Tuesday, November 1st, 2011 - Las Dias de los Muertos, cerveza por favor!
I've come to realize that the main holidays I like tend to be the evil ones like Halloween or Day of the Dead, where you have a valid excuse to drink liquor like it's going out of style and scare the everloving crap out of little kids without seeming like a mean, crotchety, old sourpuss. But I ask you this. When else can you chase an eight year old crybaby in a pink tutu off your lawn, while swathed in black robes, wielding a scythe and hissing, "I am coming for your soul, girl child!" and not have an angry mob with burning torches on your doorstep, demanding you "step outside"? Huh?
Not that I did that of course. Not lately anyway.
In a public service announcement may I suggest to you that people don't like on Halloween when you have no candy and offer them pickled onions instead.
So I carved me a couple of pumpkins for Halloween, as I was having some people who are related to me round for dinner and I thought evil, glowing demon-faces would make great table decor. Am I the only one who finds pumpkin lanterns soothing? No? Yes? I love them. And okay, maybe it's a LITTLE sad that I spent my Saturday night sitting on my floor carving pumpkins, watching "X-Factor" and drinking wine all on my own, but you know what? Go ahead and sue me. I had a stinking good time.
I did carve a second pumpkin but he went hideously, horribly wrong in an atrocity of Kardashian proportions and ended up looking more mentally challenged than actually scary so sorry...no photos of him. I want you people to sleep tonight.
Also, people keep suggesting (okay, two people, shut up) I should think about participating in Na No Wri Mo, however, I've successfully avoided it for years now and don't see any sign of me changing this year. I mean why would you want to write a novel in a month? What kind of novel would that even BE? Surely novels deserve quality? Editing? Rewrites and reworkings and scene changes and character development and...I don't know...a modicum of SENSE? Can you do that in a month? I don't know. I have problems doing that in a two minute blog entry. Can you imagine 50,000 words of the nonsense in this blog? Because if I did Na No Wri Mo, guess what? That's what you'd get.
Good luck though, if you're attempting it. Me, I'll just continue spewing out sporadic nonsense like someone with Tourette's.
In other news, I require some good smells. Someone recommend me some.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Me, Myself and I
Sunday, October 30th, 2011 - An introspective random rant
I used to think maybe I was a bit odd, however, lately I've revised my over critical analysis to read, "Veg is the epitome of normal and it is the rest of the world that is out of sync". Because the biggest barometer a person has for what constitutes "normal" is themselves, no? Everything else you decide is based on that assumption and is rated by comparison. I may not think like you, but that's okay. I may be exceptionally compassionate, I may be nice, or have moments of insanity, or fuck things up spectacularly, or be an evil monster, or just be all of the above. Every one of us is a composite of ideas. It's really okay.
I read a lot of blogs. Theoretically, at least. In actuality, I read a lot of blogs when time permits or general apathy hasn't rendered me a totally useless dullard. I read all sorts of blogs too. Some of you I've known a long time and I consider you actual friends. I enjoy keeping up with your doings because your doings have a place in my life, they amuse or interest me or keep me sane when things are far from it and they complement a good cup of coffee well.
Some of you are interesting because you're not like me at all. For example, you might be a corporate executive or gay or religious or a Republican or a serial killer or a mom or a nun or the anti-Christ or someone who embraces push-ups like an old friend. It makes you interesting, your not being like me. Because if you were all like me, well holy hell that would be boring. I'm boring. I see me every day. I know how I operate. You? Not so much. I don't mind difference. I only mind intolerance.
I'm a very liberal person. I'm not fond of rules. Now, I didn't say I don't follow them - hell I've lived long enough to know that in these first world lands of the free, you are anything BUT. But I'm liberal IN MY THINKING to a great degree. If I want to build a liveable tree house in the woods and exist there, I should be able to without anyone's PERMISSION. I think the tax system is fucked up and that we all pay far too much of it, but it doesn't mean I don't do it. I think gay marriage should be legal everywhere. I think prostitution should also be legal. I don't think I should have to pay taxes for things like schools when I don't have kids. I think all people should be entitled to health care they can afford. I should never have to account for myself to anyone unless I've committed a heinous crime. Other than that, leave me alone to do my thing and I won't get in your way.
I don't like kids either. I tolerate them. I have severe indifference towards them. They don't make me gooey with adoration or concerned or happy in any way, at least until they get to a respectable age. They just exist much like I do. You can't have a decent philosophical discussion with them about the meaning of life or the zombie apocalypse or why we seem so damn afraid of letting them see anything sexual, yet will happily allow them to watch car chases and madmen and bloody gun battles on screen. Plus you can't send a kid to the store to buy you gin or tequila. They just seem like expensive, hard work. I like sleeping late when time permits and drinking coffee in a leisurely manner and drinking wine on Friday nights and not driving small people all over the city to sports events.
But I will happily read about you doing it. Because I don't mind if YOU like kids an awful lot. I respect that. Kind of like gratuitous body piercing. It's not for me, but I certainly support your right to stick a pin through whichever orifice or fleshy part you want in order for you to be "you".
So basically you can be whoever you are and I will most likely approve, regardless of your beliefs. Unless you are intolerant of people who are not like yourself, then I probably have no time for you, or, for that matter, you for me. If you hate people who are different from you purely because they ARE different from you, then we have a problem.
I used to think maybe I was a bit odd, however, lately I've revised my over critical analysis to read, "Veg is the epitome of normal and it is the rest of the world that is out of sync". Because the biggest barometer a person has for what constitutes "normal" is themselves, no? Everything else you decide is based on that assumption and is rated by comparison. I may not think like you, but that's okay. I may be exceptionally compassionate, I may be nice, or have moments of insanity, or fuck things up spectacularly, or be an evil monster, or just be all of the above. Every one of us is a composite of ideas. It's really okay.
I read a lot of blogs. Theoretically, at least. In actuality, I read a lot of blogs when time permits or general apathy hasn't rendered me a totally useless dullard. I read all sorts of blogs too. Some of you I've known a long time and I consider you actual friends. I enjoy keeping up with your doings because your doings have a place in my life, they amuse or interest me or keep me sane when things are far from it and they complement a good cup of coffee well.
Some of you are interesting because you're not like me at all. For example, you might be a corporate executive or gay or religious or a Republican or a serial killer or a mom or a nun or the anti-Christ or someone who embraces push-ups like an old friend. It makes you interesting, your not being like me. Because if you were all like me, well holy hell that would be boring. I'm boring. I see me every day. I know how I operate. You? Not so much. I don't mind difference. I only mind intolerance.
I'm a very liberal person. I'm not fond of rules. Now, I didn't say I don't follow them - hell I've lived long enough to know that in these first world lands of the free, you are anything BUT. But I'm liberal IN MY THINKING to a great degree. If I want to build a liveable tree house in the woods and exist there, I should be able to without anyone's PERMISSION. I think the tax system is fucked up and that we all pay far too much of it, but it doesn't mean I don't do it. I think gay marriage should be legal everywhere. I think prostitution should also be legal. I don't think I should have to pay taxes for things like schools when I don't have kids. I think all people should be entitled to health care they can afford. I should never have to account for myself to anyone unless I've committed a heinous crime. Other than that, leave me alone to do my thing and I won't get in your way.
I don't like kids either. I tolerate them. I have severe indifference towards them. They don't make me gooey with adoration or concerned or happy in any way, at least until they get to a respectable age. They just exist much like I do. You can't have a decent philosophical discussion with them about the meaning of life or the zombie apocalypse or why we seem so damn afraid of letting them see anything sexual, yet will happily allow them to watch car chases and madmen and bloody gun battles on screen. Plus you can't send a kid to the store to buy you gin or tequila. They just seem like expensive, hard work. I like sleeping late when time permits and drinking coffee in a leisurely manner and drinking wine on Friday nights and not driving small people all over the city to sports events.
But I will happily read about you doing it. Because I don't mind if YOU like kids an awful lot. I respect that. Kind of like gratuitous body piercing. It's not for me, but I certainly support your right to stick a pin through whichever orifice or fleshy part you want in order for you to be "you".
So basically you can be whoever you are and I will most likely approve, regardless of your beliefs. Unless you are intolerant of people who are not like yourself, then I probably have no time for you, or, for that matter, you for me. If you hate people who are different from you purely because they ARE different from you, then we have a problem.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Them's The Rules
Monday, October 24th, 2011 - What is this early darkness and late lightness thing?
Quick question: What does it mean when you wake up singing a Nolan Sisters song from the 1970s, inside your head, in a really exuberant manner? Because that's happening to me altogether too much lately. If it's not them it's goddamn Tony Orlando. I sort of get that though. I actually LISTEN to Tony Orlando. Tony Orlando is a smooth, '70s' Casanova of a dude, with muchas body hair and who croons unbelievably cheesy ditties that I like to pretend I'm singing on a giant, velvetty stage in a dark, questionably sleazy lounge bar in Tijuana, surrounded by people with non-ironic moustaches and a glint of deviance in their eyes, instead of in a sweaty heap on the treadmill as I continuously rearrange my bra and make attractive sweat rings on my t-shirt while trying not to die of exhaustion.
What am I talking about? Who the hell knows?
Anyway, it's almost Halloween and believe me when I say, I like Halloween! I do. It's fun in a "I don't do anything particularly for Halloween but I light candles and carve a pumpkin and maybe drink some extra wine" type of way. I like the IDEA of Halloween, I guess you could say.
Also, on the subject of Halloween, I just have to say here, that I enjoy the dress up aspect. HOWEVER, please people, if you are going to a Halloween party where you're supposed to go in costume, please go as a gnarly old witch or a grim reaper or some chainsaw wielding, in-bred, red-eyed idiot dripping blood or a dark, terrifying demon. I love that kind of stuff. That's what Halloween is about. Scaring the shit out of people in a controlled manner. Grossness. Unease.
Do NOT (if you do not want a kick in the ging gang goolies from me) - and I'm aiming this at the ladies here, in particular - do NOT, go as a sexy school girl, or something "scary" that involves wearing an eye-covering cat mask and an ultra short skirt because I am sick to death of this nonsense. That's NOT Halloween. Here's an easy key for you to remember:
Halloween is about gross and scary.
Halloween is NOT about dressing like a slut
See? There are no tits on Halloween unless they are zombie tits, all decomposing and nasty. Dressing as a porn star nurse? Sexy? Maybe. Scary? NO, NO, NO. So please stop that. No matter what boys tell you.
There, those are the rules, now follow them.
Wow, turns out I'm a bit grouchy today, who knew?
Quick question: What does it mean when you wake up singing a Nolan Sisters song from the 1970s, inside your head, in a really exuberant manner? Because that's happening to me altogether too much lately. If it's not them it's goddamn Tony Orlando. I sort of get that though. I actually LISTEN to Tony Orlando. Tony Orlando is a smooth, '70s' Casanova of a dude, with muchas body hair and who croons unbelievably cheesy ditties that I like to pretend I'm singing on a giant, velvetty stage in a dark, questionably sleazy lounge bar in Tijuana, surrounded by people with non-ironic moustaches and a glint of deviance in their eyes, instead of in a sweaty heap on the treadmill as I continuously rearrange my bra and make attractive sweat rings on my t-shirt while trying not to die of exhaustion.
What am I talking about? Who the hell knows?
Anyway, it's almost Halloween and believe me when I say, I like Halloween! I do. It's fun in a "I don't do anything particularly for Halloween but I light candles and carve a pumpkin and maybe drink some extra wine" type of way. I like the IDEA of Halloween, I guess you could say.
Also, on the subject of Halloween, I just have to say here, that I enjoy the dress up aspect. HOWEVER, please people, if you are going to a Halloween party where you're supposed to go in costume, please go as a gnarly old witch or a grim reaper or some chainsaw wielding, in-bred, red-eyed idiot dripping blood or a dark, terrifying demon. I love that kind of stuff. That's what Halloween is about. Scaring the shit out of people in a controlled manner. Grossness. Unease.
Do NOT (if you do not want a kick in the ging gang goolies from me) - and I'm aiming this at the ladies here, in particular - do NOT, go as a sexy school girl, or something "scary" that involves wearing an eye-covering cat mask and an ultra short skirt because I am sick to death of this nonsense. That's NOT Halloween. Here's an easy key for you to remember:
Halloween is about gross and scary.
Halloween is NOT about dressing like a slut
See? There are no tits on Halloween unless they are zombie tits, all decomposing and nasty. Dressing as a porn star nurse? Sexy? Maybe. Scary? NO, NO, NO. So please stop that. No matter what boys tell you.
There, those are the rules, now follow them.
Wow, turns out I'm a bit grouchy today, who knew?
Friday, September 30, 2011
Blogging While Intoxicated–Don’t Do It Kids
Friday night – September 30th 2011 – there is a Gnome in my head
I always say, “People, even if you may think it is the awesomest © of all awesome ideas, do not blog while under the influence of narcotics or alcohol!” and I totally stand by that 100%, even though I don’t really always say that, in fact I’ve maybe only said that twice before and both times I TOTALLY lied.
Like now. Because…I’m doing it anyway. And I have faith in my “blogging while a touch smashed” abilities, thank you very much.
Hi! Several strong gin and tonics and some fizzy white wine and I feel a little like someone disconnected my tongue and my toes and maybe my fingers a little bit and they’re all now working independently of each other, in some sort of global conspiracy against the rest of me and it’s a big old MAYHEM of chaos right here, right now. But that’s okay. I’m entirely on top of matters. Entirely.
Besides. What’s a little intoxication among friends? Huh? Nothing, that’s what. Even though I’ve already corrected about 529 typos, I persevere. Because I can do this. I can do THIS. And if I gave up now what sort of message does that send? That I’m a quitter? That I have perhaps drunk myself blind? That I really need to pee? NO!
So yes, it’s true I’m a little drunk. I have the distinct feeling if you pinched my cheeks really hard right now I wouldn’t even feel it. My face cheeks that is, not my bum cheeks. I’d feel my bum cheeks, if you pinched those. That hurts, damn it, I don’t give a fuck how inebriated you might be.
I can also taste garlic in quantities probably only legal in NASA experiments. Oh boy. Ick.
Is this the wrong time to tell you how sexy you are all looking this evening? Because you do. I would absolutely feel you up in the cab on the way home!
Smooches!
I always say, “People, even if you may think it is the awesomest © of all awesome ideas, do not blog while under the influence of narcotics or alcohol!” and I totally stand by that 100%, even though I don’t really always say that, in fact I’ve maybe only said that twice before and both times I TOTALLY lied.
Like now. Because…I’m doing it anyway. And I have faith in my “blogging while a touch smashed” abilities, thank you very much.
Hi! Several strong gin and tonics and some fizzy white wine and I feel a little like someone disconnected my tongue and my toes and maybe my fingers a little bit and they’re all now working independently of each other, in some sort of global conspiracy against the rest of me and it’s a big old MAYHEM of chaos right here, right now. But that’s okay. I’m entirely on top of matters. Entirely.
Besides. What’s a little intoxication among friends? Huh? Nothing, that’s what. Even though I’ve already corrected about 529 typos, I persevere. Because I can do this. I can do THIS. And if I gave up now what sort of message does that send? That I’m a quitter? That I have perhaps drunk myself blind? That I really need to pee? NO!
So yes, it’s true I’m a little drunk. I have the distinct feeling if you pinched my cheeks really hard right now I wouldn’t even feel it. My face cheeks that is, not my bum cheeks. I’d feel my bum cheeks, if you pinched those. That hurts, damn it, I don’t give a fuck how inebriated you might be.
I can also taste garlic in quantities probably only legal in NASA experiments. Oh boy. Ick.
Is this the wrong time to tell you how sexy you are all looking this evening? Because you do. I would absolutely feel you up in the cab on the way home!
Smooches!
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Zehn…
Wednesday, September 28th, 2011 – Indian summer happening, blisters, demons, french fried potaters, mmhmm.
Ten random, not very interesting thoughts to share with the world:
1) Setting the treadmill on the big, “fuck-off incline” setting (I may be paraphrasing) when the weather is over 20 degrees C. out, is not conducive to preserving my delicate calm (thanks a BUNCH Cora for making me feel inferior enough to do it!) Did you even KNOW that ears can sweat? Me either! On the upside it’s a great time to invent some new swearwords.
2) Fun with autocorrect. My phone uses Swype which I love. It’s truly awesome and every lazy texter’s dream. However it keeps making me text people utter nonsense, particularly if you've partaken in a few beverages and aren’t paying proper attention. For example, swearing loses its effect when you type things like, “Jesus Chrissy!” Or I’m trying to snarkily call someone a “cocksmoker” but it keeps turning it into “childminder”. You lose your swear impact slightly when you say, “I hate that guy, he’s a total CHILDMINDER!”
3) There is no better pizza than a supermarket-bought, stuffed crust, four cheese pizza topped at home with an added ton of smooshed garlic, chopped up veggie hotdogs, onions and sundried tomatoes. NONE! Try it. You’ll be kissing my feet with gratitude. Extra hint: seasoned potato wedges to accompany. Oh yes! You WILL swoon.
4) If you like red wine, please do try my favourite, “Banrock Station Reserve”, from southern Australia. I love the stuff. DELICIOUS. Their regular wine is great too but the reserve is just beautiful. It goes on sale for half price fairly regularly here and that’s when I pick it up! No they’re not paying me. Jesus Chrissy, I wish they would!
5) A great song to play while driving if you want to remain calm and unflustered by plebians, is Warren Zevon’s “The Hula Hula Boys”. For no reason other than it’s relaxing and easy to sing along to in a silly voice. I can’t find the recorded version for you so that’s a live one.
6) While it would be nice if my reading glasses made me look like a hot librarian, they make me look more like a bedraggled halfwit at a physics fair.
7) I’ve been doing some research on E numbers and food additives and preservatives and it’s making me never want to eat or drink again. That is some scary shit, people. Plus it’s started a war in my body. I love food. I am now scared of food. What to do?
8) I have just finished playing my own fancy version of “Edelweiss” on the ukulele. Worship me.
9) I’m finally almost caught up with “Fringe” after missing half the last season due to moving etc. That show is preposterous. But it’s GOOD preposterous. It’s like “Lost” and “The X-Files” had a messy one night stand and “Fringe” was the result.
10) There’s nothing wrong with doing things on your own. Movies, meals, walks. It’s all good! Solo power!
I think that covers it.
Ten random, not very interesting thoughts to share with the world:
1) Setting the treadmill on the big, “fuck-off incline” setting (I may be paraphrasing) when the weather is over 20 degrees C. out, is not conducive to preserving my delicate calm (thanks a BUNCH Cora for making me feel inferior enough to do it!) Did you even KNOW that ears can sweat? Me either! On the upside it’s a great time to invent some new swearwords.
2) Fun with autocorrect. My phone uses Swype which I love. It’s truly awesome and every lazy texter’s dream. However it keeps making me text people utter nonsense, particularly if you've partaken in a few beverages and aren’t paying proper attention. For example, swearing loses its effect when you type things like, “Jesus Chrissy!” Or I’m trying to snarkily call someone a “cocksmoker” but it keeps turning it into “childminder”. You lose your swear impact slightly when you say, “I hate that guy, he’s a total CHILDMINDER!”
3) There is no better pizza than a supermarket-bought, stuffed crust, four cheese pizza topped at home with an added ton of smooshed garlic, chopped up veggie hotdogs, onions and sundried tomatoes. NONE! Try it. You’ll be kissing my feet with gratitude. Extra hint: seasoned potato wedges to accompany. Oh yes! You WILL swoon.
4) If you like red wine, please do try my favourite, “Banrock Station Reserve”, from southern Australia. I love the stuff. DELICIOUS. Their regular wine is great too but the reserve is just beautiful. It goes on sale for half price fairly regularly here and that’s when I pick it up! No they’re not paying me. Jesus Chrissy, I wish they would!
6) While it would be nice if my reading glasses made me look like a hot librarian, they make me look more like a bedraggled halfwit at a physics fair.
7) I’ve been doing some research on E numbers and food additives and preservatives and it’s making me never want to eat or drink again. That is some scary shit, people. Plus it’s started a war in my body. I love food. I am now scared of food. What to do?
8) I have just finished playing my own fancy version of “Edelweiss” on the ukulele. Worship me.
9) I’m finally almost caught up with “Fringe” after missing half the last season due to moving etc. That show is preposterous. But it’s GOOD preposterous. It’s like “Lost” and “The X-Files” had a messy one night stand and “Fringe” was the result.
10) There’s nothing wrong with doing things on your own. Movies, meals, walks. It’s all good! Solo power!
I think that covers it.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Where Random Should Be Criminal
Friday, September 23rd, 2011 – feels like Saturday, slightly hungover, hair like rabid woolly mammoth, there is not enough cheese
It’s cold. Technically it’s really not cold, it’s 15 degrees Celsius, which means it’s really bordering mildly warm, unless you’re a total pussy, which I freely admit, I absolutely am. But last night I slept in some big, thick, nasty-old, cosy sweat pants because clearly my body has already gone into some sort of winter nesting mode, where it craves warmth all the time. All of which reared up to bite me squarely on the ass when I woke up SWEATING, blankets all over the place and my bum hanging attractively out of my sweats, because they’re too big, revealing an alarming plumber’s crack type situation, which I’m sure the window cleaner, who showed up at 7:30am this morning REALLY enjoyed. Note to self: curtains are there for a reason.
So yes, hi! I’m a touch hungover, I can’t lie. Long vodkas and wine will do that to a person. I get the distinct impression vodka and red wine are probably not the best of friends, judging by the atmosphere inside my head this morning and the fact I downed about a gallon of water before I even properly woke up. And last night I was up watching bizarre movies and being social with alcohol and some friends, as none of us had to be at work today and well…if that’s not a recipe for being belligerent on a week night, I don’t know what is.
It’s come to my attention my hair is reaching Defcon 1 status in terms of looking like it belongs on some feral animal. When I accidentally (on purpose) forget to brush it, it’s starting to look less loose beachy waves and more “I spent the last week sleeping in the forest” therefore, pretty soon serious measures will need to be taken. But you all know my luck with salons by now. It’s an oil and water sort of thing. I’m terrified of them and they enjoy humiliating me. I go in all hopeful, clutching fantastical ideas of what I’d like them to do and they nod and concur and placate me then I come out looking as though I asked them to, “make me look like Helena Bonham Carter after a lost weekend in Amsterdam”. It’s just safer for me to take care of business on my own.
I’m actually supposed to be doing some design stuff today but man, I don’t feel inclined. Plus there’s a giant, treadmill-induced blister on the sole of my foot that needs some serious attention. Ouch. Send help. Or cheese.
Mmmm, cheese…
It’s cold. Technically it’s really not cold, it’s 15 degrees Celsius, which means it’s really bordering mildly warm, unless you’re a total pussy, which I freely admit, I absolutely am. But last night I slept in some big, thick, nasty-old, cosy sweat pants because clearly my body has already gone into some sort of winter nesting mode, where it craves warmth all the time. All of which reared up to bite me squarely on the ass when I woke up SWEATING, blankets all over the place and my bum hanging attractively out of my sweats, because they’re too big, revealing an alarming plumber’s crack type situation, which I’m sure the window cleaner, who showed up at 7:30am this morning REALLY enjoyed. Note to self: curtains are there for a reason.
So yes, hi! I’m a touch hungover, I can’t lie. Long vodkas and wine will do that to a person. I get the distinct impression vodka and red wine are probably not the best of friends, judging by the atmosphere inside my head this morning and the fact I downed about a gallon of water before I even properly woke up. And last night I was up watching bizarre movies and being social with alcohol and some friends, as none of us had to be at work today and well…if that’s not a recipe for being belligerent on a week night, I don’t know what is.
It’s come to my attention my hair is reaching Defcon 1 status in terms of looking like it belongs on some feral animal. When I accidentally (on purpose) forget to brush it, it’s starting to look less loose beachy waves and more “I spent the last week sleeping in the forest” therefore, pretty soon serious measures will need to be taken. But you all know my luck with salons by now. It’s an oil and water sort of thing. I’m terrified of them and they enjoy humiliating me. I go in all hopeful, clutching fantastical ideas of what I’d like them to do and they nod and concur and placate me then I come out looking as though I asked them to, “make me look like Helena Bonham Carter after a lost weekend in Amsterdam”. It’s just safer for me to take care of business on my own.
I’m actually supposed to be doing some design stuff today but man, I don’t feel inclined. Plus there’s a giant, treadmill-induced blister on the sole of my foot that needs some serious attention. Ouch. Send help. Or cheese.
Mmmm, cheese…
Monday, September 19, 2011
RIP Summer
Monday, September 19th, 2011 – sunny, socks, coffee, dried cherries
Well, it seems that autumn has finally gotten its big, fat foot in the door and is taking up lodging. The days are shortening, the nights are getting chilly and I’ve been frantically realizing I need to invest in some sweaters again before I wake up one morning and find I’ve turned into Jack Nicholson in “The Shining” when he freezes to death in that creepy assed maze.
Only with a lot more hair and less psychotic tendencies. Well, slightly less. OK, that last one is debatable maybe.
I like autumn/fall a lot actually. I like the blue skies, clear air and the chill. I like the orange and red leaves and the creepy Halloween vibe. I want to bash some conkers together like we used to do when I was a kid. The only part of the autumn I don’t like is when it ends and that asshole winter shows its face again. Could we not abolish winter? Just have three seasons of awesomeness and no cold any more? I’m going to absolutely instigate this as a law when I’m the ruler of some divine world force that everyone has to bow down to. Send donations now, please, all those cocktails, wine, cheese and cupcakes needed for my “campaign” won’t be cheap! I’ll make it worth your while.
Know what might fix things? Some good coffee, a ukulele and a nice slice of carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. You with me?
You’ll all be thrilled to know my toe, one month on, is still hurting and still fat as Octomom before she popped. It is, however, no longer purple. Just red. And huge. And less hurty than it was but still pretty achey and sorry for itself. “Drink a Kopparberg and shut the hell up, Toe!” I keep telling it, but it never listens.
You guys, if you can find Kopparberg cider, particularly the pear one, anywhere near you, get it immediately, chill carefully and drink the shit out of it. That’s my advice for the day. It’s the best advice you’ll ever get. And cider’s made from apples and apples are autumny no? See? We’re topical.
Well, it seems that autumn has finally gotten its big, fat foot in the door and is taking up lodging. The days are shortening, the nights are getting chilly and I’ve been frantically realizing I need to invest in some sweaters again before I wake up one morning and find I’ve turned into Jack Nicholson in “The Shining” when he freezes to death in that creepy assed maze.
Only with a lot more hair and less psychotic tendencies. Well, slightly less. OK, that last one is debatable maybe.
I like autumn/fall a lot actually. I like the blue skies, clear air and the chill. I like the orange and red leaves and the creepy Halloween vibe. I want to bash some conkers together like we used to do when I was a kid. The only part of the autumn I don’t like is when it ends and that asshole winter shows its face again. Could we not abolish winter? Just have three seasons of awesomeness and no cold any more? I’m going to absolutely instigate this as a law when I’m the ruler of some divine world force that everyone has to bow down to. Send donations now, please, all those cocktails, wine, cheese and cupcakes needed for my “campaign” won’t be cheap! I’ll make it worth your while.
Know what might fix things? Some good coffee, a ukulele and a nice slice of carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. You with me?
You’ll all be thrilled to know my toe, one month on, is still hurting and still fat as Octomom before she popped. It is, however, no longer purple. Just red. And huge. And less hurty than it was but still pretty achey and sorry for itself. “Drink a Kopparberg and shut the hell up, Toe!” I keep telling it, but it never listens.
You guys, if you can find Kopparberg cider, particularly the pear one, anywhere near you, get it immediately, chill carefully and drink the shit out of it. That’s my advice for the day. It’s the best advice you’ll ever get. And cider’s made from apples and apples are autumny no? See? We’re topical.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
I Just Don't Know, Man
Thursday, September 1st, 2011 - Ornery with toe throb, urge for mischief
Now if only it would fit back in a shoe...
Ha, you guys, welcome to September, which seems like a big old ball of excrement to me because for the most part, I had next to no summer with lots of rain and now it's almost over and I'm still white as a ghost and full of the crank. Pretty soon winter will be thundering into town again, about as welcome as a foul-mouthed, old, racist aunt who smells like rolling tobacco, lavender and Michael Bolton's jock-strap. Thanks a LOT, winter.
It's especially pout-inducing, as I had to hear, daily, about how most of you people spent this summer boiling in the centre of the Sun and were practically expiring from the oppression of surviving in the fiery pits of hell, with your, "GROAN, it's just TOOOOO hot to do anything!" and your, "Please send us some rain!" and BOO HOO HOO, you fuckers, man up and shut up.
No, I'm not bitter. What made you think that? Sniff. I LIKE rain.
Anyway, I'm getting a little sunshine this week at least, so I will turn into a sappy old hippy and scatter daisies in my wake and sing that "Age of Aquarius" song and be generally as happy as a sprinkle of ice cold unicorn sweat on a hot afternoon.
I heard unicorns sweat gin and tonic, is that true?
I also found the perfect merging of ingredients to make frozen strawberry margaritas that are restaurant quality. Seriously. They are that good. So they have been icing down my mood and icing down my toe, simultaneously. Isn't that nice? Even my giant, deformed sausage-toe agrees. In fact, it suggests it needs its medicine daily. I wouldn't argue with deformed sausage-toe, because it ALWAYS knows best. Pass the tequila.
Now if only it would fit back in a shoe...
Thursday, August 18, 2011
The Eh! Team
Thursday, August 18th, 2011 – A little cheese with that whine?
Well. There’s some rusty old saying about how you can’t please all the people all the time and you can’t please an ornery Torontonian any of the time, or I could have just made that up. I’ll never tell! Proving my point, however, after my terribly illuminating insight into the great state of Ohio the other day, I received the following message from the wonderfully acid, prone to wordy tantrums, Toronto's own, The Real Johnson, who wished to lodge a complaint. The complaint is below, in full and PLEASE, feel free to unleash your wrath in the comments. Me, I am neutral like Switzerland. Flame on, people.
Dear Vegetable Assassin,
While I’m a frequent reader of the trials and tribulations, talking to mice, drinking of wine, and cracking of wise that’s chronicled on www.vegetableassassin.blogspot.com on a ridiculously prolific basis, there’s one trend on your otherwise fantastic blog that I simply can’t stand for anymore.
I’m talking of course about your systematic glorification of every single frigging American state.
While your efforts are noble in that you seem hell-bent on actually writing something about each and every one of them, I must object to yet another instance where American jingoism seems to be blinding a good writer from waxing philosophical on far more worthy a subject of her praise and investigation.
I’m talking of course about Canada.
Now, generally, we Canadians are content to simply be aware that our country is the greatest country on earth. We’re a humble bunch and our clean air, universal health care, ridiculously prolific national hockey programs and, of course, far, far superior beer are usually more than enough to keep us satisfied. Furthermore, not only do we not feel the need to brag, we’re also well aware of the likely consequences of too much bragging; namely one thing virtually no one wants too much of: visiting Americans.
However, as you seem to roll your praise across the United States (in an insanely out-of-sequence road trip, I might add), I can’t help but feel slighted without the inclusion of Canada. I sat quiet through North Dakota, West Virginia, Kansas, et al. Hell, I even kept my mouth shut when the craziest of all states, Florida, got its day in the sun. I chuckled as you shared ominous facts about various states and I bit my tongue about your Americentricism.
Until today.
Today was the last straw. God damn it if Ohio is worthy of almost a thousand words from the Vegetable Assassin then surely someone’s got to speak up for Canada!
I’m not going to get into tired clichés about how much better Canada is than the United States. That’s been done before and it’s certainly not what I’m trying to say here. It would be a waste of time to talk about our abundant fresh water and natural resources. It’s not helpful to note that one of these two countries is morbidly obese while the other enjoys a relatively healthy average weight. No one needs to point out that watching right-wing Americans spout off on Fox News makes even the most Liberal Canadian want to kiss our own Conservative Prime Minister on the mouth for being so open-minded by comparison.
I’m not going to do any of that.
And I won’t bore you with tales of how woefully ignorant most Americans are about The Great White North. I’ll skip the story of a friend who worked at the border and greeted people driving in from Michigan with skis on their roof in July. I’ll likewise skip the tale of a staged argument my friend waged with another friend in front of Americans about whose igloo was better.
Those types of comments are hurtful and don’t help inter-continental relations.
Similarly, if you do choose to write about Canada I hope you’ll skip the tired fact that we pronounce things properly and spell things the way the English do. Sure, they invented the language, but who’s to say whether Yanks or Brits are right when it comes to the English language. Y’all can do things however you like.
Instead, I hope you’ll give Canada a fair shake and simply share some interesting and enlightening facts about what I consider the greatest nation on earth. If fucking Ohio is worthy, surely we are too.
Sincerely,
The Real Johnson
(Here’s a little something to get you started:
Well. There’s some rusty old saying about how you can’t please all the people all the time and you can’t please an ornery Torontonian any of the time, or I could have just made that up. I’ll never tell! Proving my point, however, after my terribly illuminating insight into the great state of Ohio the other day, I received the following message from the wonderfully acid, prone to wordy tantrums, Toronto's own, The Real Johnson, who wished to lodge a complaint. The complaint is below, in full and PLEASE, feel free to unleash your wrath in the comments. Me, I am neutral like Switzerland. Flame on, people.
Dear Vegetable Assassin,
While I’m a frequent reader of the trials and tribulations, talking to mice, drinking of wine, and cracking of wise that’s chronicled on www.vegetableassassin.blogspot.com on a ridiculously prolific basis, there’s one trend on your otherwise fantastic blog that I simply can’t stand for anymore.
I’m talking of course about your systematic glorification of every single frigging American state.
While your efforts are noble in that you seem hell-bent on actually writing something about each and every one of them, I must object to yet another instance where American jingoism seems to be blinding a good writer from waxing philosophical on far more worthy a subject of her praise and investigation.
I’m talking of course about Canada.
Now, generally, we Canadians are content to simply be aware that our country is the greatest country on earth. We’re a humble bunch and our clean air, universal health care, ridiculously prolific national hockey programs and, of course, far, far superior beer are usually more than enough to keep us satisfied. Furthermore, not only do we not feel the need to brag, we’re also well aware of the likely consequences of too much bragging; namely one thing virtually no one wants too much of: visiting Americans.
However, as you seem to roll your praise across the United States (in an insanely out-of-sequence road trip, I might add), I can’t help but feel slighted without the inclusion of Canada. I sat quiet through North Dakota, West Virginia, Kansas, et al. Hell, I even kept my mouth shut when the craziest of all states, Florida, got its day in the sun. I chuckled as you shared ominous facts about various states and I bit my tongue about your Americentricism.
Until today.
Today was the last straw. God damn it if Ohio is worthy of almost a thousand words from the Vegetable Assassin then surely someone’s got to speak up for Canada!
I’m not going to get into tired clichés about how much better Canada is than the United States. That’s been done before and it’s certainly not what I’m trying to say here. It would be a waste of time to talk about our abundant fresh water and natural resources. It’s not helpful to note that one of these two countries is morbidly obese while the other enjoys a relatively healthy average weight. No one needs to point out that watching right-wing Americans spout off on Fox News makes even the most Liberal Canadian want to kiss our own Conservative Prime Minister on the mouth for being so open-minded by comparison.
I’m not going to do any of that.
And I won’t bore you with tales of how woefully ignorant most Americans are about The Great White North. I’ll skip the story of a friend who worked at the border and greeted people driving in from Michigan with skis on their roof in July. I’ll likewise skip the tale of a staged argument my friend waged with another friend in front of Americans about whose igloo was better.
Those types of comments are hurtful and don’t help inter-continental relations.
Similarly, if you do choose to write about Canada I hope you’ll skip the tired fact that we pronounce things properly and spell things the way the English do. Sure, they invented the language, but who’s to say whether Yanks or Brits are right when it comes to the English language. Y’all can do things however you like.
Instead, I hope you’ll give Canada a fair shake and simply share some interesting and enlightening facts about what I consider the greatest nation on earth. If fucking Ohio is worthy, surely we are too.
Sincerely,
The Real Johnson
(Here’s a little something to get you started:
- Canada is governed as a parliamentary democracy and a constitutional monarchy
- Jeopardy host Alex Trebek is Canadian.
- So is Pamela Anderson (her tits, however, are not)
- Canada's national sport is lacrosse. No one has any idea why.
- Without Canada, there would be no Star Trek: Captain Kirk and Scotty were both Canucks.
- Basketball was invented by a Canadian
- Making love to a Canadian makes you smarter and gives you shiny hair.
- We all wear plaid in the winter.)
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
I’ve Got Your Buckeye State Right Here
Monday, August 15, 2011 Runny nose, scratchy throat, OH NOES I have the lurgee
I’ll preface this by saying truthfully, I’ve never BEEN to Ohio. Not even one time. I mean I’ve just never had the opportunity, I’m sure Ohio is delightful and all the jokes I’ve ever made about Cleveland in particular – a city I have never been anywhere near – are totally unfounded and it’s a beautiful, clean, healthy, breathtaking city full of shiny people and goodness. Having said that…
What do you think of when you think of Ohio? Which I’m sure you all do A LOT. Am I right? Of course I am. Maybe you think of it as the gateway to the glorious, sunshiney, cornfed midwest? Maybe it seems more….corporate. I always think of “Office Space”, not because it was set there – I don’t have a clue where it was set – but it seems like it SHOULD have taken place in Ohio.
Perhaps you live in Ohio and are already sharpening a shiv out of a wooden spoon to gauge out my eyes at the first hint of a derogatory mention of your fine state? Well don’t you get all stabby with me Miss or Sir.
Despite Ohio being a midwestern state, it pays to remember that it also borders Kentucky making areas like Cincinnati more Southern than midwestern because, seriously, have you heard people from Cincinnati talk? And rumour has it they possibly have a lower ratio of teeth than in say…Cleveland. I’m just saying. You can’t argue with geography, people. Somewhere there's a teeth:geographical region pie chart in this but luckily for you all, I'm too lazy to make it.
So Ohio. What informative drivel can I tell you? Its borders are formed by The Ohio River to the south (“Great tragedy on the River Ohio!” “What’s in my hand?” “Chapstick!” AAAAAAAGH!!!! Semi obscure movie reference although the movie's set in WV. ) and Lake Erie on its northern side and it borders the states of Indiana, Michigan, Kentucky, West Virginia, Pennsylvania and Ontario, which isn’t a state at all, because it’s a province in Canada. See? Try to keep up.
Now according to the warring gods of the internetz, a total of either seven or eight presidents hailed from Ohio (they can't agree) – although perusing the list they’re mainly the ones you’ve either never heard of or you’ve vaguely heard of but wouldn’t know their faces if they got up and slapped the smirk off your face with a wet fish. Except Ulysses S. Grant. I mean who hasn’t heard of that dude? Also? Interesting observation: You never hear of anyone calling their baby “Ulysses” anymore do you? Let's start a new trend, people.
“Get to the goddamn dirty Heathens already, Veg!” I can hear you cry. Well. Keep your panties on, blogworld. I’m getting to it. Approximately 15-17% of Ohioans are not religiously affiliated and don’t see the importance of religion. You go on with your bad selves, Ohio! Despite this, its state motto is “With God all things are possible” so thanks for that, other 83-85%! I’d tell you how it compares to the other states we’ve covered but that would require going back and researching my own entries and well…clearly that’s not going to happen as I have the attention span of a stem of rhubarb. Probably from being a dirty Heathen myself. But I think it’s in the middle range somewhere. No? Perhaps?
I was interested to find out that Ohio’s state drink is tomato juice. For real. Tomato Juice. Not even a bloody Mary! Just plain tomato juice. Who knew that was even a thing? Juice without alcohol. *shakes head in wonder*.
What other facts can I tell you that will knock your socks off regarding Ohio? That the first traffic light in the United States was erected in Cleveland? Because it was. In 1914! Or that Akron Ohio is the rubber capital of the world. I don’t know about you but I am now picturing all SORTS of hilarious things going on in Akron.
That might just be me…
What else? Oh yes:
- The first hot dog was invented in Ohio.
- 50% of the population of the United States lives within a 500 mile radius of Columbus, Ohio. For real. 50 percent. Holy shit.
- Cleveland was the world’s first city to be electrically lit. Yes really!
- The first cash register was invented in Dayton, Ohio.
See? Don’t say I never teach you anything. Now wasn't that all riveting? Aren't you happy it's over? I'M happy it's over.
I’ll preface this by saying truthfully, I’ve never BEEN to Ohio. Not even one time. I mean I’ve just never had the opportunity, I’m sure Ohio is delightful and all the jokes I’ve ever made about Cleveland in particular – a city I have never been anywhere near – are totally unfounded and it’s a beautiful, clean, healthy, breathtaking city full of shiny people and goodness. Having said that…
What do you think of when you think of Ohio? Which I’m sure you all do A LOT. Am I right? Of course I am. Maybe you think of it as the gateway to the glorious, sunshiney, cornfed midwest? Maybe it seems more….corporate. I always think of “Office Space”, not because it was set there – I don’t have a clue where it was set – but it seems like it SHOULD have taken place in Ohio.
Perhaps you live in Ohio and are already sharpening a shiv out of a wooden spoon to gauge out my eyes at the first hint of a derogatory mention of your fine state? Well don’t you get all stabby with me Miss or Sir.
Despite Ohio being a midwestern state, it pays to remember that it also borders Kentucky making areas like Cincinnati more Southern than midwestern because, seriously, have you heard people from Cincinnati talk? And rumour has it they possibly have a lower ratio of teeth than in say…Cleveland. I’m just saying. You can’t argue with geography, people. Somewhere there's a teeth:geographical region pie chart in this but luckily for you all, I'm too lazy to make it.
So Ohio. What informative drivel can I tell you? Its borders are formed by The Ohio River to the south (“Great tragedy on the River Ohio!” “What’s in my hand?” “Chapstick!” AAAAAAAGH!!!! Semi obscure movie reference although the movie's set in WV. ) and Lake Erie on its northern side and it borders the states of Indiana, Michigan, Kentucky, West Virginia, Pennsylvania and Ontario, which isn’t a state at all, because it’s a province in Canada. See? Try to keep up.
Now according to the warring gods of the internetz, a total of either seven or eight presidents hailed from Ohio (they can't agree) – although perusing the list they’re mainly the ones you’ve either never heard of or you’ve vaguely heard of but wouldn’t know their faces if they got up and slapped the smirk off your face with a wet fish. Except Ulysses S. Grant. I mean who hasn’t heard of that dude? Also? Interesting observation: You never hear of anyone calling their baby “Ulysses” anymore do you? Let's start a new trend, people.
“Get to the goddamn dirty Heathens already, Veg!” I can hear you cry. Well. Keep your panties on, blogworld. I’m getting to it. Approximately 15-17% of Ohioans are not religiously affiliated and don’t see the importance of religion. You go on with your bad selves, Ohio! Despite this, its state motto is “With God all things are possible” so thanks for that, other 83-85%! I’d tell you how it compares to the other states we’ve covered but that would require going back and researching my own entries and well…clearly that’s not going to happen as I have the attention span of a stem of rhubarb. Probably from being a dirty Heathen myself. But I think it’s in the middle range somewhere. No? Perhaps?
I was interested to find out that Ohio’s state drink is tomato juice. For real. Tomato Juice. Not even a bloody Mary! Just plain tomato juice. Who knew that was even a thing? Juice without alcohol. *shakes head in wonder*.
What other facts can I tell you that will knock your socks off regarding Ohio? That the first traffic light in the United States was erected in Cleveland? Because it was. In 1914! Or that Akron Ohio is the rubber capital of the world. I don’t know about you but I am now picturing all SORTS of hilarious things going on in Akron.
That might just be me…
What else? Oh yes:
- The first hot dog was invented in Ohio.
- 50% of the population of the United States lives within a 500 mile radius of Columbus, Ohio. For real. 50 percent. Holy shit.
- Cleveland was the world’s first city to be electrically lit. Yes really!
- The first cash register was invented in Dayton, Ohio.
See? Don’t say I never teach you anything. Now wasn't that all riveting? Aren't you happy it's over? I'M happy it's over.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Beware The Gingah Ninja
Friday, August 12th, 2011 - there may have been wine
I'm not a ninja. Sometimes I THINK I'm a ninja because I have some black leggings and a long black sweatshirt that I will sport on the treadmill on cool days and usually that would be enough to qualify me in the bad-ass stakes. That and I can do a mean ribcage kick. I think. I haven't actually tried it on a real person, so my abilities in this area could be somewhat in my head at this point. It's entirely possible that instead of the graceful, high-kicking angel of fluid movement I see inside my head, I may look more like Drew Carey attempting ballet after an evening swilling a keg of Amstel Light. But I think there's ninja in me somewhere waiting to get out. So if someone jumps out at you in the street, dressed all in black with sort of pale auburn hair and wearing one of those little eye things they give you on planes to supposedly help you sleep, it's not me in a moment of insanity, okay, it's a NINJA.
It's around now I have to admit that I may have had quite a lot of red coloured wine because it's Friday and it's....well...it's the law, no?
What have I done this week of interest? Well, honestly? Not a lot. Not much at all. I did go to the late showing of "Super 8" the other night and enjoyed it way more than I expected to. It was like someone clocked me over the head with a Rubix Cube and transported me back to the days of E.T. - a movie which incidentally makes me bawl to this day. I mean, (spoilers) THEY PUT E.T. IN A TENT AND POKE HIM WITH THINGS, people! Then when the kids rescue E.T. and finally he gets to go home and he tells Elliot he'll be RIGHT HERE? OMG. Niagara Falls. I'm not ashamed. That's one traumatic movie to put a kid through and even now it kills me.
"Super 8" had its little, "I have something in my eye" moments as well. I mean I didn't cry or anything but my eyes got a little itchy. Sniff. My eyeliner probably....
Also, I may have peed my pantaloons in certain scenes when slightly scary things were happening very loudly and very sporadically and at one point I believe I jumped so violently, I spastically threw a handful of popcorn into some lady's hood (sorry lady, but yay, bright side - free popcorn!) Loud stuff in movies makes me jumpy, what can I say? I'm an anxious person. It's my ninja senses.
On the subject of "Super 8" what's with the Fannings pumping out little pink actresses like a production line? What were the chances of birthing two pretty little blondes with remarkable acting abilities? Mrs. Fanning's vagina must be made of vitamins and hand spun gold. Anyway her kid did a great job. Crying realistically on cue is hard and she nailed it. Me, I'd need incentive. I'd need someone to offer me a deliciously gooey chocolate cake then at the last minute, right before I took a bite, take it away, in order to get that sort of reaction out of me.
Of course there's an equal chance they'd get an entirely different reaction out of me and wind up in the E.R. so you know...make your choices carefully.
Happy weekend, you guys!
Friday, August 5, 2011
Veg Gets Serious Face
Friday, August 5th, 2011 – a what the fuck moment
I don’t know about you guys, but I’m enjoying all this controversy over Vogue Paris’s current issue featuring a ten year old model in sultry make up and sporting designer clothing while posing seductively for the camera. I mean it’s pretty ludicrous. Any normal person can see that. People are outraged! People are fretting. People are defending it. The French have no morals. The American media is full of puritanical prudes. Fight, fight, fight.
Seriously though, I’m a pretty liberal person. There are so many things people object to that I find perfectly reasonable and the American media half the time is too concerned with offending the religious element that they will scoff at almost anything these days, sometimes to the point of making me pull my own hair out and say bad words at the petty mindedness of it all.
But in this case, are the protesting media being unreasonable? Because I don’t think so. I’m not sure what sort of person out there thinks it’s a reasonable thing to do – making up a ten year old to act like a twenty year old and making her pose in a suggestive manner in an adult fashion magazine. Maybe those mothers that dress their four year olds up in tiny dresses and make up and make them shake their tiny booties on stage on “Toddlers and Tiaras”? I don’t know. I do know that that little girl probably saw it as a big game of dress up and has no idea of the impact photos like that might have on the less savoury members of society. We tell people all the time how wrong and sick it is to lust after underage kids yet we go right out and rub it in their faces by presenting them on a platter in a manner that suggests looking sexy at ten years old is okay. Therefore, it’s okay for a ten year old to look sexy but hey! Don’t you think about finding her sexy.
Plus what sort of message does it send to that ten year old girl? That this is how adult women are supposed to behave? Please.
Aren’t little girls already being sexualized way too early? I’m not even going to expect an answer to that, because OF COURSE THEY ARE. Shouldn’t that kid be climbing a tree or making dresses for a Barbie doll? She’s so young that even made up to the nines she doesn’t look remotely like an adult -she looks like a kid in make up, so what is the point they can possibly be making? That it’s okay to find a ten year old desirable? Surely not. That 15 year old models are now too old? I don’t think that’s it. That it’s never too early to get your daughter ready for the adult world? That can’t be it.
Or could it just be that Vogue magazine knew exactly what they were doing when they put a ten year old in their magazine. That they knew it would be provocative and invite publicity. Because really, what’s the bottom line for a magazine? Why, selling issues or promoting itself, of course. And really….job done.
I don’t know about you guys, but I’m enjoying all this controversy over Vogue Paris’s current issue featuring a ten year old model in sultry make up and sporting designer clothing while posing seductively for the camera. I mean it’s pretty ludicrous. Any normal person can see that. People are outraged! People are fretting. People are defending it. The French have no morals. The American media is full of puritanical prudes. Fight, fight, fight.
Seriously though, I’m a pretty liberal person. There are so many things people object to that I find perfectly reasonable and the American media half the time is too concerned with offending the religious element that they will scoff at almost anything these days, sometimes to the point of making me pull my own hair out and say bad words at the petty mindedness of it all.
But in this case, are the protesting media being unreasonable? Because I don’t think so. I’m not sure what sort of person out there thinks it’s a reasonable thing to do – making up a ten year old to act like a twenty year old and making her pose in a suggestive manner in an adult fashion magazine. Maybe those mothers that dress their four year olds up in tiny dresses and make up and make them shake their tiny booties on stage on “Toddlers and Tiaras”? I don’t know. I do know that that little girl probably saw it as a big game of dress up and has no idea of the impact photos like that might have on the less savoury members of society. We tell people all the time how wrong and sick it is to lust after underage kids yet we go right out and rub it in their faces by presenting them on a platter in a manner that suggests looking sexy at ten years old is okay. Therefore, it’s okay for a ten year old to look sexy but hey! Don’t you think about finding her sexy.
Plus what sort of message does it send to that ten year old girl? That this is how adult women are supposed to behave? Please.
Aren’t little girls already being sexualized way too early? I’m not even going to expect an answer to that, because OF COURSE THEY ARE. Shouldn’t that kid be climbing a tree or making dresses for a Barbie doll? She’s so young that even made up to the nines she doesn’t look remotely like an adult -she looks like a kid in make up, so what is the point they can possibly be making? That it’s okay to find a ten year old desirable? Surely not. That 15 year old models are now too old? I don’t think that’s it. That it’s never too early to get your daughter ready for the adult world? That can’t be it.
Or could it just be that Vogue magazine knew exactly what they were doing when they put a ten year old in their magazine. That they knew it would be provocative and invite publicity. Because really, what’s the bottom line for a magazine? Why, selling issues or promoting itself, of course. And really….job done.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Grab Bag
Monday, July 25th, 2011 - itchy face, in need of caffeine supplementation
Anyway, I no longer have to avoid anything relating to this movie or the book because I didn't know how it ended, so yay! I can go back to being nerdy in other ways.
Gosh, how exciting Veg!
Gosh, how exciting Veg!
On a totally different note, here's something interesting for "LOST" fans who always wanted to know what the Man in Black's actual name was and who enjoy things parodying themselves.
Come on. "Barry" isn't the name of a fearsome, eternal demon-man who can transform himself into a smoke monster! "Barry" is the name of the dude who comes to fix your roof when you have a leak. Which, I'm thinking, is probably their point.
Come on. "Barry" isn't the name of a fearsome, eternal demon-man who can transform himself into a smoke monster! "Barry" is the name of the dude who comes to fix your roof when you have a leak. Which, I'm thinking, is probably their point.
God, I miss "Lost".
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Talking Smack About TV. Or Is It Meth?
Tuesday, July 19, 2011 – brain fog
I haven’t forgotten about Ohio, ok, I haven’t. Don’t you say I have.
Who's as excited as me that “Breaking Bad” is back? Huh? There’s nothing I enjoy more than a stress induced panic attack before bed. Watching the season premiere the other night, in particular that one long, quiet, brutal scene that not only sneaked past the TV censors, but bludgeoned them on its way past the door en route to my nightmares, made me so tense I think I pulled something in my bum from all that anxiety clenching. For real people, my bum’s been achey ever since. It’s Walt’s fault entirely. Actually it’s that goddamn chicken man’s fault. If that guy didn’t creep me out before with his underlying dangerous, deceptively docile, expressionless nature, he sure as fuckety does now. Never cross the chicken man, ladies and genitals. If you saw Sunday’s episode you now know why. That dude is BAD. ASS. A whole horrifying five minute scene and he didn’t say ONE WORD till the end. Fuck. Me.
“Breaking Bad” still has a ways to go to induce the same level of terrifying night terrors and heart palpitations it handed me during seasons 1 and 2 (remember that insane Tuco dude and the old codger with the bell?) but still. Well played AMC for keeping the tension tight as an unmarried Mormon’s vagina. P.S. If you don’t watch “Breaking Bad”, why the fuck not…are you retarded? Rent it immediately. Take a Xanax first though, okay?
P.S. Sorry Mormon ladies. It was a compliment, really!
Also back recently – “True Blood”. Now let’s get this straight right now. “True Blood” is preposterous. It was always preposterous but at least it used to be GOOD preposterous. Juicy. Delicious. Naughty. Fun. The first season of “True Blood” was among the best TV out there. Anyone else think that it’s now a giant parody of itself? I mean I’m not complaining, some men should just BE naked all the time, it’s as simple as that. A law should absolutely exist for that. It’d be a crime to cover some of that up (I’m looking at you Alcide-wolf-man, with your big abdominal muscles jutting out like a xylophone). Incidentally, what was with the gratuitous pube shot the other night? Dude was about half a centimetre away from all hell breaking loose in the pantaloon region. I mean no one wants to see that. Right? No one. I only rewound it to make sure I’d seen it right. That’s my only reason. Yup. On the thirty third rewind I realized, yes, I’d seen it right. AND IT WAS DISGUSTING.
Cough…
And is it just me or has Bill’s accent gotten EVEN FUNNIER? I think so. And Sookie more slapworthy?
And what is the point of Tara, can someone please explain that to me? You can’t. Because there isn’t one.
Yes, I did just write an entry about TV shows. The world is ending.
I haven’t forgotten about Ohio, ok, I haven’t. Don’t you say I have.
Who's as excited as me that “Breaking Bad” is back? Huh? There’s nothing I enjoy more than a stress induced panic attack before bed. Watching the season premiere the other night, in particular that one long, quiet, brutal scene that not only sneaked past the TV censors, but bludgeoned them on its way past the door en route to my nightmares, made me so tense I think I pulled something in my bum from all that anxiety clenching. For real people, my bum’s been achey ever since. It’s Walt’s fault entirely. Actually it’s that goddamn chicken man’s fault. If that guy didn’t creep me out before with his underlying dangerous, deceptively docile, expressionless nature, he sure as fuckety does now. Never cross the chicken man, ladies and genitals. If you saw Sunday’s episode you now know why. That dude is BAD. ASS. A whole horrifying five minute scene and he didn’t say ONE WORD till the end. Fuck. Me.
“Breaking Bad” still has a ways to go to induce the same level of terrifying night terrors and heart palpitations it handed me during seasons 1 and 2 (remember that insane Tuco dude and the old codger with the bell?) but still. Well played AMC for keeping the tension tight as an unmarried Mormon’s vagina. P.S. If you don’t watch “Breaking Bad”, why the fuck not…are you retarded? Rent it immediately. Take a Xanax first though, okay?
P.S. Sorry Mormon ladies. It was a compliment, really!
Also back recently – “True Blood”. Now let’s get this straight right now. “True Blood” is preposterous. It was always preposterous but at least it used to be GOOD preposterous. Juicy. Delicious. Naughty. Fun. The first season of “True Blood” was among the best TV out there. Anyone else think that it’s now a giant parody of itself? I mean I’m not complaining, some men should just BE naked all the time, it’s as simple as that. A law should absolutely exist for that. It’d be a crime to cover some of that up (I’m looking at you Alcide-wolf-man, with your big abdominal muscles jutting out like a xylophone). Incidentally, what was with the gratuitous pube shot the other night? Dude was about half a centimetre away from all hell breaking loose in the pantaloon region. I mean no one wants to see that. Right? No one. I only rewound it to make sure I’d seen it right. That’s my only reason. Yup. On the thirty third rewind I realized, yes, I’d seen it right. AND IT WAS DISGUSTING.
Cough…
And is it just me or has Bill’s accent gotten EVEN FUNNIER? I think so. And Sookie more slapworthy?
And what is the point of Tara, can someone please explain that to me? You can’t. Because there isn’t one.
Yes, I did just write an entry about TV shows. The world is ending.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Throw a Veggie Burger on the Barbie, Veg is Coming To Town!
Thursday, July 14, 2011 – pointless
Oh my God, you guys, I still haven’t won the lottery and moved to some tropical island. I know this comes as a great shock to no one but myself, but really, I know it’s going to happen. Of course, it might happen sooner if I bought an actual ticket now and then but I tend to go, “Meh, only losers play the lottery!” instead of, “Only losers go on about what they’ll do when they win the lottery then don’t bother buying a ticket” and then I feel, justifiably, like a bit of an asshole.
And rather than a tropical island I might just hitch up my (as yet non existent) excellently renovated vintage Airstream and just drive around visiting all of you instead! Wouldn’t that be nice? Me showing up on your doorstep, grinning like a retarded Cheshire Cat, calling you “dude” and informing you I’m camping out in your yard in a giant aluminum box for a few days, “HI!” Think of the fun we’d have as you cook me delicious meals and mix me cocktails and bake me cakes while I regale you with tales of hilarity that I just made up for attention, then running away in the middle of the night after I throw up on your patio.
Tomorrow’s Friday, I have a hard day ahead at work and a night following it drinking copious amounts of red wine, gin and tonic and talking nonsense like my life depended on it. A bit like this short but stupid entry.
Not a lot. But a bit…
Oh my God, you guys, I still haven’t won the lottery and moved to some tropical island. I know this comes as a great shock to no one but myself, but really, I know it’s going to happen. Of course, it might happen sooner if I bought an actual ticket now and then but I tend to go, “Meh, only losers play the lottery!” instead of, “Only losers go on about what they’ll do when they win the lottery then don’t bother buying a ticket” and then I feel, justifiably, like a bit of an asshole.
And rather than a tropical island I might just hitch up my (as yet non existent) excellently renovated vintage Airstream and just drive around visiting all of you instead! Wouldn’t that be nice? Me showing up on your doorstep, grinning like a retarded Cheshire Cat, calling you “dude” and informing you I’m camping out in your yard in a giant aluminum box for a few days, “HI!” Think of the fun we’d have as you cook me delicious meals and mix me cocktails and bake me cakes while I regale you with tales of hilarity that I just made up for attention, then running away in the middle of the night after I throw up on your patio.
Tomorrow’s Friday, I have a hard day ahead at work and a night following it drinking copious amounts of red wine, gin and tonic and talking nonsense like my life depended on it. A bit like this short but stupid entry.
Not a lot. But a bit…
Monday, July 11, 2011
Every Morning I Just Hit The Ground Yawning
Monday, July 11th, 2011 – ouch, blood, bruises, coffee, poaching BNL lyrics, unattractive sweat pants, why oh why?
In a vain attempt to start doing something semi healthy again, exercise wise, I walked home from work this afternoon, full of good intentions and smug cheerfulness. Walking in light summer rain, making my hair frizz out in a MEGA attractive manner, reminiscent of a 1980s’ home perm gone wrong. All pretty undignified, when you get right down to it and I half expected passing cars to toot uproariously as they passed, perhaps yelling some utterly hilarious jibe such as, “Your head looks like pubes!” Maybe they did, I don’t know? However, I was blasting music at the time and preferred to think passing motorists were thinking, “Wow, that chick sure is HEALTHY, walking all this way instead of driving or planting her fat derriere on a bus seat!”
In case you thought me huffing through the streets, hair-a-frizz, cheeks red and puffy and sweat trickling down my back wasn’t undignified enough for a summer afternoon, you’ll enjoy the part where I managed to take a misstep crossing the road in front of a busy store no less, causing my ankle to turn the wrong way under me, making me look like I was attempting to lead a flash mob by publicly executing some exuberant Riverdance, but failing miserably and sending me flying head first onto the road, my fall stopped only by my knee cap meeting concrete with the force of a hundred elephants stampeding through a paddock. Road 1, knee 0.
That poor knee, man. It’s had the worst year in the history of bad knee years.
Talking of stupid looking things (Riverdance, try to keep up), there’s nothing more delicate and dignified than being on all fours in the middle of a road, while a line of cars backs up behind you, your ass swaying in the air pertly, like an inquisitive meerkat, while your knee bleeds merrily through your jeans and you have a confused expression painted on your face that screams, “I have no idea what is happening right now but I am willing it to stop…”.
So I decided to come home, eat some cheese and for christ’s sake, forget today happened and start over tomorrow.
Now you can all tell me something funny and cheer me up, goddamn it.
Oh! Guess what’s coming soon? For real? Mothereffing OHIO, Hookers!
In a vain attempt to start doing something semi healthy again, exercise wise, I walked home from work this afternoon, full of good intentions and smug cheerfulness. Walking in light summer rain, making my hair frizz out in a MEGA attractive manner, reminiscent of a 1980s’ home perm gone wrong. All pretty undignified, when you get right down to it and I half expected passing cars to toot uproariously as they passed, perhaps yelling some utterly hilarious jibe such as, “Your head looks like pubes!” Maybe they did, I don’t know? However, I was blasting music at the time and preferred to think passing motorists were thinking, “Wow, that chick sure is HEALTHY, walking all this way instead of driving or planting her fat derriere on a bus seat!”
In case you thought me huffing through the streets, hair-a-frizz, cheeks red and puffy and sweat trickling down my back wasn’t undignified enough for a summer afternoon, you’ll enjoy the part where I managed to take a misstep crossing the road in front of a busy store no less, causing my ankle to turn the wrong way under me, making me look like I was attempting to lead a flash mob by publicly executing some exuberant Riverdance, but failing miserably and sending me flying head first onto the road, my fall stopped only by my knee cap meeting concrete with the force of a hundred elephants stampeding through a paddock. Road 1, knee 0.
That poor knee, man. It’s had the worst year in the history of bad knee years.
Talking of stupid looking things (Riverdance, try to keep up), there’s nothing more delicate and dignified than being on all fours in the middle of a road, while a line of cars backs up behind you, your ass swaying in the air pertly, like an inquisitive meerkat, while your knee bleeds merrily through your jeans and you have a confused expression painted on your face that screams, “I have no idea what is happening right now but I am willing it to stop…”.
So I decided to come home, eat some cheese and for christ’s sake, forget today happened and start over tomorrow.
Now you can all tell me something funny and cheer me up, goddamn it.
Oh! Guess what’s coming soon? For real? Mothereffing OHIO, Hookers!
Thursday, July 7, 2011
I am the Ultimate Authority on Everything
Thursday, July 7th, 2011 – Can your eyeballs sweat?
Hey, did you know William and Kate are in Canada? Really! You’d never know because the media haven’t mentioned it ONE TIME, they’ve been so under the radar and stealth. OR NOT. Holy shit, I hope they have a nice time and all but honestly, I’m sick to death of hearing about what Kate’s wearing today and how it affects global warming or the price of tomatoes or whatever. Kate’s wearing “slacks” (she’s 75 and into polyester, clearly) therefore, guess what we’ll be seeing in high streets next season? Hopefully they come with cyanide capsules for that critical moment the buyer realizes they’ve been duped by some royal advertising and the shame takes over.
There. Got that off my chest. My cleavage is now unhindered by royal restraints. (what?)
Anyway, it must kind of suck to have the media watching every move you make and not giving a shit about what you’re up to, just what you’re wearing today. Does she ever just want to throw on some old jeans with holes in the knees, yank her greasy hair into a pony tail and wear a t-shirt with a coffee stain on the front? I’d be the worst royal ever. I’d be all, “Get that fucking camera out of my face, unless you want it rammed up your ass. And pass me a Pabst Blue Ribbon, reporter scum!” right before wiping my nose on my sleeve.
Heh. Maybe. Like I’d ever drink that Pabst shit.
I finally got around to some things I’d been meaning to for ages:
1) I saw “Bridesmaids” at last, albeit hesitantly, because, in my opinion, when a comedy gets a lot of hype and praise, it rarely lives up to these dizzying heights when I see it, leaving me confused. But I laughed my ass off because it was indeed that rare commodity in film – a romcom that doesn’t suck and actually has some “com” along with the “rom”. If I were Jennifer Aniston or Kate Hudson right now, I’d be ashamed of myself and my stupid movies because those people have given romcoms and chick flicks the terrible reputation they have now for being the stale, unfunny, unrealistic, fluff that they are. People keep saying “Bridesmaids” is the female “The Hangover” but they’re wrong. “Bridesmaids” is better. Plus it also proved something I’ve been saying since “The IT Crowd” – Chris O’Dowd might be an odd-looking, awkward Irishman but he is a SEXY, odd-looking, awkward Irishman. Oh yes, people laughed at me THEN..
.
2) I finally got me a Wacom drawing tablet so I can now do my fantastically sophisticated illustrations without looking like they were drawn by someone with stage 3 Parkinson’s. No more mouse drawing for me, no Sir. New gadgets kick ass. Plus now, if I’m so inclined, I can scribble really unfunny slogans in my own handwriting, all over celebrity photos, gatecrash a few parties, have hissyfits and call myself Perez Hilton!
Alright, I’m off to get some coffee to wake the hell up and then I’m going to get busy. Note: I typed “busty” at first there, but decided getting busty wasn’t the best use of my time today, sorry. I need to be able to see my feet!
Apologies for the lameocity (I made that up, it’s good no?) of this entry, but there’s a reason for it. I suck.
Hey, did you know William and Kate are in Canada? Really! You’d never know because the media haven’t mentioned it ONE TIME, they’ve been so under the radar and stealth. OR NOT. Holy shit, I hope they have a nice time and all but honestly, I’m sick to death of hearing about what Kate’s wearing today and how it affects global warming or the price of tomatoes or whatever. Kate’s wearing “slacks” (she’s 75 and into polyester, clearly) therefore, guess what we’ll be seeing in high streets next season? Hopefully they come with cyanide capsules for that critical moment the buyer realizes they’ve been duped by some royal advertising and the shame takes over.
There. Got that off my chest. My cleavage is now unhindered by royal restraints. (what?)
Anyway, it must kind of suck to have the media watching every move you make and not giving a shit about what you’re up to, just what you’re wearing today. Does she ever just want to throw on some old jeans with holes in the knees, yank her greasy hair into a pony tail and wear a t-shirt with a coffee stain on the front? I’d be the worst royal ever. I’d be all, “Get that fucking camera out of my face, unless you want it rammed up your ass. And pass me a Pabst Blue Ribbon, reporter scum!” right before wiping my nose on my sleeve.
Heh. Maybe. Like I’d ever drink that Pabst shit.
I finally got around to some things I’d been meaning to for ages:
1) I saw “Bridesmaids” at last, albeit hesitantly, because, in my opinion, when a comedy gets a lot of hype and praise, it rarely lives up to these dizzying heights when I see it, leaving me confused. But I laughed my ass off because it was indeed that rare commodity in film – a romcom that doesn’t suck and actually has some “com” along with the “rom”. If I were Jennifer Aniston or Kate Hudson right now, I’d be ashamed of myself and my stupid movies because those people have given romcoms and chick flicks the terrible reputation they have now for being the stale, unfunny, unrealistic, fluff that they are. People keep saying “Bridesmaids” is the female “The Hangover” but they’re wrong. “Bridesmaids” is better. Plus it also proved something I’ve been saying since “The IT Crowd” – Chris O’Dowd might be an odd-looking, awkward Irishman but he is a SEXY, odd-looking, awkward Irishman. Oh yes, people laughed at me THEN..
.
2) I finally got me a Wacom drawing tablet so I can now do my fantastically sophisticated illustrations without looking like they were drawn by someone with stage 3 Parkinson’s. No more mouse drawing for me, no Sir. New gadgets kick ass. Plus now, if I’m so inclined, I can scribble really unfunny slogans in my own handwriting, all over celebrity photos, gatecrash a few parties, have hissyfits and call myself Perez Hilton!
Alright, I’m off to get some coffee to wake the hell up and then I’m going to get busy. Note: I typed “busty” at first there, but decided getting busty wasn’t the best use of my time today, sorry. I need to be able to see my feet!
Apologies for the lameocity (I made that up, it’s good no?) of this entry, but there’s a reason for it. I suck.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
They Can Take Our Land, But They’ll Never Get it Through Customs
Tuesday, June 28th, 2011 – this just in: coffee puts a road through you
Ah don’t you love summer? By that rhetorical minefield of a question what I really mean is, I love summer and as you know by now, it’s pretty much all about me.
Now that my elephant trumpeting allergies are under control, thanks to finally acquiring a neat supply of my old snorty-inhaler BFF, ‘Flonase’, I am altogether a happier, more well-adjusted and harmonious being, to an almost hippy-like degree. Got trees? I will hug them. Lentils? I will soak and eat them. Happy little children? Well, let’s not get carried away, here. I feel better, hell hasn’t frozen over or anything, you can keep the loud little mini-humans. However, it’s interesting to note that not once this week so far have I thought homicidal thoughts towards my fellow man or strained my middle digit by strenuous thrusting it at objects of derision accompanied by a hearty and fruity expletive. There might be hope for me yet.
At least until it rains again. Then all bets are off. Null and void, people. Don’t even try to cash those suckers.
So how have you all been? I feel I need to sit you down and have a nice conversation over a fragrant cup of coffee, to catch up as I feel I’ve been away forever. Like serving a jail term or something. Not that I’ve been in jail or anything. Heavens no. Ha ha ha ha. What gave you that idea?
Um…what’s that over there?
Anyway, I’m attempting to return to a state of normalcy here now regarding posting frequently about nothing of any importance and insulting people with gusto.
Photos you said? Don’t pretend you didn’t. Don’t say you want more of them then groan when you get it. That’s not how it works at all. As you may have deduced from the entry below, I was touring around the highlands, here in the country of my birth, bothering sheep and looking at mountains and castles and hearing bagpipes IN MY SLEEP. Photos?
The above is Eilean Donan Castle, on the Kyle of Lochalsh, near the Isle of Skye. Sadly the tide was out, but you can’t have everything. It’s still pretty.
This is on the west coast in the Ardnamurchan area, as were the photos in the last entry. It’s one of my favourite places anywhere, full of sea views, wild flowers, narrow roads, scenic villages and lack of people. Perfect.
This is the highland town of Ullapool, where you can catch a ferry to the Hebrides, and, as it happens, find really good Indian pakorah. Yes please!
This is Durness, on Scotland’s north west coast. All white sand and roaring ocean. Awesome!
I also visited Doune Castle, which is not only cool in its own right, but also SUPER COOL because it’s one of the locations used to film HBO’s fearsomely awesome “Game of Thrones”. I spent a pleasant afternoon stomping around the arched cellars swishing my cape like Sean Bean if Sean Bean was really flamboyant. And you know…a straight lady with delusions. Which, he isn’t.
It was also the location where Monty Python and the Holy Grail was filmed. There. I gave you some actual info. Go me. * I don't have a cape...
That’s all I’m giving you for now. See, this way I won’t bore you too hard. Aren’t I considerate?
Later my lovelies.
Ah don’t you love summer? By that rhetorical minefield of a question what I really mean is, I love summer and as you know by now, it’s pretty much all about me.
Now that my elephant trumpeting allergies are under control, thanks to finally acquiring a neat supply of my old snorty-inhaler BFF, ‘Flonase’, I am altogether a happier, more well-adjusted and harmonious being, to an almost hippy-like degree. Got trees? I will hug them. Lentils? I will soak and eat them. Happy little children? Well, let’s not get carried away, here. I feel better, hell hasn’t frozen over or anything, you can keep the loud little mini-humans. However, it’s interesting to note that not once this week so far have I thought homicidal thoughts towards my fellow man or strained my middle digit by strenuous thrusting it at objects of derision accompanied by a hearty and fruity expletive. There might be hope for me yet.
At least until it rains again. Then all bets are off. Null and void, people. Don’t even try to cash those suckers.
So how have you all been? I feel I need to sit you down and have a nice conversation over a fragrant cup of coffee, to catch up as I feel I’ve been away forever. Like serving a jail term or something. Not that I’ve been in jail or anything. Heavens no. Ha ha ha ha. What gave you that idea?
Um…what’s that over there?
Anyway, I’m attempting to return to a state of normalcy here now regarding posting frequently about nothing of any importance and insulting people with gusto.
Photos you said? Don’t pretend you didn’t. Don’t say you want more of them then groan when you get it. That’s not how it works at all. As you may have deduced from the entry below, I was touring around the highlands, here in the country of my birth, bothering sheep and looking at mountains and castles and hearing bagpipes IN MY SLEEP. Photos?
The above is Eilean Donan Castle, on the Kyle of Lochalsh, near the Isle of Skye. Sadly the tide was out, but you can’t have everything. It’s still pretty.
This is on the west coast in the Ardnamurchan area, as were the photos in the last entry. It’s one of my favourite places anywhere, full of sea views, wild flowers, narrow roads, scenic villages and lack of people. Perfect.
This is the highland town of Ullapool, where you can catch a ferry to the Hebrides, and, as it happens, find really good Indian pakorah. Yes please!
This is Durness, on Scotland’s north west coast. All white sand and roaring ocean. Awesome!
I also visited Doune Castle, which is not only cool in its own right, but also SUPER COOL because it’s one of the locations used to film HBO’s fearsomely awesome “Game of Thrones”. I spent a pleasant afternoon stomping around the arched cellars swishing my cape like Sean Bean if Sean Bean was really flamboyant. And you know…a straight lady with delusions. Which, he isn’t.
It was also the location where Monty Python and the Holy Grail was filmed. There. I gave you some actual info. Go me. * I don't have a cape...
That’s all I’m giving you for now. See, this way I won’t bore you too hard. Aren’t I considerate?
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
The Gypsy Rover
Wednesday, June 22nd, 2011 – I have a headache, everyone pet me
Try your utmost not to pass out cold and hit your head on a rock! It’s me. Yes really! I am here. Instead of playing hooky in a disused railway tunnel full of tequila, or something equally salubrious. I am returned from the wilds of the blogosphere to annoy you once more with my whining and procrastinating.
A few things: a) My highland vacation was AWESOME. Who wouldn’t want to spend time with people they like, eating picnics and drinking pear cider, here:
and here:
And looking at scenery like this:
A royal ASSHOLE, that’s who. And for anyone who thinks this entry is just an excuse to show you my boring snaps of my homeland, well screw YOU, hippy! No, I’m kidding. Those were just a quick few to give you the idea of the level of tranquility we’re talking here, regarding my blissful vacation. And one needs a level of tranquility after dealing with rain and knee pain and…I don’t know…QUICKSAND (maybe) and deranged minds (mine) and driving really fast on winding roads the width of a FLEA’S ASS and motion sickness and really annoying hair.
Especially the hair, man. Good God.
So I will be back very shortly. This isn’t it. This is just an announcement to make me feel important. I will be back properly later. This week. Ish. Okay?
Okay then.
P.S. There is no "b)”
Try your utmost not to pass out cold and hit your head on a rock! It’s me. Yes really! I am here. Instead of playing hooky in a disused railway tunnel full of tequila, or something equally salubrious. I am returned from the wilds of the blogosphere to annoy you once more with my whining and procrastinating.
A few things: a) My highland vacation was AWESOME. Who wouldn’t want to spend time with people they like, eating picnics and drinking pear cider, here:
and here:
And looking at scenery like this:
Especially the hair, man. Good God.
So I will be back very shortly. This isn’t it. This is just an announcement to make me feel important. I will be back properly later. This week. Ish. Okay?
Okay then.
P.S. There is no "b)”
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Shock-o-late Cake
Tuesday, May 31st, 2011 – Knees are bastards, mad love, I kill plants, the thirst that won’t die
Is it really a week since I last posted an entry? I’m getting lazier by the day it seems. I have no strength to do much at the end of the day but rock in a corner and drool on my shirt. Which, to the keen observer, is pretty much like an ordinary, less busy day for me, except with more apathy and less enthusiasm.
It’s really no wonder I drink.
I’ve tried, tonight, to catch up on my creaking Google Reader, valiantly straining under the heft of all those unread entries of yours. It’s like a losing battle though. I waded through a good, pleasant, cockle-warming pool of them, managed to leave a few comments – not nearly enough, but I’d still be here next September if I left them on every entry I read – and ended up getting nothing else done at all, except concocting a makeshift pizza out of some garlic nan bread and various oniony, peppery, cheesy toppings, which, if you ask me, is time well spent.
Time substantially less well spent was an hour that seemed like five weeks, entertaining my friend’s five year old, who insisted on riding me around the living room pony style, while I got rug burn on one knee and exacerbated the one that was already blaring at Defcon 1 with the yoga injury. Plus you all know how I feel about small, young, fast-moving, loud humans. I’m so not jiggy with them. If I had one of my own I’d be a full-on babbling alcoholic by now. Instead of just a full on babbler and part time wino. Luckily, for me and the world, I’d rather roll my pants in horseshit then eat them than have a brand new life-form spring forth from my loins.
I’ve also gotten really vexed that work is full of cake. I should probably have asked you to sit down before telling you that because, really, what position could possibly be better for me than in a place that deals in cake all day, every day and that requires that I sample said cakes and give opinions on texture and taste and chocolateyness on top of my more usual job description? Is it heaven or hell? I don’t know. All that sugar has confused me. It feels like heaven. My pants however, squawking in terror, are insisting it’s hell.
If that shocked you, you might want to move away from any sharp objects for this next sentence. I think there might really be a thing called “too much cake”. I know, right, what the hell?
There, you can open your eyes now and back away from the ledge. You’ll get over it.
Still no Ohio. Jesus Christ, people, I FAIL AT LIFE.
Is it really a week since I last posted an entry? I’m getting lazier by the day it seems. I have no strength to do much at the end of the day but rock in a corner and drool on my shirt. Which, to the keen observer, is pretty much like an ordinary, less busy day for me, except with more apathy and less enthusiasm.
It’s really no wonder I drink.
I’ve tried, tonight, to catch up on my creaking Google Reader, valiantly straining under the heft of all those unread entries of yours. It’s like a losing battle though. I waded through a good, pleasant, cockle-warming pool of them, managed to leave a few comments – not nearly enough, but I’d still be here next September if I left them on every entry I read – and ended up getting nothing else done at all, except concocting a makeshift pizza out of some garlic nan bread and various oniony, peppery, cheesy toppings, which, if you ask me, is time well spent.
Time substantially less well spent was an hour that seemed like five weeks, entertaining my friend’s five year old, who insisted on riding me around the living room pony style, while I got rug burn on one knee and exacerbated the one that was already blaring at Defcon 1 with the yoga injury. Plus you all know how I feel about small, young, fast-moving, loud humans. I’m so not jiggy with them. If I had one of my own I’d be a full-on babbling alcoholic by now. Instead of just a full on babbler and part time wino. Luckily, for me and the world, I’d rather roll my pants in horseshit then eat them than have a brand new life-form spring forth from my loins.
I’ve also gotten really vexed that work is full of cake. I should probably have asked you to sit down before telling you that because, really, what position could possibly be better for me than in a place that deals in cake all day, every day and that requires that I sample said cakes and give opinions on texture and taste and chocolateyness on top of my more usual job description? Is it heaven or hell? I don’t know. All that sugar has confused me. It feels like heaven. My pants however, squawking in terror, are insisting it’s hell.
If that shocked you, you might want to move away from any sharp objects for this next sentence. I think there might really be a thing called “too much cake”. I know, right, what the hell?
There, you can open your eyes now and back away from the ledge. You’ll get over it.
Still no Ohio. Jesus Christ, people, I FAIL AT LIFE.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The One Where My Hair’s a Bitch
Wednesday, May 18th, 2011 – lunch is good blogging time
I decided, a few weeks ago, before starting the new office portion of my life, I should probably tame the wild beast that lives on my head, because usually my idea of a good hair day is one where it’s clean and I manage to not find families of wild animals or twigs living in it. With this in mind I’d set out on an intrepid expedition to a local hair salon to have them try to “fix” it. After viewing my head from all angles and making some most discouraging clicking sounds, the lady with the scissors said she was pretty sure she could do something with it that didn’t involve shaving it all off and plopping a paper bag over my head.
Of course she never once mentioned that the “something” might be making me look like I’m not entirely on top of matters, but I guess it was my own fault for not asking the right question. The right question being, “Can you do something that doesn’t make me look not entirely on top of matters?”
It’s not that it’s a bad style – it isn’t – it’s just not…..well….me. Whatever that means. Stupid hair. I hate salons anyway. They never make my hair look good . It only looks good weeks later when I’ve messed with it in some illegal manner hairdressers disapprove of. Besides, it doesn’t matter what the hell you say to a hairdresser, they’re strong willed. You can show them a photo, give them a description in vivid detail and you’ll still come out of the place looking like you said, “You know what? Just get shitfaced and put a lawn mower on it!”
So yes, I hate my stupid lady hair and am praying it grows out fast. This might be the millionth time I’ve complained that I hate my hair after hair salon visits. This visit happened weeks ago too and it’s only now starting to look like I might not be demented after all, just the owner of an ever so slightly “exuberant” personality. And people wonder why I usually cut my own hair…
So how are you guys? Want to have some mental wine and cheese with me? Come back end of the week for some really riveting stuff on the great state of Ohio. Why Ohio? Why the hell not? Rock on good buddies.
I decided, a few weeks ago, before starting the new office portion of my life, I should probably tame the wild beast that lives on my head, because usually my idea of a good hair day is one where it’s clean and I manage to not find families of wild animals or twigs living in it. With this in mind I’d set out on an intrepid expedition to a local hair salon to have them try to “fix” it. After viewing my head from all angles and making some most discouraging clicking sounds, the lady with the scissors said she was pretty sure she could do something with it that didn’t involve shaving it all off and plopping a paper bag over my head.
Of course she never once mentioned that the “something” might be making me look like I’m not entirely on top of matters, but I guess it was my own fault for not asking the right question. The right question being, “Can you do something that doesn’t make me look not entirely on top of matters?”
It’s not that it’s a bad style – it isn’t – it’s just not…..well….me. Whatever that means. Stupid hair. I hate salons anyway. They never make my hair look good . It only looks good weeks later when I’ve messed with it in some illegal manner hairdressers disapprove of. Besides, it doesn’t matter what the hell you say to a hairdresser, they’re strong willed. You can show them a photo, give them a description in vivid detail and you’ll still come out of the place looking like you said, “You know what? Just get shitfaced and put a lawn mower on it!”
So yes, I hate my stupid lady hair and am praying it grows out fast. This might be the millionth time I’ve complained that I hate my hair after hair salon visits. This visit happened weeks ago too and it’s only now starting to look like I might not be demented after all, just the owner of an ever so slightly “exuberant” personality. And people wonder why I usually cut my own hair…
So how are you guys? Want to have some mental wine and cheese with me? Come back end of the week for some really riveting stuff on the great state of Ohio. Why Ohio? Why the hell not? Rock on good buddies.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Can We Please Have an 8 Day Week?
Sunday, May 15th, 2011 – babbling, need coffee injection, wishing for silence and tequila
I almost fell asleep on the bus last night, as it trudged through the rainy streets, braking like a maniac when some errant pedestrian with the coordination and sense of direction of a newborn baby emu, would suddenly veer dangerously off the sidewalk and into its path, jerking me awake with a, “What the f…!”, at which time I’d be a little disoriented because my mind was on some tropical island pinging the elastic waistband of some unlucky man’s Speedos one second and stuck on a rickety bus the next.
You see, I haven’t been getting enough sleep. I go to bed feeling like I just spent fourteen hours body slamming The Rock, unable to utter a single coherent sentence through my exhaustion, then come about 5am I’m wide awake with the harsh morning daylight in my eyes, feeling hung-over. Which is really unfair considering I didn’t even get to drink anything! I also managed to fall asleep, Friday night, in an armchair, upright, in the midst of laughing at “An Idiot Abroad”. What the hell? Am I ninety?
Anyway, I’ve been attempting to sleep while wearing one of those ridiculous eye mask things they hand out in the posh seats on planes, that are supposed to block out the light. Only I must’ve been dreaming about bitch-slapping the living shit out of Lindsay Lohan or some such thing, because I still awoke at 5am, sneezing my ass off with seasonal allergies, only this time all my flailing around on my pillow (probably smothering the thieving, gin-soaked Lohan bint) had mussed up my hair and worked the eye mask around my head so it only actually covered one eye, leaving me look like a strawberry blonde Captain Jack Sparrow with pink eye. It was even more attractive than it sounds.
If you would like to date me, as always, the line starts over there.
It also made my eyes sweat. Who knew that was even POSSIBLE? So I slept a little longer, however, I’m not sure which is worse, being blinded by the light or the Swedish sauna, sweaty Buscemi eyes.
So yes, my weekend thus far has been spent, a) having a hangover (hi!), b) doing twelve hours of design work for gratis and c) being thirsty. I owe about 300 emails, have a ton of laundry to do, grocery items to acquire and some treadmill running to aspire to before tomorrow morning. Hmm.
Anyway, I must go now to try and find yet another lady item for my work wardrobe or be thought of as “the chick with one cardigan”. Jesus Christ.
I promise an insightful and very informative state essay this week. Anyone wishing to request states, do so in the comments and I’ll pick one andmassacre do it justice.
So how are you guys? I’ll get to your blogs one day soon, I promise. For now, I’m going to schedule this post and get some goddamn shut eye. Hey ho!
I almost fell asleep on the bus last night, as it trudged through the rainy streets, braking like a maniac when some errant pedestrian with the coordination and sense of direction of a newborn baby emu, would suddenly veer dangerously off the sidewalk and into its path, jerking me awake with a, “What the f…!”, at which time I’d be a little disoriented because my mind was on some tropical island pinging the elastic waistband of some unlucky man’s Speedos one second and stuck on a rickety bus the next.
You see, I haven’t been getting enough sleep. I go to bed feeling like I just spent fourteen hours body slamming The Rock, unable to utter a single coherent sentence through my exhaustion, then come about 5am I’m wide awake with the harsh morning daylight in my eyes, feeling hung-over. Which is really unfair considering I didn’t even get to drink anything! I also managed to fall asleep, Friday night, in an armchair, upright, in the midst of laughing at “An Idiot Abroad”. What the hell? Am I ninety?
Anyway, I’ve been attempting to sleep while wearing one of those ridiculous eye mask things they hand out in the posh seats on planes, that are supposed to block out the light. Only I must’ve been dreaming about bitch-slapping the living shit out of Lindsay Lohan or some such thing, because I still awoke at 5am, sneezing my ass off with seasonal allergies, only this time all my flailing around on my pillow (probably smothering the thieving, gin-soaked Lohan bint) had mussed up my hair and worked the eye mask around my head so it only actually covered one eye, leaving me look like a strawberry blonde Captain Jack Sparrow with pink eye. It was even more attractive than it sounds.
If you would like to date me, as always, the line starts over there.
It also made my eyes sweat. Who knew that was even POSSIBLE? So I slept a little longer, however, I’m not sure which is worse, being blinded by the light or the Swedish sauna, sweaty Buscemi eyes.
So yes, my weekend thus far has been spent, a) having a hangover (hi!), b) doing twelve hours of design work for gratis and c) being thirsty. I owe about 300 emails, have a ton of laundry to do, grocery items to acquire and some treadmill running to aspire to before tomorrow morning. Hmm.
Anyway, I must go now to try and find yet another lady item for my work wardrobe or be thought of as “the chick with one cardigan”. Jesus Christ.
I promise an insightful and very informative state essay this week. Anyone wishing to request states, do so in the comments and I’ll pick one and
So how are you guys? I’ll get to your blogs one day soon, I promise. For now, I’m going to schedule this post and get some goddamn shut eye. Hey ho!
Monday, May 9, 2011
Not So Manic Monday
Monday, May 9th, 2011 – Blah
I’m all full of the joys of Monday today for real, since I’m only working till 12:30, since I’m basically SUPPOSED to be part time, in order to leave time for my other job (being awesome!). So far today, however, I’ve been full-time crazy busy and the other chick I work with called in sick, so you know…it’s not looking great presently for my early exit. It’s amazing what knowing you’re leaving five hours earlier than usual (hopefully) will do for your mood. That and the fact you are smug in the knowledge that you still have half a stuffed crust pizza left in the fridge for dinner and enough Coke Zero to drown any sorrows you may have left. Oh yes please.
Obviously wine would be better but hey, I’m getting old, wine’s strictly for weekends.
A few gripes for today:
1) I heard that fairly horrible G-whine-eth Paltrow “Country Strong” number earlier and marvelled at just how much they have auto-tuned the living shit out of her voice. There were notes in it where she almost confirmed my long-time suspicions that she’s actually an evil, homicidal, android robot from a parallel universe. Who invented auto-tune? I’d like to kick them right in their fanny region and I don’t even care which “fanny” you celebrate, front or back. Right in the fanny with my boot. There’s no need for people to sound like robots. Not even The Paltrow. Don’t get me started on pop/dance music’s abuse of it. Really, don’t.
2) If you’re serving me in a store and you’re bagging up my item and getting me change, don’t yap to your friend at the next till about your weekend like I’m not even there. Because I AM there and so is my finger and girlfriend, I will poke you right in the eye. I like to interrupt with inane blurt-outs when this happens. “I HAVE SO MANY PENNIES, LOOK AT MY PENNIES!”, “YOUR CABBAGE IS EXTORTIONATE!” Drives them batty.
3) Not everyone wants a t-shirt down to their knees. When will this long top phase end, because I hate it and will not be ignored, damn you. While we’re at it can the pseudo eighties just fuck off now please and take their goddamn jeggings and tunic tops with them?
4) Someone needs to find the person at Yahoo, who keeps insisting on taking ridiculous articles from “Cosmopolitan” about what women want in a man, and reposting them on Yahoo News, then take them out back and shoot them right in the tits.
5) I hate broccoli. There is no reason for it to exist. So it’s good for you, big deal. It’s nasty and looks like a lung that’s been coughed up and left to go mouldy. No one needs to eat that. Broccoli’s like the Ringo Starr of the vegetable world, only less likable.
There, whine over. I’m going to go now and pretend I’m doing something productive. Holy crap, if there was a non-busy Monday, that would mean the apocalypse is here.
I’m all full of the joys of Monday today for real, since I’m only working till 12:30, since I’m basically SUPPOSED to be part time, in order to leave time for my other job (being awesome!). So far today, however, I’ve been full-time crazy busy and the other chick I work with called in sick, so you know…it’s not looking great presently for my early exit. It’s amazing what knowing you’re leaving five hours earlier than usual (hopefully) will do for your mood. That and the fact you are smug in the knowledge that you still have half a stuffed crust pizza left in the fridge for dinner and enough Coke Zero to drown any sorrows you may have left. Oh yes please.
Obviously wine would be better but hey, I’m getting old, wine’s strictly for weekends.
A few gripes for today:
1) I heard that fairly horrible G-whine-eth Paltrow “Country Strong” number earlier and marvelled at just how much they have auto-tuned the living shit out of her voice. There were notes in it where she almost confirmed my long-time suspicions that she’s actually an evil, homicidal, android robot from a parallel universe. Who invented auto-tune? I’d like to kick them right in their fanny region and I don’t even care which “fanny” you celebrate, front or back. Right in the fanny with my boot. There’s no need for people to sound like robots. Not even The Paltrow. Don’t get me started on pop/dance music’s abuse of it. Really, don’t.
2) If you’re serving me in a store and you’re bagging up my item and getting me change, don’t yap to your friend at the next till about your weekend like I’m not even there. Because I AM there and so is my finger and girlfriend, I will poke you right in the eye. I like to interrupt with inane blurt-outs when this happens. “I HAVE SO MANY PENNIES, LOOK AT MY PENNIES!”, “YOUR CABBAGE IS EXTORTIONATE!” Drives them batty.
4) Someone needs to find the person at Yahoo, who keeps insisting on taking ridiculous articles from “Cosmopolitan” about what women want in a man, and reposting them on Yahoo News, then take them out back and shoot them right in the tits.
5) I hate broccoli. There is no reason for it to exist. So it’s good for you, big deal. It’s nasty and looks like a lung that’s been coughed up and left to go mouldy. No one needs to eat that. Broccoli’s like the Ringo Starr of the vegetable world, only less likable.
There, whine over. I’m going to go now and pretend I’m doing something productive. Holy crap, if there was a non-busy Monday, that would mean the apocalypse is here.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Connecticut: Spelled Funny, Smells Funnier
Wednesday, April 27th, 2011 – leftover chocolate, knee squeaking, large albatross like bird projectile shitting on window
Howdy, my little jelly beans! Are we all ready to learn something, humongously interesting about Connecticut? Well get comfortable and let’s begin!
What can I tell you, weary blogland, about the great state of Connecticut? Connecticut has a ‘c’ in the middle just to confuse people. Not me though. I am a spelling God. As most of you know, Connecticut is technically a state in the New England area, although we all know that really it’s just New York City’s bitch. Some people would have you believe it has its own personality and awesomeness ratio, but it’s just a suburb of NYC, let’s be brutally honest here.
Now let’s get down to business. Connecticut was the fifth state of the original 13, and nowadays is a small, densely populated pudding of posh, hoity toity, wealthy residents and people who’d murder your granny for a sniff of cheap scotch and even cheaper ladies’ panties.
The state’s name is an English bastardization of the original Algonquian name “quinatucquet” which translates loosely as, “big, superfluous suburb of New York” or I may be lying, but I don’t think so. Its early settlers were Dutch and English and fights constantly broke out in the neighbourhood over who wore the silliest garb – the English with their powdered white wigs or the Dutch with their giant, comical wooden shoes. Occasionally, an unfortunate interbreed would don both and be executed for witchcraft. Or I could have totally made that up, I’ll let you decide.
The thing most people like to say about Connecticut, apart from the whole NYC thing is, “Yah, yah, I like…went to Yale, I am totally rich and ivy league smart!” and then they recount the time they rented a mini bus in the dead of night to drive up to Harvard and play a totally bitchin’ prank on those Masshole losers by replacing their team mascot with a bald chicken or something equally, scorn inducing. We’ll be impressed when you replace their mascot with a UNICORN, Yaley.
Ready for the obligatory heathen count? Don’t get too excited. According to Wikipedia, which incidentally will accept information from any clearly drunk and illiterate person with a keyboard, only 1% of Connecticutters (heh!) are heathens, but I’m inclined to not quite believe that statistic, especially since the list of percentages for all the different religious entities was suspiciously long and when I used my vast arithmetic skills to add up the percentages of Connecticut’s religious residents, it equalled 148%. Which, I don’t know about you, seems just a little fishy, when you consider THERE CAN ONLY BE 100%.
Which is what happens to your mathematical logic when you’re relegated in people’s minds from “state with its own identity” to “giant suburb of New York”.
Despite this impressive exploitation of the percentage rules, Connecticut is a fairly Democratic state and one of the few states in the US which not only recognizes same sex marriage, but never repealed this law. Way to go, CT, recognizing our gay brothers and sisters!
Last, and very definitely least, everyone’s favourite fuck-up, George W. Bush was born in Connecticut, although luckily for the locals he was ejected because he couldn’t SPELL “Connecticut” and he exiled himself to Texas, got a cowboy accent and a big hat and proceeded to suck the life out of the English language from thousands of miles away. Rumours that his first words after leaving office, were, “Laura, let’s git on with barbecuin’ and executin’ and we gots all the oil, LOL!” are unconfirmed at this time.
And that’s it for Connecticut. Except, did I mention it was really just a suburb of New York City?
Howdy, my little jelly beans! Are we all ready to learn something, humongously interesting about Connecticut? Well get comfortable and let’s begin!
What can I tell you, weary blogland, about the great state of Connecticut? Connecticut has a ‘c’ in the middle just to confuse people. Not me though. I am a spelling God. As most of you know, Connecticut is technically a state in the New England area, although we all know that really it’s just New York City’s bitch. Some people would have you believe it has its own personality and awesomeness ratio, but it’s just a suburb of NYC, let’s be brutally honest here.
The state’s name is an English bastardization of the original Algonquian name “quinatucquet” which translates loosely as, “big, superfluous suburb of New York” or I may be lying, but I don’t think so. Its early settlers were Dutch and English and fights constantly broke out in the neighbourhood over who wore the silliest garb – the English with their powdered white wigs or the Dutch with their giant, comical wooden shoes. Occasionally, an unfortunate interbreed would don both and be executed for witchcraft. Or I could have totally made that up, I’ll let you decide.
The thing most people like to say about Connecticut, apart from the whole NYC thing is, “Yah, yah, I like…went to Yale, I am totally rich and ivy league smart!” and then they recount the time they rented a mini bus in the dead of night to drive up to Harvard and play a totally bitchin’ prank on those Masshole losers by replacing their team mascot with a bald chicken or something equally, scorn inducing. We’ll be impressed when you replace their mascot with a UNICORN, Yaley.
Ready for the obligatory heathen count? Don’t get too excited. According to Wikipedia, which incidentally will accept information from any clearly drunk and illiterate person with a keyboard, only 1% of Connecticutters (heh!) are heathens, but I’m inclined to not quite believe that statistic, especially since the list of percentages for all the different religious entities was suspiciously long and when I used my vast arithmetic skills to add up the percentages of Connecticut’s religious residents, it equalled 148%. Which, I don’t know about you, seems just a little fishy, when you consider THERE CAN ONLY BE 100%.
Which is what happens to your mathematical logic when you’re relegated in people’s minds from “state with its own identity” to “giant suburb of New York”.
Despite this impressive exploitation of the percentage rules, Connecticut is a fairly Democratic state and one of the few states in the US which not only recognizes same sex marriage, but never repealed this law. Way to go, CT, recognizing our gay brothers and sisters!
Last, and very definitely least, everyone’s favourite fuck-up, George W. Bush was born in Connecticut, although luckily for the locals he was ejected because he couldn’t SPELL “Connecticut” and he exiled himself to Texas, got a cowboy accent and a big hat and proceeded to suck the life out of the English language from thousands of miles away. Rumours that his first words after leaving office, were, “Laura, let’s git on with barbecuin’ and executin’ and we gots all the oil, LOL!” are unconfirmed at this time.
And that’s it for Connecticut. Except, did I mention it was really just a suburb of New York City?
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Easter Spirit
Sunday, April 24th, 2011, Easter, chocolate, nom nom nom, brain filler
Happy Easter, peeps (see what I did there – topical relevance, although isn’t “relevance” kind of redundant in that phrase, I don’t know. Or care…)
I hope you all had a moment of contemplative silence today, to remember what Easter is all about. That’s right! Getting to the supermarket early to snap up those bargain, half price Easter eggs! I still haven’t eaten much chocolate in eons – well, I did have a piece of Tonka Bean chocolate the other day (effing delicious, incidentally, I recommend) – however, today, being Easter, means I have to BY LAW eat some chocolate or the holiday police show up and threaten to pinch and twist your personals till you scream (allegedly). So I’m endeavoring to go out later and buy as many Cadbury eggs as I can find, then eat them till I pass out in a sugar coma.
No one can say I don’t get in the spirit of Easter.
Talking of spirits, because “segue” is my middle name, last night I went out for Mexican food and margaritas and daiquiris. I contemplated writing this entry last night but wisely remembered the nonsense I write when I’m SOBER and figured that it was probably a heinous mistake to even consider more drunken blogging. See, I’m maturing. Like a good cheese.
Anyway, the margaritas, served by the pitcher and made with fresh strawberries and enough tequila to pickle your innards, were superb, as were the daiquiris, also made from freshly mushed up strawberries and enough rum to ensure your brain was as pickled as your innards. And really, how could you have a bad night after that? You couldn’t. Well unless you got a blister the size of a quarter on the sole of your foot. And what’s more annoying than that, except a blister the size of a quarter on the sole of EACH foot (or Sarah Palin) which hello! I have. The blister I mean, not Sarah Palin. Damn boots. Ouch.
At least my knee’s doing better. Pretty soon I’ll be able to boot annoying people right in the ass again as always. I’m totally kidding, of course. It’s my right knee. I boot with my left. My booting abilities never actually quit.
Anyway, a thing about Connecticut is coming soon. Soonish. I know you’re on tenterhooks. Whatever they are.
Happy Chocolate Day!
Happy Easter, peeps (see what I did there – topical relevance, although isn’t “relevance” kind of redundant in that phrase, I don’t know. Or care…)
I hope you all had a moment of contemplative silence today, to remember what Easter is all about. That’s right! Getting to the supermarket early to snap up those bargain, half price Easter eggs! I still haven’t eaten much chocolate in eons – well, I did have a piece of Tonka Bean chocolate the other day (effing delicious, incidentally, I recommend) – however, today, being Easter, means I have to BY LAW eat some chocolate or the holiday police show up and threaten to pinch and twist your personals till you scream (allegedly). So I’m endeavoring to go out later and buy as many Cadbury eggs as I can find, then eat them till I pass out in a sugar coma.
No one can say I don’t get in the spirit of Easter.
Talking of spirits, because “segue” is my middle name, last night I went out for Mexican food and margaritas and daiquiris. I contemplated writing this entry last night but wisely remembered the nonsense I write when I’m SOBER and figured that it was probably a heinous mistake to even consider more drunken blogging. See, I’m maturing. Like a good cheese.
Anyway, the margaritas, served by the pitcher and made with fresh strawberries and enough tequila to pickle your innards, were superb, as were the daiquiris, also made from freshly mushed up strawberries and enough rum to ensure your brain was as pickled as your innards. And really, how could you have a bad night after that? You couldn’t. Well unless you got a blister the size of a quarter on the sole of your foot. And what’s more annoying than that, except a blister the size of a quarter on the sole of EACH foot (or Sarah Palin) which hello! I have. The blister I mean, not Sarah Palin. Damn boots. Ouch.
At least my knee’s doing better. Pretty soon I’ll be able to boot annoying people right in the ass again as always. I’m totally kidding, of course. It’s my right knee. I boot with my left. My booting abilities never actually quit.
Anyway, a thing about Connecticut is coming soon. Soonish. I know you’re on tenterhooks. Whatever they are.
Happy Chocolate Day!
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Things That Are Wrong With Me Today
Tuesday, April 19th, 2011 – achey breaky knee, Tonka Bean chocolate is good, digging plaid
Hi! Yes you! Remember me? I sometimes post nonsense several times a week then disappear without trace for a week then expect everyone to be all, “Hey, welcome back, we missed you SO much, OMG how did we live without you?" Because you’re doing that aren’t you? Humour me.
You’ll be enthralled and captivated to know that my knee is still being a giant asshole. It was doing pretty well there for a while, then I got bored and walked around on it for two entire days straight and it was disgusted with me and decided to stage some sort of a military coup. Only for knees.
Even I don’t know what that means but it sounds impressive.
Anyway, yes, it’s back to being painful and I’ve been swallowing prescription strength codeine and Ibuprofen and grinning a lot and falling asleep mid sentence. Stupid knee.
Oh, and I got in the bath tub tonight for a relaxing soak and couldn’t get out again. I felt like I was 90. But really, YOU try getting out of a little tub when you can’t put weight on one knee. I did what any sane person in such an undignified situation would do and flailed about miserably, splashing water everywhere, sighing a lot and calling my knee “an inconvenient little fuck”. Then when I did finally make it out and cleaned up the great flood of 2011, I limped around the apartment, sniffing a lot for emphasis.
I smell really, really fantastic though!
So how are YOU guys?
You know what happened tonight? A gigantic Daddy-Long-Legs (official species name: fucking flitty floaty interloperus thingus) got in the open window and proceeded to terrorize the life out of me. If you know me, you know of my all encompassing Daddy-Long-Legs terror.
And this country is FILLED with daddy long legs. I can deal with spiders. Spiders and me have an understanding. They keep the hell out of my bed or my dinner and I agree to let them live. I will even rescue them from imminent death if they happen to be in my bathtub when I need to take a shower. I’m not afraid of them. We have a “live and let live” policy, spiders and I.
Daddy-Long-Legs however? No. No such treaty has been entered upon and it never will. Those things need to die. There’s nothing quite as horror inducing as a floaty, skittish dot with giant spindly legs following you around and trying to float into your holes. I’m having trouble even typing this to be honest. It’s just too grim. I’m going to vomit. Tonight I will guard my holes with a violent passion. No infiltration by floaty, flying things that can’t even decide if they’re a goddamn spider or a fly. What do they even DO? Apart from terrorize me, I mean. Clearly.
Well, that got a bit ranty, for sure. Sorry, but DLLs make me stabby.
Hi! Yes you! Remember me? I sometimes post nonsense several times a week then disappear without trace for a week then expect everyone to be all, “Hey, welcome back, we missed you SO much, OMG how did we live without you?" Because you’re doing that aren’t you? Humour me.
You’ll be enthralled and captivated to know that my knee is still being a giant asshole. It was doing pretty well there for a while, then I got bored and walked around on it for two entire days straight and it was disgusted with me and decided to stage some sort of a military coup. Only for knees.
Even I don’t know what that means but it sounds impressive.
Anyway, yes, it’s back to being painful and I’ve been swallowing prescription strength codeine and Ibuprofen and grinning a lot and falling asleep mid sentence. Stupid knee.
Oh, and I got in the bath tub tonight for a relaxing soak and couldn’t get out again. I felt like I was 90. But really, YOU try getting out of a little tub when you can’t put weight on one knee. I did what any sane person in such an undignified situation would do and flailed about miserably, splashing water everywhere, sighing a lot and calling my knee “an inconvenient little fuck”. Then when I did finally make it out and cleaned up the great flood of 2011, I limped around the apartment, sniffing a lot for emphasis.
I smell really, really fantastic though!
So how are YOU guys?
You know what happened tonight? A gigantic Daddy-Long-Legs (official species name: fucking flitty floaty interloperus thingus) got in the open window and proceeded to terrorize the life out of me. If you know me, you know of my all encompassing Daddy-Long-Legs terror.
And this country is FILLED with daddy long legs. I can deal with spiders. Spiders and me have an understanding. They keep the hell out of my bed or my dinner and I agree to let them live. I will even rescue them from imminent death if they happen to be in my bathtub when I need to take a shower. I’m not afraid of them. We have a “live and let live” policy, spiders and I.
Daddy-Long-Legs however? No. No such treaty has been entered upon and it never will. Those things need to die. There’s nothing quite as horror inducing as a floaty, skittish dot with giant spindly legs following you around and trying to float into your holes. I’m having trouble even typing this to be honest. It’s just too grim. I’m going to vomit. Tonight I will guard my holes with a violent passion. No infiltration by floaty, flying things that can’t even decide if they’re a goddamn spider or a fly. What do they even DO? Apart from terrorize me, I mean. Clearly.
Well, that got a bit ranty, for sure. Sorry, but DLLs make me stabby.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
I am Inadequate
Wednesday, April 13th - GAH
Well I managed to do something hideous to my knee while practicing the serene and tranquil art of yoga the other day. I don’t know about you, but I always thought the point of yoga was to balance one’s wotsits with their doodads and feel all at one with the universe and their fellow man and so on, not to sprain one’s knee so that you walk like you had an unfortunate accident in your pants, for the next three days. Seems I push the boundaries of yoga a little too far.
This is also why I haven’t done any Zumba in a while – it might just get too hip thrustingly sexy and I might put someone’s eye out. Anyway, my knee won’t bend all the way back right now and although I rarely have to bend my knee all the way back, now I know I can’t, I really, really want to!
Also, I can’t seem to finish this little painting I started last week and it’s mocking me from my tiny easel and making me squirm with the guilt.
I also may or may not have had a dream last night that James Woods was trying to kill me with a water gun. It’s all very confusing.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Green Mountains, Muffs and Squeezing Cows
Tuesday, April 12th, 2011 – Yawn.
Well, Annie won the “suggest a state” thing yesterday and her prize was as advertised – a big, fat nothing. Well done Annie! Annie is lovely, you guys, wave to Annie. She suggested Vermont and who am I to refuse? A big, old asshole, that’s who. So let’s commence. Let’s say hi to Vermont, a tiny state, sandwiched cosily between New York, New Hampshire, Massachusetts and Quebec, desperately minding its own business amidst all that crazy.
Actual dialogue from Irving Berlin’s “White Christmas” (1954)
Perhaps…
Vermont. Second smallest state population in the United States and a big bushel of that population is made up of retirees, who like to hide in their homes by candlelight, in case the neighbouring Quebecois try to come down and kidnap them to sell their organs for poutine money.
WTF? Even I’m appalled such nonsense comes out of my head.
Vermont’s capital is Montpelier, which, coincidentally, is the same name as a town in the South of France where I once got mega-super-rubber-wasted and fell off of a bridge (long story, another time), except France spells theirs with two “l”s to be all fancy.
“Oh la la, look at us, Monsieur, with our fancy DEUX L name! We are in charge of ze letters. MAYBE YOU WOULD LIKE TO TRY NOTRE SUPERB KEYBOARD FRANCAIS, MADEMOISELLE, ÉÉÉ ÉÉÉÉÉÉÉÉÉ!”
Ahem. I’m still a little bitter about that fucking French keyboard thing, what can I say?
Know what Vermont has that is awesome? Maple syrup. It comes out of special candy maple syrup trees and ends up on your pancakes. And okay, it’s obviously not of the calibre of CANADIAN maple syrup, but really, it’s close enough. You’re forgiven, Vermont. You’re delicious, Vermont. I want to lick you, Vermont.
Know what else Vermont rocks at? Ben and Jerry’s. Anyone who doesn’t think that’s worthy of being a contender for best state ever, is a dialtone. For anyone who’s been residing under a stone, Ben and Jerry were Vermont hippies, who back in the medieval days of the 1970s, took a look around them and thought, “Dude, there sure are a lot of bitchin’ cows in Vermont, maybe instead of tipping them or blowing bong smoke up their butts, why don’t we squeeze the shit out of them and see what happens?” And that is how they discovered milk! Then they totally left it out in the snow one night till it froze, then they invented ice cream and named it after lots of weird shit, the end.
Or something like that.
As well as the French keyboard thing, I’m still pretty bitter that I can’t get "Mission To Marzipan” anywhere near me. Eff YOU, Ben and Jerry. And in advance, you just shut up, Cora! Hee.
What else can I tell you? Vermont, amazingly, is consistently ranked one of the safest states to drive, as it has one of the lowest rates of road fatalities in the country. While, a) Vermont is tiny, and b) a giant chunk of its population is over 75, therefore, they drive at 5mph with their blinkers on for three hours, so everyone else is well aware of them and steers clear, the statistic still makes no sense because 20 something percent of them are French or French Canadian and dude. Have you seen French people drive? Have you ever had to drive around the Arc de Triomphe? I rest my case.
“What about religion, Veg?” you scream, feverishly. Simmer down kids, I’m getting to it. Get this. According to Wiki-we-speak-the-truth, as of 2008, between 34% and 40% of Vermonters are not religious. FORTY. PERCENT. PEOPLE. Finally, I have found a possible sanctuary to rest my tired, weary head. Ha!
I think that about ties up Vermont. I think you learned all you really need to about the Green Mountain State. Next week, come learn a bunch of inane nonsense about CONNECTICUT and how it’s really just a big suburb of New York City.
Well, Annie won the “suggest a state” thing yesterday and her prize was as advertised – a big, fat nothing. Well done Annie! Annie is lovely, you guys, wave to Annie. She suggested Vermont and who am I to refuse? A big, old asshole, that’s who. So let’s commence. Let’s say hi to Vermont, a tiny state, sandwiched cosily between New York, New Hampshire, Massachusetts and Quebec, desperately minding its own business amidst all that crazy.
You know when sensible, smart, really remarkably awesome people (i.e., me) think of Vermont, they think of a crystalline winter wonderland, filled with fir trees and mountains and sparkling snowflakes, while Bing Crosby rides through the snow, in a one horse open sleigh, with a comely honey in perfect lipstick and a muff to keep her hands warm (a muff to keep HIS hands warm would be a whole other sort of movie!). It’s all musical and beautiful and pristine and filled with eggnog and singing and fabulous skiing and evenings by a log fire in a hideous moose sweater. Sigh. The world in my head is so pretty.
Actual dialogue from Irving Berlin’s “White Christmas” (1954)
Perhaps…
WTF? Even I’m appalled such nonsense comes out of my head.
Vermont’s capital is Montpelier, which, coincidentally, is the same name as a town in the South of France where I once got mega-super-rubber-wasted and fell off of a bridge (long story, another time), except France spells theirs with two “l”s to be all fancy.
“Oh la la, look at us, Monsieur, with our fancy DEUX L name! We are in charge of ze letters. MAYBE YOU WOULD LIKE TO TRY NOTRE SUPERB KEYBOARD FRANCAIS, MADEMOISELLE, ÉÉÉ ÉÉÉÉÉÉÉÉÉ!”
Ahem. I’m still a little bitter about that fucking French keyboard thing, what can I say?
Know what Vermont has that is awesome? Maple syrup. It comes out of special candy maple syrup trees and ends up on your pancakes. And okay, it’s obviously not of the calibre of CANADIAN maple syrup, but really, it’s close enough. You’re forgiven, Vermont. You’re delicious, Vermont. I want to lick you, Vermont.
Know what else Vermont rocks at? Ben and Jerry’s. Anyone who doesn’t think that’s worthy of being a contender for best state ever, is a dialtone. For anyone who’s been residing under a stone, Ben and Jerry were Vermont hippies, who back in the medieval days of the 1970s, took a look around them and thought, “Dude, there sure are a lot of bitchin’ cows in Vermont, maybe instead of tipping them or blowing bong smoke up their butts, why don’t we squeeze the shit out of them and see what happens?” And that is how they discovered milk! Then they totally left it out in the snow one night till it froze, then they invented ice cream and named it after lots of weird shit, the end.
Or something like that.
As well as the French keyboard thing, I’m still pretty bitter that I can’t get "Mission To Marzipan” anywhere near me. Eff YOU, Ben and Jerry. And in advance, you just shut up, Cora! Hee.
What else can I tell you? Vermont, amazingly, is consistently ranked one of the safest states to drive, as it has one of the lowest rates of road fatalities in the country. While, a) Vermont is tiny, and b) a giant chunk of its population is over 75, therefore, they drive at 5mph with their blinkers on for three hours, so everyone else is well aware of them and steers clear, the statistic still makes no sense because 20 something percent of them are French or French Canadian and dude. Have you seen French people drive? Have you ever had to drive around the Arc de Triomphe? I rest my case.
“What about religion, Veg?” you scream, feverishly. Simmer down kids, I’m getting to it. Get this. According to Wiki-we-speak-the-truth, as of 2008, between 34% and 40% of Vermonters are not religious. FORTY. PERCENT. PEOPLE. Finally, I have found a possible sanctuary to rest my tired, weary head. Ha!
I think that about ties up Vermont. I think you learned all you really need to about the Green Mountain State. Next week, come learn a bunch of inane nonsense about CONNECTICUT and how it’s really just a big suburb of New York City.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Please Help Me. Please.
Monday, April 11th, 2011 – the insanity, it burns! Quiche, work crap, paint frenzy
I’m all behind with the whole state thing again, so here’s a little contest for you. First person to leave me a comment with their state of choice, wins. Okay, when I say “wins” there isn’t a prize or anything fancy like that, I’m not Ed Goddamn McMahon, you just get to choose the state. I’m mean like that. So let’s hear it. There’re about 40 left to choose from and I can’t make a decision to save my life today, so hit me with it. I might also say something nice about you. How’s that? No?
Right? It’s not just me?
And:
Me: Well thanks for asking, it was hilarious, I sat home alone and found pictures of weird assed animals on the Internet, that look like celebrities, you?
You: I was busy having a life.
Me: I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means.
States. Now.
I’m all behind with the whole state thing again, so here’s a little contest for you. First person to leave me a comment with their state of choice, wins. Okay, when I say “wins” there isn’t a prize or anything fancy like that, I’m not Ed Goddamn McMahon, you just get to choose the state. I’m mean like that. So let’s hear it. There’re about 40 left to choose from and I can’t make a decision to save my life today, so hit me with it. I might also say something nice about you. How’s that? No?
I found it hilarious but then it was that dodgy drunk period I was going through…
Also?
Right? It’s not just me?
You: What did YOU do Saturday night, Veg?
You: I was busy having a life.
Me: I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means.
States. Now.
Friday, April 8, 2011
I Hate You 5AM
Friday, April 8th, 2011, hedgehog in my skull, turn down the sun, where is my coffee?
Here I sit, once again, feeling like a looped song, looking like a feral cat and with some kind of unwashed Romany gypsy living in my head. Somehow, despite the warnings of the night before, I managed to let myself be persuaded into drinking a shit ton of wine, both white and red, and staggering a thirty minute walk home at midnight, no doubt looking like Bambi attempting to Riverdance on ice, while trying to look neither suspicious nor drunk, which is hard, because that’s sort of my natural look! There wasn’t a car or a person in sight the entire walk. It was like that scene at the start of “28 Days Later” where the city exists but there's no sign of life.
I’ll have you know I drink rarely these days but this week seems to have me possessed. Anyway, the wine put me into a deep relaxing sleep. For about two hours. Then, “Oh hai!” I was awake. It was 3AM. Dark. I was exhausted. And stuffy nosed. And poundy headed. And did I mention AWAKE?
I shuffled off to drink some water (about a reservoir full I reckon) and take some sinus medication. And pee for about an hour. Then I lay back down. And heard about fourteen people trying to break into my apartment. Which turned out to be just regular creaking sounds and not fourteen people at all. Then finally I fell back asleep and woke up a second time and managed to freak myself out by catching sight of something moving quickly in the early morning light, out the corner of my eye in the mirror, which turned out to be MY OWN FOOT as I was stretching. Yup.
And now I’m up again. And I feel a bit mentally challenged. Then there’s the feral cat hair thing. And someone clearly replaced my tongue with a strawy welcome mat. Ick. So I looked in the mirror and it was all:
Me: Hi!
Reflection: Well hello!
Me: You look like Nick Nolte and Gary Busey had a baby
Reflection: So do you, asshole
Me: I AM you!
Reflection: Where are your pants?
Me: I DON’T NEED PANTS
Reflection: You should probably drink some water and go lie down now
Me: You should just fuck off
Reflection: YOU should just fuck off
Me: I AM YOU.
I got up and things are all over the place and I can’t find anything. Where is my cellphone charger? What’s my password? Why is there a half eaten cheese sandwich on the counter? Where ARE my pants? (answer: hallway floor) I’m too old for this alcohol business. I need to sip tea and wear floral prints and buy some goddamn loafers before I seriously damage my calm.
So yeah. I’m supposed to be doing something about some state or other today and instead you get this nonsense yet again. Blame wine. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to find some Ibuprofen for breakfast.
Here I sit, once again, feeling like a looped song, looking like a feral cat and with some kind of unwashed Romany gypsy living in my head. Somehow, despite the warnings of the night before, I managed to let myself be persuaded into drinking a shit ton of wine, both white and red, and staggering a thirty minute walk home at midnight, no doubt looking like Bambi attempting to Riverdance on ice, while trying to look neither suspicious nor drunk, which is hard, because that’s sort of my natural look! There wasn’t a car or a person in sight the entire walk. It was like that scene at the start of “28 Days Later” where the city exists but there's no sign of life.
I’ll have you know I drink rarely these days but this week seems to have me possessed. Anyway, the wine put me into a deep relaxing sleep. For about two hours. Then, “Oh hai!” I was awake. It was 3AM. Dark. I was exhausted. And stuffy nosed. And poundy headed. And did I mention AWAKE?
I shuffled off to drink some water (about a reservoir full I reckon) and take some sinus medication. And pee for about an hour. Then I lay back down. And heard about fourteen people trying to break into my apartment. Which turned out to be just regular creaking sounds and not fourteen people at all. Then finally I fell back asleep and woke up a second time and managed to freak myself out by catching sight of something moving quickly in the early morning light, out the corner of my eye in the mirror, which turned out to be MY OWN FOOT as I was stretching. Yup.
And now I’m up again. And I feel a bit mentally challenged. Then there’s the feral cat hair thing. And someone clearly replaced my tongue with a strawy welcome mat. Ick. So I looked in the mirror and it was all:
Me: Hi!
Reflection: Well hello!
Me: You look like Nick Nolte and Gary Busey had a baby
Reflection: So do you, asshole
Me: I AM you!
Reflection: Where are your pants?
Me: I DON’T NEED PANTS
Reflection: You should probably drink some water and go lie down now
Me: You should just fuck off
Reflection: YOU should just fuck off
Me: I AM YOU.
I got up and things are all over the place and I can’t find anything. Where is my cellphone charger? What’s my password? Why is there a half eaten cheese sandwich on the counter? Where ARE my pants? (answer: hallway floor) I’m too old for this alcohol business. I need to sip tea and wear floral prints and buy some goddamn loafers before I seriously damage my calm.
So yeah. I’m supposed to be doing something about some state or other today and instead you get this nonsense yet again. Blame wine. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to find some Ibuprofen for breakfast.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Who Knows Me Half As Well As Me?
Wednesday, April 6th, 2011 – booze is not your friend, delirium, haw haw
You know what’ s a terrible idea late at night? Blogging when you’re drunk and disorderly. Hi! My digits are a little on the numb side but I’m trying valiantly to repair any leering typos as I go, because it feels like I’m typing with a bunch of big, fat corn dogs and they don’t want to comply with my usual touch typing, lady-fingers sophistication and finesse and keep insisting on hammering keys that I didn’t even know I had. Twice already – TWICE – I have managed to accidentally activate the international keyboard so that every time I go to type various things of a punctuationy nature, I type a big, fat, French accented E, or something, instead. Ca me fait chier, Monsieur! Goddamn keyboards. I don’t even know HOW to activate the French keyboard, yet somehow there it is. “BONJOUR!” Oh well.
Voulez vous coucher avec moi, ce soir? Nique ta mere!
I can be vulgar in French, you watch me.
I’m sketching out the beginnings of a painting for an art show in June. A tiny painting but an intricate one. It’s already caused many words of dubious origin to spring forth from my mouth and only a few of them were rated PG. And I’m drinking Budweiser. I have no excuse for this, it was all I could find at short notice. It’s possible in a few minutes I’ll grow a penis, some khaki shorts, a ballcap and a hilarious t-shirt with cartoon boobs, as I try to sing Jimmy Buffet songs to a total stranger before throwing up in their hair.
Here’s a story for you that about sums me up. Last night I was sitting, writing something on my computer, the window to the side of me looking out over the streets below and in the distance, in the dark, I saw a man. In dark clothing. Standing really still and looking right at me. I mean it seemed like it was right at me, but he was maybe a quarter kilometre away so I couldn’t be sure. Anyway, he kept looking and I was getting a touch creeped out, being home alone and it being late and all. Half an hour later he was still there and I was really spooked. So I pretended like I was going to bed and turned out the light then crouched down and looked out the window at him through my crappy little binoculars and well…turns out it was a pole. That looked nothing like a dude. Didn’t I feel like an asshole. The end.
…I never said it was a good story.
You know what’ s a terrible idea late at night? Blogging when you’re drunk and disorderly. Hi! My digits are a little on the numb side but I’m trying valiantly to repair any leering typos as I go, because it feels like I’m typing with a bunch of big, fat corn dogs and they don’t want to comply with my usual touch typing, lady-fingers sophistication and finesse and keep insisting on hammering keys that I didn’t even know I had. Twice already – TWICE – I have managed to accidentally activate the international keyboard so that every time I go to type various things of a punctuationy nature, I type a big, fat, French accented E, or something, instead. Ca me fait chier, Monsieur! Goddamn keyboards. I don’t even know HOW to activate the French keyboard, yet somehow there it is. “BONJOUR!” Oh well.
Voulez vous coucher avec moi, ce soir? Nique ta mere!
I can be vulgar in French, you watch me.
I’m sketching out the beginnings of a painting for an art show in June. A tiny painting but an intricate one. It’s already caused many words of dubious origin to spring forth from my mouth and only a few of them were rated PG. And I’m drinking Budweiser. I have no excuse for this, it was all I could find at short notice. It’s possible in a few minutes I’ll grow a penis, some khaki shorts, a ballcap and a hilarious t-shirt with cartoon boobs, as I try to sing Jimmy Buffet songs to a total stranger before throwing up in their hair.
Here’s a story for you that about sums me up. Last night I was sitting, writing something on my computer, the window to the side of me looking out over the streets below and in the distance, in the dark, I saw a man. In dark clothing. Standing really still and looking right at me. I mean it seemed like it was right at me, but he was maybe a quarter kilometre away so I couldn’t be sure. Anyway, he kept looking and I was getting a touch creeped out, being home alone and it being late and all. Half an hour later he was still there and I was really spooked. So I pretended like I was going to bed and turned out the light then crouched down and looked out the window at him through my crappy little binoculars and well…turns out it was a pole. That looked nothing like a dude. Didn’t I feel like an asshole. The end.
…I never said it was a good story.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Why So Serious?
Tuesday, April 5th, 2011 – later, better, mellower
You guys, seriously. Things are way better now. Less crank. And less back ache, thanks to some concentrated Ibuprofen and the aforementioned magical properties of coffee. I feel like I really might have just discovered the magic cocktail for total world peace and ecstatic well being. I am your new God, worship me!
Plus I’m sitting at home in my most comfy slippers and sweatpants, putting off getting dressed - the royal blue ones I got from Marks and Spencer, with the ultra soft interiors made from the downy hair of newborn kittens or something, that I got for lumbering crazily on the treadmill, but winded up enjoying way more while lounging around at night in weird positions while watching movies or writing blog entries and leaving my old beaten up sweatpants for actually sweating in. I’m cozy. All is well. There’s no need to tread on eggshells anymore, we can all be joyous and happy now. The lion is tamed.
Do you know I haven’t eaten any chocolate in two weeks? Because I haven’t. Stick that in your bong and smoke it. No chocolate, no cake, no cookies. I know, right, I don’t see a flying pig either but there you go. It’s possible the moon is blue this morning or like…Sarah Palin might have said something that made sense, but I doubt it.
Now I’m not even craving chocolate anymore. I’ve been all about the clementines and the pineapple and the bananas and okay, I still ate some chips, I mean the world isn’t ending or anything. I took my temperature (oral not rectal, I’m not WEIRD) and I seem to be okay. Although I have to point out that maybe the lack of chocolate is responsible for the rise in crank, as witnessed yesterday? See, it’s all making sense… I’d make a graph to illustrate this but honestly? I can’t be bothered. It’s too early. Use your imagination.
I did some running on the treadmill on Sunday. It’s been a while and my running shoes rubbed a blister on my heel, meaning I had to finish my run in my socks. You ought to try running in socks. It’s an ordeal of monstrous proportions. Your calves pull and hurt and make you say bad words and when you wake up in the morning you find that you walk like you drank several G and Ts and went ahead and wedged a cactus up your ass. Coupled with the back muscle thing from sleeping strangely and, well… That’s a recipe for a person who looks not of this planet when you see them waddling down the street, grimacing and talking to themselves in a demented manner.
One more thing. I finally tried ‘Disaronno’ and now I feel sort of shitty that for the last two years I’ve been calling it “Douchearonno” because their commercials suck some salty balls and are full of the sort of people you’d like to bludgeon repeatedly with a mallet. I wasn’t even sure what it was and as the ads were so nasty I never bothered finding out. Turns out it’s pretty much what heaven would taste like if you could bottle it – i.e., pretty sweet and tasty. It’s sort of just a fancy name for Amaretto. And anything that tastes like liquid marzipan, gives you a buzz AND you can drink straight up with ice, without making a lemon face, has to be good, right? And it is.
And I think that’s an appropriate place to call this a day, don’t you?
You guys, seriously. Things are way better now. Less crank. And less back ache, thanks to some concentrated Ibuprofen and the aforementioned magical properties of coffee. I feel like I really might have just discovered the magic cocktail for total world peace and ecstatic well being. I am your new God, worship me!
Plus I’m sitting at home in my most comfy slippers and sweatpants, putting off getting dressed - the royal blue ones I got from Marks and Spencer, with the ultra soft interiors made from the downy hair of newborn kittens or something, that I got for lumbering crazily on the treadmill, but winded up enjoying way more while lounging around at night in weird positions while watching movies or writing blog entries and leaving my old beaten up sweatpants for actually sweating in. I’m cozy. All is well. There’s no need to tread on eggshells anymore, we can all be joyous and happy now. The lion is tamed.
Now I’m not even craving chocolate anymore. I’ve been all about the clementines and the pineapple and the bananas and okay, I still ate some chips, I mean the world isn’t ending or anything. I took my temperature (oral not rectal, I’m not WEIRD) and I seem to be okay. Although I have to point out that maybe the lack of chocolate is responsible for the rise in crank, as witnessed yesterday? See, it’s all making sense… I’d make a graph to illustrate this but honestly? I can’t be bothered. It’s too early. Use your imagination.
I did some running on the treadmill on Sunday. It’s been a while and my running shoes rubbed a blister on my heel, meaning I had to finish my run in my socks. You ought to try running in socks. It’s an ordeal of monstrous proportions. Your calves pull and hurt and make you say bad words and when you wake up in the morning you find that you walk like you drank several G and Ts and went ahead and wedged a cactus up your ass. Coupled with the back muscle thing from sleeping strangely and, well… That’s a recipe for a person who looks not of this planet when you see them waddling down the street, grimacing and talking to themselves in a demented manner.
One more thing. I finally tried ‘Disaronno’ and now I feel sort of shitty that for the last two years I’ve been calling it “Douchearonno” because their commercials suck some salty balls and are full of the sort of people you’d like to bludgeon repeatedly with a mallet. I wasn’t even sure what it was and as the ads were so nasty I never bothered finding out. Turns out it’s pretty much what heaven would taste like if you could bottle it – i.e., pretty sweet and tasty. It’s sort of just a fancy name for Amaretto. And anything that tastes like liquid marzipan, gives you a buzz AND you can drink straight up with ice, without making a lemon face, has to be good, right? And it is.
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