Shake Ya Tailfeather.
Edgar Mitchell, Apollo 14
Okay, so, basically, it’s a vibrator, but, it goes with the rhythm/beat of whatever you are listening to.
It’s $69.99. (lol)
My friend and I saw this in our Human Sexuality class presentation, looked at each other and our jaws dropped.
The finale of Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture”.
SURFIN’ BIRD (Cramps version)
guys check this out
Debbie Harry by Annie Leibovitz for Vanity Fair, Feb. 2014
this is some fucked up stuff
where the fuck is this from I want to know
It’s Rachel Wise’s Fairy Tale series! Here are some more:
These are really fucked up…but I like ‘em.
HOUSEPLANTS OF GOR
The spider plant cringed as its owner brought forth the watering can. “I am a spider plant!” it cried indignantly. “How dare you water me before my time! Guards!” it called. “Guards!”
Borin, its owner, placed the watering can on the table and looked at it. “You will be watered,” he said.
"You do not dare to water me!" laughed the plant.
"You will be watered," said Borin.
"Do not water me!" wept the plant.
"You will be watered," said Borin.
I watched this exchange. Truly, I believed the plant would be watered. It was plant, and on Gor it had no rights. Perhaps on Earth, in its permissive society, which distorts the true roles of all beings, which forces both plant and waterer to go unh appy and constrained, which forbids the fulfillment of owner and houseplant, such might not happen. Perhaps there, it would not be watered. But it was on Gor now, and would undoubtedly feel its true place, that of houseplant. It was plant. It would be watered at will. Such is the way with plants.
Borin picked up the watering can, and muchly watered the plant. The plant cried out. “No, Master! Do not water me!” The master continued to water the plant. “Please, Master,” begged the plant, “do not water me!” The master continued to water the plant. It was plant. It could be watered at will.
The plant sobbed muchly as Borin laid down the watering can. It was not pleased. Too, it was wet. But this did not matter. It was plant.
"You have been well watered," said Borin.
"Yes," said the plant, "I have been well watered." Of course, it could be watered by its master at will.
"I have watered you well," said Borin.
"Yes, master," said the plant. "You have watered your plant well. I am plant, and as such I should be watered by my master."
The cactus plant next to the spider plant shuddered. It attempted to cover its small form with its small arms and small needles. “I am plant,” it said wonderingly. “I am of Earth, but for the first time, I feel myself truly plantlike. On Earth, I w as able to control my watering. I often scorned those who would water me. But they were weak, and did not see my scorn for what it was, the weak attempt of a small plant to protect itself. Not one of the weak Earth waterers would dare to water a plant if it did not wish it. But on Gor,” it shuddered, “on Gor it is different. Here, those who wish to water will water their plants as they wish. But strangely, I feel myself most plantlike when I am at the mercy of a strong Gorean master, who may water m e as he pleases.”
"I will now water you," said Borin, the cactus’s Gorean master.
The cactus did not resist being watered. Perhaps it was realizing that such watering was its master’s to control. Too, perhaps it knew that this master was far superior to those of Earth, who would not water it if it did not wish to be watered.
The cactus’s watering had been finished. The spider plant looked at it.
"I have been well watered," it said.
"I, too, have been well watered," said the cactus.
"My master has watered me well," said the spider plant.
"My master, too, has watered me well," said the cactus.
"I am to be placed in a hanging basket on the porch," said the spider plant.
"I, too, am to be placed in a hnaging basket on the porch," said the cactus.
"I wish you well," said the spider plant.
"I, too, wish you well," said the cactus.
"Tal," said the spider plant.
"Tal, too," said the cactus.
I did not think that the spider plant would object to being watered by its master again. For it realized that it was plant, and that here, unlike on Earth, it was likely to be owned and watered by many masters.
By Elle, who has read far too many Gor books and taken far too many finals to be allowed to run rampant on a computer.
The Legend of Stagecoach Mary,
Also known as Mary Fields, Stagecoach Mary was one of the toughest ladies of the Old West. Born as a slave on a Tennessee plantation in 1832, she gained her freedom after the Civil War and the resulting abolition of slavery. After the Civil War Mary made her way west where she eventually settled in Cascade County, Montana.
In Montana Mary would gain a reputation as one of the toughest characters in the territory. Unlike most women of the Victorian Era, Mary had a penchant for whiskey, cheap cigars, and brawling. It was not uncommon for men to harass her because of her race or her gender. Those who earned her disfavor did so at their own risk, as the six foot tall two hundred pound woman served up a mean knuckle sandwich. According to her obituary in Great Falls Examiner “she broke more noses than any other woman in Central Montana”.
In Montana Mary made a living doing heavy labor for a Roman Catholic convent. She did work such as carpentry, chopping wood, and stone work. However it was her job of transporting supplies to the convent by wagon that would earn her the name “Stagecoach Mary”. The job was certainly dangerous, as she braved fierce weather, bandits, robbers, and wild animals. In one instance her wagon was attacked by wolves, causing the horses to panic and overturn the wagon. Throughout the night Stagecoach Mary fought off several wolf attacks with a rifle, a ten gauge shotgun, and a pair of revolvers.
Mary’s job with the convent ended when another hired hand complained it was not fair that she made more money than him to the townspeople and the local bishop. When the bishop dismissed his claims, he went to a local saloon, saying that it was not fair that he should have to work with a black woman (he said something much more obscene). In response, Mary shot him in the bum. The bishop fired Mary, and she was out of a job.
After a failed attempt at running a restaurant, Stagecoach Mary was hired to run freight for the US Postal Service. Today she holds the distinction of being the first African American postal employee. Despite delivering parcels to some of the most remote and rugged areas of Montana, Mary gained a reputation for always delivering on time regardless of the weather or terrain.
At the age of seventy, Stagecoach Mary retired from the parcel business and opened a laundry. In one incident when a customer refused to pay, the 72 year old woman knocked out one of his teeth. For the remainder of her life Mary settled down to peace and quiet, drinking whiskey and smoking cheap cigars. She passed away in 1914 at the age of 82.
"She opened a restaurant in Cascade. She would serve food to anyone, whether they could pay or not, and the restaurant went broke in about ten months."
Susan Sontag, ”Fascinating Fascism”, 1974