Genuine question: the fuck is butler weave floss?

Most far side comics don’t really resonate or make much sense to me

This one hits tho

no, this is my mother’s soup

Her right thumb appears to be another finger instead of a thumb and also sort of morphs a bit into the pointer finger. It almost looks like it wanted to generate six fingers on her left hand but didn’t. The chair has 5 legs and the concrete uhh curb I guess stops being a thing behind her and then it’s just floor and railing.

Also two cups of coffee lmao

otherwise really good generation.

ok but why does carakota go kinda hard

can we just go back to Homestuck-esque typing quirks?

To quote DBZa’s Android 16:

“But there you stand, the good man, doing nothing. And while evil triumphs, and your rigid pacifism crumbles into blood-stained dust, the only victory afforded to you is that you stuck true to your guns.”

Life isn’t some black and white fair tale story where if you stick to your guns hard enough everything will turn out ok. Sometimes you have to abandon your principles to protect them.

Bro would hate chess

what the fuck is that symbol

A sudden urge to kill a foolishly dressed alleged comedian fills you to the brim. Unfortunately, there is none in the room with you. You’d have to find him before you can kill him, but you have your objective in mind. The first question is how you’re going to get out of here. The front door is locked, and the only hint of a key is the shitty drawing on the floor. Ha ha. Very funny, whoever put that there. What’s worse is that there’s no weapons here. To kill someone, you’d need something to kill them with. Well, you could do with your bare hands, but it’s much easier with a tool of some sorts, and the cabin is strangely absent of tools suitable for the act of murder.

You whisper the ultimate cat call. It echoes over the empty cabin; nothing happens, and a profound sense of loss washes over you. You walk over to the shelf by the window and run your hand over it, staring at the one particularly worn spot on it for a moment. You walk over and check the litter box, but of course it’s clean. It always is nowadays. Old habits die hard after all. You cook yourself some breakfast and take a seat at the table, and try the call again. Nothing happens, as expected, not even when you open a can of tuna. Old habits die hard, but they die eventually. You spread the tuna on your bread and eat your meal, alone in the silence.

When you go to examine the bookshelf, you realize it’s not actually a bookshelf, but a painting on the wall designed to look exactly like a set of bookshelves from precisely the perspective you were formally at. Oddly enough, all of the titles are books you have read before, but none are ones you’re currently reading.

The squirrels. They’ve been your sworn enemy ever since you moved here, always raiding your pantry and gardens, but this latest ploy is befuddling. What use would a band of squirrels have for an anvil? And when did they learn to write? And how did they even move the anvil? It’s a deeply perplexing puzzle, quite a pickle you found yourself in. To be safe, you figure you ought to double check everything you own; maybe the anvil wasn’t the only thing they had taken…

Food: ooooooxxxx

Water: oooooooooo

Firewood: oooooooox

Ore & minerals: ooooxxxxxx

Anvils: 0/10

Hammer: 10/10

You whip up a large breakfast, fit for a hobbit’s first breakfast: eggs, bacon, toast, fruit mix, cereal and yogurt and milk, orange juice and a small brownie for desert. Before long the scent washes over the entire cabin and your belly grumbles in anticipation. You sit down to feast and enjoy the fatty, savory meats and the crisp and buttered toast, the fluffy eggs and the sugary cereal and milk.

All incredibly filling, you pat your nearly bloated stomach, satisfied with the meal. You emerge onto the porch for a quick smoke of the herb, letting the floating sensation wash over you as you watch the trees sway in the wind and the dew twinkle on the grass. By now it’s practically afternoon, just about time for second breakfast. Then again, you do have to tend to your farms and gardens; all this food comes from somewhere, no?

Breakfast had: 1/?

Pipes smoked: 1/30

Food stores: oooooxxxxx

You try the door, but find it locked. There doesn’t seem to be any locking mechanism on the inside, only a keyhole. Whoever designed this door obviously intended it to keep things inside instead of out. From the window, you try to shift your viewpoint in hopes the name will reveal itself from a different angle, but no dice. Even the windows themselves seem to be locked. You’re stuck, unable to escape from this cabin. You could even say that you’re cabin stuck.

With great effort you rip your mind away from the anvil and focus on less important matters: valuable loot. Your antics left the cabin in ruins, its contents scattered all over the floor. Picking through the aftermath of your disastrous rage, you find some bits and bobs of seeming value; you could probably sell it all for a handful of silver pieces, provided the local market economy is strong. More importantly, you find something much more valuable that made the dastardly destruction much more worthwhile: a single radish. Now this is good loot. Just one of these rotund magenta delicacies could set you up for a few years, provided a decent market economy of course. But this is just one. You have a much greater goal than that. Yes, this one alone is a fantastic haul, but you need more.

Radishes found: 1/15

When you try the door, you find that it’s locked tight. Looking outside through the window, you do in fact spot some suitable nodes to hit, if only you could get to them. Your forge does require ore and minerals; your stocks are getting low. Unfortunately with no way outside and no rocks to hit inside, you’re left stranded.

You take a peek out of the windows. Just outside, there’s a home garden with plenty of radishes and… more radishes? Whoever planted those loved radishes apparently. Further beyond it, there’s a mailbox, with the little flappy thing up. The flappy thing that says you got mail when it’s up, whatever that thing is called. The red flappy bit. You’ve got mail! You think. Is that your mailbox? Is this even your cabin?

The first place you would check is the fridge; the problem is, there doesn’t seem to be a fridge here. There’s a spot that seems like it would clearly house a fridge, but it’s not there. You could have sworn you saw it out of the corner of your eye before you turned towards it, but there’s no real point thinking about it now. Unless you count books or strange flowers as edible calories, your search turns up empty. Whoever was here before left no food.

The only place you hadn’t checked is the attic, but as you stare at the ladders ascending upwards, you get a most ominous sensation; chills creeping up your spine…

You search the forge top to bottom, inside and outside, searching for any clues as to where it may have gone. The most obvious clue you find is a note stapled to the outside of the forge door; you’re not sure how you missed it the first time around. In poor handwriting and poorer grammar, the note says “Ur avil were repossessed. mist paymont. -avil mortgage coppany.”

This letter is obviously fake. For one, the premise is stupid. It’s inconceivable that an anvil mortgage company would just reposses your anvil off a single missed payment; they’d send an agent or letter reminding you first. For two, you’ve already paid your anvil-tgage this month, at least you’re pretty sure of it. Whoever left this note was making a clear attempt at delaying your search for the true culprit. You’ve got a sneaking suspicion who, or what, might have left this letter. After all, they’ve raided your supplies before. The real question is, why would they have taken the anvil of all things?