Anonymous asked: have you tried yelling
37q:
i have no idea what youre referring to but of course ive tried yelling
I just learned that some websites use cookies to adjust prices. That is, if you visit a certain website a lot the price will increase.
You can tell if that’s the case by checking the same web page on a different browser if you have a different number of stored cookies for that site. I checked something on Chegg and it was $14.95 on Chrome, $19.95 on Firefox, and $16.95 on Safari.
The fix? Clear your cookies for that website.
Reblog, save a wallet.
Plane tickets almost always do this!
(Source: quantumheels, via clockwork-mockingbird)
Brilliant. Innovative and delightful. You’re hired, you start Wednesday.
(Source: swishyspock, via starwarsisgay)
in the style of The Toast
That One Unnamed Extinction Event That Happened When Blue-Green Algae Discovered Photosynthesis and Started Pumping the Environment Full of Oxygen, Which Was Toxic to All Other Life on Earth at That Point in Time
This extinction event did result in the extinction of more living organisms than any other, whether you rank by number of individuals, number of orders/genera/species, % of life, or amount of biomass, but they were all single-celled organisms, so they don’t even register on the metal scale.
The Current Slow Slide Due to Anthropogenic Environmental Modification
Habitat destruction isn’t very metal.
Late Devonian
Some super-weird shit died out, which is totally metal, but we have no idea why, which isn’t. It might not even have been an extinction event, just a decrease in the speciation rate. Jawed vertebrates totally unaffected.
End Ordovician
Second-largest extinction event after the End Permian (not counting those blue-green algae fuckers). Caused by tectonic plate shifting (kinda metal) and resulting glaciation (mildly metal).
Deep Impact
Pros: Giant asteroid hitting the earth.
Cons: Fictional.
End Triassic
Probably caused by massive volcanic eruptions, which is pretty metal, but mostly just wiped out some weird looking amphibians, which is only mildly metal.
End Permian
Greatest extinction event of all time (with the exception of that blue-green algae fiasco mentioned above), wiping out ~95% of all species: metal. Only known mass extinction of insects: metal. Probably caused by the biggest volcanic eruptions since life began (metal) which ignited massive coal beds (metal) and caused the release of methane from the ocean floor (metal) resulting in a runaway greenhouse effect that raised the average ocean temperature to 40C for several million years, essentially boiling the earth alive (super metal). Paved the way for dinosaurs to take over the earth: metal. Known as the ‘Great Dying’: totally metal.
However, most of the extinctions occurred in sessile marine organisms, which are way too boring to be metal, and for the first ~20 million years after the extinction event, land was dominated by Lystrosaurus, which is the most un-metal looking reptile you can think of.
End Cretaceous, aka the K-T Event
A GIANT FLAMING BALL OF ROCK HIT THE EARTH AND KILLED ALL THE (non-avian) DINOSAURS. ENOUGH SAID.
Have they stopped calling the first one the GREAT OXYGEN CATASTROPHE then?
I agree with most of this post (I’d swap Permian/Cretaceous because the Permian was freakin’ metal, yo, but no biggie) but you don’t get more metal than the GREAT OXYGEN CATASTROPHE
The entire surface of the earth was POISONED by a GAS that SHOULD NOT EXIST according to the basic LAWS OF THERMODYNAMICS
It’s so metal that even billions of years later Earth has had to evolve entire ecosystems that METABOLIZE DEADLY POISON GAS. And survive by EATING EACH OTHER (which was probably not a thing pre-OXYGEN HOLOCAUST, you don’t need to bother eating each other if you aren’t trying to survive in a world full of IMPOSSIBLE DEADLY GAS.) Earth’s original inhabitants now have to eke out an existence in sealed-off channels in SOLID ROCK and similar places.
THAT IS AS METAL AS IT GETS.
(also there’s the nuclear fission reactions and stuff, that part’s fun. Did the dinosaurs have nuclear fission? NO.)
I DID NOT KNOW IT WAS CALLED THE GREAT OXYGEN CATASTROPHE THAT MAKES IT EVEN BETTER
single-celled organisms are still not metal, though, so it remains in last place
I mean, yeah, O2, what a fucker, how is it even still around, it’s reactive as shit and eats literally everything it comes in contact with but
when 99.999999999999999999% of life on your planet gets wiped out by algae you don’t go around bragging about it
I’m just saying
algae
don’t say algae
LIFE
LIFE was destroyed by LIFE ITSELF
can’t you hear the distorted guitar riffs in the background
I get that, on an existential level, life being destroyed by life itself is very meta
I just don’t think it’s very metal
*dies from the toxic fumes emitted by that stinker*
(via minutia-r)
An SR-71 Blackbird once flew from LA to Washington DC in 64 minutes. Average speed of the flight: 2145mph.
“There were a lot of things we couldn’t do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.
It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.
I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn’t match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.
Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: “November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at ninety knots on the ground.”
Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the “ Houston Center voice.” I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country’s space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn’t matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the Cessna’s inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. “I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.” Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. “Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check”. Before Center could reply, I’m thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol’ Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He’s the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: “Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.”
And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done - in mere seconds we’ll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.
Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: “Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?” There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. “Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.”
I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: “Ah, Center, much thanks, we’re showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.”
For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A. came back with, “Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one.”
It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day’s work.
We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.”
-Brian Schul, Sled Driver: Flying The World’s Fastest Jet
An old but nonetheless great story!
(via cthulhu-with-a-fez)
For @littlestartopaz: Rogue/anyone really, with AN (“Have I entered an alternate universe or did you just crack a smile for me?”) from this post
Remy LaBeau, it’s gonna be Remy La-Fucking-Beau, because I am shipper trash and Rogue/Gambit is my hill to die on, y’all. Also, since Rogue’s life sucks PRETTY BAD, I’m going to try to write actual fluff tonight. This could be almost any continuity—I’m kind of visualizing the potential future of the MacAvoy, Fassbender, et. al. movies, because I saw Apocalypse twice in a week and that’ll do stuff to you. I don’t really like writing out accents, so feel free to mentally sub them in—Rogue’s from Mississippi, Remy’s from New Orleans, in case you didn’t know.
“Oh m’God, who’s cooking, that is amazing,” Rogue called as she swept into the mansion and was hit by a wall of smoky-sweet warmth spilling from the kitchen. “Is that jambalaya? Am I gonna have to do extra Danger Room sessions or somethin’ for that?”
“That depends, ma chérie,” the man at the stove said, turning and shooting her a smirk. “What’re you prepared to do?”
Anonymous asked: Alternate Fantasy: All the WIP I'm patiently waiting for updates on get updated, the authors have great weeks, feel good and are showered with material blessings that allow them the time and energy to write more.
REBLOG TO SPREAD THE ULTIMATE FANDOM BLESSING TO YOUR PEOPLE, MY CHILDREN.
Let’s play a game.
Type the following words into your tags box, then post the first automatic tag that comes up.
you, also, what, when, why, how, look, because, never
(via dyinghistoric)
when boys have sleepovers do they sleep in the same bed like girls do or do the rules of no homo include sharing beds
girls always share beds. and covers and clothes and food and personal space. sometimes even bathrooms
Girls share everything.
#girls dont believe in no homo #all da homo #dont give a fuck.
Actual conversation between me and my roommate, after we’d packed up literally our entire dorm room.
Adler: Wait, we didn’t think this through. My mattress is covered with boxes and I need to sleep there.
Me: *pulls out single sheet and pillow*
Me: It’s okay, I thought of this, you can just crash with me.
Adler: Oh, thanks, bro! Sounds like a plan!
Crickets: *chirping*
Me: …this is why everyone thinks we’re fucking, isn’t it.
Adler: Moran, my dear, I’ve read this fanfic a hundred times. This is EXACTLY why everyone thinks we’re fucking.
(Source: minajs, via clockwork-mockingbird)