Kulturkampf

[Potato]

If you're smoking it, it ain't medicine.

[Polident]

Yeah but meth.

[Ethan]

That is the best design I've ever seen! I love it!

[Uncle]

all proceed to harm reduction

centrally features an object designed to cause the ultimate harm

[TylenolJones]

[HaughtyFrank]

[Ethan]

The "I am no man" line wouldn't have quite the same impact if Éowyn was surrounded by dozens of lady soldiers

[Uncle]

witch king of angmar: "oh shit there are a LOT of chicks on this battlefield and the prophecy was that I wouldn't get slain by a man, I'm dippin"

[NekoFever]

[Uncle]

was always a little sad that the book's version of the witch king's death couldn't be incorporated, but it's understandable, no bombadil means no barrow downs which means no barrow blades

it's debatable that eowyn could've killed him on her own, but merry literally had one of the only weapons on earth specifically enchanted to kill that specific guy

however it's one of those things that only an omniscient narrator can tell you about, from merry's perspective he's like wow I guess I got lucky

Out of the wreck rose the Black Rider, tall and threatening, towering above her. With a cry of hatred that stung the very ears like venom he let fall his mace. Her shield was shivered in many pieces, and her arm was broken; she stumbled to her knees. He bent over her like a cloud, and his eyes glittered; he raised his mace to kill.

But suddenly he too stumbled forward with a cry of bitter pain, and his stroke went wide, driving into the ground. Merry’s sword had stabbed him from behind, shearing through the black mantle, and passing up beneath the hauberk had pierced the sinew behind his mighty knee.

‘Éowyn! Éowyn!’ cried Merry. Then tottering, struggling up, with her last strength she drove her sword between crown and mantle, as the great shoulders bowed before her. The sword broke sparkling into many shards. The crown rolled away with a clang. Éowyn fell forward upon her fallen foe. But lo! the mantle and hauberk were empty. Shapeless they lay now on the ground, torn and tumbled; and a cry went up into the shuddering air, and faded to a shrill wailing, passing with the wind, a voice bodiless and thin that died, and was swallowed up, and was never heard again in that age of this world.

[...]

Then [Merry] looked for his sword that he had let fall; for even as he struck his blow his arm was numbed, and now he could only use his left hand. And behold! there lay his weapon, but the blade was smoking like a dry branch that has been thrust in a fire; and as he watched it, it writhed and withered and was consumed.

So passed the sword of the Barrow-downs, work of Westernesse. But glad would he have been to know its fate who wrought it slowly long ago in the North-kingdom when the Dúnedain were young, and chief among their foes was the dread realm of Angmar and its sorcerer king. No other blade, not though mightier hands had wielded it, would have dealt that foe a wound so bitter, cleaving the undead flesh, breaking the spell that knit his unseen sinews to his will.