Uber-post!

Catching up, from most-to-least recent…

Math Groupie

My hero Grisha was in the news again this morning as I drove to work!  The story is worth a listen; it is laudably easy to follow, especially considering that Meg can put me the hell to sleep once she gets going with this stuff.  Here’s a picture of Grisha, hard at work (and we even have the same patronymic!  How cool!).  I should probably idolise Meg instead out of loyalty, but…well…I don’t.  She’d find satisfaction in that, plus she honest-to-eggrolls put me to sleep when I went with her to one of her lectures.  I snored and everything, then she had the nerve to get angry at me when she was the one who was boring.  So no.  ;-)   Go, Grisha!

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Ancodia Has Rabies

Oh, am I pissed off.  Just skip this entry if you don’t want to hear me rant.

Mel Gibson is proof positive that the Jews do not ‘own Hollywood’.  

What a fucking jack-off.  This anti-Semitic fucktard can kiss the Jewish half of my ass (that would be my right butt-cheek, Mel; bring a dental dam for *my* comfort).  I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt (civilised fool that I am) over his silly little movie, but now…forget it. Fuck you, Gibson; you represent the worst of xtians, and I generally disliked them to begin with.  And Jesus was Jewish, you imbecile; and even assuming he actually was a real person, I doubt he would approve of how you behaved.  What a WONDERFUL example of xtian behaviour you are; surely I want to sign up right away, ‘cos it’s clear that Jesus has certainly brought you so much peace.  Snort.  I don’t even NEED a god to be a THOUSAND times happier than you, you pathetic drunkard.  One look comparatively and any fool can see that Judaism is closer to the religion *of* Jesus than the cockamamie shit you xtians practise, which is a religion *about* Jesus, and is practically all completely thefted from Mithraism anyway, you self-absorbed, illiterate retard.  Go worship your fake sun-god and stay the fuck off my TV, and out of my theatres.  What a waste of a nice ass and pretty eyes.  I wish that Hollywood really were ruled by Jews so that the Zionists of Hollywood could black-ball you, creep.  Hmmph.  So, Mr Mel Gibson with your alcohol, disrespect for authority, and stupidly unquestioning religiosity…is you happy?

And more…

And yet more…

And where the hell is police brutality when you really need it?  This is why I could (and should) never be a cop; he’d say something like this in my presence, and I’d truncheon the fuck out of his empty skull just on principle.  

No, Sergeant—he was comatose when we responded.  Rilly.  Dunno what those taser burns on him are from.  Go figure, eh?  

Oh!  And!  No—I do so very much NOT accept your apology, even if you sobered up tomorrow and delivered it personally and grovelling.  Go fuck yourself.  

Oh—and I may sell any DVDs I have with you in them on eBay, just to screw you out of royalties.  So NYAH.  

OH!  AND!!  I’m going to beg Sarah Strohmeyer to stop writing in her Bubbles series that Steve Stiletto looks like you, ‘cos that is a major turn-off for me at this point.  Barfy.  So DOUBLE NYAH.

Why don’t you turn up to be a sexist, whoring wife-beater as well, and just complete the picture, hmm?

Oh—wait:  Sugar Tits.  You ARE sexist; I had forgotten.  

I hate you, Mel Gibson.  But your blog is pretty funny.  And so’s this.  

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Fab-yew-liss Fridaze

Friday morning I spent trying to get Rhonda Reindeer’s prescriptions cashed, which meant that I had to find my new prescription card that I received back at the beginning of the year and promptly lost.  And Rhonda Reindeer (I found out Wednesday) is Scandinavian (I’d meant to ask what the accent was for like the past few visits and kept forgetting), so she’s really something like Rhonda Reindeer Abbasdottir, or sumpin’ (ABBA is Scandinavian or Swedish or something like that, aren’t they?), but she just uses Rhonda Reindeer in the US.  How cool is that?  Then I went with Meg (under the guise of shopping…liar) to get her oil changed (woo-hoo…some shopping) and pick up school supplies which Meg has to donate (unofficial peer-pressure type of job requirement), and then I was talked into going to see The Devil Wears Prada with some of Meg’s (and sort-of my) friends.  I made a joke about having already grown up hearing the story The Devil Reads Pravda all the time and Amelia (Our Girl from Minnesota’s guileless soil) offered to sit through another movie with me since I already would know how TDWP ends.  

Sigh.  

Well, she’s sweet.  :-)  Really…ummm…gullible.  But sweet.  

The movie was cute—I so totally need Anne Hathaway’s lipstick from that one scene!—and I guess it wasn’t a total waste of money.  I also liked that one brown polka dotted outfit with the blue belt.  Meg hated that one.  This says so much about the two of us.  But Meg’s wrong—that shade of blue was fantastic with that brown.  

After the movie we went to this trendy restaurant with the music and the lights and…and…and the damn children!  Gah!  A horde of twenty-year-olds, all noisy as hell, but it was a pretty cool place and the food didn’t suck.  In short, I am glad I went; I don’t do things like that nearly enough.  

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Has anybody got any veras?  Lovely…

Well first off, Lance Bass is gay.  Like actually homosexual, not just a ghey musician.  We all knew he was a ghey musician already.  

What a shocker, one might say.  Until one considers the fact that ‘N Sync was a pretty ghey band, and it’s rare to find a confluence of gheyness and gayness.

Ever since I found the word ghey, I feel so much better about criticising things, because I *like* people who are actually gay.  

Well, except Lance Bass; not even being gay can redeem him in my eyes.

Butsoanyway.

Ever have one of those days where WAY more was fit in, and you feel as if you’ve actually covered four or five days in one?  Where you think back to something that happened in the morning, and you realise that it feels as if it happened four days ago?  

That would be today.  Bwaah.

The day started off normal-ish, and how it went from normal-ish to freak-ridden is a really *long* story, but basically here it is:  

One of the girls I work with at Eviljob—let’s call her Charlotte— used to date a local radio personality; things were actually going pretty well, then he met another girl and proposed to her out of the blue, dumping Charlotte on her tuchas in a quite unexpectedly undignified heap.

Or so saith Charlotte; who in the hell knows what really happened.

Butsoanyway.

Charlotte’s not over it, and it’s actually been quite some time—long enough for Mr Personality to get divorced, even (these things tend to happen with whirlwind romances, I could have told her if I had known her well back then), and move to another station.  And time slot.  

Yet still Charlotte is obsessed, even though Charlotte herself is living with someone else now.  Someone who, if he had an ounce of pride in his body, would want to throttle her if he had any idea that Charlotte spends a goodly chunk of her day writing up stupid memos whilst screaming at the radio that it is a damned idiot.  When the RP is on, that is.  Vacuous yapping and music...who could ask for more?

So we were all listening to Charlotte kvetching at the RP (a doubly-ironic name since his pronunciation—or elocution, without the connective stretching—sucks if you ask me.  But he is, as we shall soon see, a big hit with a different demographic), when RP mentions his My Space site.  

So—of course—Charlotte pulls up his My Space (or as Meg calls it, That Stupid Space World Or Whatever It Is Called, and other funny ones… but I haven’t even addressed that issue, which I will have to soon) site, and forces a few of us to come over and look at RP’s site so that we may appreciate in living colour what an absolute loser RP is.

They *do* make medication for this…I just know they do.  

So we were acting all disgusted at the little girlies that are friending RP and putting up the silly sparkly ‘THANKS FOR THE ADD!’ crap, and the flirty ones, and then I see this one comment, and I think to myself (‘cos the pic is right by the poster’s comment), ‘Goodness, that girl looks a lot like Muffin!’  

Then it hit me—that HAD to be Muffin!  

I butt-bumped Charlotte off her chair and drilled down on the profile of Muffin, complete with a drug-referencing screen name.  It’s a clever enough name (though before I realised it was Muffin, my reaction was ‘oh puh-leez!’, and I’m hard-pressed to think of an equivalent; let’s just say that it was Eezergoode420, mmmkay?  

Oh, I had to try hard to come up with a clever one that wasn’t taken already.  

Butsoanyway.

So I am going through Muffin’s site, and I am just amazed.  I knew she smoked pot, but I didn’t know about all the other stuff…which Muffin has kindly laid out (including her first name, enough pics that one could spot her in a crowd anywhere, her city and state, and from her friends’ comments, I can see where she works, and etc…)

WTF?!?!?!?

I can also see from her friends’ comments that Muffin does a LOT of drugs.  Her idiot ‘friends’ (what ever happened to the Druggie Friend Code where they are cool and you are cool and you all have each others’ back?  Am I really that old, or something?) are posting all kinds of things about how wasted each other was (and on what) on various weekends, where they are meeting, etc...  The only thing I don’t see is flat-out offers to buy/sell, and blatant statements like one from someone like Shiffurbrainz Narkyazz that say, ‘everyone come over to my house at 1488 Dumb As A Box O’ Rocks Way tonight at 8pm!  I have a vast quantity of ecstasy, cocaine, heroin, and marijuana that I have stashed in my garage on the right-hand side in some boxes!  I take checks, major credit cards, and parents’ jewellery!’

Just shoot me.  Could they really be THIS stupid?  

So of course I phoned Harry (Son-Friend, Muffin’s father) as I left to go to my appointment with Rhonda Reindeer Abbasdottir, and I made him pull up Muffin’s site.  After I translated most of it for him (Harry is so out of the loop about things like this that it’s frightening; he kept asking me, ‘are you sure?’ to the point where I had to get him to google some of what I was saying.  No, seriously), he was as upset as I was freaked out, but didn’t know what to do, because Muffin is an adult (legally, if not mentally).  

So he sent an email asking her to meet with him, and so Muffin may join us on Tuesday if she can’t get by this weekend.  Oh, joy.  And I really don’t know what to tell Harry; I just don’t.  The time to figure all this out was when she was still a minor, really.  

So we’ll see how all that goes.  

I have to go play trivia now.  Yeesh.

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