People who say bi erasure doesn’t happen need to realize Freddie Mercury is known as the most famous homosexual man when he identified himself as bisexual. If that’s not bi erasure I don’t even know.
Also PoC erasure, most people don’t know he was 100% Indian
Specifically he was Parsi. Also raised Zeroastrian.
wear a different perfume when you commit murder fuckin amateurs
also wear shoes that aren’t your actual size and use gloves if you have to touch anything
what the hell is this here? A how-to-commit-the-perfect-crime??
Wear a wig. Contact lenses . Change your accent . Change Hand when writing . Layer up to make you look big if your small n vice versa . Contour the hell outta your face.
Get your car interior thoroughly washed, then purposely dirty it up again.
Also use an icicle for the weapon because it melts away Buy a ticket to a show and tell as many people / post it on social media that u went to the show
Y’all suspect af😂
*adds 363,462 more people to list of that I will fuck never with*
Make sure you set up a solid alibi Pay for everything in cash
Or, for those of you who’ve read Roald Dahl’s Lamb to the Slaughter, feed the murder weapon to the police
Bodies should be buried vertically, not horizontally, to avoid the appearance of a grave. If you choose to dismember the body instead of bury it whole don’t forget to take a lighter or bottle of lye to the fingertips until charred or melted away, and use bleach on every surface that may have come in contact with blood splatter.
Also, don’t fucking brag about it later Jesus wept.
all this info is good for writing
but for actual real life, no one on tumblr has enough energy to get out of bed
ain’t no body on this website is gonna murder anyone
Make friends with a pig farmer. A full grown nursing sow can eat an entire human body, bones and all, in about 6 hours.
Shit that last one is more helpful than I wanted it to be, I’ll never look at pigs the same
Reblogging for *educational* purposes 🙂
This post is legendary and I’m so glad I found it. I love all the advice. Except the icicle. That’s technically impossible. Use a disposable knife instead and break the handle.
While I chilled, my tea still sipping, suddenly there came a dripping, As of someone messy, tipping water on my kitchen floor. “’Tis the cat again,” I muttered, “tipping water on the floor, “Just the cat, and nothing more.”
Pretty sure this was last summer; home repairs are such a bummer; And that damned expensive plumber had been often here before. Of the bills I oft was groaning;—sick of debt and of homeowning; Citibank would not be loaning me one wretched penny more. Tl;dr: I was poor.
And the soft, unsteady, plinking noises of the droplets sinking Irked me—worked me up like nothing else had ever done before; For the dripping was impeding any progress in my reading: “’Tis the cat,” I echoed, “tipping water on my kitchen floor—” Tipping cups and spilling water till it drips upon the floor;—” Then I saw she was outdoors.
Then I put away my novel, full of premonitions awful; “Damn,” said I, “This may be something far too ruinous to ignore.” I had a dreadful sinking feeling that a leak so quietly stealing Might go through the downstairs ceiling, or breed nasty moldy spores. So I seized my courage then, and opened up the bathroom door;— What a mess upon the floor.
Deep within that bathroom streaming, long I stood, internally screaming, And composing curses few homeowners dared to curse before; But the faucet kept on dripping; I stood still to keep from slipping, And to keep myself from flipping out I cried “God, what a chore!” This I shouted, and from upstairs came the question “What’s a chore?”— This whole mess was uncalled for.
Then I, to the stairwell turning, rage and bile within me churning; Strove to keep my wife from learning what it was I grumbled for. “Fret not,” said I, all frustration, “’tis no cause for consternation,” —But upon examination of the pool upon the floor, It was, sadly, rather worse than I had giv’n it credit for, And had soaked through the subfloor.
Checked the cabinet with a mutter, where, with many a spurt and sputter, I wrenched the shutoffs shut, and soon the water ceased to pour. The aforementioned financial woes were problems still substantial; I recalled the circumstantial bills from “fixes” come before— And I quailed to think what they would charge to fix the bathroom floor— Quailed, and sat on the wet floor.
Then this fluid from pipes becloggéd my sad bottom waterloggéd Til I, with a dogged purpose, rose and squished across the floor, Feeling much in need of brandy, said I, “I will ring for Andy. I confess, I am not handy, and a clog I do abhor— And his prices can’t be worse than what’s-his-name from Ecuador. His number’s in the top desk drawer.”
Much I marvelled to hear Andy say all would be fine and dandy; His assurance little meaning—little relevancy bore To the nigh-apocalyptic bathroom scene, a dismal triptych: Formed of pipes and levers cryptic; me despairing on the floor; And the ripples in the glistening water spread across the floor, As it trickled out the door.
O’er the sodden scene I hovered, as new breaches he discovered, And the subfloor, once uncovered, teemed with mould’ring blights galore. “Shit,” I blasphemously uttered, as my nervous fingers fluttered, Round the room I paced and puttered, groused and muttered, groaned and swore. Andy grunted, “Got a mess here,” o’er his radio’s hiss and roar— Tuned in to K-104.
As I glumly watched him seeking to pull up the floorboards creaking, Andy said, “At least the faucet should be easy to restore Through the forceful application of a wrench’s firm gyration To correct the pipe’s dilation, through which water, heretofore, Has been leaking.” I nodded, dumbly; almost called for an encore From this handy orator.
“Problem is,” the guy continued, wielding tool with muscle sinewed, “All these older pipes within your wall have got to be restored. Stuff like this had really oughta be replaced with proper copper.” Dreading that he’d make a pauper of me, then did I implore Of this canny, handy, manly Andy of the plumbing corps If a discount he’d explore.
Andy spurned negotiation; gave no response but negation Leaving me deep in frustration, as the water had before. Quickly laid he down new plywood, cleared the clog, assured me I should Call a carpenter – this guy could lay new floorboards for the floor; He’d return if e’er I wanted pipes (which I’d pay him fully for)— And then he was out the door.
Then, methought, I heard a tinkling down from yonder ceiling sprinkling; Leaping downstairs in a twinkling, I beheld a new eyesore. “Wretch,” I cried, soliloquizing, “thou sure hast false advertising!” And the wrath within me rising with my anguish did make war; ‘Handy Andy’ had but moved the plumbing problem down a floor— And soaked the bookshelves, furthermore.
“Faucet!” said I, “curséd fixture!—hot or cold, or e’en a mixture—” I placed the books upon the table, spread for drying, as I swore— “Sending leaks throughout my plumbing, every drain and gutter gumming, Keeping home repairers coming— tell me truly, I implore— In this house by dripping haunted, how can I thy seal restore?” But the faucet dripped some more.
“Faucet!” said I, “curséd fixture!—hot or cold, or e’en a mixture— Even now your dank elixir soaks through wall and jamb and floor!” I resolved, upon the morrow, to call the Better Business Bureau To relate my tale of sorrow—this crime must be answer’d for. Thus resolved to brand that Andy with a rep forevermore, I slumped, and wept, upon the floor.
But the dripping still unceasing, with intensity increasing, Drove me to sit up and holler at the upstairs sink some more. “You have dripped so long and often, but I beg you now to soften! Please just work, ok, turn off and on, as was thy wont before! Take thy drips from out my ears, and thy drops from off my floor!” But the faucet dripped yet more.
Since then, Andy, feeling spiteful, put a lien against my title; And the Mrs., sick of fungus, moved away to Baltimore; And my bathroom faucet freaking still is leaking, still is leaking, Still it tinkles, plinking, rankling, on the dank and moldy floor, And my soul from that black canker putrefying on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore!
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