Tag Archives: snark

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.


Let’s Be Honest…


You guys are just here for the stick figures, right?

(By the way, 13 hour naps? Awesome. I advise 3/day. You might need a time turner.)

To be entirely too honest and realistic for a blog like this, I’m depressed at the moment, so stick figures may be a bit in short supply for a few updates. But I’ll keep updating because I have lots of snark. And a laptop. And Netflix. I think it’s impossible not to blog if you have those three ingredients. Pretty sure it was the earliest alchemical recipe.

So while I have no idea what I’ll be writing about here or whether there will be funny pictures, I do know that I’ll be writing and, sooner or later, there will be funny pictures again.  Right now I’d try to draw a picture of being depressed and that’s really just a lot like the picture of me melting in the heat.  It’s kind of a me puddle.

So the me puddle is gonna try not to melt into the bed beyond recovery and the you puddle can go along doing whatever you’re doing this weekend and next week we’ll see if we’re less puddly, deal?

I’d make you shake on it, but I don’t know you that well.

Also, I want a pretzel dog from Sonic. Just thought you should know.



So I’ve got two posts nearly finished and waiting to be posted, but they both need some more work.  One is about Introverts and the other is about “Good Words/Bad Words.”

To be honest, the words post is closer to finished.  But the post on introversion is gonna be cool.

So which do you want to see? ‘Cause I know you guys don’t come here for the startlingly witty prose or the terribly deep thoughts.  If that were the case, you’d be hanging out on my OTHER blog.  I’m pretty sure it’s all about the stick figures and snark here.

But seriously, if you have an opinion and want to let me know, that would be awesome because while WordPress tells me that you people exist and are actually reading stuff, none of you ever SAY anything and I’m beginning to wonder if WP isn’t just trolling me because it’s a brat like that.

(It is a brat.  I’ve got a double post here and a double post in the OTHER blog and I can’t delete either one because they both got linked by people elsewhere and deleting them would cause confusion and meh. But WordPress barfed them up twice and I still have no idea why.)

So wordpress trolling aside, do any of you actually say things?  Or are you spectres from the great beyond?  If so, can you please settle a debate for me? Because think Casanova was exaggerating and I think the rules are pretty clear that you have to fess up in the Great Beyond.  So if you could figure that out and then, I don’t know, text a priest or something, that’d be great.


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.