never forget that for voldemort’s name to rearrange to “je suis voldemort” in the french translations, they had to make his middle name ‘Elvis’
Mark Neelstin though
Reblogged partly because these little vagaries of translating wordplay/nonsense words are fascinating, but mostly for my own ease of re-viewing on bad days bc by “Tom Gus Mervolo Dolder” I was delighted & by “Tomas Dorlent Cruplud” I was dead.
The Brooklyn Crucifer Famine of 2014-2016
When it started, it was just the chard. Not even the cute rainbow chard, just the green one, which was like kale’s less popular sidekick, the bassist of crucifers. Some CSA boxes came with leaves brown and frizzled in the corners, but we thought little of it. Cooking it au gratin covered any number of sins, anyway.
Next it came for the broccoli rabe. Pasta dishes suffered, but nobody worried, not too much, not yet. It wasn’t until the fancier bodegas started reporting a disturbing shortage of organic kale chips that our hackles began to rise with dread foreboding. People started stockpiling their favorite flavours: Garlic-Red Pepper, and Zesty Chipotle “Cheese”.
October 2014 marked the first of what we would come to term the Greenmarket Riots. Instagrammers lamented the fact that the rusty-green roughage provided a terribly poor contrast for the bloodshed. Honeycrisp apples and purple carrots alike were crushed under the ankle boots of the ravening hordes.
Historians credit the Crucifer Famine for the unprecedented exodus from previously belovéd neighborhoods, many people going as far as South Carolina, clenching skeletal jaws and holding out hope for untouched collard greens. The New York Times rarely references Brooklyn, now. Some people say they prefer it that way.
Related: Rockaways Entrepreneur Says: “Kelp is the New Kale”
"Brother, I am creating this stained glass panel, which I calleth Souls in Hell. I ponder, what dread creatures shouldst I include?"
"Imp. A dread imp. Definitely."
"Ah, the imp. Wild of eye and snarled of lip, grizzled. Yes. And a dragon?"
"TOTALLY a dragon! What, are you kidding? Snake-ass dragony dragon. Spine-spikes, head of a lion, I don’t know, all the dragon things."
"Forsooth, and perchance a demon? A horrible creature with horns protruding from his brow and the forked beard of a serpent."
"You are killing it. What else are you going to put in there?"
"I am thinking? An unclothed woman."
"AWW yeah, like a naked lady suckling asps, with a scorpion’s tail and eyes like cesspools?"
"Nay, just a woman."
"But. Wait, this isn’t, like, a tryptich, right? Still just on the hell thing?"
"Whyfore do you ask? A lascivious woman is the worst scourge of man, and dwelleth in the deepest realms of darkness."
"But, I mean… so what about just one suckling asp?"
"Never, and thus I condemn her."
"Oh, definitely," study author Wayne McApplesby nodded his head vigorously. "Absolutely women with big butts are smarter. Better at arithmetic, better at, whatsits, analogues? Better at all of the things really."
We caught up with the Oxford researchers reporting this toothsome finding at a local pub called The Wife of Bath. The group was largely male, and the one female member we were able to talk to, Dr. Teresa Gillibrand, was sitting at a corner of the bar surrounded by crisps packets.
"Every time I bring up a point during weekly meeting," she said, studiously regarding her pint, "they just look at my butt. As if to enquire, is it big enough for us to take her point seriously? I got double-firsts in the Natural Sciences and Philosophy Triposes at Cambridge! But suddenly it’s not enough if I don’t have the arse to recommend me.” Her eyes glittered dangerously, but she just nudged the basket of crisps. ”Have you tried the pickled onion ones yet? They’re not bad.”
Catching up with Dr. Wayne McApplesby at the billiards table, we pressed him about the science behind these seductive claims.
"It’s, it’s the cholesterol. The good one. In the bottom." He dilated his eyes while making squeezing motions with his fingers. "Different characteristics, like. More succulent, er, fewer inflammatory cytokines. Good for the brain."
When an impressively steatopygous woman approached the bar, we dared ask what our gallant scientists might surmise about her intelligence.
"Oi, that cow?" Ph.D. candidate Maitland Welles crowed. "I’d have to remind her where my zip was." We gently reminded him of the hypothesis that his lab had, after all, published. "It’s the ratio, innit?" he replied, caressing his pool cue. "Guts to garters. And anyway, we were comparing within females, weren’t we?" Our reporters did not share the chuckle.
When we left our redoubtable researchers, they were all crowded at the rail asking the bartender if it might be possible to put Sir Mixalot on the stereo.
Meanwhile, Dr. Gillibrand had switched to gin and had started muttering ”Fucking I’ll show you what’s smart, sit on you that’s what I’d do, bet you’d love my arse if it were made of serpents, serpents with tongues made out of summat like … knives, yeah, made out of knives. Show you."
1. ON YOUR HEAD LIKE A TURBAN
Turn up your style another notch by eschewing the status quo. And after all, they do say most of your heat escapes from your head. This style works best with a lightweight wool jacket with structured arms for wrapping.
2. LIKE A CAPE
Cape coats are so 2012. Tie the arms of a regular coat around your neck and let it drape down your back in fashionable folds. Use a peacoat for a saucy capelet, and a longer woolen coat for Renaissance-esque drama!
3. AS PANTS
They wear coats on their arms like normal people in the flyover states, and you don’t want to be like that, do you, you edgy fashionista! Insert your legs into the coat sleeves and pull them up as far as they’ll go. You can even fasten the remaining fabric around your waist with a bejeweled pin.
They might say the unconstructed jacket is in this season, but you can take it a step further. Dismantle the coat with a seam ripper, and then drape each individual piece over your torso in an artful manner. Don’t worry if you’re still cold - beauty is suffering!
"Let me get this straight." Nancy Drew smoothed a lock of titian hair behind her ear. "The penises are just… disappearing? And you think I can help?"
"Yes, yes!" The sunbronzed man nodded enthusiastically. "Your fame as an amateur sleuth has inexplicably spread from River Heights all the way to Iran. I believe that you are the only one who can help.”
Nancy’s eighteen-year-old detective eyes sparkled. ”Well, If my father, famous attorney Carson Drew, agrees, I suppose I can give it my best go.” She shook the man’s hand with a confident grip borne of years horseback riding, Japanese flower arranging, and high-altitude golf.
"I feel better already," he said, adjusting his turban, "now that you are on the case! I am honored that the girl who solved The Mystery of the Bengali Spider-Dog is setting her keen mind to our mystery.”
Nancy returned to the hotel, where she was staying with her two best friends, the tomboyish George Fayne and the plump Bess Marvin.
"Girls! You will never believe what I’m supposed to investigate." George seemed suddenly very interested in unpacking her socks. "Cemetery-penises have been disappearing!"
"My goodness!" Bess giggled, her chubby cheeks turning pink. Bess was, if it has not yet been addressed, charmingly tubby. "Penises!"
"George," Nancy turned to the slim dark-haired girl, "what do you make of it?" George examined her cuticles.
"I’m, uh, sure I couldn’t begin to speculate."
"There’s nothing for it," Nancy said confidently, squaring her attractive shoulders. "I’m going to have to stake it out."
The cemetery was dark, and the unfamiliar smells of Iran tickled Nancy’s pert nose. She was lying flat on the grass near one of the more statuesque penises, hoping to catch someone in the act. Shadowy figures emerged from the gloom and circled the great stone phallus, but despite her uncanny night vision Nancy could not make out their faces. Once they left, she crept over to where they had been standing.
"A clue!" Nancy crowed quietly, bending down to pick up a white matchbook. It was too dark to read the words printed upon it, so she tucked it into the pocket of her navy blue linen slacks and returned again to the hotel.
"What is it?" cried Bess.
"It’s a matchbook," Nancy mused, turning it over in her hands. "From The Red Owl. Odd that it’s in English.”
"Isn’t The Red Owl in River Heights?” Bess exclaimed.
"Gadzooks!" Nancy said surprisedly. "You’re right! If I’m not mistaken, that is where the local misandrists have their weekly meetings."
"I’m asleep!" mumbled George. “‘Ve been asleep this whole time, yes I have, sleepy sleep sleep. Dreams. You know. The usual. Sleep things. Yep, asleep."
Nancy frowned. Something did not seem quite right.
This is a thing that I wrote!
What the tamarins are probably whispering about
"Ugh, her hair, even I know that "The Rachel" is totally played and I’m a tamarin for fuck’s sake."
"Okay, on the count of three, let’s all look at her and then look at each other and laugh like something’s really funny. One, two, three…"
"I heard that her boyfriend is in a Phish cover band called The Cheese Weasels let’s tell everyone.”
"Dave said that she slept with the zoo interns. Like, all of them. What a bonobo!”
"That skirt is so ugly. Which one of you wants to pee on it later? Personally, I think Mindy should do it, because Mindy seems to think she’s the leader of this group lately. You’re not, Mindy. You’re just not.”
"Ew, how many bananas is she eating right now? So gross.”
"The next time she comes in the enclosure let’s all turn our backs really slowly. Mindy, stop looking at her, she’s going to come over here."