PIRANHA PETTING ZOO

cephalopodlovesong: alliartist: jessicakobeissi: a photo i...

Wed, 15 May 2013 22:55:58 -0400

alliartist:

jessicakobeissi:

a photo i took of farah :) please support my photography page here: http://www.facebook.com/jessicakphoto

Farah’s fashion tumblr: http://farahsdarkparadise.tumblr.com/

THANK YOU <3

I really like hijabs.

Farah missed out not naming her blog Farahdise. #justsaying

leeeeeee paaaaaaaace

Wed, 15 May 2013 22:29:09 -0400

leeeeeee paaaaaaaace

mcbrayers: yet another unrealistic expectation for women

Wed, 15 May 2013 22:19:23 -0400

mcbrayers:

yet another unrealistic expectation for women

Photo

Wed, 15 May 2013 08:52:01 -0400

blufus: polterpastry: indigirl94: catbountry: rooshoes: This...

Sun, 12 May 2013 22:31:29 -0400

blufus:

polterpastry:

indigirl94:

catbountry:

rooshoes:

This is a photo of an African-American burn victim who lost the pigmentation in his left arm after suffering second-degree burns following an apartment fire.

Around 10-15% of dark-skinned burn victims who receive skin grafts will never fully recover their complexion.

So beautiful.

uhh, sorry to tell you guys this, but this isn’t a picture of a burn victim, it’s a picture of a horse dildo from Bad Dragon.com XD look for yourself if you don’t believe me

THIS IS A HORSE DILDO.

LMFAO

blufus: polterpastry: indigirl94: catbountry: rooshoes: This...

Sun, 12 May 2013 22:30:47 -0400

blufus:

polterpastry:

indigirl94:

catbountry:

rooshoes:

This is a photo of an African-American burn victim who lost the pigmentation in his left arm after suffering second-degree burns following an apartment fire.

Around 10-15% of dark-skinned burn victims who receive skin grafts will never fully recover their complexion.

So beautiful.

uhh, sorry to tell you guys this, but this isn’t a picture of a burn victim, it’s a picture of a horse dildo from Bad Dragon.com XD look for yourself if you don’t believe me

THIS IS A HORSE DILDO.

LMFAO

buttemblem: So today, my character creation teacher mentioned how you can make any lead character...

Sun, 12 May 2013 22:30:31 -0400

buttemblem:

So today, my character creation teacher mentioned how you can make any lead character look adventurous by slapping a vest on them. He said you could even put a Marty McFly vest on Giger’s Alien and it would work.

And so I tried it and now I’m crying

crispysnakes: The Eclipse boa (Leopard Colombian Motley)....

Sun, 12 May 2013 22:12:13 -0400

crispysnakes:

The Eclipse boa (Leopard Colombian Motley). Produced for the first time last year by Kevin Blumenthal of Blumen Boas.

Photo

Sun, 12 May 2013 22:11:19 -0400

playstationthree: tyler the creator discovers memes in almost...

Sun, 12 May 2013 22:10:07 -0400

playstationthree:

tyler the creator discovers memes in almost the middle of 2013

sevenpoints: iidelirium: captainragtag: hey what if someone invented a machine that allowed women...

Sun, 12 May 2013 22:02:02 -0400

sevenpoints:

iidelirium:

captainragtag:

hey what if someone invented a machine that allowed women to transfer their pregnancies to men and then the government passed a law that if a woman didn’t want to have a baby the biological father was required to carry it how fast do you think birth control would stop being an issue

BEST NIGHTBLOG POST EVER

“IT’S UNETHICAL TO FORCE PEOPLE TO CARRY A BABY!!!!” MEN SHOUT

“NO SHIT!!!!” WOMEN REPLY

chanelburqa: The faux red carpet had been laid out for the...

Sat, 11 May 2013 21:46:07 -0400

chanelburqa:

The faux red carpet had been laid out for the famous and the wannabe-famous. Politicians and journalists arrived at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, bedazzled in the hopes of basking in a few fleeting moments of fame, even if only by osmosis from proximity to celebrities. New to the Washington scene, I was to experience the spectacle with my husband, a journalist, and enjoy an evening out. Or at least an hour out. You see, as a spouse I was not allowed into the actual dinner. Those of us who are not participating in the hideous schmooze-fest that is this evening are relegated to attending the cocktail hour only, if that. Our guest was the extraordinarily brilliant Oscar-nominated director of Beasts of the Southern Wild, Benh Zeitlin. Mr. Zeitlin’s unassuming demeanor was a refreshing taste of humility in a sea of pretentious politicians reeking of narcissism.

As I left the hotel and my husband went to the ballroom for the dinner, I realized he still had my keys. I approached the escalators that led down to the ballroom and asked the externally contracted security representatives if I could go down. They abruptly responded, “You can’t go down without a ticket.” I explained my situation and that I just wanted my keys from my husband in the foyer and that I wouldn’t need to enter in the ballroom. They refused to let me through. For the next half hour, they watched as I frantically called my husband but was unable to reach him.

Then something remarkable happened. I watched as they let countless other women through — all Caucasian — without even asking to see their tickets. I asked why they were allowing them to go freely when they had just told me that I needed a ticket. Their response? “Well, now we are checking tickets.” He rolled his eyes and let another woman through, this time actually checking her ticket. His smug tone, enveloped in condescension, taunted, “See? That’s what a ticket looks like.”

When I asked “Why did you lie to me, sir?” they threatened to have the Secret Service throw me out of the building — me, a 4’11” young woman who weighs 100 pounds soaking wet, who was all prettied up in elegant formal dress, who was simply trying to reach her husband. The only thing on me that could possibly inflict harm were my dainty silver stilettos, and they were too busy inflicting pain on my feet at the moment. My suspicion was confirmed when I saw the men ask a blonde woman for her ticket and she replied, “I lost it.” The snickering tough-guy responded, “I’d be happy to personally escort you down the escalators ma’am.”

Like a malignancy, it had crept in when I least expected it — this repugnant, infectious bigotry we have become so accustomed to. “White privilege” was on display, palpable to passersby who consoled me. I’ve come to expect this repulsive racism in many aspects of my life, but when I find it entrenched in these smaller encounters is when salt is sprinkled deep into the wounds. In these crystallizing moments it is clear that while I might see myself as just another all-American gal who has great affection for this country, others see me as something less than human, more now than ever before.

When I asked why the security representatives offered to personally escort white women without tickets downstairs while they watched me flounder, why they threatened to call the Secret Service on me, I was told, “We have to be extra careful with you all after the Boston bombings.”

I explained that I am a physician, that my husband is a noted journalist for a major American newspaper, and that our guest was an esteemed, Oscar-nominated director. They did not believe me. Never mind that the American flag flew proudly outside of our home for years, with my father taking it inside whenever it rained to protect it from damage. Never mind that I won “Most Patriotic” almost every July 4th growing up. Never mind that I have provided health care to some of America’s most underprivileged, even when they have refused to shake my hand because of my ethnicity.

I looked at him, struggling to bury my tears beneath whatever shred of dignity that remained. They finally saturated my lashes and flood onto my face. Shaking with rage, I said, “We are all human beings and I only ask that you give me the same respect you give others. All I am asking is to be treating with a dignity and humanity. What you did is wrong.” They stared straight ahead, arms crossed, and refused to even look at me. Up came the cruel, xenophobic, soundproof wall that I had seen in the eyes of so many after 9/11. Their eyes, flecked with disdain and hatred, looked through me.

The next affront came quickly thereafter. “You were here last year, weren’t you? You caused trouble here last year too. I know you,” they claimed, accusing me of being a party-crasher. Completely confused, I explained that this was my first time here and that I had no idea what he was referencing. Clearly, he had assumed all brown people look the same and had confused me for someone else.

I wonder what their reaction would have been to a well-dressed white woman trying to reach her husband. Would she have struggled for over an hour while they watched and offered to escort others in? Would they not have extended an offer to help, bended over backwards to offer assistance, just as they did with the woman who “lost her ticket”? Would the Boston bombings even be mentioned to a white woman?

Let’s stop this facade that we are a beacon of tolerance. I don’t need you to “tolerate” me. I don’t want you to merely put up with my presence. All I ask, all I have ever asked, is to be treated as a human being, that bigoted jingoism is not injected into every minute facet my life, that there remains at least the illusion of decency.

Despite being a native English speaker who was born in New Orleans and a physician who trained at a prestigious institution, all people see is the color of my skin. After this incident, I will no longer apologize, either for my faith or my complexion. It is not my job to convince you to distinguish me from the violent sociopaths that claim to be Muslims, whose terrorism I neither support, nor condone. It is your job. Just like when a disturbed young white man shoots up a movie theatre or a school, it is my job, as someone with a conscience, to distinguish them from others. It’s not my job to plead with you to shake my hand without cringing, nor am I going to applaud you when you treat me with common decency; it’s not an accomplishment. It’s simply the right thing to do. Honestly, it’s not that hard.

This year, Quvenzhané Wallis took the world by storm with her staggering performance in Beasts of the Southern Wild. At several award ceremonies, reporters refused to the learn the accurate pronunciation of her name, and one reporter allegedly told Wallis, “I’m gonna call you Annie,” because her name was too difficult to pronounce. If reporters can learn to pronounce Gerard Depardieu and Monique Lhuillier then surely they can take the time to learn how to pronounce Quvenzhané. It’s not hard; it’s just not deemed worthy of your energy because she is someone of color.

A school child recently threatened my 12-year-old niece claiming, “I’m going to kill you Miss Bin Laden.” Again, it is not my job to teach your children manners and social justice, to remove the disgusting threads of racism that you have woven into their hearts with your insecurities. Last week, a 39-year-old Muslim American cab driver who served in the Iraq war was attacked and had his jaw broken in a hate crime. The assailant, an executive from an aviation company, told the veteran “I will slice your fucking throat right now.” I suppose the “support the troops” rhetoric by the right only applies to white veterans.

It wasn’t enough that I have had to prove my “American-ness” at every step of my career, but now the next generation is suffering as well. It wasn’t enough that I was asked whether my father taught me how to make bombs, or that I was told that I was doomed to the seventh circle of hell during my medical school interviews. I was also asked whether I would wear a burqa or if my parents would arrange my marriage during interviews. It is outrageous that I have to actually prove to the world how horrified I am that an 8-year-old boy was brutally murdered by a terrorist bombing. Any normal human being feels this agonizing grief with the rest of the country. I do not have to prove to you that, I, too, find it morally reprehensible. Of course I do. I have a heart. I am human.

So, I no longer want a seat at your restaurant, where you serve me begrudgingly, where I am belittled for asking for food without pork, where I endure your dirty looks at my hijabi friend. I want my pride intact, I want this struggle of mine to be recognized, for you to look me in the eye and acknowledge that yes, this tumor called bigotry is indeed rivering through your veins, polluting your mind, and is so malignant that it compels you to squash my dignity.

It’s the little indignities that slowly devastate your soul. The ones where your guard is down, and you just expect to dress up, look pretty, and enjoy an evening as a newlywed, or at the Oscars, but instead end up humiliated and snubbed. The ubiquitous racist slap in the face is thinly veiled just beneath the carefully crafted façade. This filthy, highly infectious plague is transforming our nation into one of unwarranted suspicion and anguish inflicted on disenfranchised, voiceless people of color. And now, it is no longer my job to enlighten you. To quote what you so often tell ethnic communities, “It’s time for you to step up to the plate, take responsibility, and stop taking what I have earned,” my integrity, my dignity.

The Huffington Post

This hurts

I am at a loss for words. I’ve felt this pain and I’m only half arab. I can’t even imagine

"Sometimes I just want to get a fake orange spray tan and bleach my hair blonde and wear hollister..."

Sat, 11 May 2013 21:34:41 -0400

“Sometimes I just want to get a fake orange spray tan and bleach my hair blonde and wear hollister and a&f and american eagle and uggs exclusively and wear frosted lipglosses and make ducklips faces and care about jersey shore and gossip girl, ecause apparently “nice” dudes hate when girls that because it’s “fake”, it’s “slutty”, it’s overdone/tasteless/”dumb” but screw you. Everything is fake. All persona is persona including what you’ve been conditioned to perceive as a “neutral”/”inoffensive” appearance.

Because i don’t want your “respect”, and I certainly don’t need your advice on how to “respect” a body. I don’t need your fake concern about skin cancer and burns on my scalp when my body doesn’t even feel like mine sometimes, or when breast cancer becomes selling sex to teenage boys who wouldn’t tell you about the lump in your breast they felt while they were feeling you up. Your concern for my body will always be mediocre until it is mine to create/destroy/create, and even then it wouldn’t even matter because you do not inhabit this flesh, or these organs, or this mucus/snot/bile/blood/spit/fluid/fluid/fluid, so stop trying to crawl into my bed of skin, and stop trying to own my ugliness. You can’t have it. Too bad, so sad.

I don’t want you to wait before I leave the room to talk about how gross I am. I want my skin to be greasy and leave big orange stains on every man who touches me and who I choose to touch. I want my hair to make you puke. I want my clothes to remind you of how capitalism lives in tube tops and booty shorts just as well as it does in jeans and a t-shirt or whatever else makes you feel like the girl you want is real “authentic”, real “down-to-earth” or whatever. I want to remind you that every picture is posed. No expression can be pure when you can see the camera and the camera can see you. I want you to know that I spent three hours straightening my hair and putting on my eyeliner over and over again, and removing it over and over again so there’s light grey rings under my eyes, and when I reapplied my lipgloss for the 20th time tonight in the backseat of my best friend’s car it hit a pothole so it’s smudging against my lipliner, and I’m still not “sexy” to your pretentious John Lennon art school ass. My labor is MINE, and it’s ugly because God loves ugly. I wasn’t put on this earth to turn you on. I want to scream and party and grind to terrible club music because I want to scare the life out of you. I want you to go home and post a facebook update about how “our generation is doomed” and get twenty likes from all your pretentious John Lennon art school friends and all your fedora-wearing self-entitled pasty sarcastic bros and all your edgewatch xvx police officers and all your “nice guy” indie rock microbrew date rapists who all secretly wish they could make a man want to remove himself from this earth just by getting a spraytan.

I don’t want you to want to be turned on by me, BRO. I want you to have to look at me. I want to be the bright orange flesh you don’t want to see but you also can’t ignore. I want you to be very, very scared of what is going to come out of my mouth. I want you to cringe at the sound of my voice because it is both too feminine and too loud. Your disgust makes me even louder, even more powerful. And it’s so funny to me, so funny to me, because you know and I know we are both just pretending we aren’t aware that deep down you so badly wish you could be a monster, too.”

thepredatorblog: Nile crocodile with a tasty treat! (by lyn.f)

Sat, 11 May 2013 21:26:13 -0400

thepredatorblog:

Nile crocodile with a tasty treat! (by lyn.f)

warningdontreadthis: A precious flower of Highgarden.

Tue, 07 May 2013 22:53:34 -0400

warningdontreadthis:

A precious flower of Highgarden.

infinitenap: and plane tickets are not cheap

Tue, 07 May 2013 22:44:22 -0400

infinitenap:

and plane tickets are not cheap

thefrogman: reuters: Meet Naki’o. Naki’o is a mixed-breed dog...

Tue, 07 May 2013 22:36:28 -0400

thefrogman:

reuters:

Meet Naki’o.

Naki’o is a mixed-breed dog with four prosthetic leg devices. Naki’o lost all four feet to frostbite when he was abandoned as a puppy in a foreclosed home.

He now lives in Colorado Springs, happily.

Photos: REUTERS/Rick Wilking

Dogs laugh at adversity. Give them some wheels or robot legs and they are back to chasing cars in no time.

Photo

Tue, 07 May 2013 22:35:35 -0400

unicorn-meat-is-too-mainstream: Sweet Injuries Ashkan...

Tue, 07 May 2013 22:30:29 -0400

unicorn-meat-is-too-mainstream:

Sweet Injuries

Ashkan Honarvar portrays horrific injuries with whipped cream, ice cream, and other sweets.

Hello: We need to talk about the Friendzone

Tue, 07 May 2013 22:24:49 -0400

Hello: We need to talk about the Friendzone:

yeti-detective:

How is this even a thing? I’m a dude. I get it. Girls can be scary. They look just like humans, but they make Weird Things happen in your pants-area. It must be magic. They are the Gargamels to your dick’s whatever-Smurf-your-dick-is.

(Sidenote: the makers of The Smurfs meant for each Smurf to…