"Not Beating The ___ Allegations" Is Such A 'now' Turn Of Phrase, Implying As It Does A World Where Everyone's

@official-penis-posts ?

Once I was caught unexpectedly in a downpour on the top of Mount Pilchuck. In the course of five minutes a bright, clear day that let me see all the way to the Olympic Peninsula turned into a phantasmagorical nightmare. I couldn't see more than a few feet in any direction, my skin was turning a sickly white, the rocks kept sliding out from under me. I almost twisted my ankle several times. If I had remained more than a few hours up there my chances of freezing to death up there would've been high, and my odds of successful navigation on my own seemed slim.

As I struggled, a great black bird appeared before me. I say "appeared" and that should be taken literally — one moment I was cleaning my glasses for the umpteenth time, trying to see through the driving rain, and the next, this incredibly solid and enormous raven is soaring up to me. I would've been scared, but I was already terrified.

The bird could easily have encircled me in its wings. In the almost total darkness, I could see nothing but its outline, outstretched, almost triumphant, fluttering and blowing about like a spruce in a pitch-black tempest, a black flag somehow darker than the fathomless sky.

My guide darted, flickered, and spun, cutting through the torrents of water as I stumbled and staggered endlessly downwards. I expected to risk falling or twisting my ankles, but somehow every time my foot fell on solid, stable ground. Little splinters and spikes of ice seemed to course up my calves, but the nauseating feeling of wrongness that I've felt every time I've twisted or sprained anything never came.

As though I had been hurled out of the forest, I crashed full-speed into the hood of my car with a dull thud. The heater core has long given out on this old jalopy, but I figured at least I could've dried myself off with the paper towels in the trunk, and huddled underneath the thin car-blankets I keep at all times.

However, before I could unlock the passenger door (driver-side lock doesn't work. I told you, jalopy), I found myself looking into a pale face framed by a wild cascade of dark hair. The rain coruscated on his cheeks and ran around his mouth and down his chin. Without the crude intermediary of speech, his intent unfurled in my mind—I must join with him and be part of his company of riders in some Other Land.

I opened my mouth to assent, but before I could make a sound, the curséd voice of pragmatism tumbled out: "I must set my affairs in order! I haven't been to a lawyer recently, my house will end up in probate! It will be hell for my loved ones! Give me a week to decide!"

A sneer curled that noble face. Before I could try to cram the words back down my throat, the strange rider had turned away, and in that motion, he became one with the darkness. The rain gathered itself up from the ground and leapt into the air. The sky brightened with a rapidity that made me stagger, and I was left shivering, soaked to the bone on a bright Summer day.

Monty Python's football match between philosopheers!!

My latest cartoon for New Scientist.

  I re-blogged this (the first time) in 2014. Today, I tried half a dozen times to re-blog it, and it wouldn’t work. So, I saved the images and re-posted it. I hope it helps make life a little easier. :-)   The original post is by iraffiruse.

hope is a skill