lupi

cow of tailed snake (gay)

avatar by @citriccenobite

you can say "chimoora" instead of "cow of tailed snake" if you want. its a good pun.​


i ramble about aerospace sometimes
I take rocket photos and you can see them @aWildLupi


I have a terminal case of bovine pungiform encephalopathy, the bovine puns are cowmpulsory


they/them/moo where "moo" stands in for "you" or where it's funny, like "how are moo today, Lupi?" or "dancing with mooself"



Bovigender (click flag for more info!)
bovigender pride flag, by @arina-artemis (click for more info)



the-future-of-football
@the-future-of-football

ED: So you're standing next to the south fork of Beargrass Creek, which runs all around Louisville. I'm sitting in what would be called Eleven Jones Cave, if anyone remembered it was here, which nobody does.

TIM: Okay ... I'm gonna go off-script for Question Three. Why is it called Eleven Jones Cave?

ED: I'll answer that, but before I do, there's something we need to do.

ED: Here. Come over here.

TIM: .

TIM: .

TIM: Here?

ED: Closer, closer. Just for a second. Get in the shot.

TIM: Here?

ED: That'll work.

ED: Hello, whoever you are. I'm Eddie, and

ED: What was your name?

TIM: Tim.

ED: And this is Tim. And you, the reader, are reading this on uh,

ED: What's that site with the name that sounds like ESPN? Sports site.

TIM: ESP, uh

TIM: ESPNation? SP Nation?

ED: ESB Nation. And you've been reading in on our little conversation here. It's in somewhat poor taste to address you directly, but some things are more important than the fourth wall. One of those things is your personal safety and well-being.

ED: We're about to talk about Eleven Jones Cave. This is a cave I live in, but I can only do that because I am unkillable. If you're reading this prior to the year 2026, you are extraordinarily killable.

ED: Do not attempt to enter this cave. I say this for two reasons, the first of which is that there is a very real risk of you getting stuck in it. The second, and more important, reason is that this cave harbors extraordinarily high levels of carbon dioxide.

“Dog Disappears: The story of the disappearing dog is another of the cave’s claims for distinction. It happened during the 1912 hunting season, yet the memory of it lingers as though it were during the present inning of the sportsmen. The hunter sat at the mouth of the cave to drink in the spring. One of his dogs came up behind him and a moment later entered the cave. The hunter waited, called the dog, then waited again. For more than an hour the hunter sat at the mouth of the cave waiting for the dog, but the animal never reappeared. The story spread alarm among the residents of the section who heard it.

ED: I know how people are. Maybe you're telling yourself, "well, I'm special, I won't let myself get poisoned by carbon dioxide." You will, and you'll be remembered as the person who died in some crappy cave because you read it in a story you read online about sentient 178th-century space probes who watch football all day, even though the most handsome character in the story completely interrupted everything to explicitly tell you not to.

TIM: Who are you talking to?

ED: Don't worry about it.

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