NO GREAT DEEDS ARE COMMEMORATED HERE.

Yeah that tracks

I know this isn't ninjago guys but I finished this 17 hour painting for my art class and I was proud of it so...enjoy.

I love Egypt fun fact about me. :)

A PAINTING????

Someone living in Sweden during the Iron Age wore this cloak. Unfortunately, they wore it while they were murdered: forensic analysis found the holes in the cloak match how stabs would have penetrated the folds of the cloak when it was being worn.

Dating to 360 to 100 BCE, is also the oldest known example of a houndstooth pattern!

Nothing I will ever write will ever be as good as “unfortunately, they wore it while they were murdered”

For the previous tags asking about the difference between a cloak and a blanket… For a lot of history very little! Weaving was a massively labor intensive process, so clothing was often ‘large multi purpose rectangle’ look at Greek togas or dresses which were basically ‘strategically pinned and or belted large rectangles’ - so could the cloak be used as a blanket in a pinch (or visa versa?) Sure could!

I got curious about this particular one, it actually isn’t a rectangle but is an oval, and sounds like it had some stitching to hold the shape.

Please read this man’s description of his dachshund and its most annoying habit

“I have a ridiculous dog named Walnut. He is as domesticated as a beast can be: a purebred longhaired miniature dachshund with fur so thick it feels rich and creamy, like pudding. His tail is a huge spreading golden fan, a clutch of sunbeams. He looks less like a dog than like a tropical fish. People see him and gasp. Sometimes I tell Walnut right out loud that he is my precious little teddy bear pudding cup sweet boy snuggle-stinker.

In my daily life, Walnut is omnipresent. He shadows me all over the house. When I sit, he gallops up into my lap. When I go to bed, he stretches out his long warm body against my body or he tucks himself under my chin like a soft violin. Walnut is so relentlessly present that sometimes, paradoxically, he disappears. If I am stressed or tired, I can go a whole day without noticing him. I will pet him idly; I will yell at him absent-mindedly for barking at the mailman; I will nuzzle him with my foot. But I will not really see him. He will ask for my attention, but I will have no attention to give. Humans are notorious for this: for our ability to become blind to our surroundings — even a fluffy little jewel of a mammal like Walnut.

…

When I come home from a trip, Walnut gets very excited. He prances and hops and barks and sniffs me at the door. And the consciousnesses of all the wild creatures I’ve seen — the puffins, rhinos, manatees, ferrets, the weird hairy wet horses — come to life for me inside of my domestic dog. He is, suddenly, one of these unfamiliar animals. I can pet him with my full attention, with a full union of our two attentions. He is new to me and I am new to him. We are new again together.

Even when he is horrible. The most annoying thing Walnut does, even worse than barking at the mailman, is the ritual of his “evening drink.” Every night, when I am settled in bed, when I am on the brink of sleep, Walnut will suddenly get very thirsty. If I go to bed at 10:30, Walnut will get thirsty at 11. If I go to bed at midnight, he’ll wake me up at 1. I’ve found that the only way I cannot be mad about this is to treat this ritual as its own special kind of voyage — to try to experience it as if for the first time. If I am open to it, my upstairs hallway contains an astonishing amount of life.

The evening drink goes something like this: First, Walnut will stand on the edge of the bed, in a muscular, stout little stance, and he will wave his big ridiculous fan tail in my face, creating enough of a breeze that I can’t ignore it. I will roll over and try to go back to sleep, but he won’t let me: He’ll stamp his hairy front paws and wag harder, then add expressive noises from his snout — half-whine, half-breath, hardly audible except to me. And so I give up. I sit up and pivot and plant my feet on the floor — I am hardly even awake yet — and I make a little basket of my arms, like a running back preparing to take a handoff, and Walnut pops his body right into that pocket, entrusting the long length of his vulnerable spine (a hazard of the dachshund breed) to the stretch of my right arm, and then he hangs his furry front legs over my left. From this point on we function as a unit, a fusion of man and dog. As I lift my weight from the bed Walnut does a little hop, just to help me with gravity, and we set off down the narrow hall. We are Odysseus on the wine-dark sea. (Walnut is Odysseus; I am the ship.)

All of evolution, all of the births and deaths since caveman times, since wolf times, that produced my ancestors and his — all the firelight and sneak attacks and tenderly offered scraps of meat, the cages and houses, the secret stretchy coils of German DNA — it has all come, finally, to this: a fully grown exhausted human man, a tiny panting goofy harmless dog, walking down the hall together. Even in the dark, Walnut will tilt his snout up at me, throw me a deep happy look from his big black eyes — I can feel this happening even when I can’t see it — and he will snuffle the air until I say nice words to him (OK you fuzzy stinker, let’s go get your evening drink), and then, always, I will lower my face and he will lick my nose, and his breath is so bad, his fetid snout-wind, it smells like a scoop of the primordial soup. It is not good in any way. And yet I love it.

Walnut and I move down the hall together, step by bipedal step, one two three four, tired man and thirsty friend, and together we pass the wildlife of the hallway — a moth, a spider on the ceiling, both of which my children will yell at me later to move outside, and of course each of these creatures could be its own voyage, its own portal to millions of years of history, but we can’t stop to study them now; we are passing my son’s room. We can hear him murmuring words to his friends in a voice that sounds disturbingly like my own voice, deep sound waves rumbling over deep mammalian cords — and now we are passing my daughter’s room, my sweet nearly grown-up girl, who was so tiny when we brought Walnut home, as a golden puppy, but now she is moving off to college. In her room she has a hamster she calls Acorn, another consciousness, another portal to millions of years, to ancient ancestors in China, nighttime scampering over deserts.

But we move on. Behind us, in the hallway, comes a sudden galumphing. It is yet another animal: our other dog, Pistachio, he is getting up to see what’s happening; he was sleeping, too, but now he is following us. Pistachio is the opposite of Walnut, a huge mutt we adopted from a shelter, a gangly scraggly garbage muppet, his body welded together out of old mops and sandpaper, with legs like stilts and an enormous block head and a tail so long that when he whips it in joy, constantly, he beats himself in the face. Pistachio unfolds himself from his sleepy curl, stands, trots, huffs and stares after us with big human eyes. Walnut ignores him, because with every step he is sniffing the dark air ahead of us, like a car probing a night road with headlights, and he knows we are approaching his water dish now, he knows I am about to bend my body in half to set his four paws simultaneously down on the floor, he knows that he will slap the cool water with his tongue for 15 seconds before I pick him up again and we journey back down the hall. And I find myself wondering, although of course it doesn’t matter, if Walnut was even thirsty, or if we are just playing out a mutual script. Or maybe, and who could blame him, he just felt like taking a trip.”

One of life's greatest joys, I think, is passing an AU back and forth with your friends and making it progressively hornier and more fucked up

Bitches will find a fictional man attractive and then immediately imagine him in situations where he is losing alarming amounts of blood

I'm getting so sick of major female characters in historical media being incredibly feisty, outspoken and public defenders of women's rights with little to no realistic repercussions. Yes it feels like pandering, yes it's unrealistic and takes me out of the story, yes the dialogue almost always rings false - but beyond all that I think it does such a disservice to the women who lived during those periods. I'm not embarrassed of the women in history who didn't use every chance they had to Stick It To The Man. I'm not ashamed of women who were resigned to or enjoyed their lot in life. They weren't letting the side down by not having and representing modern gender ideals. It says a lot about how you view average ordinary women if the idea of one of your main characters behaving like one makes them seem lame and uninteresting to you.

Mythbusters have 3 categories of myths

4. Turn up the dynamite, let's MAKE it real

Poisonous Plants in Winter

By the time winter comes, many plants lose their leaves and flowers, but there are still evergreen or winter flowering plants that can cause problems for your pet.

Mistletoe and Holly are seasonal favourites, which are often brought into people’s homes or gardens over the festive period. They can pose hazards to your pets, especially if the berries are eaten – so remember to keep them out of paws’ reach!

Some plants, such as amaryllis, can grow indoors as well as outdoors at this time of year, so don’t forget to check our list if you’re thinking of bringing a new plant into your house.

Plants to avoid:

L'Art et la mode, no. 45, vol. 32, 11 novembre 1911, Paris. Robe du soir en crêpe de soie “tilleul” ourlée de renard. Tunique de Venise rehaussé de fleurs d'or. Voilage de mousseline de soie bleu de nuit perlé. Imp. L. Lafontaine, Paris. Bibliothèque nationale de France

The thing with statistics - via

Numbers don’t lie but people can sure as fuck pick and choose the numbers they give you and phrase things to make them sound like they mean things they don’t

learn fucking stats or at least how they can hurt

As a wise man once said: There are lies, damned lies, and statistics.

Stats are very important and the only reason I remember what each one is is because of a darn nursery rhyme my math teacher taught me.

“Hey diddle diddle, the median’s the middle

you add and divide for the mean.

The mode is the one that appears the most

and the range is the difference between.”

Happy Partially Muscled Skeleton Stands By The Perimeter Fence And Screams For Thirty Seconds Before Vanishing day for all who celebrate

i've had an epiphany

Ok, to prove to my husband that this is more a European device than a U.S. device I am going to need more non-US people to reblog this.

Do not reblog for science. No science will be happening. Reblog to help me prove a point!

(If I am right I will show him this poll. If I am wrong he will never know this happened)

Alex Jones is livestreaming rn and for the first and only time in my life it's appointment viewing. He got evicted from his studio mid-stream and they had to cover for him when he popped up in his "satellite studio" (a room in his house I assume) devoid of the Infowars branding. He's talking about how "tens of millions" of people have watched his final broadcast & you can literally see he has far less than a million viewers in the bottom corner (and this is on Twitter, which inflates views of videos ever since Elon had to convince people anyway gives a shit about Tucker Carlson's livestreams). He's currently whining that they chose not to sell his site back to him at auction, so he could keep doing the crimes that are why he was selling his website.

I didn't see this personally but he's apparently read out the Onion's announcement, which is a fake article by a fake corporation, out loud several times as if it was real. Anyway it should be noted how screwed he is, bc...

...while he can livestream under his own name, they own his warehouses of dubious supplements. He has nothing to sell but t-shirts protesting that his show is going down. Since Infowars was, first and foremost, a lifestyle brand, this leaves him, scientifically speaking, "totally fucked". He doesn't have ads, that's the only way he makes money

He just promised that he will "win the information war" which. You were sued into oblivion for lying about the parents of murdered children & lost your platform so hard you don't even have a studio anymore & your brand was seized by a rival to make fun of you. I didn't think the Infowar was a real thing you could lose, but I'm not sure there's a more definitive way to lose the information war. Anyway he's now ranting about fluoride