Stuff you could get away with saying on a kid’s show in the 90s, part II



bonus round: explain why it would fit them best!

Am I earth or am I fire? I can never tell

omg do it?




A SWAT team blew a hole in my 2-year-old son — Alecia Phonesavanh
June 24 2014
After our house burned down in Wisconsin a few months ago, my husband and I packed our four young kids and all our belongings into a gold minivan and drove to my sister-in-law’s place, just outside of Atlanta. On the back windshield, we pasted six stick figures: a dad, a mom, three young girls, and one baby boy.
That minivan was sitting in the front driveway of my sister-in-law’s place the night a SWAT team broke in, looking for a small amount of drugs they thought my husband’s nephew had. Some of my kids’ toys were in the front yard, but the officers claimed they had no way of knowing children might be present. Our whole family was sleeping in the same room, one bed for us, one for the girls, and a crib.
After the SWAT team broke down the door, they threw a flashbang grenade inside. It landed in my son’s crib.
Flashbang grenades were created for soldiers to use during battle. When they explode, the noise is so loud and the flash is so bright that anyone close by is temporarily blinded and deafened. It’s been three weeks since the flashbang exploded next to my sleeping baby, and he’s still covered in burns.
There’s still a hole in his chest that exposes his ribs. At least that’s what I’ve been told; I’m afraid to look.
My husband’s nephew, the one they were looking for, wasn’t there. He doesn’t even live in that house. After breaking down the door, throwing my husband to the ground, and screaming at my children, the officers – armed with M16s – filed through the house like they were playing war. They searched for drugs and never found any.
I heard my baby wailing and asked one of the officers to let me hold him. He screamed at me to sit down and shut up and blocked my view, so I couldn’t see my son. I could see a singed crib. And I could see a pool of blood. The officers yelled at me to calm down and told me my son was fine, that he’d just lost a tooth. It was only hours later when they finally let us drive to the hospital that we found out Bou Bou was in the intensive burn unit and that he’d been placed into a medically induced coma.
For the last three weeks, my husband and I have been sleeping at the hospital. We tell our son that we love him and we’ll never leave him behind. His car seat is still in the minivan, right where it’s always been, and we whisper to him that soon we’ll be taking him home with us.

Every morning, I have to face the reality that my son is fighting for his life. It’s not clear whether he’ll live or die. All of this to find a small amount of drugs?
The only silver lining I can possibly see is that my baby Bou Bou’s story might make us angry enough that we stop accepting brutal SWAT raids as a normal way to fight the “war on drugs.” I know that this has happened to other families, here in Georgia and across the country. I know that SWAT teams are breaking into homes in the middle of the night, more often than not just to serve search warrants in drug cases. I know that too many local cops have stockpiled weapons that were made for soldiers to take to war. And as is usually the case with aggressive policing, I know that people of color and poor people are more likely to be targeted.  I know these things because of the American Civil Liberties Union’s new report, and because I’m working with them to push for restraints on the use of SWAT.
A few nights ago, my 8-year-old woke up in the middle of the night screaming, “No, don’t kill him! You’re hurting my brother! Don’t kill him.” How can I ever make that go away? I used to tell my kids that if they were ever in trouble, they should go to the police for help. Now my kids don’t want to go to sleep at night because they’re afraid the cops will kill them or their family. It’s time to remind the cops that they should be serving and protecting our neighborhoods, not waging war on the people in them.
I pray every minute that I’ll get to hear my son’s laugh again, that I’ll get to watch him eat French fries or hear him sing his favorite song from “Frozen.” I’d give anything to watch him chase after his sisters again. I want justice for my baby, and that means making sure no other family ever has to feel this horrible pain.

 Alecia Phonesavanh is the mother of Bounkham Phonesavanh, nicknamed “Baby Bou Bou.” She and her family live in Atlanta. For more information about Bou Bou, go to 

Signal boost this. Signal boost the crap out of this.

Put that team in front of a firing squad

Fuck the police.
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A wedding photographer took this picture from a rooftop to get a bird’s eye view of a wedding in progress. Something seemed odd about the balcony in the top right portion of the photograph.
This is what the photographer found when they zoomed in.

Zoomed out picture for extra creeps

what the actual fuck

The one on the right staring directly at the camera just adds a whole other level of ‘fucking no’ to this


In order to become the supreme adult, you must perform the seven wonders:

  • Public speaking
  • Not being afraid of teenagers
  • Calling the doctor yourself
  • Taxes
  • Arguing without crying
  • Having a normal sleep pattern
  • Having an answer to the question ‘what do you want to do with your life?’

(via majinkeiru)

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Viktor and Caitlyn.. I feel that they could have been good friends. They both share a vision of progress for their own city states, but their ideological differences will put too many misunderstandings between them.

Stairs. He hated stairs. He did his best to suppress every grunt, but his bad leg continued to pain him. There could have been a more convenient meeting place, one that didn’t require him to climb so many stairs. Troubles came all at once, it seemed. But at least he was on time.
On the balcony, he could finally put a figure to the voice on the telephone. He watches her in silence a moment, giving himself a chance to catch his breath, and for the ache where flesh met steel in his left leg a chance to fade. And to study her. She doesn’t look like she sounded. In fact, she seems far too… what is the word? … gaudy. Far too gaudy in dress, far too soft in looks, for the brisk and efficient tone that he had heard across the line, the voice requesting this meeting. Still, there was no-one else on this balcony. 
He clears his throat. ”As requested, I am here.”

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My sisters Instagram description makes me nauseous