A withered urban denizen with popping cowboy ankle boots. Hotdog toppings stain his frowsy undershirt, acting as his only shirt. What a snazzy individual.
These are some photographs I took on a disposable camera while in Death Valley.
Robit art dump!
When people boldly showcase themselves with a subtle air of arrogance I often get the urge to call them names, even though it may not be the nice thing to do.
Even necromantic rubes wear the lockets they wore beyond their initial departure from this mortal plane. Within remains a keepsake of their long-deceased loved one, forever a poignant link to a life and existence that was long ago forsaken.
Cursing Jars are titular containers placed prominently within a space, often a common room. Monetary donations (usually coinage, though bills are sometimes accepted) are placed within this container. These donations are typically not triggered by philanthropic will. More often these donations are required by house rule whenever a foul word is uttered by a patron. Sometimes there is a fixed fee per foul utterance, other times there is an index that lists a specific amount due depending on just how dirty the word is. The usage of the donations placed within the jar varies greatly… purposes range from charitable uses, to beer money (a usage that often helps to get the donations flowing all over again). One thing is certain: fucking brilliant idea.
The ding. Dings occur thousands of times the over the globe per minute. Many of these dings are not in the kitchen, but many of the best dings do. The ding that ushers a moist confection out from an oven’s interior is a particularly savory ding.
Some might see dong. It’s not dong. It’s ding. Some dongs are savory, though. Kitchen dongs are probably more savory than some.