Johnny Abrahams View high-res image
View high-res image

(Source: Flickr / hawx-)

thisistheglamorous:

This man is representing AOL on live televsion.

If you swabbed the seats at TechCrunch Disrupt, spread it across a petri dish, and dipped that dish in uranium, this man would eventually emerge. But there’s no need to wait: he’s real, he works on AOL, and they want him on your television, making prophecies.

This is David Shing. His title at AOL is Digital Prophet. The new trend will be defriending and unfollowing.

wow View high-res image

thisistheglamorous:

This man is representing AOL on live televsion.

If you swabbed the seats at TechCrunch Disrupt, spread it across a petri dish, and dipped that dish in uranium, this man would eventually emerge. But there’s no need to wait: he’s real, he works on AOL, and they want him on your television, making prophecies.

This is David Shing. His title at AOL is Digital Prophet. The new trend will be defriending and unfollowing.

wow

new-aesthetic:

British Gas Rampage (by GAMERGRAN87)

"Sorry about the language everyone but I got a letter from British Gas and I had to let my anger out!"

@ednapiranha lolled at my joke View high-res image

@ednapiranha lolled at my joke

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether ‘tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s Contumely,
The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would Fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveller returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is sicklied o’er, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their Currents turn awry,
And lose the name of Action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia? Nymph, in thy Orisons
Be all my sins remembered.

> brb…

brucesterling:

http://www.transmediale.de/content/transmediale-2014-call-for-works

t-shirt? View high-res image