Discworld Review: The Last Continent

G’day mate! Stone the flaming crows ya Drongo! I was havin a gander at the newsagents while snacking on a snagger when I saw…

Yeah that’s the limit of my Australian slang. Considering I’m Australian that’s actually kind of pathetic.
Wait hang on…
Ok we’re good.
So The Last Continent.

This is easily my favourite parody of Australia in existence, just because it lampoons so many issues and events that hold a lot of relevance across Australia. And aside from that it’s a damn good story, skilfully woven into a relaxed atmosphere of jokes and wordplay. It’s one of the quintessential Discworld novels, with its long-reaching scope and complex jokes, one of the books I think of first when I think of the Discworld style of satire. Our favourite unfortunate Rincewind is back for another adventure, this time in a hyper-stylized Australia expy called ‘XXXX’ (Or Fourecks in later books), encountering Road-Warriors, Stockmen, Queens of the desert and Beer. Meanwhile the Wizards of Unseen University are looking for a way to cure the Librarian’s malfunctioning Thaumic field, alternating between taking the Librarian to the beach and trying to find out his real name from Rincewind. Evolution, desserts (as well as deserts) and the Big Wet await.

Poor Rincewind, Fourecks is probably the most dangerous place he’s ever visited, and even his already heightened levels of paranoia aren’t enough to protect himself from the dangers he encounters. It takes a talking Kangaroo with mysterious powers to keep him alive, and the same Kangaroo in different forms to make him into the hero of Fourecks. In fact by the end of the book it seems that Rincewind could conceivably settle down to a Heroe’s life in Fourecks, having been a lengendary Stockman, Bushranger, Sheep Shearer and even Rainbringer. But Ahnk Morpork is the only place he feels comfortable in, and it seems that the universe is finally ready to leave him be. In many ways this book feels like a happy ending for Rincewind, he gets to go back home to the university that he loves, eat potatoes, and finally be recognised as the hero that he’s been made to be all this time. Rincewind even has a relative to send Hogswatch presents to, and they actually seem to like each other. For all the danger Rincewind is put through, it’s a happy ending that awaits him in Ahnk Morpork.
Ridcully and his faculty of Wizards, including the somewhat disillusioned Ponder Stibbons, also make a welcome return, spending the better part of the book on an island with strange ideas about the past.
Now I know that I complained at length about the lengthy B-Plot featuring the Wizards in Reaper Man, but there role in this book is much funnier and much less obnoxious. It helps that the book is mostly comical in nature, and it’s interesting to see the interaction between the Wizards now that they aren’t constantly murdering each other. We see most of their adventure through Ponder Stibbon’s eyes, as he struggles to articulate his desire to discover the secrets behind the universe while not murdering the Faculty out of sheer irritation. While the faculty are annoying, pompous and smug, they are harmlessly so, and Ponder is not without his own faults. Now throw in the God of Evolution who has one of the best payoffs ever seen in comedy, Mrs Whitlow and one of the creators of the Disc, and you’ve got a busy subplot.
So, our dramatis personae are in position, lets talk about culture.

Australia is truly one the strangest places on earth.
It’s not just because of the deadly wildlife, nor the deadly plant-life, nor the deadly geography. Though they certainly help to reinforce the weirdness, the actual weird thing about Australia is the strange emptiness of culture.
Now when I say culture, I’m mostly talking about Western culture, the culture informed by standards established by white Englishmen who settled in Australia around two hundred years ago. Those same Englishman nearly destroyed the culture that had pre-dated them, in some of the most despicable and morally reprehensible racial policies ever seen. Indigenous Australian culture is many hundreds of years old, and its near eradication and the very real harm done to Indigenous Australians is a crime whose scars are still fresh. I am not nearly knowledgeable enough to talk about Indigenous culture in relation to Western culture however, and I don’t want to cause insult by a ham-handed simplification of a complicated issue such as Indigenous and European relations.
And funnily enough, I think Terry Pratchett was thinking along similar lines, because there’s about three references to the native inhabitants of Fourecks, the rest of the book focuses primarily on an expy of Anglo-Australian society.
So, as I was saying, when it comes to Australian culture, that which defines and identifies us as Australian, that which we are proud of, that which is the envy of the world…
Well, there’s not much of it.
There’s some things that are identified as proudly Australian, ANZACs (though that one gets shared by New Zealand), Banjo Patterson, Criminals, and so on. But a lot of our culture is (and to an extent always has been) informed by overseas territories, mostly England and America. The idea of ‘Cultural Cringe’, a feeling of inadequacy concerning one’s own culture and nationality that drives one to seek validation in other countries or cultures, was coined by the Australian writer Henry Lawson, and it applied to a lot of Australian cultural institutions for most of the twentieth century (some would argue that it never left).
And so the tenuous elements of National pride that can be summoned in Australia’s defence tend to be rather rabidly pushed forward and shoved down people’s throats. And so it’s impressive that The Last Continent manages to skewer just about all of them. More impressively, it creates a version of Australia that is still informed by overseas countries, still has a limited population, and still clings to the coast; all in a fantasy setting that barely corresponds to our real world.
And the Fourecksians are just as proud of the remnants of culture they’ve cobbled together as actual Australians. The quality of their alcohol is serious business, the proper form of Sheep shearing is the mark of a true Master, the proper etiquette must be observed when Bushrangers are concerned, and woe be to anyone that makes a mockery of the annual Rowing championship (which takes place on a completely dry riverbed. They’re actually extremely put out when water suddenly appears on the riverbed).
As such, part of the conflict of the novel is Rincewind’s attempt to navigate this strange landscape which is almost identical to Ahnk-Morpork, but so profoundly different in so many ways. For example, Rincewind is somewhat bemused to discover that Criminals are a kind of celebrity, with the important distinction of being executed once their fame has run its course. Even more alarming to him is that the Watchmen here actively chase their targets, a vast difference from the cowardly plodding watchmen he knew of old. The novel is filled with such misunderstandings, such as Rincewind giving a sheep a haircut with all the bells and whistles, or accidentally stealing a sheep by holding it for someone else.
After a little while, a question begins to rise, are these really the things that comprise a culture?

I earlier said that the cultural scene of Australia felt empty, but I wonder what could conceivably make it feel full?
There’s a conversation that Rincewind has with the Fourecksian incarnation of Dibbler (‘Stone the Crows’ Dibbler), where he launches into a tirade that’s so familiar that it practically becomes scathing. He decries ímmigrants’ (I swear to god, this book has aged so well that… well I’d say that it’s not even funny except it’s hysterical), and when Rincewind delicately points out that Dibbler is himself an immigrant, Dibbler just turns around and claims that he ‘earned’ his ‘Nativeness’. And how exactly did Dibbler ‘earn’ his ‘nativeness’?
We are not told, but one can guess that it involved drinking the right amount of beer the right way, speaking the right kind of language, and being as tough as is expected of him. We can guess that it involved wholly embracing things considered by Ecksians to be… well, Ecksian.
And in the end, Rincewind is an Ecksian not because he lives there or because he was born there, but because he can shear a sheep and (with help) steal a sheep, because he can drink copious amounts of alcohol and then create a new desert for an Opera star, because he’s a good bloke.
But such acts divorced from their context, as Rincewind experiences them, are meaningless, and the ultimate question of The Last Continent is not ‘How would Rincewind react to living in Australia’, it’s ‘What marks someone as belonging to one culture or another?’
And the answer, it seems, is whatever you want.
Anything could can be attributed to one culture or another, anything can be considered ‘Morporkian’, ‘Ecksian’, ‘Australian’. A Culture is what people make it and what is reinforced throughout Ecksian and Australian cultures is the desperate need to conform, to do what is expected, a desperate rush to belong.
And it’s a desperation borne from inferiority, a desire to protect and enshrine what little Nationalistic icons there are, a mad scramble to escape from the ‘Cultural Cringe’.
The Last Continent isn’t just a summation of Australiana, it’s a cipher to Australian Culture.

Well that’s my take on it anyway, no doubt you have your own. Above all else, I recommend The Last Continent on the basis of its humour, brilliance, and biting precise satire. It’s a story of creation, culture, and a Land where the only non-lethal animals are some of the sheep.
It’s one hell of a ride. 


Imagine your icon being your sole companion in the zombie apocalypse. They have all the powers they have in the movie/game/show they’re from.

Oh god but I do regret the backstory I invented for my own icon. 

(via toomanyfandomssolittletime)

Essay:The Grand Budapest Hotel and why political awareness is important.

So, I saw a film last night. 

You can probably guess which one it is by the title of this post, and before I say anything else I should say that it’s rapidly becoming one of my favourite films ever. The Visual style, stellar cast and enchanting story have all left their mark on me, and it’s one of the most fun films to physically watch that I’ve ever seen.
For those who haven’t seen it, be aware that I’m going to be discussing events that are spoilers, and you should really try to see the film yourself if you can.

The Grand Budapest Hotel is an impressively multi-layered story, and it makes this clear from the very beginning of the film. A Young Woman in a graveyard begins to read a book, whose author is then shown giving an interview, before we flashback several decades ago when the author was a young man, before finally telling the story of The Grand Budapest Hotel itself. It’s not simply the story of how Zero Mustafa came to possess The Grand Budapest Hotel, nor his romance with Agatha, nor Gustave’s wrongful incarceration, nor even the struggle to obtain ‘Boy with Apple’. It’s all of these stories bound into one overarching story. And the multiple story arcs and plot lines are executed incredibly well, both by the aesthetic style and by the script. Of particular note is the development of Zero from a humble Lobby Boy to a Concierge extraordinaire, it is realistic, deftly handled and feels completely natural and inevitable.
However that is not my subject for today, instead I am talking about one of the longest-running and important plot threads of the film.

It’s fair to say that we’ve had an impressively large number of War Movies over the years, varying wildly in terms of quality and legacy. The Great War, World War Two, Vietnam, The Cold War; a dozen conflicts of immense complexity and devastation condensed and packaged in two and a half hours, fun for the whole family. One of the common traits of many War Movies is to portray Fascism as unambiguously and whole-heartedly evil, and it’s obvious why. They may not have been solely responsible for the Second World War (no one faction could claim such a feat), but they were responsible for many millions of inhuman and savage deaths and depravities, and the scars that they inflicted on the personal and cultural psyches of Europe are still visible. Certainly they have been assigned the blame in enough works of fiction that the word ‘Fascist’ may always be associated with War Crimes and Brutality.
And so, when we first see the sharply dressed ‘Enemy’ troops, it does not take a great deal of thought to determine who they are, and exactly where they lie on the political spectrum. And they do not disappear after a brief moment of tension when they attempt to accost Zero and Gustave, in fact they only grow in influence and scale.
Not that this concerns M. Gustave H. in the slightest.
In a subversion of many movies set during the backdrop of World War Two (or the prelude to it at any rate), the characters of The Grand Budapest Hotel seem entirely unconcerned with the upcoming war, at least at first. When Gustave is shown the front page of a newspaper, what elicits his shock is not the danger of war and Tanks on the border, but the death of one of his lovers. It’s played for laughs and is perfectly in keeping with Gustave’s character and disposition, but it is indicative of a character trait that recurs throughout the film. A few short scenes later, Zero and Gustave are accosted by Enemy soldiers, who Gustave treats with polite but firm disdain. He assumes that charm and good manners will dissuade them from anything drastic, and failing that he does not hesitate for a second to leap to his Lobby Boy’s defence.
Thankfully the conflict is diffused when Inspector Henckels, a man who knew Gustave as a boy, releases them, citing Gustave’s kind treatment of him as a child as the reason for this. Funnily enough, Henckels is one of the most sympathetic and well-mannered Fascists I’ve ever seen portrayed on film.
At the end of the day, all Gustave takes away from the experience is that:
“There are still faint glimmers of civilization in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity.”
In a sense he is correct, it is the kindness and empathy that he showed Henckels as a child that inspired a moment of empathy, and Henckels remains polite and fair throughout the entire film.
However, and this is crucial, whatever glimmers of civilization and etiquette are not enough to stay the Fascist invasion, and they most certainly do not save Gustave’s life.
Gustave dies, and while it is an admirable fashion, the fact of the matter is that he gets taken behind the train station and shot. The Grand Budapest Hotel falls into disrepair and ugliness, Agatha dies from a wartime disease that plagues the countryside.
And the thing is, without the war, without the political struggles that press in on the country, The Grand Budapest Hotel would have had a happy ending. Gustave’s flighty impulsiveness and childish nature serve him well enough in the hunt for ‘Boy with Apple’, but they do not stand up well when political extremism and war begin to encroach on the hotel.
The central theme explored through fascist forces in The Grand Budapest hotel is not just that Fascism corrupts artistic endeavours and perverts the natural freedoms and quality of life of the countries it infests, this theme is an old and often-explored one in films.
The central theme explored through the Fascist Forces in The Grand Budapest Hotel is that society does not exist in a vacuum, and that no matter how disinterested one might be in politics, politics is interested in them. Gustave’s refusal to engage with the political landscape he inhabits, willingly or not, condemns him to death.
Conversely, no piece of art exists in a vacuum, separate from the politics that involves it, and an artist ignores that at his own peril. Considering the rest of Wes Anderson’s films often take place in a strange vacuum of their own, with anachronistic technologies and aesthetics centring around lonely unhappy people who try to realise their own ambitions while refusing to develop or change in the process.
The fact that this narrative is woven expertly into a overarching tale of loss, love and Mendel’s beautiful Pastries is nothing short of breathtaking, and the remarkable aesthetic style which perfectly captures the environment tone and character conflict from scene to scene is nothing short of marvellous.

The Grand Budapest Hotel certainly deserves the title of ‘Grand’, and I highly recommend it to anyone that can see it. Distinctive, heartwarming, and extraordinary; it is a most singular film.
And like Mendel’s pastries, half the beauty is in unwrapping it. 



okayyy can everybody stop talking shit about ppl who give their dogs and cats all-vegan diets, i fed my cat all raw vegan food since he was a kitten and he lived a very happy four years :)


Plus, I believe Cats are primarily carnivores. Dog’s are usually okay, they’re omnivorous like us, but Cats sort of need meat to survive. 

(via mybilingualismismyotp)

100th Post!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

100th post!!!!!!

[It has come to our attention that the Tumblr user Aesop Jones has used Six exclamation marks, which is two exclamation marks beyond the limit allotted to an anniversary post. His punishment will be swift and brutal.
Signed by the commission of correct moral standards and practices, otherwise referred to in unofficial documents as ‘They’.]

Wow, a hundred posts. Who’d have thought it?
So, Over the next week I’m going to release three different posts. One will be a work of fiction, the second chapter of my Dragon Age Fanfiction. The second will be an essay on a work of fiction. And the third will be my Discworld Review on The Last Continent. I’ll also see about sprucing up this theme, and maybe updating my about page.
Thank you again to everyone who has stuck with me thus far, and be sure that you haven’t heard the last of me. Good luck to you all. 



I’ve been trying to read Unseen Academicals, and I just can’t get into it for some reason. I have no idea why. Usually I get sucked into a Discworld book and finish it fairly quickly, but this one just isn’t holding my interest. I have no idea why I don’t seem to like this…

One day I will go more into depth about this, but suffice to say that while it is not Terry Pratchett’s best work, it does feature some great moments (Vetinari’s monologue on the nature of evil is fantastic and perfectly fits his character) hidden among the mediocrity, and I personally have a soft spot for Mr Nutt, considering the tropes that he subverts. Not one of his best though, and one of the few Discworld books that I consider it okay to gloss over. 

It just hit me

I’m almost at my 100th post. 
I didn’t even know if I would make ti this far at the beginning, but it appears my pessimistic outlook has been proven wrong yet again. Truth be told the refutation of my pessimistic outlook and the lovely glow it brings is mostly why I have such a dim outlook in the first place. 
My own delightful outlook on life aside, I kind of fell like I should commemorate this 100th post somehow. With that in mind, do you guys have any requests? Do you want me to write a piece of fiction, want me to answer some questions, or some other special kind of post? 
Message me if you do, and I’ll get right on to it. 
Oh, and thank you all for sticking with me thus far. You’ve all been incredibly welcoming and helpful, and be assured that I’m not done yet. 







So can we talk about the absolutely stunning duplicity going on here?

holy shit

ok, why the fuck is the graph upside down. that is incredibly misleading

Because its from the Florida Department of Justice, and they have a mandate here.

for those who have trouble inverting it in their head, ftfy:

this is some of the most blatant twisting of info i have ever seen holy shit

There comes a point where something is so evil, so utterly twisted and hideous in its components and execution, that it’s almost kind of admirable. The same way that a fire being able to consume an entire forest is kind of impressive. 







So can we talk about the absolutely stunning duplicity going on here?

holy shit

ok, why the fuck is the graph upside down. that is incredibly misleading

Because its from the Florida Department of Justice, and they have a mandate here.

for those who have trouble inverting it in their head, ftfy:


this is some of the most blatant twisting of info i have ever seen holy shit

There comes a point where something is so evil, so utterly twisted and hideous in its components and execution, that it’s almost kind of admirable. 
The same way that a fire being able to consume an entire forest is kind of impressive. 

(via thepoliticalfreakshow)

Louisiana House votes to uphold ban on sodomy


The Louisiana House yesterday voted to uphold an unconstitutional state ban on sodomy — essentially political jargon for gay sex — as part of its “crimes against nature” law. 

In Lawrence v. Texas in 2003, the Supreme Court ruled that sodomy bans are unconstitutional. But a handful of states, including Louisiana, refuse to change their anti-sodomy laws. While the statute technically can’t be used as a basis to arrest people, Louisiana deputies have reportedly made sodomy-related arrests recently, inciting a lawmaker to try to repeal it. 

Against all logic or reason, on Tuesday, the state House voted 66-27 to keep the anti-sodomy law in place. 

In a letter urging Louisiana lawmakers to reject the proposal, the influential Christian lobbying organization wrote, “Louisiana’s anti-sodomy statute is consistent with the values of Louisiana residents who consider this behavior to be dangerous, unhealthy, and immoral.”

In a hearing earlier this month, Bill Smith, a member of the Louisiana Family Forum, told committee members that anti-sodomy laws save the lives of gay people by decreasing their exposure to HIV.

"I have homosexuals in my family. I’m here out of love and concern for the health of these people," Smith said in April. “The fact is this opens up ways for them to really kill themselves.”

I want to scream and cry and throw things. 

How in god’s name could you kill someone through gay sex? 
I mean I know lubrication is important, but really?

(via thepoliticalfreakshow)


Guess how I know that the next door neighbor’s favorite musical artist is Celine Dion


fucking guess

You had a pleasant discussion with this neighbor about your respective favourite artists, ultimately concluding that common courtesy should be observed when it came to keeping the noise down to a minimum?

REBLOG this if you’ll have sex with me OR if you like cake



Oh boy, cake!

Gimme cake or gimme death!

What kind of Cake are we talking here?

(Source: danavidansgirl)



Types of people who romanticize small town life:

  1. People who didn’t grow up in small towns


And there is nothing, I repeat, NOTHING to do if you don’t like kicking things or talking about sheep. 

(Source: thatssoproblematic, via culchiescorner)

Fanfiction: Dragon age, Mage Origins: Chapter One.

Mage Origins: Chapter one- Arrival at the Circle

Dragon Age is the property of Bioware and EA, all locations, source characters and official Expanded Universe material are the property of Bioware and EA.

Fairy tales are more than true — not because they tell us dragons exist, but because they tell us dragons can be beaten- G. K. Chesterton

The room was a vast cavern, a dense forest of spires glass and masonry lay splayed before them, none of which muffled the echoes of their footsteps. Even the scores of armoured men surrounding them appeared dwarfed in the space, where the wind howled and sapped the heat from the stone. None of the children had said a word since they entered the room, the sudden shock of so cold and cavernous a room with the presence of several dozen armed fully-grown men had sapped their talent for conversation.
After a full minute of frightened silence, the armoured men stood aside to admit an old man. His hair and beard were long, if a little unkempt, and he stood almost as tall as the men surrounding him. Despite this, his smile was kind, even if his eyes were weary. He looked at the audience of children, a motely group of five and six year olds, and cleared his throat.
“Welcome,” he said in a gentle voice, “To the Circle of Magi. I will not speak for long, save to say that I am very glad to meet you all. I am First Enchanter Irving, and if any of you have any problems in your first weeks, you must tell me, so that I may fix it immediately. These men are Templars, and their job is to protect you and look after you, so I must ask that you respect their wishes and endeavour to follow their commands. I can see that many of you are close to falling asleep standing up, so let’s get you to bed. Follow the signs to the apprentice dormitories, and you will find a bunk bed with your names on it in short order. Come along.”
The small crowd needed little encouragement to leave the room, or the Templars, and they followed Irving closely out of the room. As they entered one of the many corridors that circled the tower, many began conversing, growing louder and more confidant as they progressed through the tower. By the time they had reached the apprentice chambers, nearly all of the group were chattering, to the point where an irate voice yelled at them through one of the adjacent rooms to be quiet. The irate voice was quickly silenced when Irving calmly walked into the room, and the children took the opportunity to find their beds. By the time Irving returned, everyone had claimed their own space, and some had even fallen asleep. Irving was about to leave them in peace, when something caught at the edge of his vision. Turning around to see what it was, he saw a little girl had curled into a ball besides the doorway, staring ahead at the beds. A closer examination revealed that she was Elven, her short hair only accentuated her long ears. As quietly as he could, Irving sank to the floor to sit beside her. When she turned to look at him he nodded once, as if crouching to the floor next to young Elves was a casual occurrence for him. After a few moments of silence, Irving said quietly:
“You appear somewhat lost child.”
The girl nodded once, face carefully kept still.
“Natural. Perfectly natural,” Irving said in the same quiet tone. “I assume you come from an Alienage, judging by the lack of Vallaslin.”
The girl nodded again, her rigid face not giving an inch.
“And so,” Irving said slowly, “and pardon for the question, but are you able to read child?
The little girl didn’t answer, but she was obviously holding back a well of tears. She eventually managed the slightest of nods.
“I see,” Irving said, “Well that’s alright. Few here are able to read comprehensively, they only know what their name looks like. I shall help you find your bed for now. What was your name?”
The little girl breathed deeply a few times, trying to force down the tears that threatened to burst out, then croaked:
“Holly,” Irving repeated, standing up as he did so, “Well Holly, I think we shall find your bed in very short order. Come with me.”
He held out his hand, but holly did not take it. She did rise however, and followed him across the room. Irving noted that she had no bags with her, and that her clothes looked, for want of a better word, worn in.
“Here we are,” Irving said quietly, trying to avoid waking the other apprentices, “This is yours. You may sleep for as long as you like, newly arrived mages are given three days rest before they begin lessons.”
“Thank you m’lord,” Holly said, eyes fixed on the bed.
Irving chuckled, and knelt down to her eye level,
“No Mage is addressed as a lord Holly. You may call me Irving, or First Enchanter, whichever is most suitable at the time.”
“Okay,” Holly said with a nod. “Thank you First Enchanter.”
Irving nodded, and began to walk away.
“First Enchanter,” Holly called.
Irving turned to face her, only to see a bowed head. He waited for a few moments, and she continued;
“Is there any way to take out my magic? I don’t want…” she trailed off, and bowed her head again, tears streaming down her face.
Irving did not say anything straightaway, he merely looked at her with an expression that could not be named. Then he slowly walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Child, there is nothing that could remove your magic.” He said simply.
He was lying, but the truth was hardly something that could comfort a little girl who was desperately afraid. Not this time at least.
“I know some of what you feel, that your family is lost to you forever, that you have been consigned to a life you were never able to choose, and that it is your magic that has condemned you.”
Holly looked up at him, unconcerned with the tears running down her face.
“Try not to look so shocked,” Irving said with a very faint smile, “I did not arrive at the circle fully grown and bearded. Your abilities do mark you as different, but in time you can develop them and train yourself until you become extraordinary. Fear is your enemy, not your magic.”
Holly wiped her nose, and nodded shakily. Irving guided her to her bed.
“In time you will make friends, and perhaps they shall become a new family of sorts. The Circle of Magic will always be your home, and I for one, welcome you here.”
Holly stared at him for a moment, then gave the tiniest of smiles.
“Goodnight child,” Irving stood up to leave, “I see great things in your future.”
It was only when he had left, and the silence of twenty three children sleeping settled over the room that Holly felt safe enough to bury her face in her pillow, and begin sobbing. 


I’ve been playing Dragon Age Origins for the first time in a few months, and I have simultaneously been bitten by a writing bug. So, as a consequence, I’m writing my first fanfiction (well technically the stuff I wrote at Eleven was pretty much fanfiction, I just changed names and didn’t think of it as Fanfiction. It was awful.), and it’s about Dragon age, and I’m probably going to put it up later today. 


Many people mistake that certain piece of wood for a door. Some people know it’s not a door, but don’t know what it actually is. This should clear things up.

But could it fit two people, or just one?

(via thepoliticalfreakshow)