Obama’s one-liners during his speech at the White House Correspondents Dinner.
I love my president.
I feel like I may have already posted these two a couple years ago but I sorta don’t care
This is my cat and my family’s flemish giant rabbit, both who live at my parents’ house, and they are best friends.
Since my eyes couldn’t handle the 3D of a bigger screen (and I do cherish my old 3DS too much), I’ve decided to make someone on tumblr happy with their very own Pikachu Limited Edition 3DS XL! I’m really excited to be doing this, and I can just hope it will make someone smile.
No, I won’t be selling it. I am not obligated to answer why, because if you honestly want me to sell it, my answer won’t be sufficient for you. Message me off anon if you’re really dying to know.
Now that the boring parts are over with, let’s go over even more boring stuff, shall we?
- Reblogs and likes both count and will combined give you two entries.
- You don’t need to be following me. However it would be nice to meet new people, and I do post a lot of Pokémon.
- I’ll ship internationally, but the system is European.
- No giveaway blogs.
- Have your ask box open so that I may contact you.
The giveaway will end on May 10. Have fun, okay? (◡‿◡✿)
That moment when you’re reading a great fic when suDDENLY EPITHET
The brunette clicked her mouse with a triumphant smirk and reblogged this post.
The older woman narrowed her eyes. “What is this sorcery?” she murmured.
“These are epithets,” whispered the brunette. She uncorked the bottle of rum and lazily poured a few drops into the other’s tea. The older woman rolled her eyes and went back to her medical research with a muttered sigh. The Irishman overheard from the sofa and, running his fingers along the back of the Lieutenant’s neck, grinned and added, “Oh, those fanfic writers.”
The Hunter and the Angel could not be reached for comment, as the brunette had locked them in the spare bedroom.
“I still don’t get it,” the young oncologist growled. “Well, you wouldn’t, would you?” the older woman said, and held out her teacup for more rum.
“He’s got epithetic dementia,” the diagnostician declared. “Not getting it is the main symptom.”
“This conversation is ridiculous,” said the halfling, appearing seemingly out of nowhere and waving his tiny hands at the diagnostician, young oncologist, hunter, angel, Irishman, lieutenant, brunette, and older woman. “I don’t even know what my own name is.”
“You think that’s bad,” said the diagnostician, “I’m supposed to be the gimp. What’s he. doing here?” The man with the limp pushed his glasses a bit higher on his nose. “Will all of you please just be quiet?” he said. “The Machine is trying to tell us something.”
“Also, if you don’t shut up and let me think,” said the former assassin, “I’ll have to shoot someone. I’ll start with … wait, I can’t remember which brunette is which.”
“There will be no shooting of anyone,” the older woman announced. “You — take the dog for a walk.” The Belgian Malinois, hearing the word ‘walk,’ barked enthusiastically. “Maybe you’ll run into the gambler. You can rescue him again.”
“I am the brunette,” said the brunette, who was standing next to the brunette.
“And I am the blonde,” said the blonde man, who should have been blond.
“And I am the walrus,” said the walrus. He looked around as everyone covered their faces and groaned. “What?” The older woman stared gloomily at her pages of medical research. “This has really gotten out of hand,” she said to the brunette.