#The Queen of Putrescence!
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Today's impulse buy for the baby!
Story time tonight is gonna be like
The Princess Bride: A Counting Story
#Wholesome family fun#BOW TO THE QUEEN OF GARBAGE#The Queen of Filth!#The Queen of Putrescence!#BOO#BOOOOOO!#BOOOOOO!!#Princess bride#Baby books#New adventures
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"Queen of Putrescence" would be a great name for a band
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Awww… Aziraphale! He’s going to be having some Queen of Putrescence nightmares up in heaven, isn’t he?
SOMEONE IS BOOING! The BOOING gets louder as an ANCIENT WOMAN approaches Buttercup through the crowd, BOOING every
step of the way:
BUTTERCUP
Why do you do this?
ANCIENT BOOER
Because you had love in your
hands, and you gave it up.
BUTTERCUP
(distraught)
But they would have killed
Westley if I hadn't done it.
ANCIENT BOOER
Your true love lives and you
marry another --
(to the crowd)
-- True love saved her in the
Fire Swamp, and she treated it
like garbage. And that's what she
is, the Queen of Refuse! So, bow
down to her if you want. Bow to
her. Bow to the Queen of Slime,
the Queen of Filth, the Queen of
Putrescence. Boo! Boo! Rubbish!
Filth! Slime! Muck! Boo! Boo!
#good omens spoilers#good omens season 2#good omens 2 spoilers#spoilers good omens#princess bride#the princess bride
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The Queen of Refuse. Your true love lives. And you marry another. So bow down to her if you want, bow to her. Bow to the Queen of Slime, the Queen of Filth, the Queen of Putrescence. Boo. Boo. Rubbish. Filth. Slime. Muck. Boo. Boo. Boo.
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@eulaliasims Let’s hold hands and stroll into the caves together.
The love of the our land,
our rocky little precipice jutting over the cool, black, sea
lives deep inside of us.
Inside of us we're all got saltwater and coral
where other men have bones and blood.
If we try and live like them,
if we try to walk barefoot on the green grass and drink sweet honey,
we shrivel up under the sun.
What other thing could love be,
if not needing a thing so much,
that you die from the want of it?
The salt in our veins,
the coral itching under our skin,
must be love.
The doom doesn't happen every year;
but it might happen any year.,
When the queen's heat rises up,
out of the sea to crawl deep into our lungs.
The mothers and daughters breath in putrescence,
like when the sea drags crates of exotic fruits from shipwrecks,
and vomits it up with the tides.
Old men and women,
children,
all claw.
Just like dogs at their noses
to get the stench out.
But if a man's young,
and then only if he's beautiful,
there's no reek like fish stranded on hot sands;
there's perfume.
There's a honeysuckle musk sweet as raw fish belly,
there's a piscine ambrosia in the air.
They'll walk their feet raw when it drags them into the sea.
Lock them up,
and they'll wear their fingers to nubs clawing at the walls,
they won't eat, or sleep,
nor drink a sip that isn't saltwater.
By the time the wind carries the last of the scent away,
they'll be dead of broken hearts.
So we let them go.
We let my brother go.
We did our best.
Ma shore off his soft curls, but they grew back in a velvet tumble.
One day she might've poked out his pretty blue eyes if Da hadn't held her;
said there was nothing for her but to get her weeping done early.
Ma's not only one who loves my brother.
The queen isn't the only one that loves my brother.
And if I love,
and will so die by my lack,
there's nothing for me but to follow him beneath the waves.
I think the boy's bespellment must protect them;
my chest was afire long before the queen's cave found us,
and swallowed us up.
The caves are black,
long, and twisting.
The air is so damp that my lungs
never feel less than half-drowned.
The queen's rot carries no secret instructions to me.
I can only trace my brother's mindless footsteps.
They're easy to follow;
she caught him right out of bed.
His white feet leak red blood with every step.
We are not alone in the queen's caves.
Sometimes we pass another brainless, sniffing boy.
Sometimes a sobbing woman follows him.
But we keep commonest company with bones.
The boys taken near the end of her season,
who lost the queen's scent
long before they found her serpentine embrace.
The caves are hopeless, endless maze,
and their own bloodied footprints are washed away by the rides.
Even if the queen's noxious spoor frees them,
they'll never find their way home.
I'll never find my way home.
I do not intend to find my way home.
I do not even intend to find the queen.
I would kill her,
if I could.
But f I were any kind of match for her,
my brother's love would never have come,
down to this winding, wat'ry grave.
I pray the queen does love her beautiful young men,
with a love that'll die from the lack of them.
And I pray my hand is steady,
when I cut my brother's throat.
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Conversation
Audience Booer: Boo. Boo. Boo.
Petunia: Why do you do this?
Audience Booer: Because you had love in your hands, and you gave it up.
Petunia: But they would have killed Porky if I hadn't done it.
Audience Booer: Your true love lives. And you marry another. True Love saved her in the first act, and she treated it like garbage. And that's what she is, the Queen of Refuse. So bow down to her if you want, bow to her. Bow to the Queen of Slime, the Queen of Filth, the Queen of Putrescence. Boo. Boo. Rubbish. Filth. Slime. Muck. Boo. Boo. Boo.
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True love saved her, and she treated it like garbage!!! And that’s what she is! Garbage! Queen of refuse! So bow down to her if you want! Bow to her! Bow to the Queen of Slime! The Queen of Filth! The Queen of Putrescence! Booooo!
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Connecticut Recognizes a Failure-to-Report Claim
Today’s case is Glover v. Bausch & Lomb, Inc., — A.3d –, 2022 WL 2035805 (Ct. S. Ct. Jun. 7, 2022). And all we can say is Boo! Not a Halloween, Casper-type Boo! But a real Queen of Putrescence-type Boo! Because unfortunately, the Connecticut Supreme Court, responding to a certified question from the Second Circuit, found that Connecticut law allows a common-law claim for liability for failure…
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My love, do you recall the object which we saw,
That fair, sweet, summer morn!
At a turn in the path a foul carcass
On a gravel strewn bed,
Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman,
Burning and dripping with poisons,
Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way
Its belly, swollen with gases.
The sun shone down upon that putrescence,
As if to roast it to a turn,
And to give back a hundredfold to great Nature
The elements she had combined;
And the sky was watching that superb cadaver
Blossom like a flower.
So frightful was the stench that you believed
You'd faint away upon the grass.
The blow-flies were buzzing round that putrid belly,
From which came forth black battalions
Of maggots, which oozed out like a heavy liquid
All along those living tatters.
All this was descending and rising like a wave,
Or poured out with a crackling sound;
One would have said the body, swollen with a vague breath,
Lived by multiplication.
And this world gave forth singular music,
Like running water or the wind,
Or the grain that winnowers with a rhythmic motion
Shake in their winnowing baskets.
The forms disappeared and were no more than a dream,
A sketch that slowly falls
Upon the forgotten canvas, that the artist
Completes from memory alone.
Crouched behind the boulders, an anxious dog
Watched us with angry eye,
Waiting for the moment to take back from the carcass
The morsel he had left.
— And yet you will be like this corruption,
Like this horrible infection,
Star of my eyes, sunlight of my being,
You, my angel and my passion!
Yes! thus will you be, queen of the Graces,
After the last sacraments,
When you go beneath grass and luxuriant flowers,
To molder among the bones of the dead.
Then, O my beauty! say to the worms who will
Devour you with kisses,
That I have kept the form and the divine essence
Of my decomposed love!
—Charles Baudelaire, A Carcass
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perspectives on the aftermath, iv
[starting to feel like this series of segments should be called corpse party]
(you might want to check out the other parts first)
(and/or read what’s on AO3)
Queen Nénwen:
(Before I start about this, for those who don't know: Things in Aman are slower to rot than they are in Middle-earth, unless they have been buried; then they are faster. Elven bodies in particular are very slow to putresce, unless buried. In the time of the Darkening everything grew slower yet, even when buried, which seems odd unless you remember that however unpleasant it might seem to us, the dissolution of bodies into soil is an act of life.)
(So at least there is that: we did not have to deal with putrid remains. I hope I never see a battlefield under the Sun.)
Even those of us who remembered the times of fear in Cuiviénen never had to deal with so many bodies at once. —Truly, at Cuiviénen we seldom found any bodies. But there was some precedent from then, and from the Great Journey, for dealing hröar no longer occupied.
Bodies were buried, or they were burned, or if some great waters were at hand they might be placed on a raft and sent away. We adopted the last method while we dwelt by the Sea in Beleriand. Lord Ossë always ensured they were carried away swiftly.
That seemed the obvious choice here as well, but — how many rafts—
I caught myself wondering if there was any way to ask Lord Ossë to return the empty rafts.
Then I decided I had better try.
Málawen Calariel:
Eventually someone stopped me and told me my mother had been brought inside a storefront by some people who saw her slain. She was safe.
…Her body was safe.
Duinipen's wasn't, we found out eventually. He'd been trampled by a horse, or more than one.
Duimiwen Elulindiel:
People acted like they expected me to be upset about Duino's body, or glad that Lady Uinen… magicked Emmë's head back on, but what difference did it make? They were gone either way! The people who killed Duino didn't care! Lady Uinen cares! None of that is noteworthy! It didn't matter!
—It did matter, a little bit, that Dammë's enemies treated her body with respect. That they understood how worthy she was, at least a little. That was — there was a very, very small bit of comfort in that.
Queen Nénwen:
For our people we had to consider reusable rafts and, and schedules, but there was also the problem of the Noldorin dead.
We'd seen, watching from the mansions, that they burned some of their dead on pyres made from wagons they didn't think they could get on the ships — mainly those that were on the wharves and quays and ships themselves, I think. And unlike our dead, any dead Noldor who went into the harbor, or Noldor who died in the harbor, were not returned, just silently removed. We didn't have to worry about those, at least, and that was probably well over half of them.
But that still left… many. And we had to deal with them somehow.
I am not sure who suggested the site of the Cradle as a good place to bury all the fallen Noldor, but it came up very early. The justification was that we wouldn't have to dig, which hardly held up when we would have to haul away shattered building stones instead. Since its base was below the high tide line and the sluice gates were broken in the collapse, it was flooded.
It was a terrible place for any kind of grave, and I'm not sure it would have been any more trouble to carry all the bodies out of the city, leave them on the Kings' Road, and tell the remaining Noldor to come get them. It definitely would have been less trouble to dump them in the harbor for Lord Ossë to deal with like he'd dealt with all the Noldor that already went in.
But the Cradle was symbolic. It would make a statement.
I'm still not sure what.
Eventually Olwë agreed, after we made sure the outlet to the harbor was sealed up tight. One section at a time, rubble would be hauled away, dead Noldor piled in, and covered up, mainly with the rubble. That was a bit later, though.
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SOMEONE CALLED ADRIEN PRINCESS BUTTERCUP AND NOW I CANT STOP THINKING ABOUT THAT ONCE SCENE IN PRINCESS BRIDE WHERE SHES HAVING THAT DREAM AND THE OLD LADYS LIKE ‘you marry while you’re true love is eLsEwHeRe?’ and ‘BoW tO tHe QuEeN of FiLtH!! Of PuTrEsCenCe’ and oh my god do I need to write a princess bride au????
#the answer is yes actually#adrien agreste#princess bride au#yall think im kidding just you wait#princess!adrien
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So bow down to her if you want, bow to her! Bow to the Queen of Slime, the Queen of Filth, the Queen of Putrescence!!
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Having finally watched OFMD, is there a “why is Stede such a complete idiot” tag? Because, I mean (not to come over all ancient booer, but yes I am going to):
ANCIENT BOOER
Because you had love in your
hands, and you gave it up.
BUTTERCUP
But they would have killed
Westley him if I hadn't done it.
ANCIENT BOOER
Your true love lives and you run off to marry another --
-- True love saved him in the
Fire Swamp countless times and he treated it
like garbage. And that's what he
is, the Queen of Refuse! So, bow
down to him if you want. Bow to
Him. Bow to the Queen of Slime,
the Queen of Filth, the Queen of
Putrescence. Boo! Boo! Rubbish!
Filth! Slime! Muck! Boo! Boo!
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*virtually sends flower crowns thru laptop screen* SHUD UP N BE A FECKIN QUEEN DAT YOU AR!!!!
Queen of Refuse , Queen of Slime , Queen of Filth , Queen of Putrescence
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My love, do you recall the object which we saw,
That fair, sweet, summer morn!
At a turn in the path a foul carcass
On a gravel strewn bed,
Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman,
Burning and dripping with poisons,
Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way
Its belly, swollen with gases.
The sun shone down upon that putrescence,
As if to roast it to a turn,
And to give back a hundredfold to great Nature
The elements she had combined;
And the sky was watching that superb cadaver
Blossom like a flower.
So frightful was the stench that you believed
You’d faint away upon the grass.
The blow-flies were buzzing round that putrid belly,
From which came forth black battalions
Of maggots, which oozed out like a heavy liquid
All along those living tatters.
All this was descending and rising like a wave,
Or poured out with a crackling sound;
One would have said the body, swollen with a vague breath,
Lived by multiplication.
And this world gave forth singular music,
Like running water or the wind,
Or the grain that winnowers with a rhythmic motion
Shake in their winnowing baskets.
The forms disappeared and were no more than a dream,
A sketch that slowly falls
Upon the forgotten canvas, that the artist
Completes from memory alone.
Crouched behind the boulders, an anxious dog
Watched us with angry eye,
Waiting for the moment to take back from the carcass
The morsel he had left.
— And yet you will be like this corruption,
Like this horrible infection,
Star of my eyes, sunlight of my being,
You, my angel and my passion!
Yes! thus will you be, queen of the Graces,
After the last sacraments,
When you go beneath grass and luxuriant flowers,
To molder among the bones of the dead.
Then, O my beauty! say to the worms who will
Devour you with kisses,
That I have kept the form and the divine essence
Of my decomposed love!
- A Carcass, Charles Baudelaire
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it is my birthday
and i like attention. i’ll be accepting birthday messages of all kinds but i especially encourage the messy and heartfelt. seriously say something please!
https://jusky.tumblr.com/ask
if you decide to say nothing, I CONDEMN YOU. Bow to the Queen of Slime, the Queen of Filth, the Queen of Putrescence. Boo. Boo. Rubbish. Filth. Slime. Muck. Boo. Boo. Boo.
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