Tag Archives: adventure

It’s Sportsball Season Again

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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!

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So you’re 34, today, huh?

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“So, what are you doing for the big day?”

“Drawing, playing Pottermore and eating cake!”

“…”

Seriously, if you ask me, your birthday should be last in the list of days on which you’re expected to behave like a grownup.

For my birthday, I’m about to go hang out with my brother, SIL and nieces. But when I was 16, I embraced the idea of a birthday month. So on Wednesday, I am going to do stuff with my best friends in the universe. And until sometime in mid-September, I’m going to act exactly as mature as I feel, which is more like the sum of 3 and 4 than the actual age 34.

ETA:  My spate of acting 7 is to blame for blog lag this week.  Sorry.  I’ve been really random.  But I’ll be back, possibly with pictures of cake. Or something.  ❤

I really don’t think that’s a good idea.

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I’m spending some of the time my brain hates me brushing up on languages I used to be really good at. Specifically, I’m working on my Spanish and my German skills. At the same time. Because I’m an idiot. (Also because they are two different families – Romantic & Germanic – and don’t have a lot of overlap in areas that would be confusing, such as if I were doing Spanish and Portugues, French, Italian or any of those other languages with fewer than 9,000 declensions per verb form.)

Originally, it was a little bit depressing because it showed me how much I’ve forgotten. But then I started getting into it and realized I hadn’t forgotten as much as I thought.

Still, I think the people writing the lessons might be on crack. I’m pretty sure that horses aren’t supposed to eat bread and that making a duck drink milk might actually be a felony in some states…. They also reminded me that the soldiers aren’t green, the baker will not dance and that my mother is not a priest. They have some strong opinions.

But who knows? Maybe ducks really LIKE milk and I just never noticed because I’m lactose intolerant. Wow. Way to be self-absorbed AND enzyme deficient, me.

I do know how to tell you a straight up lie in German. It involves children happily eating onions. I also had to declare repeatedly in both languages that I am a man. (I’m not. That I know of, at least. Shit. Maybe this language program knows something I don’t and is just waiting till I’m fluent enough for them to spring it on me that I’m a dude and just never noticed. Way to make me paranoid, LANGUAGE!)

Dammit.

Oh well.  I fully expect to be bilingual by the end of the week. That’s realistic, right?

I’m usually smarter

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A couple of weeks ago, I entered an argument with a wall about who had the right of way.  Physics decided to back up the wall because physics is a jerk. The results of this miscarriage of science were several very mean thoughts, a ridiculous headache and a pair of broken specs that I could not locate.

See, I’m extremely nearsighted. Legally blind, in fact.  If you take away my glasses, the world disappears.  This doesn’t make you David Copperfield, though; it just makes my eyes pretty useless without adequate backup.  Did I mention this whole thing happened during an attempted potty break at 3 a.m.?  That might be TMI but it also kind of explains that it was dark and I didn’t shout words of anger at Newton just because it would have woken people up.  Because I’m considerate. Unlike science.  (The Jerk.)

I keep an emergency pair of older Rx glasses in a place I can reach even blindly because there are times I didn’t put my actual glasses where I thought I did when I fell asleep and therefore cannot function until they’re found.  But this happened on the other end of the house.  I had to navigate the entire obstacle course between my broken and unlocateable glasses and my not-broken, but not-particularly-useful glasses without any optical enhancement. In the dark.  I broke a toe.

I eventually located my old glasses, put them on my face and cursed because everything was only somewhat less blurry.  So this time, I hobbled half-blind, injured and cranky back across the dark house to locate broken glasses, assess the damage and attempt to fix them.  (I just really want to point out the jerkishness of science since I feel it played a vital role in making the night so miserable. Sorry all you science-lovers, but really, science is a jerk.)

If you cannot see, you should not attempt to glue things with any sort of permanent fixative.  Because due to the continued mean-spiritedness of science, they not only attach acetate earpieces to the rest of the frame, but they also attach your hand to the frame.  Possibly twice.  (Shut up.)

When your newly detached-from-your-hand glasses finish drying, you will put them on and realize that you have obviously done a very bad job.

Then you get to wait for almost 2 weeks for new glasses because science is a jerk and hasn’t invented teleportation yet.

So remember:  I’m not clumsy. Science is just a jerk.

It made more sense in my head….

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So there’s not really a post today, as you can tell because it’s all dark outside and I usually have a post up around lunchtime. But sometimes life demands that you take a day off.  Or possibly three.  And then life will troll you and you will accidentally have an allergic reaction, take a grown-up dose of benedryl by taking several pediatric melty tabs of benedryl and when your BFF wonders why you’re so out of it, you’ll tell her with a meaningful look, “ALL MY SKIN IS BEES” before falling dead asleep again.

Probably you didn’t have a stroke.  At least if you’re me.

And that’s a good thing. Which is really the lesson to take from this.  Not how to OD on baby benedryl. Because that is almost never a good idea.

Prosopagnosia sounds like something you order at Olive Garden

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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.

Hugs?

Twitter Hates When I Tweet About Movies

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No, really.

All I did was queue up a movie and when Netflix trolled me with every damn tearjerker from my childhood, I fought back.  (By the way, Netflix?  I NEVER WANT TO WATCH OL’ YELLER OR WHERE THE RED FERN GROWS!  WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU??)  *ahem*  I fought back, by an overwhelmingly unanimous 2 – 0 vote with watching and live tweeting Hellboy.  Yes I did.

I had never watched Hellboy.  No, you can’t have my geek card. I had to give it up when I admitted I hadn’t watched BSG until this year either.

Anyway, every time I try to do something FUN or AWESOME, Twitter flings me in Twitter Jail because Twitter is a jerk. I may be anthropomorphize the media platforms in my life, but WordPress doesn’t seem to mind so I don’t think I’m gonna stop any time soon.

If you haven’t seen Hellboy (which has been out for 9 years now, so shut up) probably stop reading about ….here.  ‘Cause I’m going to summarize everything about that movie and probably spoiler the hell out of it.

The story (according to the movie, not the comic; quit being pedantic and try to remember this is a humour blog, okay??) is essentially that during the fall of the Nazis and the end(ish) of WWII, there’s an island in the middle of nowhere that has nothing but bad weather, angry Germans and nervous sheep.  The angry Germans are screwing around with paranormal shit as they apparently did all the damn time because why not? Somehow, they implode some kind of intergalactic space anus and it shoots out a demon baby.  Then everything gets explodey and people start sprouting blades.  It’s really only one guy, but he moves pretty fast, so it seemed like everybody….

So when you’ve exploded all the Nazis, what do you do with the recently expelled space demon?  Keep him, duh.  And just so he doesn’t grow up with a complex, you feed him candy all the time and call him “Hellboy.”

Then there was blah, blah, blah romantic sub plot and Agent Sparky McBoyScout who basically got on everybody’s nerves by almost never being a compelling character.

Oh. There’s a lot of Rasputin and some aquatic variant of Sammael all mixed in here and an aquatic mutant called Abe Sapien who should really rule the world by now since he’s pretty brilliant, amphibious and basically the most British mutant possible.  But I digress.

What with all the Rasputin-ing going on, of course everybody ends up in Moscow with explosives and the bossy agent no one likes whom I’ve dubbed Agent Asshead.  He mostly exists to whine about things.

Hellboy straps a talking dead guy to his back to use as the creepiest GPS ever and they go look for Rasputin’s tomb because reasons. And of course it’s boobytrapped and full of things that murder in a really flashy way.  Everybody gets separated, nameless agent #1 dies pretty much immediately, Agent Asshead whines about things. Hellboy gets cranky.  Agent Boy Scout and Sparky the Flame Chick (Liz) go traipsing through a tunnel with Agent Nameless #2.  (He dies. FBI agents are like red shirts in the movie).

Agent Boy Scout and Sparky the Flame chick find a den of Aquatic Sammy demons and have a mild panic with Sparky apparently forgetting she can toss fire all over the place and that the aquatic demons aren’t flame proof.

Hellboy breaks stuff, Agent Asshead disappears without explanation and isn’t ever really addressed again. Sparky flames all the demons and passes out. Agent Boy Scout gets a hammer to the face, Sparky gets her soul ganked out by Raspy and Hellboy has to say his name so he can open the space demon hell gate and let all the evil through.

He half unlocks it, remembers he’s not a bad guy, Rasputin gives birth to a squid demon, Hellboy explodes it and then whispers Sparky back to life while Agent Boy Scout gives Significant Looks to the camera.

The end.