You might have heard of the Teddy Boys, a 1950s rebel youth subculture in Britain characterized by an unlikely style of dress inspired by Edwardian dandies fu
Girl dandies who wore male Edwardian dress in the 1950s … does it get any better than this???
I tell you, it does not.
"Teddy girls were mostly working class teens as well, but considered less interesting by the media who were more concerned with sensationalizing a violent working class youth culture…..But even with lower wages than the boys, Teddy girls would still dress up in their own drape jackets, rolled-up jeans, flat shoes, tailored jackets with velvet collars and put their feminine spin on the Teddy style with straw boater hats, brooches, espadrilles and elegant clutch bags. They would go to the cinema in groups and attend dances and concerts with the boys, collect rock’n’roll records and magazines…."
And now they’re public! (They were discovered in the 1960s, but embarrassed relatives postponed their embarrassment by donating the letters to the Library of Congress, who in turn promised not to release them for 50 years.)
THE RED EMPEROR IS THE GOD OF MOTHERFUCKING FIRE AND METAL AND THE SUN. HE’S PRETTY FUCKING COOL. HE’S ALSO KIND OF EVIL AND TRIES TO OVERTHROW THE YELLOW EMPEROR A FEW TIMES, BUT NOBODY GIVES A SHIT ABOUT THAT.
WHEN HE FIRST ARRIVES ON EARTH, HE SETS UP A FUCKING MASSIVE FIRE CASTLE AND THEN GOES OUT TO SEE HOW SHIT EVERYTHING IS FOR THE PEOPLE. IT’S PRETTY FUCKING SHIT; THEY DON’T HAVE ENOUGH FOOD OR ANYTHING LIKE THAT.
HE STARTS BY TEACHING THE PEOPLE METALWORKING SO THEY CAN MURDER THE SHIT OUT OF ALL THE POSIONOUS SNAKES EVERYWHERE, AND THEN GETS THEM TO PLOUGH THE GROUND AROUND HIS KINGDOM.
THEN HE DECIDES HE NEEDS MORE PLANTS, SO HE FUCKING SHOUTS AT THE BIRDS UNTIL THEY SURRENDER AND GIVE HIM A FUCK-TONNE OF SEEDS, AND THEN HE PLANTS A FIELD.
NOT HAPPY WITH HOW MUCH FOOD THERE IS, HE MAKES A MOTHERFUCKING FIRE WHIP AND WHIPS THE SHIT OUT OF THE PLANTS UNTIL THEY MAGICALLY DEVELOP HEALING POWERS. THE RED EMPEROR IS ONE BADASS MOTHERFUCKER.
ALL THE PEOPLE LOVE HIM TO BITS, AND ARE ALSO FUCKING TERRIFIED OF HIM BECAUSE HE’S A FUCKING MANIAC WITH A WHIP MADE OUT OF MOTHERFUCKING FIRE, SO THEY MAKE A GIANT CAULDRON TO SHOW JUST HOW FUCKING MUCH THEY LOVE HIM, AND HE’S HAPPY AND DOESN’T BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF HIM. AND THAT’S HOW YOU RULE A KINGDOM, BITCHES.
Social Justice Warrior?? okay but we’re gonna need a Social Justice Thief and a Social Justice Cleric cuz I’m a Social Justice Witch and don’t have party heals. Might need a Social Justice Paladin if the war isn’t specced into defense plus maybe another Social Justice DPS to round the party out
Disneyworld needs to make a rollercoaster based off of the ride Yzma and Kronk take to the lair. When the ride starts, Yzma’s voice yells “pull the lever, Kronk!” and the ride starts to move backwards so she yells “wrong lever!” and it shoots you forward.
Heroes who shed their blood and lost their lives! You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and Mehmets to us where they lie side by side here in this country of ours. You, the mothers, who sent their sons from far away countries wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.
Bu Memleketin toprakları üstünde kanlarını döken kahramanlar! Burada dost bir vatanın toprağındasınız. Huzur ve sükun içinde uyuyunuz. Sizler Mehmetçiklerle yanyana koyun koyunasınız. Uzak diyarlardan evlatlarını harbe gönderen analar! Gözyaşlarınızı dindiriniz. Evlatlarınız bizim bağrımızdadır, huzur içindedirler ve huzur içinde rahat rahat uyuyacaklardır. Onlar bu toprakta canlarını verdikten sonra artık bizim evlatlarımız olmuşlardır.
”—-Mustafa Kemal Atatürk (inscribed at memorials on Anzac Cove, in Canberra, Australia, and at the Atatürk Memorial at Tarakena Bay in New Zealand)
“Now to the infantry—the God-damned infantry, as they like to call themselves.
I love the infantry because they are the underdogs. They are the mud-rain-frost-and-wind boys. They have no comforts, and they even learn to live without the necessities. And in the end they are the guys that wars can’t be won without.
I wish you could see just one of the ineradicable pictures I have in my mind today. In this particular picture I am sitting among clumps of sword-grass on a steep and rocky hillside that we have just taken. We are looking out over a vast rolling country to the rear.
A narrow path comes like a ribbon over a hill miles away, down a long slope, across a creek, up a slope and over another hill.
All along the length of this ribbon there is now a thin line of men. For four days and nights they have fought hard, eaten little, washed none, and slept hardly at all. Their nights have been violent with attack, fright, butchery, and their days sleepless and miserable with the crash of artillery.
The men are walking. They are fifty feet apart, for dispersal. Their walk is slow, for they are dead weary, as you can tell even when looking at them from behind. Every line and sag of their bodies speaks their inhuman exhaustion.
On their shoulders and backs they carry heavy steel tripods, machine-gun barrels, leaden boxes of ammunition. Their feet seem to sink into the ground from the overload they are bearing.
They don’t slouch. It is the terrible deliberation of each step that spells out their appalling tiredness. Their faces are black and unshaven. They are young men, but the grime and whiskers and exhaustion make them look middle-aged.
In their eyes as they pass is not hatred, not excitement, not despair, not the tonic of their victory—there is just the simple expression of being here as though they had been here doing this forever, and nothing else.
The line moves on, but it never ends. All afternoon men keep coming round the hill and vanishing eventually over the horizon. It is one long tired line of antlike men.
There is an agony in your heart and you almost feel ashamed to look at them. They are just guys from Broadway and Main Street, but you wouldn’t remember them. They are too far away now. They are too tired. Their world can never be known to you, but if you could see them just once, just for an instant, you would know that no matter how hard people work back home they are not keeping pace with these infantrymen in Tunisia.”—"The God-damned Infantry," Ernie Pyle 2 May 1943 (via demons)
“We received the following message tied to a stone from the opposite German trenches. —-We’re going to open fire with artillery. We don’t want to do this but we’ve been ordered to. It will come this evening, and we’ll blow a whistle first so you’ll have time to take cover.”—Regimental War Diary, 5th Leicester Regiment, World War I. (via peashooter85)