At this charity event, there was a raffle.
I bought a raffle ticket.
I won a prize.
It was a stuffed animal.
Sort of.
Except it was more like an alien, not an animal.
And it has testicles on its head.
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| Yep. They really are connected by a long shaft. |
Showing posts with label Er. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Er. Show all posts
Monday, September 16, 2013
I... I Don't Even Know What This Is. But It Scares Me.
I went to a charity event this weekend.
At this charity event, there was a raffle.
I bought a raffle ticket.
I won a prize.
It was a stuffed animal.
Sort of.
Except it was more like an alien, not an animal.
And it has testicles on its head.
At this charity event, there was a raffle.
I bought a raffle ticket.
I won a prize.
It was a stuffed animal.
Sort of.
Except it was more like an alien, not an animal.
And it has testicles on its head.
Monday, April 29, 2013
All About the Ladies
Warning: SFW euphamisms (with one exception) and TMI to follow.
Ever since I read this Epbot post, I've had my ladies on the brain. Apparently, so does the rest of the world.
My sticky-outy bits aren't that, well, sticky-outy. They don't generally get in the way. In fact, they have never gotten in the way. But at a loud work event last week, when I leaned forward to shout in a coworker friend's ear, he zigged and I zagged, and the ladies collided with his elbow, spilling his drink down my front. (Good thing I wore black, right?) Without even thinking about it, my friend exclaimed, "Ohgodyourtits!" Which from anyone else would be offensive but from my friend was just funny as hell. Good thing it was too loud for anyone else to overhear...
Later, as I was attempting to find some new, properly-fitting underpinnings, I swung by good-ol' Victoria's Secret. I'd already tried a bunch on at other stores, and had had some near-fits, so I had a pretty good idea of what size I needed, like that the band needed to be either a 30 or a 32. The oh-so-helpful girl in VS sized me up and recommended a 36B. Because apparently VS is trying to get into the hula hoop business, with the way that thing would be flying around on me. And the cup size? Would have been a lot like that "Fat guy in a little coat" bit from Tommy Boy. Not what I want to think of in relation to the girls. I think I'm officially done with that store. I always knew their sizing could be a bit inaccurate, but that's just ridiculous. I had much better luck at TJ Maxx, where I also spent a lot, lot less.
Finally, you may remember that I went to a con this weekend, C2E2 here in Chicago. It was awesome. I wore one of my Doctor Who tees, because it's an advertisement of what interests me and an invitation for other Whovians to come fangirl with me. (David Tennant's hair, anyone?) But of course I forgot I was wearing it, so when an artist in Artist's Alley mentioned he had some Doctor art a few pages farther along in his portfolio, I was surprised.
"How did you know I like Doctor Who?" I asked.
"Your shirt is made of psychic paper," the artist responded. Very clever, right?
The person with me piped in. "I just thought you weren't wearing a shirt!"
(True: My dad reads this blog. Hi, Dad! Sorry, Dad!)
Ever since I read this Epbot post, I've had my ladies on the brain. Apparently, so does the rest of the world.
My sticky-outy bits aren't that, well, sticky-outy. They don't generally get in the way. In fact, they have never gotten in the way. But at a loud work event last week, when I leaned forward to shout in a coworker friend's ear, he zigged and I zagged, and the ladies collided with his elbow, spilling his drink down my front. (Good thing I wore black, right?) Without even thinking about it, my friend exclaimed, "Ohgodyourtits!" Which from anyone else would be offensive but from my friend was just funny as hell. Good thing it was too loud for anyone else to overhear...
Later, as I was attempting to find some new, properly-fitting underpinnings, I swung by good-ol' Victoria's Secret. I'd already tried a bunch on at other stores, and had had some near-fits, so I had a pretty good idea of what size I needed, like that the band needed to be either a 30 or a 32. The oh-so-helpful girl in VS sized me up and recommended a 36B. Because apparently VS is trying to get into the hula hoop business, with the way that thing would be flying around on me. And the cup size? Would have been a lot like that "Fat guy in a little coat" bit from Tommy Boy. Not what I want to think of in relation to the girls. I think I'm officially done with that store. I always knew their sizing could be a bit inaccurate, but that's just ridiculous. I had much better luck at TJ Maxx, where I also spent a lot, lot less.
Finally, you may remember that I went to a con this weekend, C2E2 here in Chicago. It was awesome. I wore one of my Doctor Who tees, because it's an advertisement of what interests me and an invitation for other Whovians to come fangirl with me. (David Tennant's hair, anyone?) But of course I forgot I was wearing it, so when an artist in Artist's Alley mentioned he had some Doctor art a few pages farther along in his portfolio, I was surprised.
"How did you know I like Doctor Who?" I asked.
"Your shirt is made of psychic paper," the artist responded. Very clever, right?
The person with me piped in. "I just thought you weren't wearing a shirt!"
(True: My dad reads this blog. Hi, Dad! Sorry, Dad!)
Friday, March 8, 2013
Because PRIORITIES.
I went home last weekend to visit my folks.
I leave some clean clothes and a couple of pairs of shoes there (let's not talk about the books, okay?), because I pretty frequently forget to pack stuff.
This last weekend, it worked the other way: I forgot half my stuff there when I came back to Chicago.
Things I forgot:
(True: No need to worry. SuperTarget and priority mail saved the day, and I don't believe I descended into smelly-kiddom.)
I leave some clean clothes and a couple of pairs of shoes there (let's not talk about the books, okay?), because I pretty frequently forget to pack stuff.
This last weekend, it worked the other way: I forgot half my stuff there when I came back to Chicago.
Things I forgot:
- Mascara
- Deodorant
- Toothbrush
- The new book my mom is lending me
(True: No need to worry. SuperTarget and priority mail saved the day, and I don't believe I descended into smelly-kiddom.)
Monday, March 4, 2013
The Banjo of Science
I recently watched a documentary called The Science of Sex Appeal. It was all right, I guess, though there was a lot more sex appeal than science, and it was completely heteronormative. But, I'm going to assume what science there was wasn't wrong, just dramatized and a very small portion of the whole.
So, the smell of sweat happens when perspiration mixes with the bacteria growing on your skin. Each person's immune system, which dictates what bacteria are allowed to grow, is different. Ergo, each person's sweat smells a little different.
And if we are driven to procreate with the best possible match, that person would be one who has a very different immune system from our own, so that any offspring would be likely to have a strong immune system that can battle the most bad things.
Apparently, this is why siblings tend to smell really bad to each other--their immune systems are from the same gene pool, and it's a subconscious way for our brains to tell us, "Dear god, not that one! Not that one!!!!"
Now, why the hell am I telling you this?
My family is extensive and convoluted, to say the least, and much of it is located in and around my hometown. I have second and third cousins probably into the hundreds, and I don't know the bulk of them. I went to a funeral in my hometown this weekend for someone who was not related to me, and I ended up sitting next to a man who was well-groomed and well-dressed--clearly hygiene was not an issue here. And the way he smelled like to had my eyes watering.
Yep, probably a cousin.
(True: This is why, when I lived at home, I had a "don't date within the county" rule. Too many chances to accidentally turn up at the same family reunion.)
So, the smell of sweat happens when perspiration mixes with the bacteria growing on your skin. Each person's immune system, which dictates what bacteria are allowed to grow, is different. Ergo, each person's sweat smells a little different.
And if we are driven to procreate with the best possible match, that person would be one who has a very different immune system from our own, so that any offspring would be likely to have a strong immune system that can battle the most bad things.
Apparently, this is why siblings tend to smell really bad to each other--their immune systems are from the same gene pool, and it's a subconscious way for our brains to tell us, "Dear god, not that one! Not that one!!!!"
Now, why the hell am I telling you this?
My family is extensive and convoluted, to say the least, and much of it is located in and around my hometown. I have second and third cousins probably into the hundreds, and I don't know the bulk of them. I went to a funeral in my hometown this weekend for someone who was not related to me, and I ended up sitting next to a man who was well-groomed and well-dressed--clearly hygiene was not an issue here. And the way he smelled like to had my eyes watering.
Yep, probably a cousin.
(True: This is why, when I lived at home, I had a "don't date within the county" rule. Too many chances to accidentally turn up at the same family reunion.)
Monday, February 25, 2013
Mad Motor Skillz, Yo. I've Got Them.
While bowling this weekend with friends, we got to talking about how in the US, we count on our fingers starting with our index finger, while in Europe, they start with their thumb. It was just a curious, one-off observation until C tried to demonstrate the number four, European-style.
I am twenty-mumblemumble years old, and I should probably not find someone not being able to move their ring and pinkie fingers independently as funny as I do.
I my defence, he looked like a velociraptor, and velociraptors are always funny. They are even funnier when they try to redeem themselves by doing a Vulcan salute (i.e., a Spock hand). (I had no redeeming to do. Not only can I fold my pinkie down solo, I can also snap my fingers on one hand in the shape of a triangle while simultaneously snapping the shape of an L with my other hand. With a high-demand talent like that, it's a shock I'm not filthy rich.)
Also, I discovered that some people are totally incapable of not checking out a fellow bowler's butt.
I am not one of those people.
After bowling (and barbecue! Sweet, sweet barbecue...), we hit downtown for drinks and karaoke. It's been a while since I've been to a bar in a college town. So it was something of a revelation to get hit on by a guy calling himself "Rhino" who opened with, "How old are you? Are you way too old for me?"
(True: Try moving your right foot in a clockwise circle. Now draw a six in the air. Your foot just changed direction and also you look very silly.)
I am twenty-mumblemumble years old, and I should probably not find someone not being able to move their ring and pinkie fingers independently as funny as I do.
I my defence, he looked like a velociraptor, and velociraptors are always funny. They are even funnier when they try to redeem themselves by doing a Vulcan salute (i.e., a Spock hand). (I had no redeeming to do. Not only can I fold my pinkie down solo, I can also snap my fingers on one hand in the shape of a triangle while simultaneously snapping the shape of an L with my other hand. With a high-demand talent like that, it's a shock I'm not filthy rich.)
Also, I discovered that some people are totally incapable of not checking out a fellow bowler's butt.
I am not one of those people.
After bowling (and barbecue! Sweet, sweet barbecue...), we hit downtown for drinks and karaoke. It's been a while since I've been to a bar in a college town. So it was something of a revelation to get hit on by a guy calling himself "Rhino" who opened with, "How old are you? Are you way too old for me?"
(True: Try moving your right foot in a clockwise circle. Now draw a six in the air. Your foot just changed direction and also you look very silly.)
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
The More You Know
I try to learn something new every day. I find it keeps my mind open and sharp.
Today I learned that a can of Mountain Dew that is mostly slush can still explode if you drop it--it's just a slow-motion explosion that lasts about ten minutes.
My life will be much richer for this information. And my desk much stickier.
(Want to know how to traumatize me at 8:07 in the morning? Give me a can of soda--sweet, sweet caffeine--that is puking like a slushie volcano. And that's probably the most mixed metaphor I've ever conceieved. You're welcome.)
Today I learned that a can of Mountain Dew that is mostly slush can still explode if you drop it--it's just a slow-motion explosion that lasts about ten minutes.
My life will be much richer for this information. And my desk much stickier.
(Want to know how to traumatize me at 8:07 in the morning? Give me a can of soda--sweet, sweet caffeine--that is puking like a slushie volcano. And that's probably the most mixed metaphor I've ever conceieved. You're welcome.)
Friday, January 25, 2013
Fast Times at a School That Would Probably Not Prefer to Be Associated With This Blog
A good friend of mine from high school is having a baby in the not-too-distant future (ha, what else could it be? Twenty years?), and it's got me remembering stuff. So, join me on a walk down memory lane--if you dare.
I went to private high school. Most of the students boarded, but there were a few of us "day students" who lived close enough to not have to live on campus. We had our own lounge, and off that lounge was a small glass room nicknamed "the cubicle," which was just down the hall from the locker rooms assigned to the day students. The cubicle had enough room for about four people comfortably, but we usually crammed about eight in there. That's the boring part.
The interesting stuff is what we witnessed, safe on our side of the glass. We saw break ups, make-ups, and make-outs. We saw drama on a level that just isn't possible anywhere but a high school where most of the students live together (with teachers!) with no access to cars.
On one memorable occasion, however, the drama breached our safety glass.
A teacher stormed down the hall, coming from the boys' locker room, and slammed open the cubicle door.
"Who has been misusing their genitalia?!"
I honestly don't recall a single other time when all of us were simultaneously silent. Cue astonishment and absolute confusion.
Eventually we figured it out: someone in the boy's room missed the urinal. Which was disgusting, but not nearly as bad as we had originally assumed. Even better, none of us were guilty of the transgression--not this one, anyway.
But I do remember thinking, This is high school. Those of us who aren't wish we were.
(True: It was a special sort of high school I went to. After I graduated and was legal to drink, I got conned into playing poker with my old high school teachers. They got me drunk and won away all my money. But I got an A for effort.)
I went to private high school. Most of the students boarded, but there were a few of us "day students" who lived close enough to not have to live on campus. We had our own lounge, and off that lounge was a small glass room nicknamed "the cubicle," which was just down the hall from the locker rooms assigned to the day students. The cubicle had enough room for about four people comfortably, but we usually crammed about eight in there. That's the boring part.
The interesting stuff is what we witnessed, safe on our side of the glass. We saw break ups, make-ups, and make-outs. We saw drama on a level that just isn't possible anywhere but a high school where most of the students live together (with teachers!) with no access to cars.
On one memorable occasion, however, the drama breached our safety glass.
A teacher stormed down the hall, coming from the boys' locker room, and slammed open the cubicle door.
"Who has been misusing their genitalia?!"
I honestly don't recall a single other time when all of us were simultaneously silent. Cue astonishment and absolute confusion.
Eventually we figured it out: someone in the boy's room missed the urinal. Which was disgusting, but not nearly as bad as we had originally assumed. Even better, none of us were guilty of the transgression--not this one, anyway.
But I do remember thinking, This is high school. Those of us who aren't wish we were.
(True: It was a special sort of high school I went to. After I graduated and was legal to drink, I got conned into playing poker with my old high school teachers. They got me drunk and won away all my money. But I got an A for effort.)
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Not the Phone You're Looking For
I went to a private high school, and I was one of the select few allowed a key to the elevator for some boring health blah, blah, blah.
Like most elevators, this one had an emergency phone.
Unlike most elevators, this one's phone was listed in the phone book.
So it wasn't uncommon for me to answer the phone and chat with some poor parent looking for information on admissions. Fortunately for them, I worked part-time in the admissions office and could direct them to the right number. Unfortunately, I graduated some years ago and am no longer available for that service...
(True: You know the kind of luck I have? The kind where I drop the key to the elevator down the elevator shaft. Luckily, I knew rescuing-type people.)
Like most elevators, this one had an emergency phone.
Unlike most elevators, this one's phone was listed in the phone book.
So it wasn't uncommon for me to answer the phone and chat with some poor parent looking for information on admissions. Fortunately for them, I worked part-time in the admissions office and could direct them to the right number. Unfortunately, I graduated some years ago and am no longer available for that service...
(True: You know the kind of luck I have? The kind where I drop the key to the elevator down the elevator shaft. Luckily, I knew rescuing-type people.)
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Mr. Sampson would be so ashamed.
I am eating pizza/listening to the GodPod. Because the two are mutually inclusive. I have an electic mix of music left over from an ex-boyfriend whose iTunes playlist I raided. It's got everything from classic rock to classical, and some that are a mix of the two.
Cue the opening bars of a recording.
Internal Me: Oooh, this is from Aladdin! I loved that movie!
Me Me: I don't trust you. I'm checking what this piece is.
(Pause while I check out the GodPod screen.)
Me Me: Wrong. It's Tchaikovsky.
Internal Me: Oh. Well, you know. That's good, too.
(True: The above dudes ARE NOT THE SAME, Mental Me. Aladdin has more hair, and Tchaikovsky has more clothing. Geez.)
Cue the opening bars of a recording.
Internal Me: Oooh, this is from Aladdin! I loved that movie!
Me Me: I don't trust you. I'm checking what this piece is.
(Pause while I check out the GodPod screen.)
Me Me: Wrong. It's Tchaikovsky.
Internal Me: Oh. Well, you know. That's good, too.
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| Via |
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| Via |
(True: The above dudes ARE NOT THE SAME, Mental Me. Aladdin has more hair, and Tchaikovsky has more clothing. Geez.)
Friday, November 9, 2012
Ads, Schmads.
I do not click on the ads on my blog. That would be click fraud, and anyone with hands as soft as mine really shouldn't be spending any time in the Big House.
But, I do like to check out what my adbot thinks makes sense. Sometimes, it doesn't:
I'm sure it's a very nice family. But I sort of resent the ad's attempt to look like a personal photo of mine. I dress way better than that. And my hair is better, too. Sometimes.
After my recent (panicked) musings (pleas for help) regarding soda, it's only natural that I'd get some ads targeting other caffeine fiends.
But really, adbot? This?
 |
| Ad reads: "Discover how soda in moderation can be a part of your diet." |
What weird ads have you seen--here or as you peruse the Internets? I have the feeling everybody has a story...
(True: Odd ads aren't limited to my blog. I changed my Facebook status to "single" some months ago, and ever since, Google has been bombarding me with Russian singles ads. And lighting ads, because that's what I do for a living. It's a strange coupling, though, "Hot European Singles Want To Meet You" right next to "30% Off 35W MR16 GU10 Lamps!")
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Unforgettable... That's What You Are. (And Also a Bit Weird.)
(Update: I should tell you, the the compliment I'm about to tell you about is sincere, was meant kindly, and was, frankly, taken in the same vein. Any assholishness here is all mine.)
I have one of those faces. Often, when people first meet me, they tell me I look just like their sister/cousin/teacher/sex therapist. Sometimes, this is uncomfortable.
I've been told I'm almost as hot as my sister. (Flattered, I'm sure.)
I look like a librarian. (With the big black glasses, that's not too surprising.)
I look like a math teacher. (Do math teachers look different than other teachers?)
I remind a friend of Maggie Gyllenhaal.
One of these comparisons is not like the other ones.
Obviously, I was beyond flattered to be compared to an actress I admire, and then...
And then.
And then, my friend continued, "Yeah, you're both manic."
(True: The best part was when he frantically tried to backtrack: "And you're both fit! And brunette!")
I have one of those faces. Often, when people first meet me, they tell me I look just like their sister/cousin/teacher/sex therapist. Sometimes, this is uncomfortable.
I've been told I'm almost as hot as my sister. (Flattered, I'm sure.)
I look like a librarian. (With the big black glasses, that's not too surprising.)
I look like a math teacher. (Do math teachers look different than other teachers?)
I remind a friend of Maggie Gyllenhaal.
One of these comparisons is not like the other ones.
Obviously, I was beyond flattered to be compared to an actress I admire, and then...
And then.
And then, my friend continued, "Yeah, you're both manic."
(True: The best part was when he frantically tried to backtrack: "And you're both fit! And brunette!")
Thursday, September 6, 2012
What is wrong with me?! (Seriously.)
Walking out of the bathroom just now, I saw two co-workers staring at me, which I thought was rather odd. Then I realized I had toilet paper stuck to my face.
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Friday, August 31, 2012
Children hate Pinterest, Too
Proof positive:
They're lambs, if you didn't guess. (I know I didn't.) Don't they look happy? No? Well, that's because they wanted to be superheroes and/or princesses, and you are the terrible parent who make them look like a floppy-eared tampon.
The problem here isn't the stains. The problem here is that you were hopped up on boxwine instead of supervising your child.
The tag for this is, "20 Questions to ask your children when you're putting them to bed to help develop your relationship." NO. NONONONONONONONONO. I'm sorry to have to break it to you, but it is really never okay to make this kind of references when talking about children.
This kid lives in a bubble. Not because he has any terrible allergies and will fall into a coma if he breathes air that hasn't been sucked dry by an industrial-grade air purifier, but because he's dressed too nicely to be allowed to play. And he's only got a box, a purse, and an antique telephone, anyway.
And just in case you were wondering? Putting your child in shoes with no socks when it's cold enough to require a hat and scarf doesn't make you a cool parent. It makes you an asshole with a be-blister-footed child. Asshole.
(True: These are all from one page of Pinterest. Because it's lush with crap.)
Sources:
http://pinterest.com/pin/248260998179845088/
http://pinterest.com/pin/214343263486157465/
http://pinterest.com/pin/275282595944045743/
http://pinterest.com/pin/496803402613809388/
And just in case you were wondering? Putting your child in shoes with no socks when it's cold enough to require a hat and scarf doesn't make you a cool parent. It makes you an asshole with a be-blister-footed child. Asshole.
(True: These are all from one page of Pinterest. Because it's lush with crap.)
Sources:
http://pinterest.com/pin/248260998179845088/
http://pinterest.com/pin/214343263486157465/
http://pinterest.com/pin/275282595944045743/
http://pinterest.com/pin/496803402613809388/
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
A Whole New Meaning to the Phrase "Double-Tap"
I did a rare thing this weekend--I took some vacation time. My folks own property up in the northwoods of Wisconsin, a few of the most beautiful acres in the world, as far as I'm concerned. Long weekends there mostly involve hanging out outside in one way or another. We hit a couple of outdoor, dog-friendly art fairs, we took a short hike around Bond Falls (a dog-friendly path), and we went swimming on a dog-friendly beach.
I was particularly looking forward to the latter as this past winter, I'd purchased a life jacket for Prada but hadn't had the opportunity to give it a go yet. Because Prada is usually uncomfortable in new environments, especially ones where she doesn't feel like she has her feet securely under her, I really didn't know what to expect of the excursion. I needn't have worried. Prada paddled her feet for a moment (she's got the instinct for swimming certainly), and then chilled out. I mean, she relaxed so deeply she almost fell asleep. I was pretty tickled to say the least.
We didn't stay long. Even though the water was bathwater warm, it doesn't take much for little dogs to get chilled, and after about fifteen minutes, Prada started shivering and it was time to get out. But hey, they were a very successful fifteen minutes--it may be time to look up one of the dog-friendly beaches in Chicago I keep hearing about.
Without the dogs, we went four-wheeling (sorry, it's a drought, I can't honestly say we went muddin'), and did some target practice. My dad has this gorgeous 9mm pistol, a Colt MK IV Series 80, and I had the pleasure of emptying the better part of a clip at the tail end of the weekend. I'm much more familiar with rifles (though I don't get much practice with those, either, but enough to know I prefer a little bolt-action rifle without too much kick), and after a brief run-down on the mechanics of it, I let loose.
Our target wasn't exactly high-tech--just a hunter orange circle about four inches in diameter slapped on a pizza sheet, but it did the trick. Or rather, it probably would have done if I could aim worth a damn. I hit the tin maybe twice, but not the orange at all. I'd never be able to hit a zombie in the chest, much less in the head. I tended to hit a few inches below and to the left of the target--at least I'm consistent.
And now you'll know how to find me in the zombie apocolypse: I'll be the one being run down by zombies missing their right testicle.
I was particularly looking forward to the latter as this past winter, I'd purchased a life jacket for Prada but hadn't had the opportunity to give it a go yet. Because Prada is usually uncomfortable in new environments, especially ones where she doesn't feel like she has her feet securely under her, I really didn't know what to expect of the excursion. I needn't have worried. Prada paddled her feet for a moment (she's got the instinct for swimming certainly), and then chilled out. I mean, she relaxed so deeply she almost fell asleep. I was pretty tickled to say the least.
We didn't stay long. Even though the water was bathwater warm, it doesn't take much for little dogs to get chilled, and after about fifteen minutes, Prada started shivering and it was time to get out. But hey, they were a very successful fifteen minutes--it may be time to look up one of the dog-friendly beaches in Chicago I keep hearing about.
Without the dogs, we went four-wheeling (sorry, it's a drought, I can't honestly say we went muddin'), and did some target practice. My dad has this gorgeous 9mm pistol, a Colt MK IV Series 80, and I had the pleasure of emptying the better part of a clip at the tail end of the weekend. I'm much more familiar with rifles (though I don't get much practice with those, either, but enough to know I prefer a little bolt-action rifle without too much kick), and after a brief run-down on the mechanics of it, I let loose.
Our target wasn't exactly high-tech--just a hunter orange circle about four inches in diameter slapped on a pizza sheet, but it did the trick. Or rather, it probably would have done if I could aim worth a damn. I hit the tin maybe twice, but not the orange at all. I'd never be able to hit a zombie in the chest, much less in the head. I tended to hit a few inches below and to the left of the target--at least I'm consistent.
And now you'll know how to find me in the zombie apocolypse: I'll be the one being run down by zombies missing their right testicle.
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| Via |
(True: I never quite understood why it is zombies need to be shot in the head. Wouldn't fire work, too? A flame-thrower probably wouldn't require such precise aim. Just sayin'.)
Monday, July 9, 2012
This, You Guys. This.
Because I love you and now you can't say I never give you anything nice...
An Interview with Batdog.
You're welcome.
(True: Prada has a thing for the big, burly types. You think I should send Batdog her number?
Nah. He'd probably send a lot of weird texts.)
An Interview with Batdog.
You're welcome.
(True: Prada has a thing for the big, burly types. You think I should send Batdog her number?
Nah. He'd probably send a lot of weird texts.)
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
In Which You Discover I am a Huge Pervy McPerverson.
I woke up one morning several years ago with this poem sprung fully-formed from my head. I call it, "Ode to a Hot Guy." Any hot guy, really. Alexander Skarsgard, maybe, or that dude who plays Thor. Mmm, beardy buffness. Anyway, since I know my readers have such fine literary sensibilities, I figured I'd share. (Hi, Mom! Go away, Mom! No, you can stay, but you should probably redirect Dad before he has a heart attack.) So, without further ado:
Ode to a Hot Guy
I wish that I were cotton.
I'd be your tighty-whiteys and be with you all the time.
I'd always be
in your pants.
I wish I were elastic.
You'd (ahem) bend me and you'd stretch me
with the friction
of your pants.
I wish I were a fly.
Maybe on your undies, or even just the wall.
I'd get to see you
in no pants.
Yeah, that'd do just fine.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Possum Face! (Or Not.)
You guys. Today is the first day in more than three weeks that someone didn't find my blog by searching for some variant of "possum face." Which makes me wonder whether people are searching for other, really ugly people, or whether they just think possum faces are particularly fascinating. Maybe some marsupial fetishist is out there, collecting photos for their pin-up calendar.
Sadly, though, most phrases bringing people to this site still have to do with weird porn. It makes me a little uncomfortable to think some of these people might be staying and browsing. Meh, it's not porn, but I guess it'll do...?
I always imagine these people in really ugly sweaters.
I am so creeped out right now.
Sadly, though, most phrases bringing people to this site still have to do with weird porn. It makes me a little uncomfortable to think some of these people might be staying and browsing. Meh, it's not porn, but I guess it'll do...?
I always imagine these people in really ugly sweaters.
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| Via |
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
This Is Supposed To Be My Grown-Up Job (Not Adult Job).
WARNING: This post is work-related and utterly inappropriate. If you have virgin eyes or any amount of decency, you'll probably want to pretend this post isn't here.
I work in the electrical industry, specifically commercial lighting. Yesterday, I quoted a pendant light fixture with this option: "Tripod with Decorative Balls."
That describes how the fixture is hung.
(True: Another mounting option for that same fixture is a single aircraft cable, part number 1SAC. This is seriously freaking me out.)
I work in the electrical industry, specifically commercial lighting. Yesterday, I quoted a pendant light fixture with this option: "Tripod with Decorative Balls."
That describes how the fixture is hung.
(True: Another mounting option for that same fixture is a single aircraft cable, part number 1SAC. This is seriously freaking me out.)
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Hops in the Right Direction... Sort Of.
I have a confession to make: I really have nothing interesting to say today. I'm tired, my sunburn is both sore and itchy, and I am, in short, burned out. I'll be back tomorrow with something at least mildly intriguing, I promise. In the meantime, check out these cool links:
Facebook Shuts Down Puppy Mill Ads
9/11 Search Dog Receives Stem Cell Treatment for Arthritis
13 Simple Steps to Get You Through a Rough Day
Toodles till tomorrow!
Facebook Shuts Down Puppy Mill Ads
9/11 Search Dog Receives Stem Cell Treatment for Arthritis
13 Simple Steps to Get You Through a Rough Day
Toodles till tomorrow!
Monday, April 2, 2012
The State of Florida is None the Worse for Wear
Despite my having been there. I did get up to plenty of hijinks, most of which I can't tell you. (I'd have to kill you. And hunting you down is just too much work.)
Ah, the sunny, sunny heat. I am a heat monger in the worst way, and 86 and humid is just my style. So, I spent most of Friday and Saturday slathered in sunscreen and snoozing on the beach. It was awesome.
What wasn't awesome was the fact that I forgot to slather the SPF on my neck and chest on Friday. Everywhere else, I developed a nice glow. There, I fried. When I woke up and headed inside, it was pink. Later that night, it turned bright red. By morning, it had a lovely purple tinge and swear-to-god, had turned crispy. The best part is that I've got one white spot by my collarbone where I apparently wiped the last of the sunscreen on my fingers. Knowing me, I meant to get more sunscreen and finish, but then just didn't. The remainder of the weekend consisted of locals asking, "You aren't from around here, are you?"
Awesome. I'm that guy. (The photographer took pictures of most of the guests, but I hear he mistook me for a tomato and moved on.)
I was travelling with my best friend Seven, as his plus one to the wedding of a friend of ours from high school. He and I actually make good travelling companions. I've got a fair bit of experience flying, but he's the one who is organized enough to keep track of things like what gate we're flying out of and where I've left the GodPod. We like the same kinds of food (which we ate a ton of), and he's a good sport about me geeking out and dragging him to places like the Dali Museum (more on that to come).
Seven and I first became friends when a guy in our algebra II class asked if we were siblings. We don't look much alike, but we do have that kind of relationship. As in, we tease each other pretty mercilessly. (Okay, I'm merciless. Seven just holds on for the ride.)
For example, we rented a car. And by we, I mean Seven, because I'm too disorganized to manage something like that and also I'm a terrible driver. He asks me which of the several cars we can choose from I prefer, and I tell him I don't have an opinion. Then, no sooner than he signs the paperwork and we load our crap into the trunk of a white Mazda 6, I say we should have gotten the red one. Which I proceeded to tell everyone throughout the trip. Not that I actually cared. I meant it when I said I didn't have a preference--it's just so fun to see Seven take the bait. Every. Single. Time.
Cracks me up.
(True: Just after the wedding, during the official serious professional photography time, a parasailer's kite very nearly took out the bride, guaranteeing that this is one wedding we'll never forget--love you, Kate!)
Ah, the sunny, sunny heat. I am a heat monger in the worst way, and 86 and humid is just my style. So, I spent most of Friday and Saturday slathered in sunscreen and snoozing on the beach. It was awesome.
What wasn't awesome was the fact that I forgot to slather the SPF on my neck and chest on Friday. Everywhere else, I developed a nice glow. There, I fried. When I woke up and headed inside, it was pink. Later that night, it turned bright red. By morning, it had a lovely purple tinge and swear-to-god, had turned crispy. The best part is that I've got one white spot by my collarbone where I apparently wiped the last of the sunscreen on my fingers. Knowing me, I meant to get more sunscreen and finish, but then just didn't. The remainder of the weekend consisted of locals asking, "You aren't from around here, are you?"
Awesome. I'm that guy. (The photographer took pictures of most of the guests, but I hear he mistook me for a tomato and moved on.)
 |
| "Fried Egg on the Plate Without the Plate" by Salvador Dali. AKA, "An Accurate Depiction of How I Feel Right Now." |
I was travelling with my best friend Seven, as his plus one to the wedding of a friend of ours from high school. He and I actually make good travelling companions. I've got a fair bit of experience flying, but he's the one who is organized enough to keep track of things like what gate we're flying out of and where I've left the GodPod. We like the same kinds of food (which we ate a ton of), and he's a good sport about me geeking out and dragging him to places like the Dali Museum (more on that to come).
Seven and I first became friends when a guy in our algebra II class asked if we were siblings. We don't look much alike, but we do have that kind of relationship. As in, we tease each other pretty mercilessly. (Okay, I'm merciless. Seven just holds on for the ride.)
For example, we rented a car. And by we, I mean Seven, because I'm too disorganized to manage something like that and also I'm a terrible driver. He asks me which of the several cars we can choose from I prefer, and I tell him I don't have an opinion. Then, no sooner than he signs the paperwork and we load our crap into the trunk of a white Mazda 6, I say we should have gotten the red one. Which I proceeded to tell everyone throughout the trip. Not that I actually cared. I meant it when I said I didn't have a preference--it's just so fun to see Seven take the bait. Every. Single. Time.
Cracks me up.
(True: Just after the wedding, during the official serious professional photography time, a parasailer's kite very nearly took out the bride, guaranteeing that this is one wedding we'll never forget--love you, Kate!)
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