Tag Archives: ridiculousness

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!


Happy Anniversary!


To me. Not you. WordPress helpfully reminded me I’ve had this blog for 2 years. Which helpfully reminded me I haven’t posted in more than 2 weeks. Which then gave me guilt, which is now making me feel sad.

Theoretically, I really am going to post more things. I mean, I’ve been drawing. But I took a few days off for my birthday, but then it turns out that the universe hates it when you act 7 instead of 34 and so it punishes you with Honk Donkey Flumoniantery Ebola Pox. And then, once you’re finally over that, you’ll have a fantastic migraine because screw you for not being an adult for 3 days, apparently.

Then WP will tell you you’ve been blogging here for 2 years and you’ll wind up with the aforementioned guilt and depression and find yourself typing up an entry so that the universe doesn’t decide to dump another plague on your head.

Can I quit now? I wrote, um, several words. That’s totally enough, right? Several?

I have no idea how many I’ve written because while you’re not seeing this till mid-day, I actually wrote it at butt:30 because that’s just how I roll.  Actually, in the interest of full disclosure, it’s butt:35 now and might be a different time by the point I actually click all of the settings. So I’m writing all of this in the far distant past.

Turns out time travel isn’t nearly as cool as we hoped.  :/

P. S. After looking at past tags I’ve used, I now want ice cream. I blame all of you.

Yes, But That’s Stupid


That’s what I WANTED to say on a FB post earlier, one that reminded me why I normally like to pretend that FB doesn’t exist. This one was about something forgettable, but I realized I want to say it a LOT when I’m on Facebook.  Twitter, on the other hand, is full of brilliant and witty people with whom I actually engage in useful discussions.  Social media is awesome, except when it sucks.

Moving on, though, to the real crux of this post.  It’s about Google.

Listen, Google. You do great work. You’re really good at what you’re good at.  Hell, I’m even using Chrome right now on my Mac because you nailed the browser thing. Nailed it. I was a beta tester for gmail. Remember those days?  Back when people had to use hotmail or Yahoo! just to talk to each other? Dark days, my friend. But then there was Gmail. There was light. And 1GB of space. I know that sounds silly now that you’ve given us, what, 15GB? And Google Drive? I even briefly considered acquiring a Chromebook at some point in the future before my iThings ganged up on me and threatened my survival. Anyway, I’m just saying that there are things you are really good at and you should stick to those things.

This is the awkward part, though.

You’re known for creative thinking. Innovation. Doing stuff in a different way.  That’s why I was really sad to see the Google Doodle on Monday.  I mean, I almost didn’t even mention it because, let’s face it, I’m afraid you’ll take away my data or something. You hold the power in this relationship.  But remember last week when I invented the Quantum Reactive Schröedinger’s  Pie cult? Last week. Like, before Monday.

Okay, I know I didn’t invent Schröedinger or the idea of quanta reacting differently on observation, but I did draw pictures about it. Like… three of them. Maybe it was two. I don’t know, Google; I’ve had a couple Klonopin smoothies since then and it’s a bit of a blur.  But the thing is Monday, I saw this:

You and I both know what you did. Is this a cry for help?

You and I both know what you did. Is this a cry for help?

Really, Google, you could at least have been subtle about it.  This is just blatant. I really feel like maybe you need to talk to someone. Have you called your mother? Google, we can get through this, but you have to stop cribbing off my blog. Just admit you have a problem and, I don’t know, Google something. See? That’s another thing you’re good at.  You don’t have to keep following me online.  It’s a little creepy, sometimes, really.  I’m sorry. It just had to be said.  I think we might need some time apart — except for email and searching and browsing and storing things online, I mean. But all that other time?  Yeah.  I need space.

It’ll be okay, Google.  But I’m not letting you borrow my iPad again.


Twitter Hates When I Tweet About Movies


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.

“Modesty” isn’t a virtue


Fake Pageant Daughters Are Hard



First, I forgot to mention in the last post that Audreya submitted the name for precious P.I.G., so she wins godmotherhood of the fake toddler (blogmotherhood?).  Anyway, whatever it is, she wins it. And the poll closed on her birthday, so double yay!

I looked at glitz photos — which are apparently a SUPER must have, not just a regular must have like every single other thing.  And instead of getting them airbrushed, I’m really thinking I’m just gonna have my toddler spackled and repainted.  That way she’s probably even weatherproofed.  Seems responsible because I tallied up how much of the fake budget I’m spending on something called a cupcake dress and holy wow, folks.  Fake pageant toddlers are investments.  I don’t want mine to …rust… or whatever toddlers do. Do they go off?  Maybe I should read up on that….

Speaking of that dress, though, I went to pintrest and created a board because I’m a responsible fake pageant toddler mom and that’s what you DO.  But there just are not enough rhinestones.  Seriously, not a single one of those poof-butt dresses will sear your retinas under traditional stage lighting and that just will not do. So I’m going to Hobby Lobby (because obviously that’s where Jesus would shop) and buying up all the rhinestones.

Is it illegal to affix the bling directly to the kid?  I mean, I’m not gonna use hot glue.  That’s just stupid and won’t last anyway.

I was thinking epoxy….

This is what happens when Twitter puts me in jail


I’m in Twitter jail right now — that’s the limit Twitter has in place theoretically for spammers but which lately just has me feeling like a child on the naughty step.  So it was time to either blog or play Candy Crush and, man, I’m still not over chocolate betraying me on Candy Crush, so I’m gonna blog some.  I shoulda done this before, actually, because I had a lot of great adventures like dog sitting (shut up; it was exciting) and watching BSG.

I think I’m gonna blog about BSG though because it’s like a decade old and if you’re like me and are just now getting to it, you’re probably already full of spoilers or you have no right to complain or you’re like 7 and what the hell are you doing watching BattleStar Galactica anyway, kid?  Where are your parents?

Not here, obviously.

So I’m actually taking a hiatus from mainlining BSG because once the cute nerd boy civilian dies, it’s clear that nobody’s safe that they kill everyone you love — just like Game of Thrones but with less incest and dragons.

Related:  I now side-eye my toaster when I walk into the kitchen. I just know one day I’m going to wake up and it’s going to be all sentient and fling hot bread at my face — and not even in a nice anticipatory way, but more in a “screw you AND your bagel” kind of way.  And that’s just sad.

Before BSG, I was livetweeting the Children of the Corn movies because did you know there are EIGHT of those things?  EIGHT.  I counted twice.  And Netflix has 7 of them. I  have no idea what CotC 2 did to make Netflix angry, but it’s not even offered.  Anyway, I watched all 7 in a 24 hour period.  Yes.  I have priorities, apparently, and very few of them involve more than “horror movies,” “Twitter,” and “bathroom breaks.”

Anyway, I learned that murder corn moos.  Did you know that?  That’s the sound of demon corn.  It MOOS.  And not just a regular moo.  It moos like the gut of a thousand constipated cows.  My theory is that if murder corn got eaten by cows, it couldn’t do all its murdering, so mooing is just a natural evolution.

I also learned that night-vision goggles let you see possessed ghosts of children.

And more than anything, I learned that if you make 8 movies about murder corn, by the 8th, YOU CAN’T EVEN KEEP THE CHARACTER OF THE MURDER CORN CONSISTENT.   This, to me, seems like the easiest one.  There’s corn.  It does murder.  It’s also in the title of ALL THE FILMS.  Children, well, okay — they occurred in all the films, but for different reasons and not always as slaves of the murder corn.  But then the murder corn couldn’t even decide if it was demon or alien or corporeal or what.  I was very disappointed in the lack of believability of the murder corn.

Then I watched all the Prophecy movies because I thought there were only 3, but there are really 5 and in the last 2, everyone is British.  That was really confusing, but it made them more awesome somehow.


I’d understand if I was being all spammy or something, but no. I was being legitimately awesome.  It would seem like there’d be an algorithmic exception for legitimate awesomeness.

So right now I’m listening to Harry Potter audiobooks because I am a grownup.  But while I remember staying up all night to read HP & the Deathly Hallows when it was released, these days, I think of it as “Harry Potter goes Camping for 75% of the book.” I seriously have the interminable camping sections cut out and the book still makes sense.  More sense, actually, because I don’t need to read about a British wizard trying to camp.

Oh, also?  Harry Potter (the character) is older than I am.  He was born July 31, 1978, which makes him a year and 17 days older than I am.  So now, he’s all married to Jenny and parenting kids and being an auror — which is like Wizard FBI — somewhere in or around London.  Or would be, if he weren’t fiction.

So anyway, this makes for a lot of odd mental images on re-reading.  Now when it talks about Dudley having a computer, I think of an old DOS desktop or Apple II and any game consoles are Atari or something similar.  So now I want to make a chronologically appropriate movie, but it wouldn’t sell.  But I’ll bet wizarding was way more impressive to people in the 80s.

Wizard:  Boom. I just made a cake float.

Modern human: Yeah? I have the internet in my pocket.  Oh, and I can measure protons.

Wizard:  Man.  Want some cake?

So Wizards have their purpose, but it’s mostly as cake delivery persons.

Oh, on a related note?  When I post an actual serious post about a verifiable mental disorder?  Don’t drop into my comments and hand me advice without reading the damn post. Every time you do that, God shanks a kitten.