Alright. Let’s suppose for a moment that Vetinari is faking/exaggerating his disability and doesn’t really need a cane at all. I know, I know, hear me out here.
Why might he do this? Well, ultimately in this case he would presumably like people to underestimate his ability in combat due to their perception of his disability. Because obviously anyone who needs to use a mobility aid is automatically incapable of defending themselves, surely?
Ok. Now, let’s assume instead that he really does need his cane. In that case, I assume people must be attacking him every five minutes, and he’s as good as dead, no?
No. Because there are soon rumours that he doesn’t actually need a cane, he’s been faking it all along; and in fact it’s not a cane at all, it’s a hidden sword forged from the iron of the blood of his enemies.
In both cases, Vetinari is exploiting ableist assumptions. Isn’t that just a thing of beauty?
The safest way to interpret this, therefore, is to assume that Vetinari really is disabled, but that this has absolutely nothing to do with whether or not he’s capable of kicking your arse before you can say “scorpion pit”. And you’d better believe that he is.
Of course, coincidentally, there’s the added bonus this interpretation also just happens to be the one that isn’t inherently ableist and dismissive of the entire disabled community. There are plenty of people who legitimately need to use a cane day-to-day, who are also perfectly capable of running, fighting, getting donkeys down from minarets, stealing magic carpets, juggling melons and knives, shovelling coal like a boss… Wait, what was I saying? Oh yeah. Stop being ableist. That was it. Yeah.
“Any concealed weapons?”, Vimes asked. “Concealed no.” Vetinari was so bland it was pointed. He very pointedly did not glance anywhere, nor move in the slightest. And the only thing he had with him was the cane. Vimes heard the rumor of course, it was as inescapable as the stench wafting of the Ankh. But Vetinari would not lie to him. Not here. Not today. He eyed the cane. Vetinari did not follow his gaze, watching him instead, waiting for the moment of understanding. The Patrician was an assassin, in all likelihood he didn’t need weapons. But the implication was obvious, and there was only the cane. Vimes watched the aid like he once watched a dungeon door. He smirked. Of course. Everyone heard the rumor. Vimes would bet an eye that Vetinari made sure of it. Everyone knew he had a sword in that cane. Any attacker would be expecting a sword. They would count on that second of unsheathing. But there would be no warning. Only a steel ball on a length of solid wood. Vimes smirked. “Nice club.” Vetinari smiled.
He uses a cane because he needs it and it improves his life.
That doesn’t mean he cannot make you regret your life choices- all of them. These two things are not related.
Vetinari is disabled. In “The Truth”, Vimes says that he has a game leg. However, in the same book, he also proves himself capable of defending himself. I quote:
“Mr. Slant had failed to tell the New Firm quite a lot of things, and one of them was that Vetinari moved like a snake. This was going to cost the lawyer a lot of money. Mr. Pin had nearly got cut.”
People may point out that Vetinari got knocked out during that incident, but to be fair, he had just been confronted by his doppelganger. That’s enough to put anyone off their game.
In conclusion, Pterry explicitly wrote a disabled character who is capable of defending himself, and people with ableist headcanons can stuff it.
punxsutawneyphyllis:rosslynpaladin: specialsituationsgroup:datsderbunnyblog:Alright. Let’s suppose...
"He uses a cane because he needs it and it improves his life.
That doesn’t mean he cannot make you regret your life choices- all of them. These two things are not related."
Instead of Santa..Gifts here are brought by infant Jesus. Love all the theories we made when we were children on how the hell does he get inside and how does he bring the gifts. Some of my favorites are:
Just creepily levitating baby..conjuring gifts from nothingness.
Just normal baby climbing in the house via window.. somehow dragging huge bag.
Already grown up Jesus.. using the same window method as his infant self.
Jesus on the cross somehow levitating or teleporting into the house…trying not to break anything.
Jesus on a cross which actually somehow works as a pogo stick.
Fun fact, baby Jesus (Ježíšek) sounded like hedgehog (ježek) to my little not religious self. So I imagined my presents were brought by a giant hedgehog with the presents on its pricks
that actually sounds like way better and advanced version
ježek !!!! aaa same !!!! i always imagined a hedgehog in yellow pyjamas
this year the slovak post office sent christmas letters from baby jesus except they made a typo
so instead of ježiško (baby jesus) being signed at the bottom it said ježisko (a giant hedgehog)
obviously memes happened
I KURVA KNEW IT
Continue to love this.
Santa is on strike due to global warming. All presents this year will be delivered by Sasha the Christmas Tiger. Milk and cookies may not be sufficient.
“MUST BRING PRESENTS TO GOOD CHILDREN”
“AND EAT THE BAD ONES”
@burstofhope the Christmas tiger is watching
She is making a list
It is not easy with her paws but she is making it
shes almost here
Okay fine this is the ONE Christmas thing I will reblog before Thanksgiving BUT THAT’S IT
SASHA’S BACK ON MY DASH!
Y’all better behave, you have two months
You better watch out
You better watch out
You better watch out
You better watch out
Mushrooms are wild.
tell me something nice
if you grow mushrooms over a toxic waste site, chemical spill, or other polluted growing medium, they will suck up the toxins into their fruiting bodies with such effectiveness that they are being studied for their ability to clean up tainted industrial sites. it’s called mycoremediation.
if you do this with edible mushrooms, they are no longer technically edible, but on the other hand they make a great way to poison your enemies. this is called murder and it’s usually frowned upon, but they won’t see it coming and you get bragging rights afterwards about your ability to kill people with a pizza topping.
Sorry this was not precisely most people’s idea of “nice.” Let me add that you are a glow of comforting absurdity in an ever-more-fucked-up world.
I love everything about mycoremediation, but also
fossil record patisserie
good idea: marry a blacksmith so you can get free swords whenever
Better idea; become a miner and then marry a blacksmith so he can have the required materials for you to get free swords whenever.
Make a harem and marry a full production chain
I mean, if your harem is full of blacksmiths would that make it a polyhammerous relationship?
You could make a whole polyarmory
"“I mean, we’re definitely setting him on fire eventually.” I said like a sane and rational person that should definitely be holding an eight-inch knife."
Welcome to another thanksgivng themed Family Lore! Content warnings: Food, bigotry, fire and explosions, knife mention, conspiracy theories and Ohio. Please mind the tags, your health and safety always come first.
It’s November of 2012 and the last time I’m going to Ohio on purpose. My grandparents had passed away within a week of each other that February and since my mom’s family had spent the last decade caring for them there was sort of a void- we’d been putting aside grudges and problems in the interest of their comfort, but also setting aside interests and hobbies to make time for them. How would we get along without that purpose and burden?
So, the first family Thanksgiving my family had been able to attend in a decade was arranged, part family gathering, part wake. We drove from Colorado this time, I’d been taking a semester off after a viral infection nearly killed me, and my sister taking a gap year before college. Everyone was going to be there- my mother’s brother family, My grandmother’s sister and her daughter and her husband, Sue and Cliff.
Sue never really got the hang of critical thinking and as such conservative politics and conspiracy theories held tremendous appeal to her, and that crossed with the family’s double-dominant Dramatic Hoe Genes means that she’s prone to the occasional spectacular leap of illogic and will fight you in the street to defend it.
Seriously, read that one it’ll make this story make a lot more sense.
Upon arrival, she seemed to have mellowed slightly in the past 11 years and we had an entire salient conversation about fishing whilst preparing the bird. It was a little strange- after the last decade, it was like I was meeting the entire family again for the first time, but things were going well and I was starting to remember things again. Maybe I’d figure out how to get back next year.
“We should establish some more traditions!” Mom suggested after Aunt Stephanie mentioned how odd it was to not have grandma and grampa around. Being raised a 5th generation agnostic has got some advantages- I’ve never gotten up before noon on a sunday- but the lack of religious structure means you’ve gotta DIY your holiday rituals sometimes. We were used to applying this to Agnosticmas already and were willing to build Thanksgiving 2.0 (now with 200% less revisionist history!) if necessary.
“Like what? Decorations?”
“Yeah, food, decorations, party games, things like that. Bobby seems game to do his Pregnant Turkey every year, so that’s one down. Now all we need is some festive decorations and a party game and we’ll have a real traditional holiday.”
“Hand turkeys?” Suggested my sister.
“We still have pumpkins we didn’t carve at Halloween, we could make a turkey out of those?” Said cousin Sam.
“Oh yeah with the decorative gourds in the hallway- the long one is the neck and- do we have corn for the tail?” I said, missing art class and feeling entirely too overconfident in my ability to handle knives. Thusly, everyone under 40 went off to the garage to create a Squash facsimile of Ohio’s Most Murderous Avian.
We were doing pretty good for most of it- there was the initial debate as to whether the mock-turkey was going to be cooked or still kicking, but that was quickly settled by the locating of a spectacularly ugly nobbly gourd to be it’s head, but then JohnJack brought up an important point:
“Are we going to be putting a candle in this like a jack-o-lantern?”
We all paused, staring at the half-gutted pumpkin we’d started disemboweling on instinct like a horde of overexcited serial killers.
“I mean, we’re definitely setting him on fire eventually.” I said like a sane and rational person that should definitely be holding an eight-inch knife. “But I think the corn leaves would catch so we probably shouldn’t do that inside. We’ll set it on fire AFTER the meal, as a sacrifice to harvest gods.”
“That sounds reasonable.” Said cousin Sam, up to her elbows in pumpkin guts like another sane and reasonable person who should be allowed to have knives.
“What are we going to call him?” Asked my sister, shovelling the rest of pumpkin guts out like the only responsible adult in the room.
“Bob.” Said Sam.
“Your brother is named JohnJack because you guys named literally every dude Bob for like eight generations there, are you really going to start that up again?” Said my sister.
“Slagthor the Annihilator.” Suggested JohnJack.
“MUCH BETTER.” we all agreed, and set about the complicated technical challenge of getting his head to stay on securely enough to last through dinner.
Slagthor turned into a thing of beauty and terror- he had a resplendent tail of multicolored corn cobs and leaves, wings carved from the sides of the pumpkin and carefully offset and filled in with corn leaves, a long goose-gourd for his neck and some hideous knobbly thing for his face, the twisted stem a menacing beak. We even got him to stand with creative use of aluminum wire left on the garage workbench and another pair of drumstick-shaped gourds. The effect was completed by a pair of sunglasses balanced carefully on his stem-beak, giving him a fun, 90’s-radical kind of look. He was greeted with many oohs and Ahs and genuine surprise that none of us had lost a finger making him.
“It’s a Thanksgiving miracle!” Mom declared.
Things were feeling chill, feeling fun now, and we sat down to dinner under the watchful bespectacled gaze of Slagthor, who had been put up on the mantle as master of ceremonies. Everyone went around the table and said what they were thankful for- being able to gather, the time we had together, that the turkey didn’t catch in the smoker this year- and we sat down to what was a pleasant dining experience until about two glasses of wine in, when in the middle of an unrelated conversation on raised garden beds and rabbit control, Aunt Sue opened her mouth:
“-And Osama Bin Laden’s death was a Hoax!”
The conversation came to a sudden halt and there was a collective spiritual groan at the table, as everyone tried to avoid eye contact with her. Cousin JohnJack got up from the table in disgust.
“I saw the maps! Abbottabad is nowhere NEAR the ocean!”
Her mother, unfortunately, took the bait.
“Sue, the navy has helicopters, they don’t need to take the boat everywhere.”
“They couldn’t drive a helicopter with their flippers!” said Sue excitedly now that someone was engaging with her.
“They wouldn’t need Scuba gear in the desert Sue.” Said Uncle Bobby, taking up the fight since she wasn’t going to shut up about this.
“Why would a Seal need Scuba gear?” She said.
There was a long minute of confused silence as we tried to puzzle that out. I recused myself immediately and continued eating twice-baked potato.
“Sue…” My father said cautiously, having stumbled upon her line of reasoning. “SEAL is an acronym for Sea,Air, Land. They’re human men, not trained seals.”
“No, the navy trains animals to do things underwater, they have dolphins that find bombs!” She argued.
“That was a TV show, Sue.” he said gently. “Flipper wasn’t real.”
Sue faltered, opening and closing her mouth like a confused grouper. “It-it-!” She stammered, scrambling for another theory to satisfy herself.
“Hey can we clear up so we can set Slagthor on fire before it starts snowing?” I said, which gave everyone a nice out.
We gathered in the front yard, dressed like michelin men to ward off the late-november cold, and set Slagthor atop the stump Uncle Bobby had failed to dynamite out the year before. We gathered around as Johnjack carefully lit his tail, then watched in confusion as he sprinted back towards the house. The more mentally adept members of the family started sprinting as well.
“Why are you all standing there?” he asked from the porch.
“It’s cold and we want to be near the fire, why are you running?” Asked Aunt Stephanie.
“We’re destroying him, so-”
JohnJack was interrupted by Slagthor suddenly and violently exploding, flaming cobs of corn and miniature gourds flying in all directions and the pumpkin amplifying the sound of the roman candle inside to a deafening roar. The family scattered, taking whatever cover was available- cars, snow drifts and shrubbery alike. It took a good three minutes for Slagthor to stop exploding, reduced to a charred ring of squash and flaming pieces of produce scattered about the front lawn. In the distance, sirens began to wail.
“- SoI stuffed him full of fireworks.” He explained.
We all glared at him from our various partial covers.
“I shoulda said that earlier, right?”
“Yes JohnJack, You get to clean him up.”
And thusly, the family thanksgiving 2.0’s traditions are set: the Pregnant Turkey, The telling and defending of the wildest conspiriacies we can think of, and the creation and destruction of a produce turkey.
This year I’m planning on “The earth isn’t a ball OR flat, it’s actually shaped like a donut, with the equator on the outside and the poles in the middle. The moon is the donut hole.” and putting Slagthor the Harvest Turkey out on a float so he explodes in the lake like a particularly dramatic viking funeral.
Last Year’s “Earth Donut” theory went over beautifully, to the point where Dad has Comissioned An Artwork thereof, but Produce Turkey was cancelled on account of a Fire Warning for the county.
This year’s conspiracy is going to be “Recent developments in genetic engineering of plants have lead to heartier breeds, but also Tomatoes that are about as smart as worms, and capable of feeling pain. Fortunately, they are masochists.”
Due to the recent extreme snow and Dad forgetting to bring them in from the yard, the gourds for this years Produce Turkey are uh. Paste. So there will be Snow Turkey instead, to whom offerings will be made to do something about climate change. Like smoting the head of oil companies with lightning, for example.
Also New This Year is my Patreon, where you can preorder my Illustrated Family Lore book, containing 101 tales of americana absurdity and pictures of strange cats.
derinthescarletpescatarian:thevastnessof:conchobarbarian:I did more knitting for this pie crust than...
In the spirit of the season, I insist you watch this.
"Did I listen to them? No! I mean, I listened, or else I wouldn't have know they said it. But it didn't stop me!"
I'm sorry, but both the pun and the word play in the driving directions make me happy.