french recipes: if you’re not making this in paris then what’s the point. fuck you
italian recipes: use the left leg meat of a pig from one of three farms in this specific area of tuscany, or from this day my grandmother will begin manifesting physically in your house
american recipes: buy these three cans of stuff and put them in a pan congrats you cooked
chinese recipes, as handed down from mother to child: season it with a pinch of this and some of that. you want to know the exact amount? feel it in your heart. ask the stars. yell into the void.
English recipes: boil and salt it. Okay that’s it enjoy
Greek recipes: You followed all the right steps but this isn’t quite right. I don’t know what to tell you.
Australia recipes: chuck it on the barbie
Latinx recipes: you will never make it better than your abuela, face the facts
Filipino recipes: add rice and soy sauce and some more rice MORE RICE MORE RICE MORE
Serbian Recipes: everything is salad. Ajvar? Salad. A single whole hot pepper covered in oil? Salad. Cabbage? Salad. Kajmak? Salad.
Lebanese recipes: If you don’t have at least 3 family members cooking this dinner with you than you aren’t doing it right.
Indonesian recipes: have you added spices? Add some just in case. Eat with rice. It’s not a proper meal until there’s rice in it. You just had bread/burger/cake/pizza? Eat rice anyway or you’ll die of starvation
Bonus Javanese recipes: Have you added sugar? What do you mean it’s meant to be salty/sour/spicy/something else? ADD SUGAR.TO IT
Canadian recipes: Well part of the directions are in metric but you have imperial measuring cups. I hope you like math because we’re going to find out how many gallons in a litre and how many millimetres are in a cup.
Swedish recipes: Assemble all the beige items you have in your kitchen. Great. now add raw red onions, dill and salt and white pepper. if u prefer it blander, don’t do the last things. consider serving it with jam
Norwegian recipes: listen after three days skiing uphill you will eat anything so stop complaining.
DONT ASK ME THIS, THIS IS HOW THE TROJAN WAR STARTED, I DONT WANT THIS MAN
Right away, Aphrodite popped into my head.
And then I’m just like, “DAMMIT, DID YOU LEARN NOTHING FROM PARIS? YOU ARE AN EMBARRASSMENT, AND NOW ALL THE TROJANS ARE DEAD. I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY.”
If you are ever actually in this situation, pro-tip: name Persephone. Half the goddesses will be too surprised to smite you immediately and while Hades won’t do you any favors he may at least high-five you while your on your way down.
Another tip: name Mesperyian. Not only will you shock everyone, including her (since Aphrodite was a jealous ho who burnt half her face off), but you’ll win Hades’ favour. As his most beloved daughter, anything that praises her will make you a kind human to her, an okay human to him, and a genuinely good person to anyone else.
I heartily endorse this alternative answer.
I love how all of this advice leads to “please Hades at all costs.”
#because Hades really wasn’t that bad
No shit. The only real villain that caused so many problems was Zeus’ Thunder Cock and that thing has been in Olympus-knows-what.
ZUES’S THUNDER COCK
To be fair, Poseidon was like the greek mythology personification of the phrase ‘BITCH, FIGHT ME’
You are an anonymous professional assassin with a perfect reputation. You lead an ordinary life outside of your work. You’ve just been hired to kill yourself.
My first thought is that the middle man I use–calls himself ‘Leader’, real name Brett Thompson, 46, balding, lives in PA–has uncovered my identity. Why else would I be staring down at a picture of my own face? I think it’s a warning, that he knows about the Sanchez job, and I nearly reach for my go bag.
Then I see the client’s name.
Vi Larson, the file tells me, male, 32, computer analyst.
I close the manila folder, tossing it away from me. The whiskey sour’s gone warm in my hand, but I drink it down anyway, eyes distant. I don’t need to read any more of the file. I can fill in the gaps well enough.
Funnily enough, this betrayal is just as sharp and unpleasant as the first one, the one that got me into this business in the first place.
“You at least owe me a crime of passion, you bastard,” I mutter into my drink. I close my eyes and sigh, willing away the stinging in my heart. I knew that my relationship was in trouble, but this is just cold.
In a way, I can’t believe it. Is a divorce really that hard? But, no, I know Vi. He’s methodical, analytical, and competent. If anything, hiring an assassin with a reputation like mine is right in line with his personality. Nothing but the best, even in the murder game.
I should be flattered, really. My rates aren’t cheap. Whatever I did to make him send this in–and he did, there’s his social security, his fingerprint, everything–it must have been killer.
I set my glass down on the counter and tuck the folder under my arm. I need to think and I do my best thinking in the tub. Vi won’t be back from his “business” trip for another three days, during which I’m supposed to kill myself.
As I head up the stairs, I can’t help but laugh. Finally, after three years of marriage, my husband does something interesting. And it breaks my fucking heart.
——————————————
He wants me to make it painless but horrific. There’s a script in the document, something that’s more common than people think, and it’s hard to read it, even surrounded by bubbles and soothing music.
“Your husband sent me. Said he needed to shed some dead weight.” I snort at the pun and close my eyes, resting the file against my face so it doesn’t get wet. Unfortunately, the tears do that anyway.
I like to imagine that all of these helmets have the wings and that only when the person wearing it is surprised do they pop out to their full glorious span.
I’m afraid you are wrong. The wings pop out when a guard is courting another guard! It’s their courting ritual.
Are you impressed, Citadel Captain? I have strutted back and forth before thee thrice, flapping each wing alternately and also puffing up my impressive throat poach, to better indicate my virility. I have also brought thee these pebbles, which are most shiny. Perhaps you would like to hear a song about my boner? *suggestive warbling*
Guard Guidelines:
It is absolutely forbidden to nest on the white tree. All transgressor will be severely punished.
No songs about your amorous proclivities while on duty.
No singing on duty in general. You may find it odd, but it kind of ruins our reputation of fierce warriors.
Bragging about your pebbles while on duty is not only rude but also strictly forbidden.
If you want to seduce another guard, please be discreet about it and do it in your off-duty time.
Having wings attached to your helm doesn’t mean you can fly and we are not looking forward to cleaning your remains from the roofs of lower levels.
Suddenly popping your wings out in public is tasteless, embarrassing and frowned upon.
Lord Faramir is a married man and Lady Eowyn is famous for two things: her prowess in battle and her disgusting pigeon stew. We warned you.
Moreover Beregond didn’t hesitate to kill two guards in order to protect his Lord once, and the fact he should be exiled from Minas Tirith doesn’t mean he won’t get you.
Queen Arwen is a married womanelf Lady, moreover the fact King Elessar doesn’t go around showing his wings doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them, it is just testament to his his politeness.
Yes, Rohirrim tend to freak out when you pop your wings, therefore it will neither help you seducing one of them nor it will be funny to do so in their presence.
Having been appointed Fountain Guard in no excuse for constantly showing your wingspan to the whole city.
Can you imagine being an unartistic elf in the 1st age? Feanor is making the Silmarils, Turgon is sculpting entire cities, and you’re making an ashtray in elf pottery class.
Well, Feanor is eventually going to need an ashtray, along with at least two of his sons.
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