What is the deal with Rick Moranis?
He's so Rick Moranis-y.
That will make a lot more sense later. Maybe.
In the course of holiday socializing, the conversation often turns to life and what, in particular, you are doing with yours. When this happens, I usually try to look like I can't be bothered to contribute because I'm listening so hard. My gaze burns into the side of Boyfriend's head and I nod and squint my eyes like I was previously unaware of his occupation. Oh my God! That's where you go every day? I thought you were out giving blow jobs to support your crack habit... what a relief!
I start to panic because I know I'm next. After Boyfriend has informed everyone that he is working on curing cancer, using phrases like "retrovirus vector" and "endogenous," someone will turn to me and say "So Allie, what are you doing for work these days?"
Me: "Me? Oh... uh... I'm blogging?"
I usually say it like I'm asking a question, like I am completely unsure of whether or not it is true. Blogging? Maybe. It depends on how you feel about the subject. I do know that there aren't any retrovirus vectors involved.
Friend: "What?"
Me: "I write a blog? On the internet?"
Friend: "Oh... what is it called?"
In this moment, I frantically try to determine whether the people around me are the type to be easily offended by the word "fuck." I try to think of some way I could test it. Like maybe I could say "it's fucking called Hyperbole and a Half, motherfucker!!" But that might come off as rude. I could lie. I could tell them that I write a blog called "The Awesome Charity for Cancer and AIDS and Diabetes and Ebola and Other Deadly Things That Need Awareness Too Blog," but they'd find me out sooner or later and then I would never be able to see them again without having some long, awkward discussion about how they tried to check out my website but, for some reason, Google didn't show any results for "The Awesome Charity for Cancer and AIDS and Diabetes and Ebola and Other Deadly Things That Need Awareness Too Blog." At that point, I'd pretty much have to bank on the fact that maybe they don't understand the internet and make up something about Google boycotting AIDS awareness. No. I have to tell the truth.
Me: "Hypermehehshs nnd a Hsss...."
I try to say it really fast out of the corner of my mouth.
Friend: "What?"
Me: "Hyperbole and a smfl."
Friend: "Hyperbole and a what?"
Me: "and a Half?"
Friend: "Oh! What's it about?"
Me: "Humor?"
Friend: "Like what kind of humor?"
This part kind of feels like when you're in the doctor's office because your whole body hurts and you are pretty sure that you have ebola, but you don't want to offend the doctor by diagnosing yourself, so you just say "I'm in pain" and the doctor says "describe the pain..." and you say "it's pain-y" and the doctor says "okay... but where?" And you say "Everywhere" and the doctor says "On a scale of 1 to 10, how bad is the pain?" And you say "Eight?" because you have no idea where the scale starts or ends, but you've never given birth, so you're pretty sure it isn't a 10, and maybe that one time you shut your fingers in the door was a nine and the time you got kicked in the arm by a horse was a seven, and eights sound reasonable, so you just blurt it out - but with a question mark in case you're wrong. Then the doctor says "Is it a throbbing pain or a stabbing pain?" and you want to shout "IT FEELS EXACTLY LIKE AN EBOLA PAIN AND WE CAN'T WASTE ANY MORE TIME DISCUSSING IT BECAUSE I'M GOING TO BLEED OUT AND TURN INTO A ZOMBIE IN LIKE, FIVE SECONDS!!!!" Then the doctor says "Ebola doesn't turn you into a zombie..." and you say "What the hell kind of medical school did you go to?? They didn't even prepare you for a zombie massacre??"
But instead of trying to lead a doctor to the conclusion that I have ebola, I'm trying to lead my friends to the conclusion that I am funny. Only I can't just tell them that I am "stabbing funny and on a scale of one to 10, it's a seven." Because that doesn't make sense.
I usually end up saying something like "observational humor" and my friend says "Like Seinfeld?"
And then the conversation derails and suddenly we're talking about how I should start every post by saying "What is the deal with ________??" And I didn't even get to convince them that I'm funny and they are going to visit my blog expecting Seinfeld, but they aren't going to get Seinfeld. They are going to get clown AIDS and Wolverine and Rick Moranis.
So I've decided that I need to come up with a good description. Something that says "I'm funny, but that's just what other people think and I would never say that about myself because I'm modest. And if you are terribly offended by Jesus jokes and the word 'fuck,' you may be disappointed with me, but can we still be friends?" It needs to sound as cool as "retrovirus vector," but not quite as serious. Like if you were to put a little hat on it and make it dance around to Ragtime. Something that lets people know that I am not really at all like Seinfeld, but I appreciate his comedy and I hope to one day be famous like him which will definitely happen so they should watch their backs because pretty soon I'll be rich enough to hire my own mafia and then I won't need to explain my blog.
I'm Not Wolverine
Remember when I was like "I'm going to be the best blogger ever! I'm going to post three times a day over the holidays!"
That's easy to say when you are ankle deep in a string of Rick Moranis posts and you're still filled with that Christmas optimism that says "I will be able to find the time. Fourteen people staying in one house? I'm staying in that house too? Bring it on! I'll find time to blog no matter what because I'm the awesomest blogger ever! I'm unstoppable! I'm like Wolverine!"
In hindsight, I can see that getting your hopes up was foolish. I am a mortal blogger sharing a house with 14 people, several of which are small children, I've had a hangover for three days now and I'm pretty sure that I've succeeded in giving myself Type II diabetes, so that will need to be attended to as well.
What I'm trying to say is that I overestimated myself. I'm not like Wolverine. I'm more like that one guy whose only power is the ability to resemble a chicken. Only I don't even have the ability to resemble a chicken. At least not convincingly. I mean, I can do a pretty awesome chicken impression, but I doubt I could fool anyone for even a second into believing that I am an actual chicken.
Crap. Boyfriend just found me. I've been hiding upstairs, huddled in the least trafficked corner of the house, trying to write as quickly as possible before I am called downstairs to eat something called a "Dutch Baby," which I am told it similar to a pancake, but I'm not buying it. Why would it be called a Dutch Baby if there were no babies in it? Either way, it sounds like a conspiracy to me and I'm probably going to be making my first foray into cannibalism. Wish me luck.
Anyway, Boyfriend walked in on me blogging in my corner and it was kind of like I had been caught eating an entire cake by myself or shooting up heroin or something. He was like "Are you blogging??"
Me: "Yes. And you can't stop me."
Boyfriend: "I wasn't trying to stop you."
Me: "Good. Because if you did try, you would not succeed."
Boyfriend: "What are you blogging about?"
Me: "About how I'm like Wolverine but actually I'm not like Wolverine because I'm more like the guy who can turn into a chicken. But I can't turn into a chicken."
Boyfriend: "I see... so you can't turn into a chicken?"
Me: "No. But I can do a pretty good chicken impression."
Boyfriend: "Prove it."
Me: :> (That's the emoticon for "impressively accurate chicken impression")
Boyfriend: "If you don't put a picture of yourself doing that on your blog, I will be angry and I will stop loving you. And I will set you on fire."
Well, he didn't actually say that last part, but that was my interpretation of what he meant when he said "You should put a picture of that on your blog." His face is really what did all the talking.
At any rate, I don't know if it would be a good idea to try to cram my first experience of cannibalism, the realization that I am more like a chicken than Wolverine, the demise of my relationship and being set on fire all into one day... So I'm posting the chicken picture:
If you look really closely, you can tell I'm not actually a chicken. I'm just pretending and it's nowhere near good enough to be considered a superpower. Yet.
I Bet This is Exactly What Blogs are Intended For
Boyfriend was like "I don't know if multiple posts consisting almost entirely of the same picture of Rick Moranis is something that other people will find funny..."
I beg to differ...
I beg to differ...
Another Post on Christmas Eve? I'm Pretty Much a Hero
False alarm. It's just another picture of Rick Moranis.
If This Post Doesn't Convince You To Subscribe to my Blog, I Don't Know What Will
Legend has it that many bloggers don't post very much during the holidays. I was like "I'm not going to be like that... I'm going to be the best blogger ever! I'm going to post three times a day!"
And here I am, on Christmas eve, posting a picture of Rick Moranis:
And here I am, on Christmas eve, posting a picture of Rick Moranis:
Consider it an early Christmas present.
You're welcome.
12 Emoticons for the Advanced Writer
Have you ever been overcome with an emotion but unable to find the right emoticon to express yourself? The answer is yes. And I'm going to help you.
*:0 = "MY FACE IS ON FIRE!!!!"
!,! = "Hi. I am a rabbit"
% = "I feel like I am a mosquito looking directly at you."
|:( = "I am displeased with my unibrow."
<:( = "Pointy hats make me sad."
>:( = "Now my hat is upside-down and I don't feel any better about it."
(::::) = "I feel like I am the underside of a pregnant dog."
:0& = "I LOVE PRETZELS!!!! NOM! NOM! NOM!"
:*( = "You make me cry sparkly tears."
{:| = "I am a Frenchman."
Q:| = "I'm Davy fucking Crockett."
:$ = "I am trying to look unimpressed, but someone drew a squiggly mouth over my real mouth and this must be terribly confusing for you. I am sorry."
*:0 = "MY FACE IS ON FIRE!!!!"
!,! = "Hi. I am a rabbit"
% = "I feel like I am a mosquito looking directly at you."
|:( = "I am displeased with my unibrow."
<:( = "Pointy hats make me sad."
>:( = "Now my hat is upside-down and I don't feel any better about it."
(::::) = "I feel like I am the underside of a pregnant dog."
:0& = "I LOVE PRETZELS!!!! NOM! NOM! NOM!"
:*( = "You make me cry sparkly tears."
{:| = "I am a Frenchman."
Q:| = "I'm Davy fucking Crockett."
:$ = "I am trying to look unimpressed, but someone drew a squiggly mouth over my real mouth and this must be terribly confusing for you. I am sorry."
Shit That's a Lot of Toys... (A Christmas Story)
When I was young, I always looked forward to receiving the Oriental Trading Company catalog in the mail. The Oriental Trading Company catalog was magical. You could get 200 toys for under twenty dollars. Yes, they would probably be tiny, rubber pieces of fruit. Or plastic whistles shaped like pianos. And they would probably have faces. And the faces would look like they were painted by a thumbless epileptic with a depth-perception problem, but you could get TWO-HUNDRED of them. OH. MY. GOD. How awesome would it be to have 200 toys?
My mom would hand us the Halloween or Thanksgiving edition of the Oriental Trading Company catalog and ask us to circle the toys that we wanted for Christmas. She learned early on that if she waited for the Christmas edition to come out, we wouldn't get our toys until April and she would have to buy us emergency-replacement toys from K-Mart to keep us from leveraging the injustice whenever we wanted a puppy.
I spent hours studying the Oriental Trading Company catalog's glossy pages, trying to figure out how to obtain the most toys possible. My mind raced with the possibilities: "If my mom has one hundred dollars and I am willing to overlook the fact that my toys will probably be an assortment of random objects with monstrously deformed faces painted onto them, I can get... let's see... ONE THOUSAND TOYS!!!"
I would try to bargain with myself and work out exactly the right ratio of quality to quantity, but it is hard to argue with quantity and greed almost always won out.
On Christmas morning, I would feel so self-satisfied, knowing that I had maximized the number of presents I would get to unwrap. I remember watching my sister unwrap the two or three expensive items that she selected from Oriental Trading Company and thinking "She's so stupid. I'm going to get at least two-hundred times as many toys as her..."
Three days later, my sister would be playing contentedly with her super-deluxe farm animal play-set and I would be eyeing her with jealously, having run out of ideas for how to have fun with two hundred plastic banana-whistles.
My mom would hand us the Halloween or Thanksgiving edition of the Oriental Trading Company catalog and ask us to circle the toys that we wanted for Christmas. She learned early on that if she waited for the Christmas edition to come out, we wouldn't get our toys until April and she would have to buy us emergency-replacement toys from K-Mart to keep us from leveraging the injustice whenever we wanted a puppy.
I spent hours studying the Oriental Trading Company catalog's glossy pages, trying to figure out how to obtain the most toys possible. My mind raced with the possibilities: "If my mom has one hundred dollars and I am willing to overlook the fact that my toys will probably be an assortment of random objects with monstrously deformed faces painted onto them, I can get... let's see... ONE THOUSAND TOYS!!!"
The situation became slightly more complicated when I reached the plush toy section of the catalog and noticed that I could get twelve zoo-animal puppets for twenty dollars. I wanted the zoo animals. I really did. But for the same price, I could get almost ten times as many "assorted toys." This was a weighty decision for a nine-year-old.
On Christmas morning, I would feel so self-satisfied, knowing that I had maximized the number of presents I would get to unwrap. I remember watching my sister unwrap the two or three expensive items that she selected from Oriental Trading Company and thinking "She's so stupid. I'm going to get at least two-hundred times as many toys as her..."
Three days later, my sister would be playing contentedly with her super-deluxe farm animal play-set and I would be eyeing her with jealously, having run out of ideas for how to have fun with two hundred plastic banana-whistles.
Long Division Isn't Real
I was looking through my unpublished entries this morning and I found this:
4th grade – The year I was homeschooled. Mom had to bribe me with strawberry-orange-banana juice to get me to do my shoolwork.
4th grade – The year I was homeschooled. Mom had to bribe me with strawberry-orange-banana juice to get me to do my shoolwork.
Mom had a psychological breakdown over teaching me long division. I hated long division because it looked more like dance-choreography than math and I was pretty sure that it wasn't actually real and my mom was just fucking with me for entertainment.
My mom was like "First, you draw a line with a little hang-y tail! Then you write the big number inside the little half-box. Then you write the little number on the outside! Now, divide the the little number into the littlest part of the big number that is at least as big as the little number. It probably won't fit exactly, but that's okay. Figure out how many times it fits all the way and write that number on top of the box. Now, write the number that the little number does fit into underneath the number that it doesn't fit into and subtract them. Then draw a line. Then write your answer under the line. Then bring the next number in the big number down next to the number you just wrote. Then hop on one foot and punch yourself in the face while singing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star... "
IT DOESN'T MAKE ANY SENSE!!! Why would anyone do that with numbers?
To this day I am resentful of that stupid half-box with the little hang-y tail. It should never have gotten involved in math. It drastically altered my ability to take math seriously.
P.S. I'll write a real post for you later today.
Ouch. Why?
I injured myself yesterday. You might be wondering if this injury occurred while I was rescuing a child from a burning building, but no. It didn't. What happened was that initially, my head was facing straight forward. Then I decided that I needed to look at something to the right of myself and I turned my head in that direction so as to center the object in my visual field. And then God was like "You shall be punished for this!!!!!!" and He sucker-punched me right between the shoulder blades. And then He whipped out his switchblade and started stabbing me in the spine and I was like "OH GOD NO! WHAT DID I DO??? I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY THIS IS HAPPENING TO ME!!" And then God kicked me in the neck for questioning His decisions.
So there I was, writhing on the floor in agony and then I realized that writhing was making it worse, so I stopped writhing and settled for contorting my face into an expression that said "This is ouchie... please make it stop." But that also seemed to aggravate the wounds that God inflicted upon me so I tried to lie perfectly still but I still had to beat my heart and it is completely unfair when beating your heart is painful. That's like being stabbed every time you don't die. Or something. I guess I pretty much just described normal stabbing. But that's what it's like. And it is unfair.
I eventually got bored with lying on the floor, so I tried to crawl to my couch. You know those scenes in war movies where the soldier is bleeding from every possible surface on his body and his face is covered in blood and dirt and there are explosions all around him and he probably won't make it but he's trying to crawl to safety anyway? And then he gets shot one more time and you think he's dead, but no. He's still crawling? I think I finally know how that feels. And aspirin doesn't fix it.
Here is the place where I ask all of the people who only recently discovered my blog to go and read this post instead. Surprisingly, you will respect me a lot more that way. Please do it. For both of us.
Anyway, I'm really, really, really obscenely bored today because I can't do anything at all except for sit with awkwardly rigid posture. And type. And I can't even type very well because typing involves looking at my computer screen and that means that I have to tilt my head slightly downward. Oh, and I'm high on Lortab.
EDIT: And then I posted a totally inappropriate Christmas card and I admitted to having enjoyed playing Magic: The Gathering when I was young and I thought it was all going to be hilarious but actually it was like this one time when I told my ex-boyfriend's mom a joke about a dead hooker and apparently she wasn't really all that enthusiastic about dead-hooker jokes. Anyway, then my high kind of turned paranoid and I decided to delete all that stuff until I can decide whether or not it was actually as terrible as I think it is right now. You're welcome.
P.S. If you didn't get to see the things that I posted before, I am sorry. However , the possiblity exists that I will wake up tomorrow and go "Oh, that wasn't so bad... it's not like I talked about how I used to have a crush on Rick Moranis..." and then maybe I'll decide to repost it. Maybe.
UPDATE: Okay Veronica... I'll post one picture. Just one. And only because you are my internet girlfriend. Do you want the inappropriate Christmas card or one of the four Magic cards I edited myself into? Choose wisely.
Veronica chose the Christmas card:
Can you believe I'm giving this to you for free?? It probably would be best to print this out and send it to your loved ones with no return address and no signature. Please also consider including a single dollar bill. The recipient will wonder "What am I being paid for? Why just one dollar? Is this a tip or something? OH GOD WHAT IS IT FOR????"
UPDATE: Okay... FINE.
So there I was, writhing on the floor in agony and then I realized that writhing was making it worse, so I stopped writhing and settled for contorting my face into an expression that said "This is ouchie... please make it stop." But that also seemed to aggravate the wounds that God inflicted upon me so I tried to lie perfectly still but I still had to beat my heart and it is completely unfair when beating your heart is painful. That's like being stabbed every time you don't die. Or something. I guess I pretty much just described normal stabbing. But that's what it's like. And it is unfair.
I eventually got bored with lying on the floor, so I tried to crawl to my couch. You know those scenes in war movies where the soldier is bleeding from every possible surface on his body and his face is covered in blood and dirt and there are explosions all around him and he probably won't make it but he's trying to crawl to safety anyway? And then he gets shot one more time and you think he's dead, but no. He's still crawling? I think I finally know how that feels. And aspirin doesn't fix it.
Here is the place where I ask all of the people who only recently discovered my blog to go and read this post instead. Surprisingly, you will respect me a lot more that way. Please do it. For both of us.
Anyway, I'm really, really, really obscenely bored today because I can't do anything at all except for sit with awkwardly rigid posture. And type. And I can't even type very well because typing involves looking at my computer screen and that means that I have to tilt my head slightly downward. Oh, and I'm high on Lortab.
EDIT: And then I posted a totally inappropriate Christmas card and I admitted to having enjoyed playing Magic: The Gathering when I was young and I thought it was all going to be hilarious but actually it was like this one time when I told my ex-boyfriend's mom a joke about a dead hooker and apparently she wasn't really all that enthusiastic about dead-hooker jokes. Anyway, then my high kind of turned paranoid and I decided to delete all that stuff until I can decide whether or not it was actually as terrible as I think it is right now. You're welcome.
P.S. If you didn't get to see the things that I posted before, I am sorry. However , the possiblity exists that I will wake up tomorrow and go "Oh, that wasn't so bad... it's not like I talked about how I used to have a crush on Rick Moranis..." and then maybe I'll decide to repost it. Maybe.
UPDATE: Okay Veronica... I'll post one picture. Just one. And only because you are my internet girlfriend. Do you want the inappropriate Christmas card or one of the four Magic cards I edited myself into? Choose wisely.
Veronica chose the Christmas card:
Can you believe I'm giving this to you for free?? It probably would be best to print this out and send it to your loved ones with no return address and no signature. Please also consider including a single dollar bill. The recipient will wonder "What am I being paid for? Why just one dollar? Is this a tip or something? OH GOD WHAT IS IT FOR????"
UPDATE: Okay... FINE.
Urban Dictionary Thinks I'm an Alien Clown. Also? A Blow Job
When you find yourself in the midst of an existential crisis, it is often helpful to consult the internet. The internet is just full of useful ways to find out who you are.
For example, I can go to Urban Dictionary and type in "Allie" and it will tell me all about myself and what exactly I mean to the world:
Confusing? Yes. True? Probably. But maybe I'll look a little further for clarification...
Nope.
Maybe if I try my last name...
That is informative but completely unhelpful. I shall keep looking.
Really, internet? Really?
There has got to be a better definition...
I'll take it!
UPDATE: I Googled "Allie looks like" and this is a sampling of what came up:
UPDATE: I Googled "Allie looks like" and this is a sampling of what came up:
Fuck you, Internet. What does "Allie is like the John Galt of professional sex" even mean?
It's Like There Was a Zombie Apocalypse and Then There Was Something That Came Along and Got Rid of The Zombies and Now it's Just Me and Boyfriend
At around midnight last night, it started snowing. A lot.
I got absurdly excited about it. I was like "Ohmigoditssnowingletsgoforawalkrightnow!!!!" And Boyfriend was like "It's 12:30 AM..." and I was like "So? We need to go to the grocery store anyway." And then Boyfriend looked at me like he just caught me eating eating paste off of the floor and there was this tense little moment like that time in first grade when a little Mexican boy joined your class and you were like "Hi!" and he said "Hola! Hoy es Miercoles!" and you were like "oh shit... what do I do? I'm only six! I am not prepared for this!"and then you realize that you and this person are desk-buddies because he can't speak English and you can't write R's and suddenly you are forced to find a way to communicate through crude hand-gestures and grunting noises and pretty soon you've invented an entirely new language and you still can't make R's and Paco still can't speak English but it's okay because you understand one another and that's all that matters.
My point is that after staring at me in silence for a few long moments in which I am sure he questioned some of his life decisions, Boyfriend was like "Fine."
So Boyfriend got all bundled up while I checked to make sure everything was unplugged because I didn't want the house to catch on fire while we were gone and then I got dressed while Boyfriend sat on the couch in his snow-clothes looking like he was on some sort of detonation timer and if the timer went off we would no longer be allowed to go for a walk, so I put my hat and gloves on really fast and then I was like "I'm ready!" and Boyfriend sighed and heaved himself off of the couch and we walked outside and there was already like, three inches of snow on the ground!
Boyfriend wanted to stop and take pictures of the snow and the pretty lights, but I was so excited that I took off running:
And then I stopped because I had a really good idea and I yelled "Hey! You should take a picture of me so I can put it on my blog!" And Boyfriend yelled back "Yeah, I already kind of did that because you ran into the frame." And then I was like "Well, you should take another one because I wasn't looking at the camera." And then boyfriend sighed and I could actually hear it from that far away. I guess it was more of an anguished grunt.
Anyway, that's Main Street in downtown Hamilton, MT on a Saturday night. It's pretty much just like Las Vegas except with fewer fountains.
We got to the grocery store, and guess what?
I got absurdly excited about it. I was like "Ohmigoditssnowingletsgoforawalkrightnow!!!!" And Boyfriend was like "It's 12:30 AM..." and I was like "So? We need to go to the grocery store anyway." And then Boyfriend looked at me like he just caught me eating eating paste off of the floor and there was this tense little moment like that time in first grade when a little Mexican boy joined your class and you were like "Hi!" and he said "Hola! Hoy es Miercoles!" and you were like "oh shit... what do I do? I'm only six! I am not prepared for this!"and then you realize that you and this person are desk-buddies because he can't speak English and you can't write R's and suddenly you are forced to find a way to communicate through crude hand-gestures and grunting noises and pretty soon you've invented an entirely new language and you still can't make R's and Paco still can't speak English but it's okay because you understand one another and that's all that matters.
My point is that after staring at me in silence for a few long moments in which I am sure he questioned some of his life decisions, Boyfriend was like "Fine."
So Boyfriend got all bundled up while I checked to make sure everything was unplugged because I didn't want the house to catch on fire while we were gone and then I got dressed while Boyfriend sat on the couch in his snow-clothes looking like he was on some sort of detonation timer and if the timer went off we would no longer be allowed to go for a walk, so I put my hat and gloves on really fast and then I was like "I'm ready!" and Boyfriend sighed and heaved himself off of the couch and we walked outside and there was already like, three inches of snow on the ground!
Boyfriend wanted to stop and take pictures of the snow and the pretty lights, but I was so excited that I took off running:
Anyway, that's Main Street in downtown Hamilton, MT on a Saturday night. It's pretty much just like Las Vegas except with fewer fountains.
We got to the grocery store, and guess what?
Not open.
Someone should tell them that it probably isn't good business to close at noon because they'll miss the dinner rush.
Boyfriend said "Well, what should we do?" And I was like "We could go to Super One..." and Boyfriend said "Super One is like nine miles away" but really it's only one and a half miles away and I told him that and he made that same tortured grunting noise but I think he was secretly excited about walking all the way to Super One because who wouldn't be?
When you live in a town this small, late-night walks are a pretty surreal experience. It wouldn't have been hard to pretend that we were the only two people left in the world:
We finally arrived at Super One. Even the inside of the grocery store felt like it was part of an alternate universe:
And there was some guy in that alternate universe who had the unfortunate job of stocking shelves at 2:00 AM but nevertheless he took his job really seriously and prepared for his shift like a fucking champion:
... with an energy drink and 64-ounces of gatorade.
I saw the guy wandering around in the store. He looked like Gollum. He was a creature of the night, dressed all in black save for the red "Anarchy" symbol that was safety-pinned to the back of his ratty T-shirt. Unlike Gollum, this man was fucking purposeful. He walked like you'd walk if you had just found out that your hot wife was giving birth to twin eagles but before you could go to her side, you had to save the earth from aliens and then the camera panned out and you started walking in slow motion to some Rage Against the Machine song and then you turned into Will Smith and you fucking brought it and the aliens were like "daaaaaayumm, we should never have attacked Earth... our bad." And then you turned into William Wallace for a second and yelled "FREEEDOM!!!!!!!!" and then you turned back into Will Smith, only this time you were also part Samuel L. Jackson and you pumped some alien ass full of lead because that's what you were born to do.
That's how this guy walked. Only more than that.
I felt reassured that if I actually was one of the only people left on Earth, this guy would be able to protect my ass from ALL the shit.
Boyfriend and I made our purchase (yogurt, an economy-sized box of candy canes, almond bark, Craisins and justice) and began the return trip.
Somewhere along the way, we came across a parking lot that was covered in completely undisturbed snow. This is what Boyfriend did:
And this is what I did:
Don't try to read that. It doesn't say anything because it's just random running.
Boyfriend was like "Hey Allie! Look what I made for you!" I looked at what Boyfriend made and then I glanced over my shoulder at what I had made, and there was clearly an incongruity between the two. In my head I was like "Touché, Boyfriend... you win this time. But I will get you... I will get you."
Okay, I'm getting tired of thinking of transitions between all of these pictures because you can only say "and then we kept walking" so many times before it just sounds weird. So I'm just going to skip over all the walking bits and show you the exciting bits without any context whatsoever. Okay, maybe a little context. But not enough.
This is the only Internet Service Provider in town:
That's the front of the building. I'm not tricking you by taking a picture from some alleyway and then saying "Oh look how ghetto and rape-y this place is!" No. This is the real deal. If we look a little closer, we can see this in the window:
You can't see it very clearly because I had to use the flash (I'll take a picture in the daylight at some point), but it says (and I quote) "THe ol' Peek Hole!" And "Peek" is underlined once. "Hole" is underline twice. And yes, there is an exclamation point there.
You can see why rape may have been a legitimate concern when Boyfriend and I were getting our internet installed.
Anyway, it is probably not fashionable to end one's blog posts talking about rape, so here are a few more pictures. Forget about the rape part.
It has warmed up considerable since last week!
That's Boyfriend holding a crossing flag. There aren't real crosswalks in our town. You have to flag down traffic your damn self.
Okay. The End.
Nevermind. I lied. There is one more thing. THIS is a clone of my blog that I test things on before editing this site. Brian (the vigilante hero of courage and justice and now web-design too) has been helping me figure out how to solve my layout problems and it looks like he did a really good job of it. If you were having problems viewing before, would you please visit the link and let me know if the layout Brian made looks okay on your computer? Thank you. And now Brian has eleven trillion points because he spent all night helping me with my blog and he even sent me cat pictures.
Now it's the end.
Yet Another Good Example of Why I Shouldn't Blog at 2:30 in the Morning
Boyfriend and I watched a movie tonight and the movie had Michael Cera in it. During the movie, Boyfriend said "You totally have a crush on Michael Cera..." and I was like "Yeah."
Two hours later:
Boyfriend: "On a scale of one to ten, how much do you love me?"
Me: "Eleven million."
Boyfriend: "On a scale of one to ten, how much do you love Michael Cera?"
Me: "Nine."
Boyfriend: "That's not a big gap."
Me: "Yeah. Especially not when you factor in how long I've known you versus how long I've known Michael Cera. Are you jealous?"
Boyfriend: "No."
Me: "What if I was like 'I want to bone Michael Cera'?"
Boyfriend: "I wouldn't take you very seriously because you can't even say it with a straight face."
And then I looked Boyfriend straight in the face and without even a whisper of a smile I said "I want to bone Michael Cera." And then Boyfriend asked me if I was thinking about dead kittens because I usually think about dead kittens when I'm trying to keep a straight face, and I was all "Yeah"and Boyfriend was like "So you just said 'I want to bone Michael Cera' while you were thinking about dead kittens?"
And yes. Yes I did.
Anyway, I have found that matters of the heart are best solved with statistics. If I truly hope to figure out whether I like Boyfriend or Michael Cera better, I'm going to have to crunch some numbers.
Figures and Charts:
Two hours later:
Boyfriend: "On a scale of one to ten, how much do you love me?"
Me: "Eleven million."
Boyfriend: "On a scale of one to ten, how much do you love Michael Cera?"
Me: "Nine."
Boyfriend: "That's not a big gap."
Me: "Yeah. Especially not when you factor in how long I've known you versus how long I've known Michael Cera. Are you jealous?"
Boyfriend: "No."
Me: "What if I was like 'I want to bone Michael Cera'?"
Boyfriend: "I wouldn't take you very seriously because you can't even say it with a straight face."
And then I looked Boyfriend straight in the face and without even a whisper of a smile I said "I want to bone Michael Cera." And then Boyfriend asked me if I was thinking about dead kittens because I usually think about dead kittens when I'm trying to keep a straight face, and I was all "Yeah"and Boyfriend was like "So you just said 'I want to bone Michael Cera' while you were thinking about dead kittens?"
And yes. Yes I did.
Anyway, I have found that matters of the heart are best solved with statistics. If I truly hope to figure out whether I like Boyfriend or Michael Cera better, I'm going to have to crunch some numbers.
Figures and Charts:
Figure 1:
After careful analysis, it looks like Boyfriend wins 4 to 3. Unless he turns out to be a rapist. But if Boyfriend and Michael Cera both turn out to be rapists, Boyfriend still wins.
Figure 2:
It still appears that Boyfriend has a slight lead over Michael Cera and the trend would indicate that my affection for Boyfriend will continue to stay high while my affection for Michael Cera is mostly dependent on whether or not I've recently seen a movie that he was in.
But how do Boyfriend and Micheal Cera fair when compared to all of the other things I love?
Figure 3:
It still appears that Boyfriend beats Micheal Cera by a slim margin and he beats that one part in "Midnight Train" by an even slimmer margin. In fact, the chart would indicate that when "Midnight Train" is combined with my favorite part of "Midnight Train," the resulting section takes up over 35% of my capacity for love.
Well, I'm going to try to go to bed because being nocturnal doesn't appear to be good for my blog. Also, Boyfriend went to bed about an hour ago and he was like "I'm going to bed." And then I was like "I'm going to google Michael Cera" and Boyfriend was like "I doubt Michael Cera will protect you from the orcs in the meth-cellar..." which is probably true.
P.S. Okay FINE, Technorati, here are your precious numbers: TJ3VMN5RS9YE
THEY WERE IN MY ROOM THE WHOLE TIME!!!!!!!
Oh my God, you guys:
(If you were confused by that picture and/or didn't recognize it, go HERE first.)
How did I not see it before? (tilt screen back a little when you are looking at the first picture... those are 100% genuine ice-monsters)
UPDATE #2: This is yet another good example of why I love you guys:
Comment from CWD:
"I have been thinking about your Ice Monster Problem, or IMP as I like to think of it. The best solution to you IMP is a homemade flamethrower !
I know you are on a budget so I found a recipe for a $30 homemade flamethrower. It has two major advantages:
1. It’s cheap
2. It is as reliable as a $30 homemade flamethrower. I don’t see a downside.
There are some do’s and don’t’s (see how I had me some fun there at Mr. Apostrophe’s expense?) I think you should consider when operating your $30 homemade flamethrower when dealing with your IMP. Here they are:
DO: wear Bruce so the IM’s (and Orcs! can’t forget them) know you’re serious.
DON’T: ever ever ever say “hey, watch this!” before firing your flamethrower. Saying “hey, watch this!” the most common cause of death or high temperature traumatic exfoliation known to science, this is followed closely by “here, hold my beer”.
DON’T: target IM’s already inside your house, unless, and this is important, you have a bottle of cheap whiskey and a sombrero. See: final scene of John Carpenter’s “The Thing”.
DON’T: for the love of all that is holy watch any of John Carpenter’s “The Thing” but that last scene! Consider the last scene scientific research. This is for your protection, Allie. The Alien DNA stealing touch monsters will horrify you. Based on your reaction to LOTR, you will never willing touch another living thing after viewing JC’s “The Thing”.
DON’T: target Orcs except under controlled conditions. While it’s been my experience that while IM’s get all moan-y and melt-y when hit with a $30 homemade flamethrower, Orcs tend to get scream-y and run-y. They may spread fire in an uncontrolled manner. Once again the cheap whiskey and sombrero exemption applies.
On reviewing this list I am surprised to note that I can only think of one “do” and four “don’t’s” (suck it Mr. Apostrophe! I snicker meanly at you!) to consider when using a $30 homemade flamethrower.
Allie, keep in mind that I usually don’t offer weapons or defense advice, I normally consider it rather psychotic and even a little sad, but you sound as if you have a serious IMP on your hands and I care. Please be safe when using your $30 homemade flamethrower.
Best regards,
CWD"
This almost makes me feel normal. Until I realize that I just Googled "How to make a flame-thrower for under $10" because I don't really have $30 and then I was all disappointed when I couldn't find anything within my price range because PVC pipe is fucking expensive, especially when you have to line it with molten lead.
=
How did I not see it before? (tilt screen back a little when you are looking at the first picture... those are 100% genuine ice-monsters)
Also, I want to thank you guys for so many reasons not the least of which includes alerting me to the existence of ice monsters and pointing out that yeah, maybe I should have looked behind me while I was flipping off my window.
If it was not for you guys, I would have never known that there are ceramic space heaters that DON'T SET THINGS ON FIRE, or that there are plastic sheets that you can melt onto your windows with a hair dryer and then your house will be warmer. Or that there are probably already rapists and murderers hiding in my room and I'm going to die anyway so why not just sleep in the meth-cellar? Or that I can use toothpaste to blind the rapists and murderers that are hiding in my room and/or meth-cellar when/if they attack me so I'm pretty much invincible. Or that, duh, I should use Bruce to stay warm because there's nothing quite as thermally protective as a Snuggie-dragon. Or that all orcs are rapist-cannibals who also hunger for human flesh, not just the orcs that live in my basement. Or that there are some places in the world where it is 60 degrees right now and maybe if I ask nice enough I can come visit.
Oh, and I didn't choose to live in Montana, per se. It just kind of happened. Like diabetes or getting involved in a game of Risk.
UPDATE: Okay Sarah P, I'm putting ads in my feed. And maybe I'll put AdSense on this blog for a few days just to see what kind of targeted ads it comes up with. I guarantee that there will be some ads for hentai if ads for hentai exist.
UPDATE #2: This is yet another good example of why I love you guys:
Comment from CWD:
"I have been thinking about your Ice Monster Problem, or IMP as I like to think of it. The best solution to you IMP is a homemade flamethrower !
I know you are on a budget so I found a recipe for a $30 homemade flamethrower. It has two major advantages:
1. It’s cheap
2. It is as reliable as a $30 homemade flamethrower. I don’t see a downside.
There are some do’s and don’t’s (see how I had me some fun there at Mr. Apostrophe’s expense?) I think you should consider when operating your $30 homemade flamethrower when dealing with your IMP. Here they are:
DO: wear Bruce so the IM’s (and Orcs! can’t forget them) know you’re serious.
DON’T: ever ever ever say “hey, watch this!” before firing your flamethrower. Saying “hey, watch this!” the most common cause of death or high temperature traumatic exfoliation known to science, this is followed closely by “here, hold my beer”.
DON’T: target IM’s already inside your house, unless, and this is important, you have a bottle of cheap whiskey and a sombrero. See: final scene of John Carpenter’s “The Thing”.
DON’T: for the love of all that is holy watch any of John Carpenter’s “The Thing” but that last scene! Consider the last scene scientific research. This is for your protection, Allie. The Alien DNA stealing touch monsters will horrify you. Based on your reaction to LOTR, you will never willing touch another living thing after viewing JC’s “The Thing”.
DON’T: target Orcs except under controlled conditions. While it’s been my experience that while IM’s get all moan-y and melt-y when hit with a $30 homemade flamethrower, Orcs tend to get scream-y and run-y. They may spread fire in an uncontrolled manner. Once again the cheap whiskey and sombrero exemption applies.
On reviewing this list I am surprised to note that I can only think of one “do” and four “don’t’s” (suck it Mr. Apostrophe! I snicker meanly at you!) to consider when using a $30 homemade flamethrower.
Allie, keep in mind that I usually don’t offer weapons or defense advice, I normally consider it rather psychotic and even a little sad, but you sound as if you have a serious IMP on your hands and I care. Please be safe when using your $30 homemade flamethrower.
Best regards,
CWD"
This almost makes me feel normal. Until I realize that I just Googled "How to make a flame-thrower for under $10" because I don't really have $30 and then I was all disappointed when I couldn't find anything within my price range because PVC pipe is fucking expensive, especially when you have to line it with molten lead.