#One day I might put a pre-Reed leaving the business version of this in their channel just to make myself think of a scenario and laugh about

[sadserotonin]

“just send it, don’t worry about how it’s gonna sound.” adeline & reed.

With both palms covering his eyes, Reed let out a loud groan that rumbled the phone on his chest to slide down toward his stomach. "What if his big brain thinks I'm insane and he never talks to me again?" he lamented, the syllables of his words crashing into each other by this point.

The impediment was no matter to Adeline, who insistently pointed out how unlikely his mostly joking scenario was, given the ring on his finger. The reminder had Reed peeking out from behind his hand, a smile curling on his lips as his reality sank back in with him, warm as the drinks he’d shot back all night.

“Alright, alright, I’ll send it,” he finally conceded, unlocking his phone to the already typed text he’d nearly backed out on. Pressing down on the small arrow beside his message, Reed shook his head before looking back to his sister, “You’re such a bad influence.”

____

Delivered 4:26 AM

Hi just wanted to let yo u know I was thinking about you and I loveyou. You make me so happy everyday id divorce you just so I could have the privy ledge of marrying you all over again. Your my favorite every thing and I know in my heart that youre my soup mate. Exited to fall asleep in your arms later my love.

Delivered 4:27 AM

P.S. Adeline says hi

#it's not always benson but even when it isn't it is goODBYE I loved this lmao not just bc Reed is insane but bc I'm convinced Adeline would #easily enable him to be more insane just for the chaos of it he's never been an insane individual in his life so I feel like Adeline would #never pass up on the opportunity to see him so out of his element bYE #ALSO THINKING ABOUT THESE SIBLINGS JUST GOING OUT TO DRINK TOGETHER BYE. THINKING ABOUT REED THE SIMP. THINKING LOTS OF THOUGHTS #One day I might put a pre-Reed leaving the business version of this in their channel just to make myself think of a scenario and laugh about #it bYE #c: Anderson Reed #Reed x Adeline #benson #I'm literally STILL laughing about this bc this man could not be any more ridiculous I'm HOWLING #it's Benji being ridiculous in the last one and Reed being ridiculous in this one for me personally bc they're both ridiculous crazy stupid #for each other bYE #cm

[mckaytriarchy-1]

Also McDoom.

|| MEME - doctorxdoom -  ACCEPTING ||

Belle’s having a shitty day, so she gets three verses. The other two are placed beneath a cut for length.OG Doom/Holiday in Latveria:

Chooses the pumpkin: … I feel like Victor probably has servants bring a fantastic selection of pre-selected pumpkins for her to choose from in an absent, busy-king sort of way.

Carves the pumpkin: Tess! Doom’s a busy king. She might be an ass and force him to sit with her in the middle of the night while she’s working on it, though. Or not. They’re good with their alone time!

Gets scared and clings the other in a haunted house: … hah! (If they were in some sort of catacombs like the Catacombs of Paris, probably Tess? Latveria has to have a few smaller versions. Not sure that counts, though.)

Matching costume idea: Victor. You know the Latverian nobility has some sort of ostentatious harvest ball, which means Doom must have the grandest of them all. Tess would (and has) turned the tables on him when it comes to matching costumes, though. 

Makes a cozy bed-fort to cuddle in: I can’t see cozy bed-forting being a thing in Castle Doom? 

Steals the other’s candy: Tess, to a limited extent. She’s weirdly sensitive to Victor growing up food insecure, and was food insecure herself for several months after her mutation surfaced as a teenager.

Accidentally gets lost in a corn maze: I really, really like the idea of Doctor Doom lost in a corn maze, but I can’t even imagine how it would come about. (If his guidance systems failed, he’d have to use his rocket boots and it would be great.)

Tells spooky stories to scare the other: Hm. I can see them waaaay late swapping a few stories, particularly if they’re the true variety that gives Victor a chance to make himself look awesome? “And that is the tale of how DOOM felled Dracula.” I mean, Tess ate an evil king a few times. Doom has done everything but eat evil kings…

Collects cool-looking leaves: Doom. But For reasons of Botany and Science.

Infamous Iron Man Doom/”Bright Green Lolly”

Chooses the pumpkin: Tess. I doubt Halloween is more than a blip on Victor’s radar. He probably shows up while she’s at the grocery store choosing a pumpkin, honestly. Coincidentally.

Carves the pumpkin: Both. I can see him showing up at her apartment (the way he does to everyone else in Infamous Iron Man) and her putting his ass to work.

Gets scared and clings the other in a haunted house: No.

Matching costume idea: Nope. Only if doing so benefitted Tess in some wa: like she was in charge of taking her nieces and nephew to a costume contest where they were aiming for the “group costume” prize and couldn’t shake Victor for some reason. I feel like she forces him to play by her rules if he’s going to Infamous Iron Man in her general vicinity.

Makes a cozy bed-fort to cuddle in: Tess would be the one with the bed-fort building skills, but Victor makes her feel Funny Things, and I suspect she’s cuddle avoidant. 

Steals the other’s candy: Tess. But she leaves Anything with Nougat for him because that’s his favorite.

Accidentally gets lost in a corn maze: Tess. “Victor?” Calm. “Victor?” Louder. “VICTOR!” That’s the “hey, I’m trying to get your attention” holler with Definite Annoyance.

Tells spooky stories to scare the other: Tricky here! Reformed Vic gets little friendly socialization for obvious reasons. He’d be an easy pull for a “sit and tell me about Appropriately Creepy Things You’ve Done, and I don’t mean peering in women’s windows”. They’ve both got their share of stories, and I think they could entertain one another with them.

Collects cool-looking leaves: Tess, but they probably get crushed in her pockets in spite of her best efforts.

90s College AU/”Tess McKay Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle”/”Fanta of the Opera”

Chooses the pumpkin: Tess, but I suspect Vic actually feels a little interest and eyes her decisions critically. Tess probably also wants to see the pumpkin catapults in action with the engineering club. Reed no doubt built one of his own, and Vic’s mind is really there. Because fuck you and your juvenile activities, Richards. … He could do so much better.

Carves the pumpkin: Tess. If Victor wants to sit and be a douchebag, he can sit and be a douchebag. He’s not going to ruin her good time.

Gets scared and clings the other in a haunted house: I feel Tess in her early twenties is more susceptible to being scared, and still has occasional issues with claustrophobia. So Victor probably gets to feel all Stereotypically Manly.

Matching costume idea: If these matching costumes involved an elaborate prank of some kind, Tess. She’s never been a “theme costume” kind of person, but she’ll get behind the idea if she benefits somehow.

Makes a cozy bed-fort to cuddle in: “Shut up and get in the fort, dillweed!” (So.Tess.)

Steals the other’s candy: Tess. Just a few pieces. I feel like she and Victor honestly don’t do a ton of processed sugar compared to those around them in all verses? They’d be more for “European” levels as opposed to “U.S. levels.”

Accidentally gets lost in a corn maze: Victor. So much stomping! He’s leaving, Tess. He’s leaving! Do you hear him?

Tells spooky stories to scare the other: Both. I feel Tess could coax Victor into sharing a few tales “from the homeland.”

Collects cool-looking leaves: Victor. Neeeeerd.

#doctorxdoom #:answered: #:shipping meme: #:ship: bright green lolly: #:ship: mcdoom: #:ship: fanta of the opera:

[bnrobertson1]

Chin Up, Algorithms

Greta Van Fleet is known for three things: (1) Shamelessly sounding like Led Zeppelin, (2) Getting critically shat on for shamelessly sounding like LZ and (3) being the cause of people attacking the music press for, you know, just not getting it, man.* I haven’t had the privilege or desire to meet the band of Detroit teenagers, but I don’t like the thought of these up-and-comers, who so clearly have the world by the tail, being down about the cruel nature of living in the public eye. So, I decided to encourage them the only way I know how: by giving them Pump Up Speech they’ve essentially begged me for **.

*Sample quote: “It’s like an awesome new version of Led Zeppelin and refreshing for people who (like myself) are overloaded with electro-pop and generic rap that is dominating the airwaves and Spotify streams.”

** in my mind

[SETTING: BACKSTAGE @ University of Phoenix Stadium. Although the stadium walls shake with blandly enthusiastic anticipation, the band is depressed after some especially rough reviews. The label has flown me in to get them in a better headspace before they go “shred” with Imagine Dragons in front 100,000 people in the desert. They await my arrival in their green room.]

BONGO DRUMMER (I’m guessing his name is Derrrbb) [flustered]: Well, the label said they’d…

SMASH. Before anyone even realizes the door has been kicked open, Derrrbb’s head gets hit with an unidentified object and caves in like whatever politician you don’t like being questioned by whatever politician you do like.  

All are silent. There is a vacuum in the air that all present notice and appreciate, a calm before the storm heavy with some serious truth debris.

I stand motionlessly, a cricket bat (name: BAM BAM) dangles in my hand like a windchime. Finally, I animate. The next five minutes consist of me smashing any and everything that needs smashing. Vanity mirrors. SMASH. Two Man Harps. SMASH. Curling irons. SMASH SMASH SMASH. To add to the effect, my face is bleached with flour meant to resemble narcotics. Red dye, surprisingly sweet, is also on my face for even further dramatic effect, although it is mixing with the flour, making a fairly delicious combination that is difficult not to lick. I then remember I left all that fake drug crap back in my van, so we’re on the real deal, baby. My eyes start twitching as my pupils dilate. Fucking Great Van Fleet. I was saving all that for Frasier night at mom’s house. Oh well, might as well get this over with. Taking a slightly manic British affectation, I speak.

“Listen. Up. You. FUCKS!!!”

I find the closest “Eastern” instrument and spend close to half an hour tirelessly destroying it with BAM BAM into pieces so infinitesimal that it would be nearly impossible to prove that it ever actually existed. An Imagine Dragons’, let’s say, oboist(?) cries in the background, I tirelessly smash the Sitar out of its misery. Noticing I’m distracted with obliterating instruments, Greta Van Fleet’s lead singer slowly starts to gain some courage, finally speaking “Hey man! Th….”

“SHUTTTTTT ITTTTT,” I politely interrupt, picking up the lead singer, let’s call him Gene, by his VERY COOL  “Indian” apparel, discus throwing him into the sun. I finally take a deep breath. Then another. Then I seethe for fifteen minutes before speaking.

“Perhaps, I should start from scratch. I’m here because your record label paid me enough a volcano-choking amount of dough to fly here and give you boys a pick-me-up because you’ve been down in the dumps with all this negative pWess. You know, a little pep pep. Maybe a pat on the noggin, a drink at me teet. And yep, boys, it’s been brutal. Look what it says here [picking up a stray computer]: ‘derivative,’ [I throw the computer at the regular drummer like a throwing star, it sticking in his head, killing him instantly] “vampiric,” [I just punch some dude for having a pube stache], “totally passionless” [I consider how many pounds of pasta a crazy busy Olive Garden goes through the day].

I continue. “And so what? Did you really get into rock n’ roll to impress critics. CRITICS!?! Some 45-year old cumrag making in a year what you do you do in a day selling your ‘Indigenous Peoples’ Greta Van Fleet Start Pack?’ Do you think for one segment of a second that one of those keyboard warriors wouldn’t change places with you? They’d floss with the bones of their young just to have one person applaud them out loud, much less a 100,000 at one time.

Full name: Indigenous Peoples’ Greta Van Fleet Start Pack* with individually numbered Bansuri

So what do they do? They talk shit on the internet like the true desperados they are. Real John fucking Waynes, this lot. ‘Oh, they’re just some product made by record industry focus group testing?’ Oh really? Well guess what else is- EVERYTHING. But there’s hope: all the stuff you get in return does not know the difference. Let me assure you, gentlemen, breasts and narcotics…” [and this point I disappear for 45 minutes. I return very, very excited to continue our chat].

“YEEEEEAAAAAHHHHHHH. Where was I?!?! Buildings! No. Oh Greta Van Fleet. So yeah like I was saying, your record label didn’t think they were signing the new Lou Reed or the new Daft Punk or fuck even the new Seven Mary fucking Three when they got you to sign on the dotted line. They just have enough data to know people like Led Zeppelin’s sound and to know that you fill that bill quite nicely. Sure, those Steve McQueen-esque critics may call you “derivative” as they take a break from their marathon love-making, but guess what- so is everybody who has ever used the word ‘the.’ Plus, derivative or not, none of you are in your sixties going on about Satanism and asking for stupid amounts of money, so the powers picked you. Plus you didn’t seem to have any pre-existing medical conditions.  But don’t fool yourself: each and every one of you cash registers are just glorified human-shaped SONOS machines. Play these songs, get your paycheck, and then exhaust all of your senses- especially which ever one tells you to ever speak. I LOVE THE LIGHTS!

Anyway, boys, think about this: Your songs have been played billions of times. BILLIONS. Add that all up and that’s more time than the entirety of Mr. “I have a Graduate Degree Yet Make Less than $35,000” Journalist McFuckFace has been on this planet, or any other. Don’t let him sting you with limp-dicked insults, boys. You have won. Look at this [picks up $10,000 guitar]. And this [picks up a huge pile of vaporizers with both hands]. ALL THE VAPES IN THE WORLD! AND THIS! [I open the treasure chest full of jewels that is in the room for some reason. I take a few of the jewels out and starts rubbing them all over my body for, let’s say, 20 minutes.]

[I continue.] Critics get to be “smart,” you get to be “rich and famous,” which is another way of saying you get to be anything you want, except smart, which is overrated. Just ask the chess master who lives in the park next to my 9,600 sq. penthouse suite. He asks for the cheese on the wax paper of my morning bagel I’m usually far too hungover to eat. That’s the type who “know about music.” When you’re thinking about what type of ice sculpture Wedding 9 should have, he’ll be teaching a Community College Class about the “Evils of Capitalism,” and mates, he’ll know that truth as soundly as you won’t remember one fucking fact about him.  

My point, my little gold mines, [I take the bassist’s face in my hands] my beautiful little gold mines [that’s not the bassist. I don’t care]  is that none of this shit matters. We’re just here for a blip, so make it a boom. Who cares if “the right people” respect you? Or if that cute girl with the thick-brimmed glasses who keeps uncracked Pynchon nearby admires your mind? I’ve got bad news for you all: none of you are Thom Yorke. I also have great news: NONE OF YOU ARE THOM YORKE. You’re not doomed to spend your days thinking about the feelings of a vacuum cleaner replacement part or some shit. Embrace your inner hedonism- that is the true spirit of LZ. Not some stolen blues riffs and shark fucking (google it). Let your creativity run wild with how you put things in and out of your bodies. AND BECOME A GOD FOR IT.  

So sorry, people will not be studying your album notes decades from now looking for clues into your genius or how the structure of some ballad is meant to mirror some fucking world ill. And that shouldn’t bother you one bit- worrying about how the future will consider you is for academics and people who think because their current life blows that it will somehow be championed in the future because they didn’t have the gall to do anything in the present. If they’re lucky they’ll get a paper towel made in their honor. If we’re lucky, that paper towel will be produced using child-labor and earth-destroying products. Nothing wipes the shit grin off their “sophisticated” faces quite like hypercriticism, and buddy, we’ll assure you there’ll be plenty of that.  

So people are calling you just a rip-off of Led Zeppelin? Congrats, you’ve hit the gold mine. Now all that’s left to do is shine. Oh, you’re welcome. Now fuck off.”

As I start to leave, one of the band member’s asks a question about “authenticity” and whether I wondered whether aping the musicians who aped other musicians “problematic.” My brain- whose resting speed is somewhere in between a figuring out how to fly and a full blown aneurysm- weaponizes, liquifying all remaining members who are in the room. I take the liquid and make ceremonial “Energy Pendants,” where I put a drop or two in a vaguely “spiritual” rock (I call them ‘crystals’), selling them for $3,500 a piece. I become a millionaire and marry Kate Upton on the moon. Oh, and because I’m so well liked and wealthy, the actual Led Zeppelin plays the reception. They play a 14- minute version of “Kashmir.” It slays.  

THE END