flashbang grenades were created for soldiers to use during battle. When they explode, the noise is so loud and the flash is so bright that anyone close by is temporarily blinded and deafened. It’s been three weeks since the flashbang exploded next to my sleeping baby, and he’s still covered in burns.
There’s still a hole in his chest that exposes his ribs. At least that’s what I’ve been told; I’m afraid to look.
My husband’s nephew, the one they were looking for, wasn’t there. He doesn’t even live in that house. After breaking down the door, throwing my husband to the ground, and screaming at my children, the officers – armed with M16s – filed through the house like they were playing war. They searched for drugs and never found any.
I heard my baby wailing and asked one of the officers to let me hold him. He screamed at me to sit down and shut up and blocked my view, so I couldn’t see my son. I could see a singed crib. And I could see a pool of blood. The officers yelled at me to calm down and told me my son was fine, that he’d just lost a tooth. It was only hours later when they finally let us drive to the hospital that we found out Bou Bou was in the intensive burn unit and that he’d been placed into a medically induced coma.
For the last three weeks, my husband and I have been sleeping at the hospital. We tell our son that we love him and we’ll never leave him behind. His car seat is still in the minivan, right where it’s always been, and we whisper to him that soon we’ll be taking him home with us.

Every morning, I have to face the reality that my son is fighting for his life. It’s not clear whether he’ll live or die. All of this to find a small amount of drugs?
The only silver lining I can possibly see is that my baby Bou Bou’s story might make us angry enough that we stop accepting brutal SWAT raids as a normal way to fight the “war on drugs.” I know that this has happened to other families, here in Georgia and across the country. I know that SWAT teams are breaking into homes in the middle of the night, more often than not just to serve search warrants in drug cases. I know that too many local cops have stockpiled weapons that were made for soldiers to take to war. And as is usually the case with aggressive policing, I know that people of color and poor people are more likely to be targeted.  I know these things because of the American Civil Liberties Union’s new report, and because I’m working with them to push for restraints on the use of SWAT.
A few nights ago, my 8-year-old woke up in the middle of the night screaming, “No, don’t kill him! You’re hurting my brother! Don’t kill him.” How can I ever make that go away? I used to tell my kids that if they were ever in trouble, they should go to the police for help. Now my kids don’t want to go to sleep at night because they’re afraid the cops will kill them or their family. It’s time to remind the cops that they should be serving and protecting our neighborhoods, not waging war on the people in them.
I pray every minute that I’ll get to hear my son’s laugh again, that I’ll get to watch him eat French fries or hear him sing his favorite song from “Frozen.” I’d give anything to watch him chase after his sisters again. I want justice for my baby, and that means making sure no other family ever has to feel this horrible pain.

 Alecia Phonesavanh is the mother of Bounkham Phonesavanh, nicknamed “Baby Bou Bou.” She and her family live in Atlanta. For more information about Bou Bou, go to www.justiceforbabyboubou.com. 

Signal boost this. Signal boost the crap out of this.

Put that team in front of a firing squad

allthingshyper:

ambermersadiez:

descentintotyranny:

A SWAT team blew a hole in my 2-year-old son — Alecia Phonesavanh

June 24 2014

After our house burned down in Wisconsin a few months ago, my husband and I packed our four young kids and all our belongings into a gold minivan and drove to my sister-in-law’s place, just outside of Atlanta. On the back windshield, we pasted six stick figures: a dad, a mom, three young girls, and one baby boy.

That minivan was sitting in the front driveway of my sister-in-law’s place the night a SWAT team broke in, looking for a small amount of drugs they thought my husband’s nephew had. Some of my kids’ toys were in the front yard, but the officers claimed they had no way of knowing children might be present. Our whole family was sleeping in the same room, one bed for us, one for the girls, and a crib.

After the SWAT team broke down the door, they threw a flashbang grenade inside. It landed in my son’s crib.

Flashbang grenades were created for soldiers to use during battle. When they explode, the noise is so loud and the flash is so bright that anyone close by is temporarily blinded and deafened. It’s been three weeks since the flashbang exploded next to my sleeping baby, and he’s still covered in burns.

There’s still a hole in his chest that exposes his ribs. At least that’s what I’ve been told; I’m afraid to look.

My husband’s nephew, the one they were looking for, wasn’t there. He doesn’t even live in that house. After breaking down the door, throwing my husband to the ground, and screaming at my children, the officers – armed with M16s – filed through the house like they were playing war. They searched for drugs and never found any.

I heard my baby wailing and asked one of the officers to let me hold him. He screamed at me to sit down and shut up and blocked my view, so I couldn’t see my son. I could see a singed crib. And I could see a pool of blood. The officers yelled at me to calm down and told me my son was fine, that he’d just lost a tooth. It was only hours later when they finally let us drive to the hospital that we found out Bou Bou was in the intensive burn unit and that he’d been placed into a medically induced coma.

For the last three weeks, my husband and I have been sleeping at the hospital. We tell our son that we love him and we’ll never leave him behind. His car seat is still in the minivan, right where it’s always been, and we whisper to him that soon we’ll be taking him home with us.

Every morning, I have to face the reality that my son is fighting for his life. It’s not clear whether he’ll live or die. All of this to find a small amount of drugs?

The only silver lining I can possibly see is that my baby Bou Bou’s story might make us angry enough that we stop accepting brutal SWAT raids as a normal way to fight the “war on drugs.” I know that this has happened to other families, here in Georgia and across the country. I know that SWAT teams are breaking into homes in the middle of the night, more often than not just to serve search warrants in drug cases. I know that too many local cops have stockpiled weapons that were made for soldiers to take to war. And as is usually the case with aggressive policing, I know that people of color and poor people are more likely to be targeted.  I know these things because of the American Civil Liberties Union’s new report, and because I’m working with them to push for restraints on the use of SWAT.

A few nights ago, my 8-year-old woke up in the middle of the night screaming, “No, don’t kill him! You’re hurting my brother! Don’t kill him.” How can I ever make that go away? I used to tell my kids that if they were ever in trouble, they should go to the police for help. Now my kids don’t want to go to sleep at night because they’re afraid the cops will kill them or their family. It’s time to remind the cops that they should be serving and protecting our neighborhoods, not waging war on the people in them.

I pray every minute that I’ll get to hear my son’s laugh again, that I’ll get to watch him eat French fries or hear him sing his favorite song from “Frozen.” I’d give anything to watch him chase after his sisters again. I want justice for my baby, and that means making sure no other family ever has to feel this horrible pain.

Alecia Phonesavanh is the mother of Bounkham Phonesavanh, nicknamed “Baby Bou Bou.” She and her family live in Atlanta. For more information about Bou Bou, go to www.justiceforbabyboubou.com.

Signal boost this. Signal boost the crap out of this.

Put that team in front of a firing squad

(via that-bishie-lambcelot)


pizzafemme:

stop making fat children feel bad about themselves

(via that-bishie-lambcelot)


officialunitedstates:

if you replace the apes in the planet of the apes movies with robots it is an accurate representation of life in developed countries 30 years from now