We could brand it as Special K and introduce a meat line of products
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Joined 2 months ago
Cake day: January 23rd, 2025
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Generous of you to assume they were joking rather than testing the waters.
What about Morty-style psychic shields?
We can just make vaccines from autistic people
Their meat is oily and diseased?
Firefly: a lightning bug
Lightning bug: a firefly
Fire bug: an arsonist
Lightning fly: ??? The electric eel of the dragonfly world?
“Is that bat glowing?”
That’s no bat. Run!"
[Electrical crackling sounds]
“I cast 200 μg Luciferin.”
[Dice noises]
“Nat 15. Your abdomen glows and dims slowly and rhythmically.”
2·3 days agoLooks like the Federalist Society is connected, too. It’s like the Who’s Who of Homogeny, Exclusion, and Inequity. Somebody give me an L-word so we can call them what they are.
I’m not doing the whole “Everyone I don’t agree with is a Nazi.” I mean, very specifically, this is the strategy used by unaccountable, ultrawealthy people to wield their power recklessly for an extremist movement that they’re going to lose control of. It just happens to be the best-known, contemporary archetypal, right-wing-flavor of the revolutionary bait-and-switch.
I’m definitely with you on that in spirit. I would starve if I actually practiced that across the board. I figure if we start from the top down, maybe we can get the co-ops to come back. Our neighborhood co-op grocery closed down not too long ago, and all that’s left are national chains.
Can we add bigger offenders like Wal-Mart and Amazon?
0·5 days agoUndercover in Bloom: A Love Story (With Prison Time)
FBI Agent Irene Calloway had dedicated her career to taking down criminals, but nothing in her training had prepared her for the absurdity of posing as a florist. Yet here she was, the proud owner of Flowers By Irene, a totally-legit, definitely-not-a-front flower shop.
Her shop was a cover. The real operation happened every night when she parked her painfully obvious surveillance van across the street from her target: Dan Marino—not the football player, but a suspected money launderer.
The van, a white monstrosity covered in antennas and a cartoonishly large satellite dish, was supposed to blend in. It did not. The words Flowers By Irene were painted in elegant cursive on the side, as if that would somehow make it less suspicious.
For weeks, Irene monitored Dan’s every move. She had enough evidence to put him away for years. His shell companies, his offshore accounts, his suspiciously high pizza delivery bills. It was all there.
Then, one fateful morning, Dan walked into her shop.
“Hey,” he said, flashing a devastatingly illegal smile. “I need flowers.”
Irene nearly dropped a potted fern.
“Flowers?” she repeated, as if the concept was foreign to her.
Dan nodded. “Yeah. My apartment feels… empty. Thought some flowers might liven it up.”
Irene narrowed her eyes. Was this a trick? Did he suspect her?
But no. He just stood there, looking obnoxiously handsome, waiting for a floral recommendation.
“Uh… lilies?” she offered.
Dan grinned. “I’ll take ‘em.”
That should have been the end of it. A one-time visit.
But the next day, he came back.
“Roses today,” he said. “For myself.”
“A little romantic, don’t you think?” she teased.
Dan smirked. “Maybe I’m just hoping my florist finds it charming.”
Irene was doomed.
Each day, he returned. Each night, she sat in her van, watching him commit federal crimes.
By day, he was charming, funny, and surprisingly passionate about floral arrangements. By night, he was deep in the criminal underworld. She had everything she needed to arrest him.
And yet.
She was falling. Hard.
One evening, as she sat in her van listening to his latest shady phone call, her partner, Agent Lewis, side-eyed her.
“You like him,” Lewis accused.
“I do not,” Irene said, lying.
“You’re literally twirling your hair right now.”
Irene immediately stopped twirling her hair.
Lewis smirked. “You do know we’re arresting him soon, right?”
Her stomach dropped.
Right. The arrest.
She tried to tell herself she didn’t care. That she was a professional. That she wasn’t emotionally compromised.
But when the SWAT team stormed Dan’s apartment at dawn, Irene’s heart ached.
She stood in the background as they cuffed him, watching as realization dawned in his eyes.
“You,” he said, looking straight at her.
Irene swallowed hard. “Dan… I—”
His smirk returned. “I knew it. The van was way too suspicious.”
She groaned. “I told them to use a smaller satellite dish!”
“Yeah, that might’ve helped.” He looked down at his cuffs, then back at her. “So… what happens now?”
“Now?” Irene sighed. “You go to prison.”
Dan grinned. “And then?”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s it, Dan. You go to prison. End of story.”
Dan winked. “We’ll see.”
Two Years Later…
Irene really hadn’t expected to still be thinking about him.
She had gone on dates. Normal, law-abiding dates. But no one made her laugh like Dan did.
Then, one day, a letter arrived at her shop.
“You still owe me flowers. – Dan”
Against all logic, she wrote back.
For months, they exchanged letters. Flirty, ridiculous, completely inappropriate letters.
Then, the day he got out of prison, he walked into her shop like nothing had happened.
“Miss me?” he asked, leaning on the counter.
Irene wanted to be mad. She really did. But instead, she sighed.
“Are you at least going to try being a law-abiding citizen?”
Dan grinned. “For you? Maybe.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Then how about this—I’m done with crime. Clean slate. No more shady businesses, no more offshore accounts. Just me… and my favorite FBI agent.”
Irene definitely did not melt at that.
“Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But if you do any more crimes—”
Dan held up his hands. “No crimes. Scout’s honor.”
She crossed her arms. “You were never a scout.”
“Okay, but I’m serious. No more trouble. Just flowers. And, uh… maybe one small thing?”
She narrowed her eyes. “What?”
He pulled a ring from his pocket.
Irene forgot how to breathe.
“Marry me?” Dan said, smirking.
She stared at him. “Dan. You literally just got out of prison.”
“Exactly. Fresh start.”
She groaned. “Oh my God, I’m going to regret this.”
Dan wiggled the ring. “Sooo… yes?”
She exhaled. “Fine.”
Dan grinned. “Told you I’d win you over.”
She rolled her eyes. “Shut up and kiss me, ex-con.”
He did.
Mission: Grocery Haul – The Fallen Bananas Memorial
Project Code Name: OPERATION CART-STORM
Prologue: The Briefing
David “The Planner” Reynolds sat at his kitchen table, a war-room map of Supermart 3000 spread before him. Every aisle was marked with strategic objectives and potential hazards. A spreadsheet titled Grocery Acquisition & Deployment Strategy – Q1 glowed on his laptop screen.
He adjusted his earpiece. “Control, this is David. Do you read me?”
A long sigh. “Dave, it’s me. Your wife. You’re just going grocery shopping.”
“Negative, Control. This is a precision operation. I’ll report back upon mission completion.”
Phase One: The Grocery Gauntlet
David executed the plan with military efficiency.
- Bread and Dairy: Secured with no resistance.
- Frozen Foods: Avoided high-risk impulse-buy zones. Budget ice cream acquired.
- Produce Aisle: Engaged in evasive maneuvers to avoid a slow-moving cart convoy.
Within 38 minutes, he was checked out, loaded up, and en route home. A textbook success.
Or so he thought.
Phase Two: The Discovery
The moment he unloaded the groceries, his wife—Control—conducted post-mission verification.
“David… where are the bananas?”
His heart stopped. The bananas.
He scrambled through the bags. Milk? Check. Eggs? Check. Coffee? Check.
Bananas? Gone.
He staggered back. The air seemed thinner.
They were lost. Left behind. A casualty of war.
His wife folded her arms. “Go back and get them.”
David looked out the window, eyes distant. “I can’t.”
Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean, you can’t?”
He exhaled. “They’re gone now. Their fate… is sealed.”
“David. Just go back to the store.”
But David had already turned, walking toward the backyard. A memorial had to be held.
Phase Three: The Fallen Bananas Memorial
Dressed in his darkest jacket, David stood in the backyard, a solemn expression on his face. On the patio table sat a single empty grocery bag, symbolizing the loss.
A missing man formation of fruit was arranged before him:
- Three apples, standing proud.
- A lone orange, solemn and unwavering.
- A single pear, its position slightly off-center, as if grieving.
David took a deep breath and began the eulogy.
“We gather here today to honor the bananas that never made it home. Though they were written on the list, though they were meant to stand among us… fate had other plans.”
His wife watched from the doorway, arms crossed. “You’re doing too much.”
David continued undeterred.
“They were meant for smoothies, for lunches, for quick snacks between Zoom calls. But instead… they were left behind, abandoned in Aisle 5. I carry this weight. I will not forget them.”
He saluted the missing bananas.
A moment of silence.
A slight breeze rustled the leaves. Somewhere, a car alarm went off in the distance.
His wife sighed. “Are you done?”
David exhaled, nodding. “The mission was flawed. But I will do better.”
She rolled her eyes. “Just go back to the store.”
But David had already turned away, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Some losses must be accepted.
Then, they’ll be American citizens who are also wealthy. They’re very rarely criminals. Just look at their incarceration rates! Practically insignificant.
No, no! They said:
“Treasury takes this step in the interest of supporting hard-working American taxpayers and small businesses,” it said, adding that it intended to issue a rule to narrow the scope of the act to foreign reporting companies."
Can’t you read? /s
Because we haven’t figured out how to make it cost $251 yet.
Well, go on, spare no detail. Was this real Italian durum wheat? What kind of sauce?
En liten glede i livet er at søsteren min dater en fyr med samme navn som katten hennes, og menneskelige Nigel hater at vi kaller ham «menneskelige Nigel».
GI JOE!