People are even putting their bigfoot fics and imagines in the Jersey Devil tag? Like, can you not. You guys do realize that bigfoot is like, super problematic? He causes so much property damage, leaves mangled deer carcass by highways for street works to clean up, and is just generally kind of an asshole? On that note, if any Bigcabra shippers that follow me, unfollow me right now. I know Bigfoot stans are gonna come after me in the notes. Let me just wander all over the dam country where tons of people are and then act shocked when people try to prove my existence. The Jersey Devil.
He just chills out in his own territory and minds his own business. No games, no gimmicks.
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Just an old fashion eldritch abomination from Hell. He should be the one with tv shows and movies getting made about him. More importantly, he deserves way more love in the fandom. Why is it that I and other Jersey Devil fans spend hours drawing fan art, writing fic, creating headcanons, ect.
The Jersey Devil is a real monster. I hate that we live in a society where real monsters are shunted aside for glory hogging douchebags like bigfoot and those alien chads flying around in their tricked out saucers so that everyone will pay attention to them while they go out to Venus for a hook-up.
The Jersey. Devil deserves better. Sure, he might not have the titillating allure and raw magnetic energy that Mothman has, but who does? On the outside he is a terrifying monstrosity of a creature. But on the inside he is a total cinnamon roll. And he can fly. Like how dope is that? Can you imaging just going about your day, hiking along the woods of New Jersey and you see a big, handsome, naked goat goat flying through the air? What an icon. When will your flop ass irrelevant fave ever? If you want to help me out, the link to my paypal is in my bio.
Anyways, The Jersey Devil is the closest thing we have to a pterodactyl, which is objectively the best dinosaur. He deserves better. If you want to join you got to reblog and follow me. You may be asking yourself- whaaaat? But this is just an average dorm room! Girls smoke weed. Even you can smoke weed, if you want to. But like,. In 17 minutes Antonella is gonna mosey her way through this store taking every pin, patch, and piercing she can get her hands on. Why, you may ask? Women in power! But no seriously, this female CEO is about to methodically strangle every man at the table, each with their own tie.
No, really. Trust us on this one. Let Olivia do what has to be done, because really. It has to be done. Valerie and Malik are about to make a mind numbingly good pasta for the neighborhood dish to pass, and those flat ass-ers Tony and Brad from are going to bring store bought cookies! But good on them for taking the issue into their own hands! Or their own. Some would say that I am a prodigy for becoming a detective in only thirty six minutes. It was there the whole time!! Mystery one? This shit is just too easy. When I became a detective, I thought it was going to be a lot of The Law, bureaucracy, briefings, beef, and boxer briefs.
Mystery, Adventure & Nonsense True Stories of Make-Believe
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I remember now. Mystery number two? The most dastardly one? That name? Uncle Marlboro. So what did he do? Well, you see, the best way to solve a mystery is to create one, that way, you know exactly how it was done because you were the one doing it and then you can solve it perfectly. Well, he was the one that got away. That fuck. How did I know this? My mother would tell me so. My mother is a villain that has been destroyed many years ago.
In fact, she was my first case. Now, her filthy brother tries to stop me at every turn from fixing The Law At least I was the boy. I said that. And yes, Uncle Marlboro is an internal affairs officer. The best damn narc this side of the Missisissispsisii. The man managed to discover my perfect headquarters, his own cupboard.
He kinda looks like Otto von Bismarck. You thought you defeated me Y-you know your law. I want you to stop giving me and my boys a hard time down at the precinct. You know To counteract this, I slashed at his face with my makeshift cigarette. Delicious, candy-red liquid spilled out.
This geezer was Italian! Of course! Case closed, dipshits. BOOM, roasted. Anyway, so what happened next? Well, Marlboro overpowered me Double Victory. Guess weapon, checkgun below, then smaller make guns, your own! I happened upon it in what felt like a dream. I visited the community pool to water the gardenias, as part of my community service to the community, and I found my three beautiful boys, Linda, Tommy, and Linda, giving all sorts of small smooth rocks a big chomp.
It left me heartbroken. This was a sign of forbidden knowledge, a sign that all my efforts had failed. I raced back home and Binged my favorite website, children-and-their-little-morsels dot com, which redirected me to children-and-their-little-morsels. I spent the whole day and the entire night searching through the post history of Mr. At dawn, without sleep, I woke my children for school, brought them downstairs, and fed them off-brand Frosted Mini Wheats, just as Hubert recommends. I watched their teeth with maximum ocular precision.
Not a scratch nor a chip on any of them. I knew then that my children must. I took it upon myself to discover what I did not know. I ferried my children to the schoolyard, but, as I began to pull away, I realized that I had nowhere to turn. I had visited all the local rock museums many, many times and spoken to all the geologists, geographers, and geometrists when we first moved into this county.
There was nothing I did not know. When I heard the throng of children pushing their way outside, I got out of my car and climbed over the fence into the schoolyard. From behind a large pebble, I watched my children. Once that finished, all the children went to the edge of the yard, began picking up rocks of all shapes, sizes, and types, and began to gnaw at them.
I watched aghast. One child, who goes by MaximumBlaster, chipped a tooth and began to wail. My son Linda came to him, shushed him, made calming gestures. The boy did not quiet. Linda soothed him more urgently now, sending furtive glances toward the door where a teacher may appear at any moment. Still the boy did not quiet. Linda gestured toward Tommy and Linda, and they appeared on either side of him. They nodded at one another. They pulled on his cheeks.
It stretched. And Tommy swallowed MaximumBlaster whole. The others did not look up from their lunch of stones. I clambered back over the fence, afraid of my children. I had my answers now. My sweet boys are vessels of the knowledge of their mother, my wife, a rock demon. I wanted to protect them from this fate, that was why I had read them The Cat in the Hat again and again, hoping to drown out the demonic wails of my better half.
Leaning against the fence, I consoled myself. I had done everything I could to prevent this, besides not marrying a non-human entity that eats gravel and sediment for energy. I got up from my spot and ran to my car, turning on to the highway toward home. I hoped in vain that they would not be there when I returned to pick them up. She was a steaming pack of cigarettes with legs that went all the way to the third floor. The dame was a fire cracker. A tall glass of water except its hot.
She was dangerous. Capital G-O-D God! She really thought God was planning to kill her. The dame died two weeks later in a freak laundromat drowning, but the police ruled it an accident. They said that about Natalie Wood too, so I think the police are as full of shit as I am cheap alcohol. And by word I mean gun. I followed God to this warehouse, and just like Usher featuring Lil Jon and Ludacris, came to the party. I kicked the door in, pulled. One for each flu shot I took this morning. I knew God was in here, after all, the nuns back home told me God was everywhere. I looked around, but it seems the coward fled when the shooting started.
I ashed my revolver and stomped it out before pulling out a fresh one. The holy bastard had to be here somewhere. With every corner I rounded I let out a volley of bullets into empty space. The next day went the same, this time in an empty Toys R Us. I wasted round after round, but there was no God here. Funny, the one time I need the sonofabitch and he skips town on me. I went to every empty building in the city, night after night, wasting bullet after bullet. I was going through two packs of guns every day in search of justice for the dame, but I never got my man. After six months, I knew it was time to change the plan.
I think the only way to finish this investigation is enrolling in seminary school. I can be my own man on the inside, slowly getting closer and closer to God until BANG, put a round of drinks through his head and a shot of gunpowder down my gullet. Scene 1: INT. The fbi agents, who are all very beautiful, are getting ready to leave for the weekend.
Their backpacks are full of classic fbi items, like guns and bullets and crossbows and packed lunches that will go bad if their left in the break room fridge over the weekend. I love to relax!! Agent Blonde Me also! I love to chill with my children and my Southern husband.
Pretty Computer Lady Not so fast, officers! Scene 2: INT. By , Russell seems to have forgotten that twenty-four years earl- ier his former colleague and friend Philip Jourdain had published a vol- ume entitled The Philosophy of Mr.
The final book version of The Philosophy of Mr. Briefwechsel George Pitcher, who wrote the first and best-known essay on Witt- genstein and Lewis Carroll Pitcher , tells us in a fairly long foot- note that […] anyone who lived in England, and particularly Cambridge, during the time that Wittgenstein did, could not fail to have read Lewis Carroll — espe- cially the Alice books […]. This is certainly true.
Among the philosophers writing on Carroll, Richard B. Pitcher contin- ues: […] it is known with certainty that Wittgenstein did read and admire Car- roll. Miss G. Anscombe, Mr. Rhees, and Prof. All confirm that he read at least some of the works. Miss Anscombe and Mr.
What potion causes the drinker to speak nonsense?
Rhees recalls a conver- sation in in which Wittgenstein referred admiringly to a passage in Syl- vie and Bruno; but he adds that in the last eight or ten years of his life, Witt- genstein no longer thought as highly of Carroll as he had earlier. Later inspirations revolve mostly around the problem of aspect-seeing. PI In both books we follow a female child as she explores a strange country. Understanding what the odd characters Alice en- counters mean when they speak, is not one thing.
And this is one of the reasons why the books make such an appeal to chil- dren. When a child has learnt that a form of words is used in one particular context, he is surprised to find that it cannot be used in some other context; and the attractiveness of Carroll lies in the fact that his use of a phrase in an apparently correct but really nonsensical way appears as plausible to him as to the child.
And so there is no touch of that superiority which befouls so many books written by adults for children. Braithwaite f. Lecercle 58 In his seminal study Philosophy of Nonsense. Lecercle 2. According to Lecercle one characteristic of the literary genre of nonsense consists in a rejection of metaphor. The puzzlement of Alice stems from the fact that all the crea- tures in Wonderland seem to be speaking her native language — English.
But even though they stick to the rules of English grammar, they take words much more seriously than the real-life speakers Alice had encoun- tered before.
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To a girl like Alice, who wonders about the use of a book without pictures, this literal-mindedness or logophilia must come as a shock. His later thought presents us with a dif- ferent picture: Now the proximity of philosophical questions and riddles is taken seriously. A mathematical — and, one might add: a philosophical — problem sometimes resembles a riddle, particularly the ones of which it is not clear whether they have a solution at all cf. They seem contradictory because they are answers to ques- tions which we have framed in such a way that they can only be answered affirmatively or negatively.
Is a equal to b, or is it not? There are only two possible answers and to say that a simultaneously is and is not equal to b is nonsensical. It is nonsensical, that is to say, that the question is sen- sible. But if the question is itself nonsensical? Why, then the case is different. For to a nonsensical question one can make almost any answer one likes and they are all simultaneously true or untrue, whichever you please.
It really makes no differ- ence. Each answer is equally true and equally false. My own belief is that all the riddles of the Universe, in the form in which philosophical tradition has presented them to us, belong to the Why-is-a-raven-like-a-writing-desk cat- egory. They are nonsensical riddles, questions asked not about reality but about words. Huxley One way to approach a nonsense-question is to engage in the language- game. The connection between ravens and desks is then not a higher genus, but a plain fact.
Carroll 71, Fn5 5 There is no direct Huxley-Wittgenstein-connection. He is mentioned here, because by he was already a well-known author and Vanity Fair Magazine part of popular culture. Years later, in , Huxley wrote the syn- opsis for a film entitled Alice and the Mysterious Mr. This is where Wittgenstein found inspir- ation: Let us consider the witty meaning we give to the grammatical games of Lewis Carroll. Which is, of course, the depth of Philosophy.
MS 6 Why is a grammatical joke like philosophy?
We may venture to say: Both feel deep and meaningful, because we consider them to be so. They are followed by the German original. But these are nonsense in the same sense, the only difference being in the jingle of the words. AWL 64 Rather than understanding something above or behind the given, one might approach the whole situation from a different angle, to see how profound a statement really is: The man who said that one cannot step into the same river twice said some- thing wrong; one c a n step into the same river twice.
Wittgenstein is not aspect-blind to metaphors. He just thinks philo- sophers should avoid a florid style. This makes him just as critical towards his own attempts at word-magic as towards Heraclitus. Graves, like Wittgenstein, does not think there is a way out of lan- guage: According to his poem, a return to a childlike pre-linguistic state, facing reality unfiltered, would — if at all possible — end in madness cf. Graves 6. But nonsense has a remedy: no nonsense. Car- roll in: Dodgson Collingwood 6 provokes Wittgenstein to analyse it to its bare essentials. It is almost funny how very serious this reads: […] But it is not true!