In honor of 11/11/11, I have done some pretty awesome calculations that will blow your mind!
(Before we begin, I should mention that if you don't forward this to at least 110101101 people, a giant monster will crawl out from under your desk and eat you.)
Now, this isn't the first binary day we've had this year (although it will be the last). We have had 9 this year--keep that number in mind, it's important!
Here are all the binary days this year:
01/01/11
01/10/11
01/11/11
10/01/11
10/10/11
10/11/11
11/01/11
11/10/11
11/11/11
Gosh golly gee, lots of zeroes and ones, am I right? But what do those numbers equal in regular old base ten?
010111 = 23
011011 = 27
011111 = 31
100111 = 39
101011 = 43
101111 = 47
110111 = 55
111011 = 59
111111 = 63
Notice a pattern? I sure did! The numbers go up by 4 between the days within a month. E.g., 23 + 4 = 27. 27 + 4 = 31. When you jump a month (from 01 to 10 or 10 to 11) you go up by 8 (31 + 8 = 39; 47 + 8 = 55). Remember the 4 and the 8!
For the actual dates, it goes 9 days, then 1 day. What I mean by that is there are 9 days between 01/01 and 01/10. Then it's one day for 01/10 and 01/11. Same for the other months as well. Remember the 1!
Now let's add the numbers! 23 + 27 + 31 + 39 + 43 + 47 + 55 + 59 + 63 = 387. Adding up the digits for 387 is 3 + 8 + 7 = 18. 1 + 8 = 9. WOW! Remember I told you to remember the 1? And the 8? And the 9? THEY KEEP POPPING UP HOW MYSTERIOUS.
I also told you to remember the 4. So lets add all those numbers up: 1 + 4 + 8 + 9 = 22. Multiply that by 2, just for the hell of it. You get 44.
GUESS HOW MANY DAYS IT IS UNTIL CHRISTMAS?!?
Friday, November 11, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
What Future Roommates Should Probably Know About Me
A couple of days ago at lunch, I was discussing living situations with a couple friends—we all live at home, and we’re all…I won’t say sick of it, just that we’re all looking forward to that day when we can finally afford to move out and party our heads off / do absolutely the same things we always do at home.
Anyway, it got me thinking. Previous to this, I lived with two roommates: one who I had known and roomed with since freshmen year, the other since sophomore year. We all got pretty accustomed to living together and knew who left dishes in the sink (all of us at one time or another), who liked to walk around with no pants on (me and Cassandra), and who was the crazy cat lady (Liz). We knew each other’s quirks and so coming home to find someone sprawled on the couch at 3 in the afternoon in their pajamas or no pants at all wasn’t really shocking. Coming home and finding that The Evil Cat of Doom had eaten the carpet (while that never actually occurred) would not have been shocking.
In short, we knew what we were getting into, more or less.
But, once I inevitably move out and get a new roommate(s), they will not know what it is like to live with me. It doesn’t matter if they’ve never met me before or if they’ve known me for years—there will be things that they don’t know simply because they don’t inhabit the same living space as me. So I’ve put together a list of things that anybody who will potentially live with me needs to know.
1. I have a bubble.
Humans may be social creatures, but I like my alone time. When I come home from work, I will shut myself in my room and not come out for at least an hour (unless I’m feeling particularly restless or it’s a Friday). If I’m in my room and the door is shut, then it’s probably best not to bother me unless it’s an emergency, like if the cat’s eaten all the laundry detergent or the stove has caught on fire. If I’m bored and looking for entertainment, my door will be left open, or you’ll find me wandering around with a lost expression on my face that says “Entertain me or I’ll start crawling on the floor pretending to be an inch worm because that’s a lot better then staring at the wall.”
2. That being said, I’m not a recluse.
I am a fan of doing things, especially on the weekend. I am a fan of free things, and I am a fan of tree lightings. I am a fan of Dark and Stormy’s, whiskey sours, margaritas, and good beer. I am even a fan of hanging out and playing apples to apples. I also like card games.
Except for the fact that grandma's a cheating whore.
So I do like to do things, just not constantly. I need to go back into the bubble every so often.
3. I’m probably going to want a cat.
Just one, mind you. A nice, soft, fluffy one. One that is not Satan in a Sunday Bonnet. I promise to clean the litter box and hopefully keep him/her from getting into the cupboards and eating all the tuna fish or something like that. Or, you know, breaking into the freezer and eating five hot dogs and half a steak.
Aww, but he's just so cute! How can you be mad at that?
4. I have trouble deciding what to eat.
Often around dinner time, I can be found in the kitchen, slowly and methodically looking through all the cupboards for something to eat. After I’ve looked in all of them about five times, I will hang off them despondently bemoaning my pitiful situation. “I don’t knowwww what to eeeeeaaaaat,” I’ll say in a rather dejected tone. It is your job, future potential roommate, to tell me what to eat so I’ll shut up.
One of my previous roommates, Cassandra, would always be able to tell me what I wanted to eat. It was like magic. “Tuna sandwich!” she’d say. Or sometimes it was “Spaghetti-O’s!” or “Just eat the damn ramen, damn it.” I followed these suggestions 90% of the time because Cassandra just knew. Also, she made good breakfast sandwiches, so you have a lot to live up to, future potential roommate.
They were like this, only better.
5. When I come home, the pants come off…
I feel that this is maybe the most important factor. Usually, I will go straight into my room and whip off my pants in a silent pants whipping frenzy. I may then rejoice in the fact that I’m home and can relax by putting on music and dancing around in just my knickers, as the Brits would say. (I may also sing along, depending on whether I think anyone is home or not. So if you happen to hear what sounds like a dying platypus or something in my room, don’t break down the door in a panic. It’s just me.)
Like this, only less graceful.
You see the thing is, pants are uncomfortable and taking them off is incredibly comfortable, especially if followed by pajamas. So really, eventually, I put some form of pant back on. But for maybe the first 20 minutes that I am home, I am in my room, pants-less. Keep that in mind if you come a-knocking.
6. …and I make myself a drink.
I enjoy my beer. Or whatever alcohol I happen to have in my possession. Do not steal my beer without asking me. I may still say no, depending on what it is, but I will appreciate that you asked. Maybe I will be lucky (or unlucky) enough to live with someone with absolutely no appreciation for beer, and I’ll get it all to myself. But then they’d think I was really weird if I starting going on about the virtues of hops or beer-can chicken, and that might be awkward.
I mean, beer can chicken is already awkward.
Still, I will probably have a drink when I get home. Maybe with my pants off, who knows. This does not make me an alcoholic, so you get your judgmental eyes off me, future roomie.
7. I’m not really a morning person.
I like to sleep. Like a lot. It’s very good for my health to get a full nights sleep. On the weekends, I stay up late. Like 1:00 (which is late to me because I’m becoming “elderly” and staying up until 4:00 is not really something I can pull off anymore). Anyway, going to sleep at 1 AM means I will sleep until 11:00 that morning. That means you do not wake me up because I will throttle you.
During the weekdays I usually go to bed by 10:30, but still have trouble waking up the next morning without coffee. Even with the coffee I still have trouble. I am not especially talkative in the morning, so if I just sit and glare at the toaster, I’m not trying to make it burst into flames or anything. I’m just trying to wake up.
Brave Little Toaster sympathizes.
8. Woe betide any who interrupt me while I’m reading a really good book.
I really will throttle you if you interrupt me for no good reason while I’m reading. Especially if I’m at a crucial juncture, or at a really good part, or like five goddamn pages away from the end, cant you leave me alone for the next ten minutes?
Emergencies: yes, okay. Potential fun events: also okay. But please, for the love of God, do not sit there and stare at me while I read. Do not poke me or chat to me because I will try and bite you. Probably the only person that can get away with doing this is my boyfriend, so unless you’re him, don’t try this or else you’ll find my teeth uncomfortably close to your fingers.
Once again, Brave Little Toaster sympathizes.
9. I don’t watch a lot of TV.
What shows I do watch I can find online, so it is unlikely that I will fight you for the TV. So go ahead, turn it on and flip until your thumb falls off. I may even join you if you’re watching something I like. Or, if you’re watching something like Ice Road Truckers, I will avoid you. Simple.
Also a large "No."
10. I’m pretty much the most awesome person ever.
Clearly.
Anyway, it got me thinking. Previous to this, I lived with two roommates: one who I had known and roomed with since freshmen year, the other since sophomore year. We all got pretty accustomed to living together and knew who left dishes in the sink (all of us at one time or another), who liked to walk around with no pants on (me and Cassandra), and who was the crazy cat lady (Liz). We knew each other’s quirks and so coming home to find someone sprawled on the couch at 3 in the afternoon in their pajamas or no pants at all wasn’t really shocking. Coming home and finding that The Evil Cat of Doom had eaten the carpet (while that never actually occurred) would not have been shocking.
In short, we knew what we were getting into, more or less.
But, once I inevitably move out and get a new roommate(s), they will not know what it is like to live with me. It doesn’t matter if they’ve never met me before or if they’ve known me for years—there will be things that they don’t know simply because they don’t inhabit the same living space as me. So I’ve put together a list of things that anybody who will potentially live with me needs to know.
1. I have a bubble.
Humans may be social creatures, but I like my alone time. When I come home from work, I will shut myself in my room and not come out for at least an hour (unless I’m feeling particularly restless or it’s a Friday). If I’m in my room and the door is shut, then it’s probably best not to bother me unless it’s an emergency, like if the cat’s eaten all the laundry detergent or the stove has caught on fire. If I’m bored and looking for entertainment, my door will be left open, or you’ll find me wandering around with a lost expression on my face that says “Entertain me or I’ll start crawling on the floor pretending to be an inch worm because that’s a lot better then staring at the wall.”
2. That being said, I’m not a recluse.
I am a fan of doing things, especially on the weekend. I am a fan of free things, and I am a fan of tree lightings. I am a fan of Dark and Stormy’s, whiskey sours, margaritas, and good beer. I am even a fan of hanging out and playing apples to apples. I also like card games.
Except for the fact that grandma's a cheating whore.So I do like to do things, just not constantly. I need to go back into the bubble every so often.
3. I’m probably going to want a cat.
Just one, mind you. A nice, soft, fluffy one. One that is not Satan in a Sunday Bonnet. I promise to clean the litter box and hopefully keep him/her from getting into the cupboards and eating all the tuna fish or something like that. Or, you know, breaking into the freezer and eating five hot dogs and half a steak.
Aww, but he's just so cute! How can you be mad at that?4. I have trouble deciding what to eat.
Often around dinner time, I can be found in the kitchen, slowly and methodically looking through all the cupboards for something to eat. After I’ve looked in all of them about five times, I will hang off them despondently bemoaning my pitiful situation. “I don’t knowwww what to eeeeeaaaaat,” I’ll say in a rather dejected tone. It is your job, future potential roommate, to tell me what to eat so I’ll shut up.
One of my previous roommates, Cassandra, would always be able to tell me what I wanted to eat. It was like magic. “Tuna sandwich!” she’d say. Or sometimes it was “Spaghetti-O’s!” or “Just eat the damn ramen, damn it.” I followed these suggestions 90% of the time because Cassandra just knew. Also, she made good breakfast sandwiches, so you have a lot to live up to, future potential roommate.
They were like this, only better.5. When I come home, the pants come off…
I feel that this is maybe the most important factor. Usually, I will go straight into my room and whip off my pants in a silent pants whipping frenzy. I may then rejoice in the fact that I’m home and can relax by putting on music and dancing around in just my knickers, as the Brits would say. (I may also sing along, depending on whether I think anyone is home or not. So if you happen to hear what sounds like a dying platypus or something in my room, don’t break down the door in a panic. It’s just me.)
Like this, only less graceful.You see the thing is, pants are uncomfortable and taking them off is incredibly comfortable, especially if followed by pajamas. So really, eventually, I put some form of pant back on. But for maybe the first 20 minutes that I am home, I am in my room, pants-less. Keep that in mind if you come a-knocking.
6. …and I make myself a drink.
I enjoy my beer. Or whatever alcohol I happen to have in my possession. Do not steal my beer without asking me. I may still say no, depending on what it is, but I will appreciate that you asked. Maybe I will be lucky (or unlucky) enough to live with someone with absolutely no appreciation for beer, and I’ll get it all to myself. But then they’d think I was really weird if I starting going on about the virtues of hops or beer-can chicken, and that might be awkward.
I mean, beer can chicken is already awkward.Still, I will probably have a drink when I get home. Maybe with my pants off, who knows. This does not make me an alcoholic, so you get your judgmental eyes off me, future roomie.
7. I’m not really a morning person.
I like to sleep. Like a lot. It’s very good for my health to get a full nights sleep. On the weekends, I stay up late. Like 1:00 (which is late to me because I’m becoming “elderly” and staying up until 4:00 is not really something I can pull off anymore). Anyway, going to sleep at 1 AM means I will sleep until 11:00 that morning. That means you do not wake me up because I will throttle you.
During the weekdays I usually go to bed by 10:30, but still have trouble waking up the next morning without coffee. Even with the coffee I still have trouble. I am not especially talkative in the morning, so if I just sit and glare at the toaster, I’m not trying to make it burst into flames or anything. I’m just trying to wake up.
Brave Little Toaster sympathizes.8. Woe betide any who interrupt me while I’m reading a really good book.
I really will throttle you if you interrupt me for no good reason while I’m reading. Especially if I’m at a crucial juncture, or at a really good part, or like five goddamn pages away from the end, cant you leave me alone for the next ten minutes?
Emergencies: yes, okay. Potential fun events: also okay. But please, for the love of God, do not sit there and stare at me while I read. Do not poke me or chat to me because I will try and bite you. Probably the only person that can get away with doing this is my boyfriend, so unless you’re him, don’t try this or else you’ll find my teeth uncomfortably close to your fingers.
Once again, Brave Little Toaster sympathizes.9. I don’t watch a lot of TV.
What shows I do watch I can find online, so it is unlikely that I will fight you for the TV. So go ahead, turn it on and flip until your thumb falls off. I may even join you if you’re watching something I like. Or, if you’re watching something like Ice Road Truckers, I will avoid you. Simple.
Also a large "No."10. I’m pretty much the most awesome person ever.
Clearly.Sunday, August 28, 2011
Amore Vietato, or Love and Death in the Time of Hogwarts, Where Nothing Makes Sense
Oh goodness gracious. Amore Vietato. Forbidden love. Is there anything that makes you want to puke more? Oh, right. Harry Potter turned on it's head so that everyone's a goth. I haven’t done a story about “a punk with a bit of an attitude problem” yet, have I? I mean, I’ve reviewed an extremely weird dark Harry story crossed over with Twilight (who could forget?) but I haven’t done the troubled teen girl yet.
Luckily, I found this.
“This” is a rather confusing story called Amore Vietato. It centers on a young girl named Rain Star Twilight, her best friend Sarah, and a random assortment of the regular Harry Potter characters. Rain Star Twilight plays in a band called Dark Pheonix, has “pale tanned skin” (wonder what that looks like?) and is transferring from the Salem Witches Institute to Hogwarts with her friend Sarah. And that my friends, is where we join the journey.
Rain’s brother, River (their names have such synergy, don’t you agree?) drives them to the airport, where Rain and Sarah have a brief “Do-you-remember-when-we-first-met-moment” which isn’t really worth mentioning here. Suffice to say we find that Rain’s band is predictably cliché, and Sarah is too preppy for their tastes, but plays piano like a piano wielding goddess, and so joins the band. They say the rest is history, but we don’t get to stop there.
Wee! Playing piano in a crappy band is so much fun!
Once they land, they make their way to the Leaky Cauldron, where Rain runs into Draco (le gasp!) who is mesmerized by her beautiful silver eyes. I bet you anything that before the end he cries deeply in her arms.
We join Draco in the next chapter, where we learn he is just simply pale, and that his father beats him in their house dungeon. He also has scars, but hides them well. Poor, tortured soul! He’s only mean because Daddy doesn’t love him!
We then see the meeting with Rain from his point of view, and he hears a lovely voice saying “Sarah, wait the hell up!” The voice of true love, am I right? But alas, when he goes back home his father knows that he was seen with “a witch less of you” and that he is not to see her again. To solidify this command, Draco is beaten. Again.
Throughout the next couple chapters, Rain has a flashback to when she and Sarah blew up half a potions room and got turned into hobbits in the process.
Oh good. Now I want you to take this ring...
Draco gets beaten some more (and Rain joins in on the fun in that she gets beaten too!), but he stands up for himself and challenges his father to some sort of ill thought out duel. Rain is really confused for a while afterward, either because she has a concussion, or she’s too stupid to function. Then Rain meets Harry Potter and Co., and hilarity ensues. Apparently Rain is Harry’s cousin. SURPRISE. How could she not have a connection to Harry Potter?
Anyway, they discuss this connection during dinner, while Ron eats with enthusiasm, because in fanfiction, Ron’s appetite is unsastiable and he can eat approximately the same amount of food as a baby whale.
Mmm, krill.
Later on, in the common room, Rain is struggling to write a song, while muttering to her self “A B B C A D.” Harry inquires as to what she is doing.
I'm trying to learn the alphabet, you fool!
They get into a conversation about relatives and the like, seeing as how they’re related, only they can’t be too sure because that would spoil the surprise in this story, wouldn’t it? Also, they both have the same godfather, but then Harry drops the bomb that he’s dead. This is never mentioned again.
Shortly after, Sarah tries to convince Rain that she is in love with Draco. Rain, not having any of it, and possibly still confused over how this story is supposed to go from her recent beating, denies it. One chapter later she gets it and decides to go out with him. There was a lot of Draco mushyness involved, but I’ll skip over that.
Soon after, Rain abruptly gets a letter from her “mom” explaining that she’s not really her mom, she’s her aunt, and she’s actually Harry’s twin sister. This leaves so many gaping plot holes open that I cannot even begin to contemplate how this is possible. Perhaps Rain is a metamorphagus, because, oh, I don’t know, she looks NOTHING LIKE HARRY, and everything like HER BROTHER RIVER.
A tasty representation of this fanfiction.
The author hastily patches up this plot hole by explaining that there is a spell over Rain, and there is one that she can perform to “make her look like she truly should.” Oh, gag. She reveals herself to Harry, and there is that understated celebration that only an author of this skill could accomplish.
But Draco finds out that she’s actually a Potter, and says that he’s not mad, but it’s a shock to him, and he’s afraid of dear old Dad. Rain is all for it, but she thinks Draco apparently is not, and while he goes off to lunch, she heads up to the Gryffindor common room to kill herself.
Now that I'm a zombie, he'll finally love me!
In the midst of all this kerfufffle, Sarah starts dating Harry, and in a brilliant stroke of imaginary Sue creation logic, they go on a double date with Rain and Draco to Hogsmeade. And of course, Hogsmeade has the wizarding equivalent of Hot Topic!
Draco dyes his hair black and red! He pierces his lip, eyebrows, and ears! And tongue! Because Draco is a whipped bitch (from practice!)(OH THAT WAS BAD) and lets his psychotic girlfriend practice makeovers on him.
There. You look much better now.
Afterwards, getting drinks, Dracos father spots them and flips his shit and knocks Draco unconscious. Draco stays unconscious for about two weeks, and Rain mopes about his room everyday, crying and generally being a leaky faucet. Then Lucius shows up to “pull the plug” on Draco, so to speak. Rain pops up and tries to stop him, but Lucius chokes her and flings her into a wall. Then Draco wakes up just in time! My guess is that it’s Rain’s turn to be unconscious for two weeks now. Or a month.
And I’m right. When Rain wakes up, she has no memory of anyone except Sarah. Oh, the drama! But she knows instinctively that Draco is her soul mate! In chapter 12, Draco cries! Yes! Previous predications come true!
Then the story descends into absolute confusion, with Rain and Draco breaking up, Rain’s parents (or aunt and uncle I suppose) dying, Rain and Draco getting back together (I think), blah blah blah. The whole thing ends in massive confusion. Hooray!
Luckily, I found this.
“This” is a rather confusing story called Amore Vietato. It centers on a young girl named Rain Star Twilight, her best friend Sarah, and a random assortment of the regular Harry Potter characters. Rain Star Twilight plays in a band called Dark Pheonix, has “pale tanned skin” (wonder what that looks like?) and is transferring from the Salem Witches Institute to Hogwarts with her friend Sarah. And that my friends, is where we join the journey.
Rain’s brother, River (their names have such synergy, don’t you agree?) drives them to the airport, where Rain and Sarah have a brief “Do-you-remember-when-we-first-met-moment” which isn’t really worth mentioning here. Suffice to say we find that Rain’s band is predictably cliché, and Sarah is too preppy for their tastes, but plays piano like a piano wielding goddess, and so joins the band. They say the rest is history, but we don’t get to stop there.
Wee! Playing piano in a crappy band is so much fun!
Once they land, they make their way to the Leaky Cauldron, where Rain runs into Draco (le gasp!) who is mesmerized by her beautiful silver eyes. I bet you anything that before the end he cries deeply in her arms.
We join Draco in the next chapter, where we learn he is just simply pale, and that his father beats him in their house dungeon. He also has scars, but hides them well. Poor, tortured soul! He’s only mean because Daddy doesn’t love him!
We then see the meeting with Rain from his point of view, and he hears a lovely voice saying “Sarah, wait the hell up!” The voice of true love, am I right? But alas, when he goes back home his father knows that he was seen with “a witch less of you” and that he is not to see her again. To solidify this command, Draco is beaten. Again.
Throughout the next couple chapters, Rain has a flashback to when she and Sarah blew up half a potions room and got turned into hobbits in the process.
Oh good. Now I want you to take this ring...
Draco gets beaten some more (and Rain joins in on the fun in that she gets beaten too!), but he stands up for himself and challenges his father to some sort of ill thought out duel. Rain is really confused for a while afterward, either because she has a concussion, or she’s too stupid to function. Then Rain meets Harry Potter and Co., and hilarity ensues. Apparently Rain is Harry’s cousin. SURPRISE. How could she not have a connection to Harry Potter?
Anyway, they discuss this connection during dinner, while Ron eats with enthusiasm, because in fanfiction, Ron’s appetite is unsastiable and he can eat approximately the same amount of food as a baby whale.
Mmm, krill.
Later on, in the common room, Rain is struggling to write a song, while muttering to her self “A B B C A D.” Harry inquires as to what she is doing.
I'm trying to learn the alphabet, you fool!
They get into a conversation about relatives and the like, seeing as how they’re related, only they can’t be too sure because that would spoil the surprise in this story, wouldn’t it? Also, they both have the same godfather, but then Harry drops the bomb that he’s dead. This is never mentioned again.
Shortly after, Sarah tries to convince Rain that she is in love with Draco. Rain, not having any of it, and possibly still confused over how this story is supposed to go from her recent beating, denies it. One chapter later she gets it and decides to go out with him. There was a lot of Draco mushyness involved, but I’ll skip over that.
Soon after, Rain abruptly gets a letter from her “mom” explaining that she’s not really her mom, she’s her aunt, and she’s actually Harry’s twin sister. This leaves so many gaping plot holes open that I cannot even begin to contemplate how this is possible. Perhaps Rain is a metamorphagus, because, oh, I don’t know, she looks NOTHING LIKE HARRY, and everything like HER BROTHER RIVER.
A tasty representation of this fanfiction.
The author hastily patches up this plot hole by explaining that there is a spell over Rain, and there is one that she can perform to “make her look like she truly should.” Oh, gag. She reveals herself to Harry, and there is that understated celebration that only an author of this skill could accomplish.
But Draco finds out that she’s actually a Potter, and says that he’s not mad, but it’s a shock to him, and he’s afraid of dear old Dad. Rain is all for it, but she thinks Draco apparently is not, and while he goes off to lunch, she heads up to the Gryffindor common room to kill herself.
Now that I'm a zombie, he'll finally love me!
In the midst of all this kerfufffle, Sarah starts dating Harry, and in a brilliant stroke of imaginary Sue creation logic, they go on a double date with Rain and Draco to Hogsmeade. And of course, Hogsmeade has the wizarding equivalent of Hot Topic!
Draco dyes his hair black and red! He pierces his lip, eyebrows, and ears! And tongue! Because Draco is a whipped bitch (from practice!)(OH THAT WAS BAD) and lets his psychotic girlfriend practice makeovers on him.
There. You look much better now.
Afterwards, getting drinks, Dracos father spots them and flips his shit and knocks Draco unconscious. Draco stays unconscious for about two weeks, and Rain mopes about his room everyday, crying and generally being a leaky faucet. Then Lucius shows up to “pull the plug” on Draco, so to speak. Rain pops up and tries to stop him, but Lucius chokes her and flings her into a wall. Then Draco wakes up just in time! My guess is that it’s Rain’s turn to be unconscious for two weeks now. Or a month.
And I’m right. When Rain wakes up, she has no memory of anyone except Sarah. Oh, the drama! But she knows instinctively that Draco is her soul mate! In chapter 12, Draco cries! Yes! Previous predications come true!
Then the story descends into absolute confusion, with Rain and Draco breaking up, Rain’s parents (or aunt and uncle I suppose) dying, Rain and Draco getting back together (I think), blah blah blah. The whole thing ends in massive confusion. Hooray!
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Bad Fanfiction Review: The Least Funny Joke of All Time
I’ve been meaning to review this one for a long time. In fact, I even had half of it written when evil hippogriffs rampaged through my hard drive and ate it. I say hippogriffs because this lovely little tale focuses a lot on them, or rather, how Harry and Draco are turned into hippogriffs and fall in love. However, I don’t want to give it all away in one go, so read on, ye horrified readers.
George and Fred are known as pranksters. However, as the author of this story points out, “Some jokes just aren’t that funny…” Apparently, they have turned both Harry and Draco into hippogriffs, which, let’s be honest, we’ve all wanted to do at one time or another just so they could finally recognize the burning passion they have for each other. But I’m getting ahead of myself again.
Upon waking up in their changed state, Harry and Draco each charge to the headmaster’s office. Draco gets there first, and ever unflappable, Dumbledore sends Snape off to call Draco’s father as if he were ordering a spot of tea. Harry comes galloping in soon after, and Draco goes absolutely bonkers. Everyone else thinks that Draco is attacking Harry, but Hagrid, suddenly appearing on the scene, announces that Draco “just wants to mate.”
What.
I like to think everybody gave Hagrid blank looks at this fact, but as Draco is humping Harry and purring, it’s rather obvious that this story is nine levels of wrong. Hagrid takes it to eleven levels as he explains that in hippogriffian culture, there are submissives and dominants. Draco is dominant and Harry is—duh—submissive. Harry merely rolls his eyes at this statement, “as if to say ‘That’s soooo me.’” It is then decided that letting them live together in the Forbidden Forest is the best way to handle this. Because if Draco rapes Harry, no one wants to see that.
Poor Ron.
Unfortunately, the reader follows them into the forest, and Draco randomly decides to call Harry “Harriet.” But the bizarre incidents do not stop there. They are met by some centaurs, who apparently have the same mating lifestyle as hippogriffs in that there are only males. Submissives (remember that this is Harry) can get pregnant. Because what’s a horrible fan fiction without a good, healthy does of male pregnancy? And since submissives are rare, all the dominant hippogriffs will all try to “jump” Harry, as Draco puts it. Normal people call it hippogriff rape.
As the story progresses, Harry and Draco settle into hippogriff domestic life with Draco hunting and Harry making…nests. Until one day a brown hippogriff shows up while Draco is gone. This is the hippogriff equivalent of the bed intruder.
He's climbing in your nests, snatching your...er, hippogriffs up?
As the brown hippogriff is…er…holding Harry down, he keeps saying things like “Ah ah, pretty one, Don’t do this now. Calm down” and “Ah ah ah pretty. You shouldn’t say such nasty words.” But Draco saves the day and all is well. They even decide to call each other “friends” instead of “enemies.” Because once you’ve nonstop humped your mortal enemy for weeks, you become friends automatically.
You humped my leg for 2 hours today. I guess we can be friends now.
In the next chapter, we get our first glimpse of consensual hippogriff sex, which isn’t much better than hippogriff bed intruder sex. After only a couple of horrifying images which I wont get into, they are happened upon by Ron, Hermione, Blaise, and Pansy. This spells all types of awkward. Hagrid, probably deciding “Oh what the fuck,” announces that mating season is coming up.
We feel your pain, Mr. Bill.
Harry and Draco take this rather differently. Harry is panicking, like any sane, normal wizard who has been turned into a hippogriff. Draco can only think “Babies, babies. Cute babies.” Thankfully, the author skips the next hippogriff sex scene, presumably because she (or he?) has figured out how FUCKING AWKWARD it is. But since Harry gets pregnant as a result, maybe she doesn’t know how fucking awkward it is.
Or that’s what I thought. But let’s forge on into more awkwardness, shall we? Back at the castle, Fred and George are ever so sorry that they played this joke. They apologize to Lucius, Draco’s father, and he waves it off and kisses them both. On the mouth. Sexually. Oh, and there’s this note too:
My Dear Twins,
I hope that I didn't shock you too much with those two little kisses. If you want more I suggest that you come to the Malfoy Manor. You have one hour before my wards goes up again.
I'll be waiting.
Yours, Lucius
I will blow you... away.
Meanwhile, Ron is pining after Snape. We know this because he talks about it with Harry.
After that brief tidbit, we are transported to the Malfoy manor, where Fred and George are “sweaty, sticky and well fucked.” Kind of makes you wish we had the hippogriffs back, doesn’t it?
And then we jump forward to Lucius telling Snape that Snape actually fancies “young Mr. Weasley.” In response, Snape says that Ron is adorable. Because I guess Snape does shower flowers on the unsuspecting, especially if he uses the word “adorable.” And then he hunts Ron down and after a gentlemanly apology, kisses him and then prances off, presumably to cuddle bunnies.
And I just want them all in my house so I can roll around in them, and I want them in a basket with a bow on a rainbow...
But let’s go back to the hippogriffs for a moment because OH MY GOD THE BABIES ARE COMING. And then Harry lays some eggs and they hatch. All it in all, that part isn’t too bad if you discount the words “Harry lays some eggs,” and the fact that there’s a lot of growling and purring. And the fact that the babies call Harry “Mama.” And the fact that they are prone to walking in on a lot of sex.
I will spare you the ensuing details about the Ron/Snape and George/Fred/Lucius love affairs going on intermittently throughout this horrid piece of smut that isn’t so much smut as it is a shining example of Rule 34. You really don’t need to hear about Fred and George having sexytime with Lucius by swirling whipped cream and chocolate sauce all over each other’s bodies. You also don’t need to hear of the budding romance between Ron and Snape that plays out like a ridiculous Jane Austen novel. So instead I’ll skip to the part where Snape finds a cure for the hippogriffness of Harry and Draco.
Sob.
So Ron announces it to Harry and Draco, with their little hippogriff children present. Said hippogriff children are shocked and have a brief bout of “You’re going to leave us! I hate you!” which lasts about 10 seconds. Then they are promptly okay with this new development. It is decided that Harry and Draco will take the potion, but visit their hippogriff children as often as they can.
I will let that weirdness seep in for a moment.
So Harry and Draco take a potion and it turns them back into humans! Hooray! They turn and pet their hippogriff children, presumably to say goodbye, but all of a sudden…
POOF!
Their hippogriff children turn into real children!
And as they say, alls well that ends well in weird stories about bestiality, incest, and sex with minors. Harry and Draco’s children still have a knack for walking in on awkward sex scenes, Ron and Snape are happy and have two children, and Fred, George, and Lucius still have amusing romps around the house.
Please, someone, for the love of God, LISTEN TO THEM.
However, I am left wondering why it ends with Ron prancing around the kitchen with grace while wearing a blue and white apron. And the whole thing ends with the line “Ron snickered while Severus carried him up the stairs for some mind blowing sex in the bathtub.”
I’ll leave you to scrub your brains with vinegar now.
George and Fred are known as pranksters. However, as the author of this story points out, “Some jokes just aren’t that funny…” Apparently, they have turned both Harry and Draco into hippogriffs, which, let’s be honest, we’ve all wanted to do at one time or another just so they could finally recognize the burning passion they have for each other. But I’m getting ahead of myself again.
Upon waking up in their changed state, Harry and Draco each charge to the headmaster’s office. Draco gets there first, and ever unflappable, Dumbledore sends Snape off to call Draco’s father as if he were ordering a spot of tea. Harry comes galloping in soon after, and Draco goes absolutely bonkers. Everyone else thinks that Draco is attacking Harry, but Hagrid, suddenly appearing on the scene, announces that Draco “just wants to mate.”
What.
Poor Ron.Unfortunately, the reader follows them into the forest, and Draco randomly decides to call Harry “Harriet.” But the bizarre incidents do not stop there. They are met by some centaurs, who apparently have the same mating lifestyle as hippogriffs in that there are only males. Submissives (remember that this is Harry) can get pregnant. Because what’s a horrible fan fiction without a good, healthy does of male pregnancy? And since submissives are rare, all the dominant hippogriffs will all try to “jump” Harry, as Draco puts it. Normal people call it hippogriff rape.
As the story progresses, Harry and Draco settle into hippogriff domestic life with Draco hunting and Harry making…nests. Until one day a brown hippogriff shows up while Draco is gone. This is the hippogriff equivalent of the bed intruder.
He's climbing in your nests, snatching your...er, hippogriffs up?As the brown hippogriff is…er…holding Harry down, he keeps saying things like “Ah ah, pretty one, Don’t do this now. Calm down” and “Ah ah ah pretty. You shouldn’t say such nasty words.” But Draco saves the day and all is well. They even decide to call each other “friends” instead of “enemies.” Because once you’ve nonstop humped your mortal enemy for weeks, you become friends automatically.
You humped my leg for 2 hours today. I guess we can be friends now.In the next chapter, we get our first glimpse of consensual hippogriff sex, which isn’t much better than hippogriff bed intruder sex. After only a couple of horrifying images which I wont get into, they are happened upon by Ron, Hermione, Blaise, and Pansy. This spells all types of awkward. Hagrid, probably deciding “Oh what the fuck,” announces that mating season is coming up.
We feel your pain, Mr. Bill.Harry and Draco take this rather differently. Harry is panicking, like any sane, normal wizard who has been turned into a hippogriff. Draco can only think “Babies, babies. Cute babies.” Thankfully, the author skips the next hippogriff sex scene, presumably because she (or he?) has figured out how FUCKING AWKWARD it is. But since Harry gets pregnant as a result, maybe she doesn’t know how fucking awkward it is.
Or that’s what I thought. But let’s forge on into more awkwardness, shall we? Back at the castle, Fred and George are ever so sorry that they played this joke. They apologize to Lucius, Draco’s father, and he waves it off and kisses them both. On the mouth. Sexually. Oh, and there’s this note too:
My Dear Twins,
I hope that I didn't shock you too much with those two little kisses. If you want more I suggest that you come to the Malfoy Manor. You have one hour before my wards goes up again.
I'll be waiting.
Yours, Lucius
I will blow you... away.Meanwhile, Ron is pining after Snape. We know this because he talks about it with Harry.
After that brief tidbit, we are transported to the Malfoy manor, where Fred and George are “sweaty, sticky and well fucked.” Kind of makes you wish we had the hippogriffs back, doesn’t it?
And then we jump forward to Lucius telling Snape that Snape actually fancies “young Mr. Weasley.” In response, Snape says that Ron is adorable. Because I guess Snape does shower flowers on the unsuspecting, especially if he uses the word “adorable.” And then he hunts Ron down and after a gentlemanly apology, kisses him and then prances off, presumably to cuddle bunnies.
And I just want them all in my house so I can roll around in them, and I want them in a basket with a bow on a rainbow...But let’s go back to the hippogriffs for a moment because OH MY GOD THE BABIES ARE COMING. And then Harry lays some eggs and they hatch. All it in all, that part isn’t too bad if you discount the words “Harry lays some eggs,” and the fact that there’s a lot of growling and purring. And the fact that the babies call Harry “Mama.” And the fact that they are prone to walking in on a lot of sex.
I will spare you the ensuing details about the Ron/Snape and George/Fred/Lucius love affairs going on intermittently throughout this horrid piece of smut that isn’t so much smut as it is a shining example of Rule 34. You really don’t need to hear about Fred and George having sexytime with Lucius by swirling whipped cream and chocolate sauce all over each other’s bodies. You also don’t need to hear of the budding romance between Ron and Snape that plays out like a ridiculous Jane Austen novel. So instead I’ll skip to the part where Snape finds a cure for the hippogriffness of Harry and Draco.
Sob.So Ron announces it to Harry and Draco, with their little hippogriff children present. Said hippogriff children are shocked and have a brief bout of “You’re going to leave us! I hate you!” which lasts about 10 seconds. Then they are promptly okay with this new development. It is decided that Harry and Draco will take the potion, but visit their hippogriff children as often as they can.
I will let that weirdness seep in for a moment.
So Harry and Draco take a potion and it turns them back into humans! Hooray! They turn and pet their hippogriff children, presumably to say goodbye, but all of a sudden…
POOF!
Their hippogriff children turn into real children!
And as they say, alls well that ends well in weird stories about bestiality, incest, and sex with minors. Harry and Draco’s children still have a knack for walking in on awkward sex scenes, Ron and Snape are happy and have two children, and Fred, George, and Lucius still have amusing romps around the house.
Please, someone, for the love of God, LISTEN TO THEM.However, I am left wondering why it ends with Ron prancing around the kitchen with grace while wearing a blue and white apron. And the whole thing ends with the line “Ron snickered while Severus carried him up the stairs for some mind blowing sex in the bathtub.”
I’ll leave you to scrub your brains with vinegar now.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Remember a year ago when I started working with dirty sailors?
I wrote this a while ago, while I actually still worked for the Clipper, and so only made this available to select people since I didn't want to take any chances and get fired. But now I don't work there anymore and since I am quite unlikely to work there ever again, and since my boss no longer works there, I figured it was time to let the rest of the world see this masterpiece. I give you THE LIBERTY CLIPPER TRAINING MANUAL.
Hello and welcome aboard THE LIBERTY CLIPPER. Here is where we can make all your sailing dreams (and more!) come true. While working for THE LIBERTY CLIPPER, you will experience some of the best, and most desirable, working conditions you've ever known! From helping customers book sails to maybe even sailing the high seas yourself, working at THE LIBERTY CLIPPER is sure to be exciting! Here are some guidelines for you to follow once you start your new job:
Types of Sails
Noon sail - You go sailing around some islands. Yay islands!
3 PM Harbor Sail - More islands! More sailing! More dirty water!
Boston Tea Party Sail - Only available Tuesdays, Thursdays, and weekends, not that we'd tell you that. Includes a time traveling revolutionary from the 1700s. Huzzah!
Sadly, not this kind of tea party.
6 PM Sunset Sail - You can see the sun set!...if it's not cloudy, raining, thundering, or a Wednesday.
Sunday Brunch Sails - Only on Sundays. Eat breakfast as the crew salivates over actual food! This food will be brought to you by a frustrated girl in a broken down jeep who got lost on the way back from BJ's.
This would be a better option.
Private Charters - The best thing ever because they give the lots of cash monies. You'll hate them because you're the one that has to call the people scheduled for a sail that day and tell them that they're totally uncool and not invited anymore. Then they will hate you.
Bed and Breakfast - Or as we affectionately call it, "BOAT and breakfast!" Get it?? Cause you're on a boat!
Sailors
Never ever talk to them. Ever. Don't start up a conversation with them, don't say hi to them, don't even look them in the eye because then they can work their sailor-piratey voodoo magic on you. Most of the time they are unhappy because they get paid sixty percent less than minimum wage, but they don't need money because they smell. Regular meals are a foreign concept to them. They can subsist entirely on oysters and rum. If they fall overboard, they dissolve immediately, due to salt. Office workers MUST be wary because even just one glance and you could find yourself in the ocean, somehow transformed into a humpback whale with a sailboat full of harpoons and guns chasing after you. And you want to know how? PIRATE MAGICS.
All attempts to find a picture of a sailor that wasn't a slutty Halloween costume failed. So here's a whale.
Go Boston Cards
The people who hold these cards are SPECIAL. You must cater to their every need, because they are a cross between entitled yuppies and... entitled yuppies. They lose us money on nearly every sail, but they do like to complain about paying $10 a ticket to Boston Tea Party Sails. They're not allowed on sunset sails unless they give us their first born child.
Refunds
We don't give 'em! HAH! ...Unless we cancel the sail due to thunder, because loud noises frighten us. Otherwise the customer is S.O.L.
Discounts
Reluctantly given. We do AAA when we feel like it. Which is Fridays at 2:01 and Tuesdays at 11:37.
Don't give me any of that B.S., cute puppy. No means no.
Booking
Remember to get all the customer's important information! Name, cell phone, number of people, credit card number, billing address, mother's maiden name, favorite color, favorite food, drink of choice, boxers or briefs, their entire life story, and who they voted for in the last election. Then once all that is entered into our online booking program, you get to cross your fingers and pray that the credit card won't be denied. Hooray!
The Liberty Clipper
Our boat is a 125 ft schooner, which means it has two masts instead of one, which makes it more badass. It holds about 100 people and has three whole bathrooms! (I'm sorry, heads.) And the most important feature, A CASH BAR!
Light on the stormy, heavy on the dark. And it's better with a lime, you fools!
Of course, there's more to your new job than just this. You also get to do the following:
- Redecorate the office with Christmas bulbs!
- Wrangle dogs!
- Drive your boss' car to Southie for breakfast!
- Count money!
- Throw lines!
- Chase after those dogs again!
- SORTING!
- And more!
We're so glad that you chose THE LIBERTY CLIPPER! We look forward to working with you!
Hello and welcome aboard THE LIBERTY CLIPPER. Here is where we can make all your sailing dreams (and more!) come true. While working for THE LIBERTY CLIPPER, you will experience some of the best, and most desirable, working conditions you've ever known! From helping customers book sails to maybe even sailing the high seas yourself, working at THE LIBERTY CLIPPER is sure to be exciting! Here are some guidelines for you to follow once you start your new job:
Types of Sails
Noon sail - You go sailing around some islands. Yay islands!
3 PM Harbor Sail - More islands! More sailing! More dirty water!
Boston Tea Party Sail - Only available Tuesdays, Thursdays, and weekends, not that we'd tell you that. Includes a time traveling revolutionary from the 1700s. Huzzah!
Sadly, not this kind of tea party.6 PM Sunset Sail - You can see the sun set!...if it's not cloudy, raining, thundering, or a Wednesday.
Sunday Brunch Sails - Only on Sundays. Eat breakfast as the crew salivates over actual food! This food will be brought to you by a frustrated girl in a broken down jeep who got lost on the way back from BJ's.
This would be a better option.Private Charters - The best thing ever because they give the lots of cash monies. You'll hate them because you're the one that has to call the people scheduled for a sail that day and tell them that they're totally uncool and not invited anymore. Then they will hate you.
Bed and Breakfast - Or as we affectionately call it, "BOAT and breakfast!" Get it?? Cause you're on a boat!
Sailors
Never ever talk to them. Ever. Don't start up a conversation with them, don't say hi to them, don't even look them in the eye because then they can work their sailor-piratey voodoo magic on you. Most of the time they are unhappy because they get paid sixty percent less than minimum wage, but they don't need money because they smell. Regular meals are a foreign concept to them. They can subsist entirely on oysters and rum. If they fall overboard, they dissolve immediately, due to salt. Office workers MUST be wary because even just one glance and you could find yourself in the ocean, somehow transformed into a humpback whale with a sailboat full of harpoons and guns chasing after you. And you want to know how? PIRATE MAGICS.
All attempts to find a picture of a sailor that wasn't a slutty Halloween costume failed. So here's a whale.Go Boston Cards
The people who hold these cards are SPECIAL. You must cater to their every need, because they are a cross between entitled yuppies and... entitled yuppies. They lose us money on nearly every sail, but they do like to complain about paying $10 a ticket to Boston Tea Party Sails. They're not allowed on sunset sails unless they give us their first born child.
Refunds
We don't give 'em! HAH! ...Unless we cancel the sail due to thunder, because loud noises frighten us. Otherwise the customer is S.O.L.
Discounts
Reluctantly given. We do AAA when we feel like it. Which is Fridays at 2:01 and Tuesdays at 11:37.
Don't give me any of that B.S., cute puppy. No means no.Booking
Remember to get all the customer's important information! Name, cell phone, number of people, credit card number, billing address, mother's maiden name, favorite color, favorite food, drink of choice, boxers or briefs, their entire life story, and who they voted for in the last election. Then once all that is entered into our online booking program, you get to cross your fingers and pray that the credit card won't be denied. Hooray!
The Liberty Clipper
Our boat is a 125 ft schooner, which means it has two masts instead of one, which makes it more badass. It holds about 100 people and has three whole bathrooms! (I'm sorry, heads.) And the most important feature, A CASH BAR!
Light on the stormy, heavy on the dark. And it's better with a lime, you fools!Of course, there's more to your new job than just this. You also get to do the following:
- Redecorate the office with Christmas bulbs!
- Wrangle dogs!
- Drive your boss' car to Southie for breakfast!
- Count money!
- Throw lines!
- Chase after those dogs again!
- SORTING!
- And more!
We're so glad that you chose THE LIBERTY CLIPPER! We look forward to working with you!
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
A Really Horrible Thing Happened This Morning
Welcome, friends, to my tale of absolute horror.
I like driving. It's fun, and while I'm driving I have a chance to mentally prepare myself for the day ahead. I often like to do this with the window open, because having the radio turned up and the wind in my face at 8 AM is absolutely necessary to my preparing process.
I do not like traffic. You don't move, you sit there, and suddenly the wind that was in your face becomes a stifling, oppressive heat. Also, if you leave the window open, bugs might fly into your car, as one did to me this morning. Except it wasn't just a bug. It was a yellow-jacket.
Oh hai.
In the word of bugs, you've got a couple different categories. There's mosquitoes and flies, which fall under the "Damn Annoying," and "Bugs that make you wave your arms about and dance like a ninny" categories. You've got the honey bees, which are in the "Hey, you're cool. Leave me alone and I'll leave you alone." But then you've got hornets and yellow-jackets, which are in the "Complete Asshole" category. The "I'll sting you if I damn well want to and there's nothing you can do about it" category.
Basically, they're dicks.
And it's one of these that flew into my window while I was sitting in traffic, and then promptly crawled into the tiny space between the windshield and the dash. "You clever fucker," I thought. "Now I'll just flip out the whole drive to work because I wont know if you're still there or not." Cause, you know, sometimes not knowing is worse. This yellow-jacket was the master of psychological warfare.
I might sting you, but I might not. HAHA YOU DON'T KNOW!
I immediately became aware of four things:
1. Where my limbs were and what was on them: Was that a hair? Or something crawling across my foot? What about my face? OH GOD IT'S IN MY HAIR.
2. How fast I was going: Would the yellow-jacket like it better if I went fast? Or slow? Does stopping abruptly anger it?
3. How bumpy the road was: Oh God, oh God, it's going to fly up out of there once I hit this huge bump and go right into my face.
4. What the music on the radio was: You know, because music soothes the savage beast. I figured commercials would anger him, so I frantically tried to find the stations that had music playing.
It also likes Nickelback. What a douche.
In an effort to calm myself down, I tried to be playful and give the yellow-jacket a name. With my creative skills oppressed by the evil lurking near my windshield, I settled on Bob.
But you know what? It didn't work. Bob was still a scary motherfucker. Instead of making the yellow-jacket more charming and amiable, it just added a rather sinister feel to the name "Bob."
Get the fuck away from me, Bob.
I think it's necessary to note here that I have never been stung. By anything. Ever. I guess seeing my brother get stung when I was little honed my survival instincts, and even though I ran away screaming from any black and yellow thing ever, I've avoided getting stung to this day. It probably would be less painful now than as a child, but it would still hurt, and the image of my brother wailing in pain is not yet erased from my memory. So, I am still afraid of these sinister flying, stinging machines. Not deathly afraid, but enough to make me dance like a ninny any time I come in contact with a yellow thing with wings.
Thankfully, I made it to work without something flying in my face and me crashing the car. As I was carefully shutting my window, poised to jump out at the least sign of yellow, a thought occurred to me: It was going to be hot today. Really hot. Like 95 degrees hot. As a result, the inside of my car would be the approximate temperature of the sun. So instead of leaving the windows rolled down and providing an escape route, I left them up and walked away laughing. That yellow-jacket is so dead. Deader than dead.
Feast while you can, asshole.
But since it's such a dick, I half expect it to still be alive and out for vengeance.
*Just so everybody knows, the image search for this was the worst thing I ever had to do.
I like driving. It's fun, and while I'm driving I have a chance to mentally prepare myself for the day ahead. I often like to do this with the window open, because having the radio turned up and the wind in my face at 8 AM is absolutely necessary to my preparing process.
I do not like traffic. You don't move, you sit there, and suddenly the wind that was in your face becomes a stifling, oppressive heat. Also, if you leave the window open, bugs might fly into your car, as one did to me this morning. Except it wasn't just a bug. It was a yellow-jacket.
Oh hai.In the word of bugs, you've got a couple different categories. There's mosquitoes and flies, which fall under the "Damn Annoying," and "Bugs that make you wave your arms about and dance like a ninny" categories. You've got the honey bees, which are in the "Hey, you're cool. Leave me alone and I'll leave you alone." But then you've got hornets and yellow-jackets, which are in the "Complete Asshole" category. The "I'll sting you if I damn well want to and there's nothing you can do about it" category.
Basically, they're dicks.
And it's one of these that flew into my window while I was sitting in traffic, and then promptly crawled into the tiny space between the windshield and the dash. "You clever fucker," I thought. "Now I'll just flip out the whole drive to work because I wont know if you're still there or not." Cause, you know, sometimes not knowing is worse. This yellow-jacket was the master of psychological warfare.
I might sting you, but I might not. HAHA YOU DON'T KNOW!I immediately became aware of four things:
1. Where my limbs were and what was on them: Was that a hair? Or something crawling across my foot? What about my face? OH GOD IT'S IN MY HAIR.
2. How fast I was going: Would the yellow-jacket like it better if I went fast? Or slow? Does stopping abruptly anger it?
3. How bumpy the road was: Oh God, oh God, it's going to fly up out of there once I hit this huge bump and go right into my face.
4. What the music on the radio was: You know, because music soothes the savage beast. I figured commercials would anger him, so I frantically tried to find the stations that had music playing.
It also likes Nickelback. What a douche.In an effort to calm myself down, I tried to be playful and give the yellow-jacket a name. With my creative skills oppressed by the evil lurking near my windshield, I settled on Bob.
But you know what? It didn't work. Bob was still a scary motherfucker. Instead of making the yellow-jacket more charming and amiable, it just added a rather sinister feel to the name "Bob."
Get the fuck away from me, Bob.I think it's necessary to note here that I have never been stung. By anything. Ever. I guess seeing my brother get stung when I was little honed my survival instincts, and even though I ran away screaming from any black and yellow thing ever, I've avoided getting stung to this day. It probably would be less painful now than as a child, but it would still hurt, and the image of my brother wailing in pain is not yet erased from my memory. So, I am still afraid of these sinister flying, stinging machines. Not deathly afraid, but enough to make me dance like a ninny any time I come in contact with a yellow thing with wings.
Thankfully, I made it to work without something flying in my face and me crashing the car. As I was carefully shutting my window, poised to jump out at the least sign of yellow, a thought occurred to me: It was going to be hot today. Really hot. Like 95 degrees hot. As a result, the inside of my car would be the approximate temperature of the sun. So instead of leaving the windows rolled down and providing an escape route, I left them up and walked away laughing. That yellow-jacket is so dead. Deader than dead.
Feast while you can, asshole.But since it's such a dick, I half expect it to still be alive and out for vengeance.
*Just so everybody knows, the image search for this was the worst thing I ever had to do.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Why Twitter is Awkward
I'd like to start to start this off by saying I never saw the point of Twitter. To me, it basically took the status part of facebook and made that the whole premise of the site. What was the point? Where were all the pictures? The wall? And you only have 140 words? Preposterous!
You are a ridiculous bird.
Then I got a Twitter. And I blame Stephen Fry. Indirectly of course. But let's start at the beginning.
Yesterday I was bored, as I often am, so I started reading wikipedia pages, because sometimes I have a craving for random information. I was reading the QI page and started jumping around to different panelists. This inevitably led me to the host of the show, Stephen Fry. And from there, I discovered he had a Twitter. So I read it. And it was cool and interesting. So I found some other Twitters that looked cool (read: I stalked the QI panelists). One of the good things about Twitter is that a lot of celebrities use it, so when you stumble across their Twitter account, you suddenly discover that they are a human being, not an infallible god gliding across marble floors and red carpets. Of course, there are exceptions, but it's always pleasing to discover that celebrities you admire are good, friendly, down to earth people. Either that or you discover they're absolutely bonkers, which, if not pleasing, is fairly amusing.
I'm on a drug, it's called CHARLIE SHEEN.
So the result of all this thinking was, "Hey, why don't I get a Twitter? If all these cool and interesting people have one, surely I can have one and be cool and interesting too!"
Let me pause here to say that no matter how awesome I think I am, it does not always come across that way to other people. And instead of being awesome at Twitter, I think I'm coming across as a stalker.
BE MY FRIEND ILOVEYOU.
This all has to do with the whole concept of "following" people, as it is called. After you create a Twitter account, you choose people or interests you'd like to follow. I, actually knowing a grand total of 2 people on Twitter, just chose people/pages that already had a gazillion followers. Currently I am following 14 people, including Stephen Fry, Alan Davies, Cracked.com, The Onion, BBC Comedy, JetBlue, and Anthony Bourdain, among others. And how many people do I have following me? 1 person, and I know her in real life.
Not that I expect any of the people I followed to follow me back, God no. They probably get a bajillion followers a day (my numbers are very exact), and I don't expect them to follow back every single one. The thing is, a lot of regular, everyday people have followers. How in the world do they get them? Do they follow random people and not just famous ones and organizations? Are you "allowed" to find a random person you think looks cool and follow them? Is this not creepy? I feel like if I followed random people, I'd be that odd girl at the party sitting in the corner watching everyone. The one everybody else edges around whispering, "Did you invite her, man? I didn't!" It also doesn't help that none of my friends are at this party either.
And then after everybody leaves, I hide in the closet. Not awkward.
So what do I do? Start following people that I deem cool and awesome? Or just accept the fact that none of my friends use Twitter and that no one will ever see or read mine ever? Or do I give it up as a bad job? I confess I still don't see the exact point of Twitter, unless you like being awkward and stalking your favorite people. I also thought, perhaps a bit stupidly, that if people followed me, I could get more people to read this blog, other than the 4.5 people that already do. I even named it the same (http://twitter.com/#!/SharpObjects1) AND it's got the same design. DO YOU SEE THE CONNECTION YET?? But seeing as I don't have any followers, the whole project seems rather pointless.
You may now point and laugh for five seconds, no more.
Also, if you're my brother, you may not say "Twitter is for twits," because if I know anything, it is this: Stephen Fry is not a twit.
You are a ridiculous bird.Then I got a Twitter. And I blame Stephen Fry. Indirectly of course. But let's start at the beginning.
Yesterday I was bored, as I often am, so I started reading wikipedia pages, because sometimes I have a craving for random information. I was reading the QI page and started jumping around to different panelists. This inevitably led me to the host of the show, Stephen Fry. And from there, I discovered he had a Twitter. So I read it. And it was cool and interesting. So I found some other Twitters that looked cool (read: I stalked the QI panelists). One of the good things about Twitter is that a lot of celebrities use it, so when you stumble across their Twitter account, you suddenly discover that they are a human being, not an infallible god gliding across marble floors and red carpets. Of course, there are exceptions, but it's always pleasing to discover that celebrities you admire are good, friendly, down to earth people. Either that or you discover they're absolutely bonkers, which, if not pleasing, is fairly amusing.
I'm on a drug, it's called CHARLIE SHEEN.So the result of all this thinking was, "Hey, why don't I get a Twitter? If all these cool and interesting people have one, surely I can have one and be cool and interesting too!"
Let me pause here to say that no matter how awesome I think I am, it does not always come across that way to other people. And instead of being awesome at Twitter, I think I'm coming across as a stalker.
BE MY FRIEND ILOVEYOU.This all has to do with the whole concept of "following" people, as it is called. After you create a Twitter account, you choose people or interests you'd like to follow. I, actually knowing a grand total of 2 people on Twitter, just chose people/pages that already had a gazillion followers. Currently I am following 14 people, including Stephen Fry, Alan Davies, Cracked.com, The Onion, BBC Comedy, JetBlue, and Anthony Bourdain, among others. And how many people do I have following me? 1 person, and I know her in real life.
Not that I expect any of the people I followed to follow me back, God no. They probably get a bajillion followers a day (my numbers are very exact), and I don't expect them to follow back every single one. The thing is, a lot of regular, everyday people have followers. How in the world do they get them? Do they follow random people and not just famous ones and organizations? Are you "allowed" to find a random person you think looks cool and follow them? Is this not creepy? I feel like if I followed random people, I'd be that odd girl at the party sitting in the corner watching everyone. The one everybody else edges around whispering, "Did you invite her, man? I didn't!" It also doesn't help that none of my friends are at this party either.
And then after everybody leaves, I hide in the closet. Not awkward.So what do I do? Start following people that I deem cool and awesome? Or just accept the fact that none of my friends use Twitter and that no one will ever see or read mine ever? Or do I give it up as a bad job? I confess I still don't see the exact point of Twitter, unless you like being awkward and stalking your favorite people. I also thought, perhaps a bit stupidly, that if people followed me, I could get more people to read this blog, other than the 4.5 people that already do. I even named it the same (http://twitter.com/#!/SharpObjects1) AND it's got the same design. DO YOU SEE THE CONNECTION YET?? But seeing as I don't have any followers, the whole project seems rather pointless.
You may now point and laugh for five seconds, no more.
Also, if you're my brother, you may not say "Twitter is for twits," because if I know anything, it is this: Stephen Fry is not a twit.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Why I Want A Pipe
I have written a poem entitled The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock (The Pipe). It's what I would name a pipe if I had one. I dont know how I thought of this, but I found it while unpacking all my desk stuff. And Allison Slater is equally to blame for this awesome madness.
Oh, Alfred, my lovely little pipe
I shall sing sweet songs to you
deep into the night.
Oh Alfie! My heart yearns for
your woodiness! The grains, the
dark varnish of your graceful curve!
You, who are my only connection
to the beautiful things in life -
the sweet smell of burning leaves
an incense of the most luscious kind.
What I wouldn't give to spend my
life with you, lovely Alfie,
my little wooden pipe.
Oh who can say what will happen
when we finally meet? When we
are united at last?
I shall kiss thee so tenderly
and pretend that I am smoking
merely to give pleasure for one word:
"'Ello." Oh, pipe! Lovely little
pipe! Play me dulcet tones of
love, my Alfred -
named and wanted for love, for
happiness! You shall be my
greatest treasure, for thou
are the only light, my little
tobacco addiction. I shall devote
myself to our love, to you,
Alfred J. Prufrock the pipe.
And then I guess after writing that I wasn't being silly enough, so I also wrote what appears to be an ode to a Cheez-It, although it's vaguely sexual.
"The Love Song of Flavor Explosions"
"I'll explode flavor into your mouth!"
she said, laughing hysterically,
climbing out of Christian the
Snow Fort.
Explosions of Cheez-It flavors,
to enlighten the taste buds, to
provide a harvest with so many
flavors that you explode!
Cheddar cheese! Parmesan!
Oh Holy Sweet Mother of Holy
Christian Forts! The
motherfucking flavor!
May God help ye, ye who partake
in this chaos of flavors!
OH THE MADNESS!
How much flavor can you handle?
Oh, what a question!
The quest for flavor ends here,
in a box of cheesy snacky goodness!
Bite into one! It releases so
much flavor that you are swept away!
Stars are born! The blind can see!
Kids with polio are cured!
FLAVOR EXPLOSIONS!
BAM! BOOM! POW!
The taste buds are overwhelmed!
Your mouth explodes!
And then you die.
And this is why I like sugar. The End.
Oh, Alfred, my lovely little pipe
I shall sing sweet songs to you
deep into the night.
Oh Alfie! My heart yearns for
your woodiness! The grains, the
dark varnish of your graceful curve!
You, who are my only connection
to the beautiful things in life -
the sweet smell of burning leaves
an incense of the most luscious kind.
What I wouldn't give to spend my
life with you, lovely Alfie,
my little wooden pipe.
Oh who can say what will happen
when we finally meet? When we
are united at last?
I shall kiss thee so tenderly
and pretend that I am smoking
merely to give pleasure for one word:
"'Ello." Oh, pipe! Lovely little
pipe! Play me dulcet tones of
love, my Alfred -
named and wanted for love, for
happiness! You shall be my
greatest treasure, for thou
are the only light, my little
tobacco addiction. I shall devote
myself to our love, to you,
Alfred J. Prufrock the pipe.
And then I guess after writing that I wasn't being silly enough, so I also wrote what appears to be an ode to a Cheez-It, although it's vaguely sexual.
"The Love Song of Flavor Explosions"
"I'll explode flavor into your mouth!"
she said, laughing hysterically,
climbing out of Christian the
Snow Fort.
Explosions of Cheez-It flavors,
to enlighten the taste buds, to
provide a harvest with so many
flavors that you explode!
Cheddar cheese! Parmesan!
Oh Holy Sweet Mother of Holy
Christian Forts! The
motherfucking flavor!
May God help ye, ye who partake
in this chaos of flavors!
OH THE MADNESS!
How much flavor can you handle?
Oh, what a question!
The quest for flavor ends here,
in a box of cheesy snacky goodness!
Bite into one! It releases so
much flavor that you are swept away!
Stars are born! The blind can see!
Kids with polio are cured!
FLAVOR EXPLOSIONS!
BAM! BOOM! POW!
The taste buds are overwhelmed!
Your mouth explodes!
And then you die.
And this is why I like sugar. The End.
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