Category Archives: stuff i drew on my ipad

It’s Sportsball Season Again


Because it’s always sportsball season because Jesus doesn’t want me to be happy, I guess.

Anyway, I figured this was a perfect excuse opportunity to explain how much I don’t grok about any sportsball. Any. And what’s more, if you tried to explain it to me, honestly, I’m gonna start humming Pachabel’s Canon in D until you stop. If we’re both infinitely lucky, it’ll only be in my head. If you are passionate about sportsball, neither of us will be lucky.

The thing is, everything I know about any kind of sportsball I know because I had friends/family/whoever who was interested in it when I was younger and nearly all of my exposure to sportsball has been without my personal consent.  I had to be in the Pep Band to flute at people. I had to go to games featuring brothers or cousins or whatever because if you love family, you go and do things you hate because family.  I would read or take pictures or do pretty much anything that didn’t involve watching the “game” and it’s really left me with a cyclopedic knowledge of all things sportsball — if we define cyclopedic in this context as “patchy at best.” Mostly I just like the word cyclopedic and it’s my freaking blog.

(Speaking of, I have family humans who have snuck in without my knowledge. Everybody just act normal till they get bored and wander off, okay? NOBODY MENTION THE SQUID PORN.)

Anyway, I figured I’d open sportsball season (because it’s ALWAYS sportsball season) by explaining exactly how much I know about stick-puckey on ice. The NHL prefers we call it “hockey,” but that’s ridiculous. There’s not any kind of hock involved in stick-puckey on ice, while I can demonstrate precisely how much stick, puckey and ice are involved in stick-puckey on ice. My name is better; I win.

Did I mention the razor blades? Oh. Well, also razor blades.

Did I mention the razor blades? Oh. Well, also razor blades.

Stick puckey is what happens when people (in this case, Canada) decides to become a relatively peaceful nation. See, most humans aren’t actually peaceful by nature. They’re terrible. Or, okay, some of them. But instead of traipsing off and colonizing the rest of the world, Canada decided to start Stick Puckey. This is essentially what happens when you don’t do war, but you still want to hurt people. If you’re Canada, you look to your national resources — in this case, ice. What do you do with 78% of your country is made of ice and beavers and the beavers are all rabid? You start smacking people with sticks while dancing on razor blades. On ice.

The puck is there mostly to give some excuse for the violence. Don’t be fooled. It’s incidental. It was actually a pancake that fell onto the ice during the inaugural game and got written into the rules by accident.

I’ve had people try to explain “scoring” and “goals” and “leagues” and that kind of thing to me, to which I … blank out and star at their left ears till they shut up. Partly because I watched The Mighty Ducks and I don’t care what you say: stick puckey is absolutely about smacking people with sticks. I think the points are awarded for not actually killing people.

Join us next time when we’ll discuss another thing I don’t know about!


It seemed like a good idea at the time…


I live in Mordor, but I’m pretty sure I heard ice giants on the move….




I Don’t Know How It Happened….


So I was gonna blog about the whole twitter silence thing that I didn’t participate in for reasons. But I can’t do that thing right now because I FELL DOWN THE PRETTY LITTLE LIARS RABBIT HOLE.



Prosopagnosia sounds like something you order at Olive Garden


But it’s a thing — it’s a real, neurological thing.

I actually almost called this post, “No, you all really DO look alike to me” but I’m already going to the special hell for working on a stick figure tableau of the crucifixion….

Look, if we ever meet, chances are even if we meet several times, I will not know your name or know by sight that I’ve ever met you before. Even if you wear a nametag, I might be all “oh, hey, I know someone else with that name!” I suck at this.  It’s not that I’ve got a bad memory, it’s that faces don’t register in my brain for some reason. Probably, and this is my personal theory, it’s because God likes to troll me.

So faces don’t imprint.

I should never be allowed to be in charge of children. (I should never be allowed to be in charge of anything, really.  Me in charge of things is likely going to end in disappointment and alcoholism for everybody, so it’s better if it never happens.)

Jenny Lawson said all babies look alike to her and I’m so with her on this. But so do all toddlers, all adolescents and all adults. I might recognize a particular sparkly headband or remember that so-and-so has purple hair that is too anime to function, but faces are floating parts that fail to assemble in my long term memory. (This is why I draw stick figures, y’all….)

It's like this, but with more colours. Usually.

It’s like this, but with more colours. Usually.

But then I feel bad because somebody I’ve met 12 times in casual settings is offended when we have to go through that whole introduction ritual again because it doesn’t register that I’ve ever met this person before.  Seriously, people; if you want me to know you on sight, wear the same clothes all the time and never, ever cut your hair differently. Don’t change anything. Don’t even wear a ponytail.  And maybe on, like, the fifteenth meeting, I’ll know who you are.

So if we ever DO meet for the 37th time and I still don’t register that I’ve met you and just kind of look at you with a blank stare, it really is me, not you.  I’ve been this way my whole life; I called the wrong person dad more than once in the store and almost left a family get-together with the wrong nuclear unit. Mostly, I’m just gonna go around looking like this:

Note the blankest of stares.

Can you all just wear nametags or something?

And I’ll smile and hope I’m not offending you again for the billionth time and that this really is the first time I’ve asked you what your name is while you stare at me like I’m from an alternate dimension. But it’s not even limited to random people in my everyday life, either.  I can’t figure out actors, either.

I have a list of 3 actors that I recognize in everything and all three are Samuel L. Jackson. That’s why my movie reviews are full of stuff like “Brunette FBI guy #2” or other random nicknames I assign.  I can’t even recognize the same actor in a different role.  I was actually kind of freaked out when I learned that David Tennant (10th Doctor) was in Harry Potter (Barty Crouch, Jr.) and that Rory Pond’s Dad is Arthur Weasley.

So it’s not personal, I promise.  My brain is just broken in weirdass ways.


What now?




Things I doodled while dead


But which have no accompanying posts. But I’m posting them because I didn’t post anything for 2 of my self-appointed blogging days. Guilt + insomnia = doodles. You’re welcome?

These are not real. I joke about them. Do not mix, drink, die and/or sue me.

Ms. Appropriate, Ms. Adventure & Ms. Hazard prepare to kick back at 2013.

I don’t know. They seemed confused. I thought a picture might help.



I love terrible movies. Ridiculous horror movies are a natural antidepressant for me because as I’ve said before, no matter how terrible I feel, at least I’m not being stalked by preternatural corn demons. And some movies are terrible enough to be wonderful. Just look at the joy Sharknado brought Twitter last week! But then there are movies like Birdemic. I’m not even going to review it. I’m just gonna warn you away for your own good. Just say no. This is not a challenge. It is 1.5 hours of stilted dialogue & improbability that you will never get back. It makes Sharknado look like a science documentary. So instead of a review, I’ll leave you with this: