Hi Sorry. This Christmas Has Been Too Normal. Heres Some Insane Things Ive Done And Felt The Sudden Impulse

hi sorry. this christmas has been too normal. heres some insane things ive done and felt the sudden impulse to show the world

this is a very old drawing actually. the best way to sum this up is this is just a culmination of literally every inside joke me and my friend made up about podcasts

whiteboardfox doodles. no comment

john literally every time arthur says something vaguely offensive. i forgot to add the no left foot part FUCK.

idk why but i drew this based on the idea that jon has a hunger for corn instead of statements?? i ate a lot of corn that day idk

i also drew this in the rain. like right out the rain. for the ambience.

i drew this picture of jonathan sims stalking tim because ive joked before about how i imagine jon is just so shit at secretly watching people that hes literally out here just on the sidewalk. then my bitchass friend juno started saying that they thought he was levitata on the goddamn fence and then we proceeded to argue about what angle jons head would have to be at in order for that to work and so thats what the diagrams at the bottom are about ok

ending off with a real hard hitter. the most pathetic little picture ive ever made of the little man marthur mester.

merry mickmas.

happy 2024

ever wanted to work at the Office of Incident Assessment and Response yourself? wanna try reading these horrors firsthand?

Introducing The Magnus Protocol FR3-d1 system simulator!

I'll be updating this website every week to include the incident from the newest Magnus Protocol episode, as well as some additional stuff here and there. It's intended for desktop computers, but does technically work on mobile too.

⚠️TMA S4-5 SPOILERS ⚠️

One way or another. Together.

TheArchivist: my three archival assistants,

And yes, they smoke weed

Michael distortion: do they smoke weed?

TheArchivist: yes, actually.

Jane prentiss: You mean they aren’t just smoking cigarettes? But weed cigarettes?

TheArchivist: it’s called a bunt… not a weed cigarette… and yes, it’s a weed bunt. They all smoke weed bunts before we read statements. (They are my archival assistants.)

Helen distortion: they don’t look like they smoke weed

TheArchivist: Fuck You.

Fuck You.

Fuck You.

Fuck You.

Fuck You.

Fuck You.

Fuck You.

Fuck You.

Fuck You.

Fuck You.

Fuck You.

Fuck You.

I’m so angry you are so lucky my three weed smorking archival assistants are researching statements to calm me down I’m so mad.

Melanie: Your “weed smoking archival assistant” has a Hello Kitty tattoo on his belly. The one in the middle.

TheArchivist: I printed out a photo of your avatar and taped it to my punching bag that I punch and I mutter your URL with every strong punch I punch you twerp…. Don’t ever Talk about Martin or the wicked Tat(tattoo) I drew on him ever again I Don’t wanna see you standing outside my home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again ok leave us alone this is the FINAL FUCKING WARNING

Basira: Well that escalated quickly……

TheArchivist: What, was that? Hmm? Come again. *martin grabs my shoulder* Come on Jon, they aren’t worth it, please. * I jerk my shoulder shaking his off* NO! NOOOOO!!! *starts to just pummel you with my big fucking fists. With each blow I let out a furious yell. The blows come quicker and harder and the yells get louder. I’m yelling so loud and now I’m crying. BREAKING POINT. The week was hard and I can’t take anymore. I’m opening sobbing at this point while you blood gurgle. All three of my archival assistants struggle to pull me off and they finally succeed and lead me away from the goo pile that is now your body*

Elias: haha oh my god

who even is this dude? someone needs some anger management classes.

love how he keeps reminding us that “I HAVE THREE ARCHIVAL ASSISTANTS”, “THEY ALL RESEARCH STATEMENTS”, and “THEY SMOKE WEED HURRP DURR”.

and let’s not forget the “Martin” and his “wicked tat”, or that he doesn’t “wanna see you standing outside [his] home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again”, and that this is “the FINAL FUCKING WARNING”.

“the goo pile that is now your body”

i’m dying over here, jesus

please, Jonathan, come challenge me to a bout of internet witticsisms; i promise, it’ll be fun.

TheArchivist: *shoots you dead* Heh, idiot…

*leaves with my three weed smorking archival assistants to go hold hands and research statements.*

Daisy: this dude playin omg

TheArchivist: Come again? *The institute falls silent. No one dares to make a sound, as you have just said a very poor choice of words at a very dangerous time. I remain slumped over the bar, not looking back to you. One hand limply holding an almost empty bottle, the other hand cradling my head. I repeat the question, this time louder.* Come again?! *You can hear me slur the words, the sentence sounds like a real struggle for me to get out. I’m clearly intoxicated. A bead of sweat rolls down your face as you realize you might have just fucked up in a very major way. Everyone else in the institute is pretending to not notice what is going on. The bartender idly washes a mug with a cloth. His eyes are closed and he’s muttering something to himself. A handful of people hurriedly leave. One person looks back at you, a look of sorrow on their face. They almost say something, but shake their head and cast their eyes down to the floor, and leave. But not you. You stand, petrified. A quick look at me reveals I’m still at the bar. You look to the exit, there’s still time. But there’s not, there’s not, there’s not. Your fate was sealed the moment you opened your mouth.* Mother fuck.. what did you say?! *I slowly rise from my stool and being to lumber over to you. I look a mess. My hair is unkempt, I haven’t shaved in what looks like months, there are dark heavy bags under my eyes, my shirt is stained and has holes in it, and I’m missing a shoe. But the main thing you notice is the gun tucked into my jeans, and my massive muscle arms that look like they were made for punching. You know that song about the boots that were made for walking? Yeah, it’s like that only instead of boots it’s my muscles and instead of walking it’s punching. As I drunkenly sway over to you, you think of your family… Will they mourn you, or will they try and forget this blotch of stupidity, that their child insulted the Archivist publicly, ever happened to their family? Your thoughts are cut short as I now stand face to face with you. I grab your face and pull you even closer.* Playin?! There was nothing playing… no playing you fuck. No playing… it was real.. the realest thing I’ve ever know.. felt… Love. I loved them… Martin…. Sash-sasha… Tim… I loved all three of em… but they…*My face is wet with tears and I’m blinking constantly in vain to hold them back.* They left me… left… *Almost instantly the sadness leaves my face and is replaced with pure anger.* Playin? Playin?! *My hand leaves your face and starts to head to what you think is the gun. You close your eyes and see Beholding looking at you, shrugging. ‘Pft, you brought this upon yourself dude.’ He says as he waves his hands at you dismissively. But instead of the gun, my hands grab yours. Your eyes jolt open and the anger is gone from my face. There is only sadness.* Left me… * I fall to the floor and sob.*

Wow, grow up. *You say before you leave the bar but are hit almost immediately from a car and are killed upon impact.*

mr davenport x elias bouchard slowburn 176,434 words enemies to lovers hurt/comfort

Hand me my shovel im going in!!