Before the campaign starts, individually tell each person that they’re secretly a double agent infiltrating the main group and is working for the villains and it’s going to be a huge plot twist in the story. Give them a cue on when to reveal that they’re evil. When you give the cue, everyone will reveal they were a double agent working for the same people so there was no group to infiltrate.
Percy: So now I’m supposed to do anything that Annabeth does? What if she jumped off a cliff?
Chiron: If Annabeth were to jump off a cliff, she would have done his due diligence regarding the height of the cliff, the depth of the water, and the angle of entry. So, yes, if you see Annabeth jump off a cliff, by all means, jump off a cliff.
the new batch of love for john mulaney here on tumblr has got me thinking how critical costume design is once again. john mulaney is a good comedian, but so much of his power comes from how his humor plays off how he’s dressed. we don’t expect a man dressed like a 1960s news announcer, all clean scrubbed and tight-wound professional, to describe in minute detail the visit where a doctor shoved a hand up his ass. imagine any iconic john mulaney set but given in jeans and a t-shirt, and is it as funny? i don’t think so. his humor spreads like wildfire on this website because the image of a man in a buttoned-up shirt and a tie and slicked back hair with fairly narrow lapels on his three-piece suit is fucking hysterical when paired with “years later I’d be in college about to go down on some
rockin’ twink and i’d be like what would leonard bernstein do”
well I do recall a comedian telling about how he accidentally joined the russian mafia on a school trip in college, and this was made more believable by the fact that he was shirtless with a beer belly while telling this story
Thor, post-Ragnarok, doesnt really know what to do with himself. he’s lost. so he pushes some buttons and manages to space-skype-call steve rogers. thor relates to steve what went down, and basically goes. im king even though i didnt really wanna be, not really sure what to do please help.
and steve goes hey have you ever heard of democracy
so thor, having found a way to maybe not have to be king of asgard or at least be king with a lot more explicit support, delightedly calls a shipwide meeting. he explains the concept of voting (maybe not like. super clearly) and issues ballots. the vote goes like this:
Everybody who’s not really sure what’s going on with this voting thing just votes for thor. that seems like a safe call. some of the really confused ones just write in their own names. a fair number of other asgardians, who actually understand what’s happening, vote thor on purpose, but a lot of it is confusion.
Loki votes for himself. he doesn’t really want to be in charge of this mess but honestly he can’t help himself. Several of the escaped gladiators also vote loki, mostly because they didn’t really follow the whole loki-thor dynamic and loki summoned a giant flaming magma man to kill a planet, which was pretty cool. that guy seems to have a handle on stuff.
the Valkyrie votes “Thor, lord of sparkles.”
Every child votes hulk. they were all issued ballots because nobody realized they maybe shouldn’t be. dr banner votes Hiemdall.
literally every person who has a good grasp on the situation votes heimdall. thor votes hiemdall.
hiemdall loses to thor by one vote. it was heimdall’s. he voted for thor.
yeah heimdall ABSOLUTELY knows exactly what he’s doing when he votes for thor. he sees everything, he knows how the vote will go. he has watched literally every single member of the line of odin go off the rails while trying to run asgard, and he wants no part of that mess.
he’s heimdall. he doesn’t have to be in charge to do whatever the fuck he wants.
Before she learns about his secret identity, Lois Lane
thinks Clark Kent is a goddamn mess
She goes to his place to work on a joint article and it
takes her like half an hour to find out that Clark lives in an absolutely
nonfunctional house
She has to change a lightbulb but there are no stools, no
sufficiently high chairs, no way of reaching the ceiling unless you find a way
to climb the walls. “How the hell do you change your bulbs?” she asks. Clark
mutters something about misplacing the footstool and helps her drag the table
from the kitchen to the living room.
Lois watches Clark make lasagna and has to physically
restrain him from pulling the tray out of the oven with his bare hands. “Are
you out of your goddamn MIND?” she yells, scrambling to pull him away on time. “What
are you DOING? WHERE ARE THE OVEN MITTS?” and Clark is just like “Right…..oven
mitts…….. I think I lost them with the uh. footstool” both he and Lois pause
for a moment to engage in a riveting game of Mentally Punch Clark
Lois runs into the bathroom to put on a disguise and yells
out, “Where do you keep your razor?” There’s a gust of wind and Clark comes
back with slightly windswept hair. “I got it!” he says with unwarranted
triumph. “It’s right here. The razor I use.” Lois looks at it and it is CLEARLY
recently purchased and never used and she’s just like. I don’t even care
anymore
For weeks she just assumes Clark is missing some crucial
element in his home and starts stacking her own things all over the place. Lois thinking Clark has no clue how to take care of himself while Clark is Eternally Tormented and has to find ways to keep his identity a secret while living in close quarters, and the slow burn mutual pining roommates AU of my dreams begins
all right. so. this is a Harry Potter AU, in rambly and abbreviated form.
this is a version of events where, on the morning of November 1st, 1981, the police are called to a house in Surrey.
when they arrive, a large man with a red face and a moustache is waiting for them, brandishing a baby.
to be more accurate: he is brandishing a basket. the basket contains a baby.
he tells the police that his wife found the basket on their doorstep that morning. “Gave her the shock of her life,” he says, with a chuckle that does not seem the least bit sincere.
the police officers have a lot of questions about this, but the man does not have any useful answers. his wife, he tells them, is not in any shape to be interviewed. “she’s been poorly,” he says, “and we’ve got a baby of our own to worry about, keeping us up at all hours.”
the baby in the basket seems to be about a year old. he is cheerful, seems healthy aside from a cut on his forehead, with a crooked sticking plaster on it. he has startlingly green eyes.
there is no identifying information in the basket, except for a torn scrap of paper with ‘his name is Harry’ on it in a delicate hand.
there is nothing else to be done, it seems. the officers take baby Harry, and leave.
one of them comes back a few days later for a follow-up interview with the woman who found the baby. she seems a little fragile, and her own baby, in the next room, keeps up a constant shrieking tantrum the whole time the officer is there. “I’m sorry,” the woman says, with a brittle smile. “this has all been a bit much. I recently lost my sister, you see.”
Today’s aesthetic: 19th Century literature where the nominal protagonist doesn’t even show up until you’re 20 000 words in.
You can say Les Misérables
No, I can’t; Valjean doesn’t show up in Les Misérables until thirty thousand words in. Even by the standards of its time, Les Mis is 50% more insufferable than average!
what i do is not up to you 