Tag Archives: weird

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!


…That’s a Thing?


I was just going through my Twitter list like a normal human being and then all of a sudden, there’s Marianne talking about shapeshifter porn. The particular one was about cuttlefish.  Now, maybe I’m just biased, but CUTTLEFISH ARE NOT SEXY!  Want me to prove it to you?  FINE.

THIS is a cuttlefish! It IS NOT SEXY.

THIS is a cuttlefish! It IS NOT SEXY.

Now do you understand?  Because this is one of the least bizarre pictures I could find.  Let me tell you the things you need to know in order to realize that sex with a cuttlefish can only end in tears:  1. Tentacles. 2. Aquatic creature. 3. SUCKERS. 4. Ink-squirting.

Tell me how any of that winds up with anything more than regret and a bottle of cheap vodka? (Though to be fair, it probably started that way.)

But I had lots of questions because apparently the shapeshifter porn is a whole genre, which means that there are people writing about all kinds of creatures.

Do both parties shapeshift? Or do you suddenly have to learn to grapple with a cloaca?  And should anyone ever really be expected to grapple with a cloaca?  I thought sex was probably complicated enough with matching species.  I don’t really think there should be a pop quiz in anatomy involved.  Maybe I’m old fashioned.  But really, what happens if you end up with something reptilian?  What do you do with bifurcated boy bits?  And what’s more? If I googled it, I’m pretty sure someone could tell me.


I felt really dumb when she pointed out that they shift into humans.

I kinda feel cheated.



You wacky bunch of people have named my imaginary pageant toddler.

I present to you Paisleigh Isabella Grace, 3 years old.  She’s blonde & blue eyed & came pre-spray-tanned to keep me from having to worry with that.  (I had an auto dealership use a shade called “suburban pageant toddler” — it’s got a 10 year guarantee and by that time, she’ll be aging out of the pageant circuit anyway.)

Her interests are sparkles and world peace.  She wants to be a supermodel or Miss America when she grows up, plans to save all the whales (which she will then recycle for dolphins) and do something for poor people somewhere.  Her special talent is boxing with other pageant toddlers.

Stay tuned.  Her first pageant is soon and it’s the Battlestar Tiara Doll Classic — full glitz AND LASERS!

That’s…not how lollipops work…


Okay, so it started innocently enough. A friend linked me to a gourmet lollipop site. This is the friend who’s also sending me some kind of witchcraft that’s apparently a sandwich spread MADE FROM COOKIES.  So she’s totally the good kind of friend!  We got to talking about the particular lollipops in question.

When I say “gourmet lollipops,” I mean that they make their own lollipops and feature flavours like Habañero Tequila, Chai, Maple Bacon (about which I will speak in a moment) and, my personal favourite name, the Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster.

Maple Bacon lollies.  The description is something about being the first ever to make a “bacon-based” maple bacon lollipop, which I guess is the same thing movies mean when they say “based on a true story,” because there’s no actual bacon in them. In fact, it’s both kosher *and* vegan — two things I’m pretty sure real bacon can’t be. Then that same friend — the “I’m sending you spreadable cookies” friend — pointed out that the picture chosen to represent the fake-bacon monstrosity pop was a lasciviously posed woman being far too friendly with a bacon lollipop.

Turns out that the company is going to be changing all their lollipops pictures over to pictures chicks really enjoying these lollipops.  Aside from the whole “Lolita” aspect, which is problematic enough from a feminist perspective — but this is not a thinky blog, so don’t look to me for a sociological breakdown — there’s apparently a dark side to candy, guys.

I don’t know how to put this, especially since my mother occasionally reads this blog, but there’s a whole candy-coated perversion out there.  Lollipops are not the innocent candies of youth anymore.  I don’t think I’ll ever buy another lollipop again.

Did you know that there are people who will apparently buy lollipops that have been entirely too close to someone’s netherbits for anyone’s comfort?  (And isn’t that just begging for a yeast infection?  And… and… I don’t even want to think about this.)

Since I invented shark rockets to save NASA, I figured someone might need some proof that I’m not inventing hootiepops.  So, garnering every bit of dignity I have ever had and immediately shredding it, I googled. FOR YOU.  That’s how much I love you people.

But I couldn’t click any of the links and I felt intensely nauseated — because holy cow, people, the THINGS that turn up! — and I hated all of humanity and this time I was reasonably certain it wasn’t my own insanity pushing me toward misanthropy.

Cooterpops, people.  And that’s only the beginning. I’d tell you more, but my brain is threatening to leap out of my skull and strangle me if I even try to type — for the good of mankind — and, more importantly, I can’t think of witty euphemisms for the worst of them. It’s like humanity moved out of caves, put on some clothes and the following occurred:

Mankind: “We’ve invented the Internet!”

Internet: “Yay! Have vagina lollipops!”

Society: dies, screaming

Once you start selling herpes-flavoured crotchpops, society has broken down beyond repair.  I’m going to go loot the liquor cabinet and try to forget. Feel free to do the same.

I...I can't even look them in the eye. Wait. Since when do they have EYES?? I'm never going to sleep again.

Yesterday’s Adventure (What, I gotta be clever all the time?)


Yesterday was “Take Mom To The Dentist Day” again.  She’s having a series of things done and we never know up front which days might wind her up drugged, so I get to be designated driver again. (Seriously, if I ever decide to get drunk, she owes me at least 3 free butt-crack-of-dawn get-out-of-drunk-free passes now.)

Anyway, I tell her we’re just practicing for her inevitable senility. I intend to haul her around to her various appointments when she’s old and feeble and I’ve promised she can become a benign alcoholic as long as she can pay for her own booze. (What? It works; don’t knock it.)

Anyway, as I’ve explained before, I live in a somewhat rural area of the world. In order to get to her dentist’s office from here, we go through Farville, Goobertown and Brookland before we hit Paragould. It’s all trees and bean fields.

Bean Field

See? This is a bean field. Except the parts that are trees. I'll leave you to sort that out.

And for some reason, someone decided a few years ago that two lanes through the beanfields and trees weren’t quite enough, so it got a 4-lane highway. This is nice, especially since there’s never any traffic.  It gives you a better view of the bean fields. And the trees.

I’d post a picture of the trees, but that’s just unnecessarily cudgeling of the deceased equine. (Big words are basically my only talent. DON’T JUDGE ME.)

Anyhow, 4 lanes through the bean fields and random stoplights scattered throughout. I guess they’re so that we can pause and properly appreciate the bean fields. Normal trek takes about 20 – 30 minutes.  That is, of course, unless you’re me and unless it’s yesterday. But you’re not and it isn’t, so I’ll explain:

Yesterday, I seriously had to have ticked off some lesser god of asphalt or something and caused this 4-lane highway of indulgent convenience to become something other than its normally clear, carefree self.  In fact, it had become a traffic jam. Traffic STOPPED.  If you live in a regular metropolitan area, this is probably de rigueur  for you, but in an area where the highway has more lanes than cars, it’s a bit of an oddity.


Seen here, the autopocalypse. Or maybe a Chrysler. Anyway, it's not moving.

See that over there?  That’s not normal. That doesn’t happen on this highway at this time of day. I’ve never even seen that many cars on this road at one time, leading me to believe they’d been there for at least a week. They were probably about to go cannibal.  I’m probably lucky to have escaped with my life (and Twizzlers)!

Okay, so actually at this point I was wondering what happened. The only thing I could think of was that it had to be a wreck. And it had to be a bad one. And I started going over CPR steps in my head just in case. (Step one is to take CPR classes, right?  Remind me to do that…).

The longer we waited the more I was certain that it wasn’t just a wreck. It was probably an earthquake and the whole road had caved in. Or, since I had been reading abnormal amounts of H. P. Lovecraft lately, Cthulhu was picking off cars one at a time. Either way, it was obviously not good.

So I used my handy-dandy iPhone app to tune into police band radio for my area only to find it had mysteriously gone off the air! I’m not really surprised, though, because when Cthulhu attacks, all kinds of weird crap happens. Or, um, so I’ve read. So no radio, no visual cues beyond the stopped traffic and no plan for riding out the autopocalypse beyond “Eat my Twizzlers before anyone else spots them.” I began to feel a bit less optimistic about  my chances for survival.

As we crept along, I tried to scootch ever so slightly into the turn lane to angle for a better view up ahead. No dice. See that white van? It was blocking me at every go. Probably Cthulhu sympathizers.

Eventually, though, we came to the part of the road called Farville Curve.  It happens rather handily to curve at that point and we had an opportunity to see what lurked ahead (and to provide me with a better estimate of how fast I’d have to eat my Twizzlers before Cthulhu stole them).

That’s when I saw this:



Do you see that?  That’s not Cthulhu!  That’s a HOUSE.  I felt so cheated. Here I was prepping for disaster and hoarding my Twizzlers and all it was is a lousy oversized HOUSE.

Why they were dragging a house down the road, I’ll never know. We passed some more chunks of house, too, because they apparently had to saw the thing into thirds to get it to adequately block the entire highway. And right as I snapped this picture, that house tried to turn left into a bean field.

I live in a dumb state.

It swerved back through all 4 lanes of traffic and carried on its way for a bit until, I guess, the drivers sensed they were in mortal danger and pulled all chunks of the house off the main road long enough to let the 3 miles of cars that had piled up behind them cruise through.

It was the dumbest adventure ever. I had prepared myself for Cthulhu and I got a house — not even a full house.  A THIRD of a house!  Hey, lesser god of pavement or whoever?  Next time you plan to block the road, try to call up an elder god or at least (AT LEAST) get an airplane or something to block traffic.

I was sorely disappointed. So disappointed, in fact, that I actually feel kind of bad for dragging you through all of that for such an anticlimactic resolution.   So, hey, how about some ice cream?  Yeah?

Okay, not for real (for you, I mean, but for me).  A few days before, at Burger King, I asked for a vanilla cone. The woman handed me one and then her manager called out, “Ma’am?  I’m sorry. I can’t permit you to take that ugly cone.”  (My cone looked fine…. I was just gonna eat it, not frame it….).  Anyway, she took my apparently sub-standard comb and instead handed me this:


Note the aesthetic ... something.

It was basically a monstrous tower of ice cream. Hope that makes up for it.  You’re welcome.