There Is A Thin, Semantic Line Separating Weird And Beautiful. And That Line Is Covered In Jellyfish.

REBLOG IF YOU'RE OVER THE AGE OF 21 ON TUMBLR.

I’m incredibly happy to announce that FANGS will be a book collection and and it is now up for preorder. 

 The book features: 

All FANGS comics found online 

25 NEW comics! 

Black tinted pages 

Cloth “engraved” cover. 

Preorder HERE.

Maggie Smith (1978)

Wait, you mean they don't just bundle up a billion dollar bills, stuff them in the rocket, and shoot them into space?

I’m in an English lesson, and this ignoramus I’m talking to has just told me that people should stop going to Mars. He says the money that went into the project would have been better spent here on planet Earth, specifically in creating jobs.

And I have just been seething here for the past five...

I HAVE WAITED ALL YEAR TO POST THIS

Boston Gothic

You head down the stairs to the T to find that the Red Line is gone.  It’s just gone.  The Orange Line is there, and you could take it, but you are scared of clowns.  You decide to walk instead.

You walk 20 minutes from North Station and find South Station.  You walk another 20 minutes and find North Station again.  You have not turned around.

You find a parking space but as you get another foot closer the parking space is now occupied.  There was never any parking space.  There are no parking spaces.  There is no such thing as a parking space.  Cars pull over and blink out of existence.

A chill rolls down your spine.  You thirst.  You are surrounded by Dunks on all sides.  You go in and order an iced coffee.  As you take your first sip, it begins to snow.

You struggle to pronounce the ‘r’ in “clam chowder” but it evades you.  You choke out an order for anothah bowl of clam chowdah.  You can’t remember what an ‘r’ sounds like.

It is a beautiful sunny day, clear and cloudless.  You close your eyes.  You open them.  It is now pouring.  A man turns to you and says “haha only in New England.”  He is weeping.

You are driving out of the city for the day.  You follow the signs that say I93.  You follow the signs.  You take your exit.  You follow the signs.  You are now entering the Mass Pike instead.  A decrepit hand reaches from the darkness to collect your toll.  No turning back now.

Sometimes a family is a lady detective, her lady’s maid, a child thief, a lesbian doctor, a butler, two communist ex dockers turned taxi drivers, a fussy old aunt, a Protestant constable and a long suffering inspector.

This!

The mean girls of the White Council