After years of refusing to go near it because I have a real Thing about eating local, sustainable and, if I can possibly avoid it, not eating fad items where the fad-ening therof has cause a famine.
But recently it has started to be grown in my country, sustainably and with fairly paid workers.
Thus I can have it now as long as I get the local stuff.
Goddamn I am a picky bitch but there you have it.
ANYWAY
I have been listening to people rave about this shit for YEARS. Literal YEARS. Putting it on fucking ice cream and shit.
It’s a slightly more bitter brown rice, Gary! It’s not that great!
But it’s OK. I’ll probably get it every now and then for a change in pace from rice-potatoes-pasta-bread.
It’s freakin great with shredded salmon/salmon burger, garlic, butter, lemon, salt and pepper with a hint of paprika…. and motherfucking salt and vinegar chips, as a sort-of dip.
Hey fellow creators! So, as some folks may have recently become aware, Tumblr posts with external links don’t show up in relevant tags (as detailed in this post). IE, if you post a Steven Universe picture and tag it “Steven Universe” and there’s an external link in the post, it won’t actually show up in the “Steven Universe” tag! This is very frustrating! What if I make a post and want to link to my Twitter in the description? What if I want to link people to my online store when I post a piece of art? What if I want to link to a YouTube video and still have it show up under the relevant tags I put into the post?
Hold on to your butts kids cuz here’s how we cheat the system.
—
The thing about Tumblr’s Anti-Linking nonsense works is that it only blocks external links. Internal links are fine. So if you wanted to post a link to another Tumblr post, or someone’s Tumblr blog, you’re good. But if you wanted to link to your Twitter page or something, you’re screwed. So, all we gotta do is make your external link into a Tumblr link. Sounds weird. I know. But here’s how it works.
First, go to your Tumblr blog. Hit the “Edit Theme” tab.
In the theme editor sidebar, scroll all the way to the bottom, the “Page” section. (Here’s what mine looks like- I already have a few of these set up)
Hit “Add a Page”, and this window will pop up. By default it’s set to be a Standard Page. Hit the dropdown and select “redirect”.
For this example, let’s say I want to link to my Twitter page. I’ll name the page “Twitter” (this is what the redirect URL will end up being- IE yourblogname.tumblr.com/Twitter), and insert my Twitter URL under the “Redirect To” tab. Leave “Show a link to this page” turned off. (Unless you want the link to show up on your blog, in which case, turn it on. Do what you want, I’m not your mom)
Hit “Save”, and your new page should now show up on your Page list!
And done! So now, let’s say I wanted to use the new link in the text portion of a post. Simply use the Tumblr redirect link instead of the direct URL! As a test, I linked to my Twitter in a test post, using the redirect link instead of the direct link, and there it is in the tag! Success!
I recommend making a Redirect Page for any external links you’ll be using frequently. I like to post links to my webcomic/Twitter in posts fairly often, but doing that made me take a pretty big hit since my posts wouldn’t show up in tags. With this method, I can keep the external links, and have stuff show up when I tag it! Workarounds are fun!
Hope that helps! -Star
(Reblog to spread the word!)
Lifesaver
I remember certain external links being blocked a long time ago, this seems like a good work around. I’ll have to update my pages later.
Note to vacationing non-Americans: while it’s true that America doesn’t always have the best food culture, the food in our restaurants is really not representative of what most of us eat at home. The portions at Cheesecake Factory or IHOP are meant to be indulgent, not just “what Americans are used to.”
If you eat at a regular American household, during a regular meal where they’re not going out of their way to impress guests, you probably will not be served twelve pounds of chocolate-covered cream cheese. Please bear this in mind before writing yet another “omg I can’t believe American food” post.
Also, most American restaurant portions are 100% intended as two meals’ worth of food. Some of my older Irish relatives still struggle with the idea that it’s not just not rude to eat half your meal and take the rest home, it’s expected. (Apparently this is somewhat of an American custom.)
Until you’re hitting the “fancy restaurant” tier (the kind of place you go for a celebration or an anniversary date), a dinner out should generally also be lunch for the next day. Leftovers are very much the norm.
From the little time I’ve spent in Canada, this seems to be the case up there as well.
the portions in family restaurants (as opposed to haute cuisine types) are designed so that no one goes away hungry.
volume IS very much a part of the american hospitality tradition, and Nobody Leaves Hungry is important. but you have to recognize that it’s not how we cook for ourselves, it’s how we welcome guests and strengthen community ties.
so in order to give you a celebratory experience and make you feel welcomed, family restaurants make the portions big enough that even if you’re a teenage boy celebrating a hard win on the basketball court, you’re still going to be comfortably full when you leave.
of course, that means that for your average person with a sit-down job, who ate a decent lunch that day, it’s twice as much as they want or more. that’s ok. as mentioned above, taking home leftovers is absolutely encouraged. that, too, is part of american hospitality tradition; it’s meant to invoke fond memories of grandma loading you down with covered dishes so you can have hearty celebration food all week. pot luck church basement get-togethers where the whole town makes sure everybody has enough. that sort of thing. it’s about sharing. it’s about celebrating Plenty.
it’s not about pigging out until you get huge. treating it that way is pretty disrespectful of our culture. and you know, contrary to what the world thinks, we do have one.
“Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there,” and another one appears. And dodges the downward sweep of claws, darting to the side, bouncing off the pentagram’s barriers, and tripping over the demon’s tail. “In the Vatican!” she cries out as she moves, using the State Farm Agent summoning charm to modify the situation as she was taught, and mentally thanking her trainer for expecting her to be fast enough to do it on the first incantation.
Most State Farm agents, when they run into trouble, have to get the customer to do the jingle a second time. That guy with the buffalo was lucky.
The magic takes hold, and she materializes in the aisle of St. Peter’s Basilica, still holding the demon by the tail, in the middle of Sunday morning Mass. The music clatters unprofessionally to a halt as laypeople, deacons, priests, monks, nuns, and the Pope all turn their attention to the surprised demon whose fifth course of dinner has turned, unaccountably, into a visit to one of his least favorite places on Earth.
There is chanting in Latin, and vaguely cross-shaped gestures, and clouds of incense, and the demon vanishes in a puff of smoke, whether from the efforts of the clergy or of his own volition no one can say. The Agent doesn’t wait, fleeing towards the doors and escaping in the confusion.
She gains the exit and walks, purposefully, toward Rome proper; there, she ducks into the nearest alley. A burner cell phone comes out of one of the less-used pockets of her purse, and she dials a number from memory.
“Allstate,” says a smooth masculine voice after three rings.
“State Farm,” she answers. “I’m calling in a favor.”
“Yeah?” Interest. “What sort?”
As she talks she’s pulling out her smartphone, keying an app that was activated by the summoning, and pulling up the policyholder data that enabled the incantation to work.
“Insurance fraud,” she said, and can almost hear teeth sharpening on the other end of the line. She gives him the name, the address, the policy number. “Someone needs some mayhem.”
“That’s my name,” the man says.
She smiles. “Someone needs all the mayhem.”
He chuckles. Slow. Evil. Even with the echoes of demonic laughter ringing in her ears, she’s impressed. “Don’t worry,” he says, almost purring.
“You’re in good hands.”
OH MY FUCKING GOD I just read insurance commercial fan fiction and it was so good, bless you, I’m going to remember this day forever.
IT COMES BACK TO ME! *preens*
Part 2:
It’s not too long later—State Farm will occasionally loan out their teleportation trick, though Heaven help anyone who tries to use it to compete with them—and the man they call Mayhem is squatting next to a demonic circle with tacky half-dried blood under the leather soles of his shoes. Whoever dispelled the circle didn’t do a good job of it; the ring is still faintly smoldering and Mayhem has already singed his fingers on the air above it. He’s in the basement of a house with a State Farm homeowner’s policy, waiting for his partner in, erm, crime, to show up.
“Oh, good heavens.” He smiles at the sound of someone hopping delicately back, then carefully tiptoeing through the mess. Demons are messy eaters, and Flo’s wearing all white.
She steps gingerly over what might be most of a femur, looks from circle to Mayhem to—is that half a skull on the floor? “Freaky. Whaddaya need?”
“Tech,” he says. “State Farm knows the homeowner summoned them, but the Agent reported at least five people present. Maybe six. She isn’t sure, what with being busy evading a demon inside a very small space with zappy walls.”
Flo’s already got a—where does she get those from anyway? a cardboard box in her hands. Mayhem watches as she unfolds it, refolds it, and ends up with something significantly bigger, shaped like a satellite dish. He tries to watch how she does it; they may be working together, but they’re still rivals and his own higher-ups will be very interested in the latest whatever-it-does that Progressive has come up with.
A blue glow lights up the concave side. Mayhem is pretty sure cardboard doesn’t work that way. Flo makes a pleased sound, and starts rattling off names, addresses, policy numbers.
Impressed, Mayhem asks, “How the fuck?” If Progressive is developing some sort of superspy technology, well, that’s kind of ominous.
Flo grins and looks embarrassed. “I, ah, have occasional dealings with a couple guys from That Other Insurance Company. One of them knows someone who knows someone who works in quality control for the Infernal Realms, and it turns out Hell monitors all their summoned manifestations for safety purposes. His contact got me the list of who was there.”
Mayhem nods. He’s had occasional encounters That Other Insurance Company himself. Bland, grey-suited, timid men who are even worse spies than they are insurance agents. “Wait, Hell has a quality control department?”
“And all other forms of administration,” Flo says. “I understand it’s to generate maximum paperwork. It is a place of punishment, after all.”
Mayhem actually winces. “That’s definitely hellish. All right. The Agent who called me in is flying back from Italy and should meet us in a few hours. Should give us plenty of time to plan an attack. Are they all State Farm customers?”
“Just the one,” Flo replies, folding her toy up, and Mayhem watches with vague envy as it becomes a giant sword. “One Allstate, one Progressive, one Geico, two Farmers. We gonna invite anyone else to the party?” She hopes so. Mayhem’s precision strikes on any sort of insurance fraud perpetrators are the stuff of legend, and the Farmers guys would bring in enough absurdity to make it a work of art.
Mayhem’s grin is something that ought to haunt her nightmares. Instead, she finds herself matching it. “Yes,” he says. “Let’s.”
Part 3:
The sun is just a
suggestion behind the horizon, but the morning traffic jam is already
clogging up the freeways by the time Mayhem and Flo leave the scene
of the crime. Flo is driving, weaving her motorcycle expertly through
the sea of zombie commuters, and already some jackass in a
twenty-year-old Honda has rolled down his window to sneer at Mayhem
for riding behind a woman and in the process taken his eyes off the
road long enough to rear-end a state trooper.
By the time the sun
is peeking over the edge of the world, the freeway has been exchanged
for fast-food restaurants and traffic lights, and Mayhem is
contemplating commercials. “I’m another motorist doing something
you disapprove of” is warring with “I’m a state trooper,”
and Mayhem is leaning toward the latter because it might give him an
excuse to put on the uniform, when Flo erupts in giggles, jerking her
head subtly to the right. Mayhem finds what she’s looking at and
nearly pisses himself.
A van, the type that
practically screams “covert surveillance,” is parked in the
entrance to a Starbucks. Two men in bland gray suits and the sort of
ties that give insult to all intelligent life are sitting in the
front seat, coffee cups in hand. Mayhem sees the moment they set eyes
on Flo—they both jerk upwards in their seats as if jabbed with a
cattle prod—and then the moment where they realize who her
passenger is. The one in the driver’s seat boggles and reflexively
inhales half his coffee; the passenger reaches over to slap him on
the back, sees Mayhem, and spills his own beverage all over the
dashboard.
When Flo passes the
driveway she gives a little wave to the men, and they both dive for
cover. Mayhem would be surprised at the level of ineptitude That
Other Insurance Company lets their agents display, but he’s seen one
of them try to hide behind a stop sign. Surprise has long since left
the station, leaving amusement and a hint of second-hand
embarrassment which Mayhem relishes rather than winces at.
He’s jarred from his
thoughts as Flo hits the brakes, neatly avoiding the SUV that has
just moved into their lane without signaling on her way to the
upcoming right-turn lane. The driver diverts attention from her cell
phone long enough glare at Flo and stick a manicured middle finger in
their general direction, and turns to the road just in time to watch
as her car veers off the shoulder and makes intimate congress with a
speed limit sign. And then the flashing lights come on from somewhere
behind them and Mayhem’s faith in humanity is restored.
He revises. “I’m
a middle-management commuter on a cell phone.”
Flo pulls over to
let the cop car pass, and Mayhem sneaks a look back at the van. God
have mercy, the one in the passenger seat has binoculars.
“Shall
we lose them or let them follow us?” Flo’s voice interrupts
his giggle-fit.
No
question. Not like they’re a threat. “Let’s
keep ‘em. They’re entertaining.”
Flo
merges back into traffic and
signals a move to the left
lane. Since the lady in the
SUV is still in view, glaring up at them as the police officer steps
up to her window,
Mayhem is extra gratified that she waits five whole blinks before
merging into the next lane. It’s doubtless for the benefit of their
pursuers, who otherwise might manage to keep with them if Mayhem
draws a map and passes it to them at a stoplight, but his black
and petty heart rejoices anyway.
It
takes them awhile to get to the suburban park where Mayhem has
arranged to meet the State Farm agent who called him in. Or rather,
it takes them awhile to get there without losing their inept
pursuers; twice, Flo has to double back and be found again, and once
the van gets stuck behind a railroad crossing and Flo and Mayhem have
to stop and pick up a box of
donuts in order to still be
there when the train finishes blocking the road.
The park is a lovely little
spot complete with playground equipment and a little waterfall, as
completely removed from this business with demons and human sacrifice
as a person could want. There’s one car in the lot already, a rental,
and a figure in red shirt and khaki skirt standing beside it.
“Is
that the Agent?” Flo asks, and Mayhem nods. The woman is short,
dark, curvy—very pretty—and the two guys from That Other are in
serious danger of twisting their heads off their shoulders as they
drive past. Whether it’s for
that reason, or because there’s now three insurance companies having
a little meeting in a city park like some exceedingly bad spy
thriller, Mayhem isn’t sure.
Flo
parks the motorcycle and goes up to introduce herself; Mayhem stays
put and watches the van make an awkward U-turn in the middle of the
road and come back. The State
Farm agent walks up to Mayhem and offers a hand, and he is distracted
from the spectacle by a warm-toned “A pleasure to meet you” and a
gaze and smile as predatory as a shark’s. It’s
enough to distract his attention well and properly. This
is the person to whom he’s promised vengeance, and this is the face
of a person who has fought and outsmarted a demon.
Damn,
he’s glad he picked up the phone.
“Pleasure’s
all mine,” is what he
says, and then Flo lets out a mirthful squeak. Mayhem and the Agent
both follow her gaze, just in time to see the surveillance van leave
the road, bouncing over the curb and smashing
into a tree.
The
Agent is staring, her lips curving
into an amused smirk, and Mayhem
composes another commercial. “I’m stupid, and I come in
pairs.”
One of my favorite things on Tumblr! ( AND THERE’S MORE THAN I HAD LAST SEEN!)
House Of Crows 