First: I miss you.
Now: New Post on my other blog, one for here on the way. Why do I have another blog? I can hardly handle one. Maybe I’ll claim it as an experiment.
Enummerated: Reasons I Loathe† Stephen Fry October 30, 2008
1. Language bends over for him like a cheap whore with a spinabifida. The idea that anyone can be expected to grasp english so thoroughly is simply unfair. I’d like very much to cuff him over the head…or watch him suffer a terrible bout of gonorrhea. A clap on the head, or the clap in the pants, you might say, and I think those are pretty well the least I’d take to descry even a sliver of the glorious light that is his linguistic savoire faire, his scholarly prowess. Which is linked, of course, to his overwhelming adeptness with a wit. I could just die. I could just die of a hemorrhage in my brain, causing a stroke, or BEING a stroke, I suppose, and then I would enjoy it if a troop of little clotular peices floated down and got lodged in my superior vena cava causing my blood pressure to rise, and, if the universe is quite kind and merciful, my thorax to explode rather fantastically all over a Starbucks cushy chair. And, if all’s well with the world, I pray that Stephen might sit in said chair and get his lovely tall pants all mucky and covered in viscera. That would be a nice, sugary icing.
2. He is tall. Furthermore, his height is just stupid. I am astounded that he can sleep at night boasting such a proffessional amount of tallness ‘neathe those five thousand-count egyptian cotton snugglies, knowing full well that I am out there being shortly staturèd and low on thread. So silly is his absolute god-talledness, that I can’t imagine that the belgian cathedral-style doors that surely adorn the fascade of his manor could possibly be anything smaller.
3. That classy bastard has him some class, as Fry and others of his tallish, richish, British ilk are oft-found to possess. Consistantly seen in an immaculately tailored suit crafted, no doubt, out of silk from only the purest, most erudite goats and the finest needles made from the ulnas of prophetic greek virgins, ever well coiffed, fashionably well fed and poised so masterfully that one might wonder if he was grown against a vine pole, Fry wafts class where e’er he goes, like a giant Tinkerbell, except without the tights—not that he couldn’t class the hell out of a cat-print singlet.
4. He can/has do/done everythig that…everything.
The only area I can say I have, in full assuredness, squashed Stephen Fry is under the flighty column of ‘friends.’ Sure, he’s friends with Hugh Laurie, one of Douglas Adams’ best chums, and has tea’d with Emma Thompson and Rowen Atkinson, but there is not a drip-drop of doubt in my mind that in the end, my incredibly intellectual, undeniably sexual friends will mature into far more beautiful flora than he or I can even imagine.
† Did I say loathe or love? Well, the truth is that I like him quite a bit more than anything, aside from perhaps my milk crate library and $9.00 vegetarian Indian buffets. Since I’ve yet to speak to him, or have him speak to me, I will only go so far as to say that I wish that I could wish to attain such a veritably huge amount of knowledge as he has been able to retain in his season. I really do think he’s quite rare and quite supernaturally special.
The Darndest Things September 18, 2008
Teachers quoted. Warmly.
Geek History:
“I thought I was doing really well when I started using overheads.”
“Everyone in Greece is named for a tiny, piddley little village that I shall never mention again. It’s that insignificant.”
“Socratese lived to, what was, in those days, the leathery old age of about seventy, when he said, “You may as well kill me, because I’m gunna’ die soon anyhow. Again, I paraphrase wildly.”
Prof: “Your guys’ minds just aren’t corrupt enough for athenian politics.”
Class: “That’s why we’re here.”
“Ostriches ain’t got nothin’ on the Spartans.”
Prof: “Because the Spartans invaded Messenia, taking all of it’s inhabitants as slaves of the state, all of Sparta’s slaves spoke the same dialect. This was not good. You don’t want your slaves to all speak the same language, otherwise they can plan things.”
Class: “Like parties?”
Bi-uh-oh-logy.
“I just saw a movie called Jellyfish. It was very good.”
Psyclone.
“I consider all the time I spend in my office drop-in time. If you come down, and the door’s open, come on in. If the door’s closed, but the light’s on, knock, and I’ll most often be doing nothing. If the light is off and the door is locked, knock anyways; in all likeliness, I’ll be doing something weird in the dark. You might not want to come in…”
‘I’d prefer that you call me Duke, and I’ll address you as such…not as Duke, but by your first name. Some young persons have trouble calling old people by their first name, so you can call me Mr.Allen, and I’ll address you like that…again, not as Mr.Allen, necessarily, but as mister or missus, et cetera. If you, even once, call me Sir, I will reply “Yes, my lovely child!?” and clasp my hands, and grin like a pedophile.’
“Psychologists in movies. I think the word farce is adequate to describe them. In Hollywood movies, 65% broke confidentiality agreements, 70% did something that went so far against the code of ethics that it would have gotten them arrested and imprisoned. 22% of Hollywood psychologists killed someone in the movie. Now, I’ve asked my colleagues and friends, and none of them have ever killed anybody. I, myself, haven’t killed someone in years.”
“I was practicing psychology before your parents were OLD enough to even think about having you.”
“There’s a noticeable line between encouragement and bribery. If you’re doing a survey and you set up a table with some doughnuts, you’re pretty much within the perameters. If you say to someone, ‘Hello, there. I need some volunteers for an experimental surgery, involving lasers and your eyes—actually, we only need one, to be on the safe side— and I was wondering if you’d like to join up? No? What if I gave you a hundred bucks? A thousand? Okay, five hundred thousand dollars? Five mill…yeah. Alrighty.’”
“It’s sometimes okay to lie to someone, if you’re trying to keep a confound out of your experiment, but only if it doesn’t put the person in any kind of danger. If I tell you that I’m doing a survey, but I’m actually counting the number of times you blink, that’s okay. If I tell you to go up to the lab to do a couple tests, and as you enter the room, my assistant heaves a bucket of snakes at you to measure your reactivity to danger…”
“After you’ve performed the test, you need to do a ‘repair.’ This means you can’t go, ‘Haw haw haw! You thought I was doing butterflies, but I was doing eye-blinks!’”
Up. Running. July 13, 2008
Hey, chinchilla-cheeks,
I’ve just posted on my other blog—gosh, that feels insidious—but, and much more importantly, I’ve added a page.
So, this page thingy can be located on the right, at the top of that collumnar htmlness, and it is enlabelled, “Why I Love Words,” or something like that. Basically go there, read-le, and then I left a comment describing what you should ALL do!
Please!
Heart, soul, candycorn,
Mike.
Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Check it OUT. June 24, 2008
Hey, puppies.
This is a post that you guys can find on my other blog.
This post is also a forum for any other blogs, webzines or whateverness you guys might be part of, or just a place to showcase your blog-finding skills and post up some of your favourite places to curl up by a megabyte and read. Enjoy!
*UPDATE*
I’ve just posted another story, so please give it a read as well!
—————————————————- (more…)
Cheesy Comestibles June 12, 2008
I have acquired an (evidently atypical) habit of going to work early when the time between when I realize I have work and when my work actually starts is inutile. This has accomplished two things: I am no stamped with a giant, red “L”, which has been applied frugally to ‘loser’, ‘lonely’ and ‘lupus.’ Nevermind.
Before I demonstrate why that intro makes sense, I suppose I should give you the preamble to the story (which, in essence, really makes that not too good of an intro, I suppose.)
Sunshine and I were giggling merrily behind the espresso machine, talking about something—me—when the subject of me and foreplay came up.
“What, was she disappointed with your foreplay?”
“No, I don’t have to worry about that because I’m a premature ejaculater.”
Anyways, we laughed; the Queen came up—at the WRONG TIME— and
I explained the whole thing. It didn’t work of course, she’s still confused.
So, back to the intro. I’m sitting at the back table and Sunshine comes over and sit down beside me, smiling glumishly. I, on the verge of asking what was wrong with her, turn to hear her ask, “So, hey, like, did you fix that premature ejaculation problem you were having?”
“Yes I did,” and allowing a moment for her to think that she got me, I said, “I just think of you and I don’t feel like ejaculating at all.”
Finger to tongue, point on scoreboard. File under: ONE FOR MIKE
Few and Far Between April 10, 2008
Word to my hip-hopsters, and a fresh and virile hello, friends.
Of late, I have been perusing more deeply the meanings and stories behind popular rock music song lyrics. I’ve just recently become interested in this because, well, I’ve only recently discovered that there ARE infact meanings behind some of today’s popular songs.
One I’ve been looking at quite extensively is RHCP’s Californication. I’ve always thought that this is one of the great songs of my time, though I don’t care a whole lot for the Chili Peppers. But, as it happens, a couple weeks ago, I came across an interesting comment following an article about the song.
The song’s meaning is pretty clear, in my mind; the plasticising, if you will, of everything, represented by the paragon of such a practice, California. (Incidentally, the word ‘fornication’ appearing in the title is coincidental.)
Now, of course, it’s not that simple, but it fits a sort of overall theme. Anyhow, this comment was about a specific line in the song, that goes “…Cobain can you hear the spheres singing songs off station to station?”
The comment explained it thusly,
I believe that the famous line “Cobain can your the spheres singing songs from station to station” refers to Kurt Cobain and the “spheres,” which are exactly the “celestial spheres” of Aristotele. These are, in Aristotele astronomic theory, the “cogs” of wich the universe is made; concentric spheres, each moved up (and while they are moving, they SING CELESTIAL MUSIC) by the First Motor, i.e. GOD. In fact, this theory was later absorbed by the Catholic religion. So the “spheres” are the Heavens, the Skies in wich God lives, and where Cobain’s soul now lives. “Station to station” is obviously Bowie’s album, which was the one prefered by Cobain. So, the meaning of the sentence is, “Cobain [who was a friend to Kiedis], can you hear [now that you are in the Heaven] the [heavenly] spheres [which always sing while they're moving according to the Aristotelic/Christian theory] singing songs from Station to Station [i.e.: singing songs taken from Bowie's album "Station to Station", the album which you used to love when you were alive on the earth]?” Now, it remains only the connection between this sentence to the whole meaning of the song. I think that it’s quite obvious the “blasphemic” image conained in this sentence: even the celestial spheres (in the Heaven) sing the songs from the Bowie’s album Station to Station, like all the radios on the earth does. Thus, also the Heavens have been “californicated.”
This blew my mind.
Even though I know I won’t hear from most of you for another couple of weeks I was hoping that you might share some songs whose deepness of meaning has blown your respective brains out the back of your respective occipital buns.
Can’t wait to hear from you.
Speck·ulation March 22, 2008
Here is the paragon of ingenuity—for the thousands of times a night that the phone rings with the question, “when are you open until?” bellowed through the line, it surprises me that only one employee has figured out that when you answer the phone, “Hello, Cheesecake Etc., open until 1am,” people just hang up.
My co-worker, Inspector Health drearily says as she rubs her crinkly eyes, “I am so tired.” I asked her how late she was up, and said that I was up until quarter after four this morning. To this, she said, “no, I wasn’t up that late.”
“Yeah, I’ve been having trouble going to bed before three in the morning.”
“You should cut the crack, and the cocaine, too.”
“Really, because I was hoping I could just cut the crack…”
“That should be fine.”
After three or four moments of agreeance, I went to bus a table and returned to the couter area with a creamer. As I went to put it in the fridge, I noticed that there was a speck of cheesecake on the side, and went to wipe it off with my apron.
Bad move.
This was seen by Inspector Health, and she went “NO, no no…” as she laughed heartily at my morbid mistake. She aproached, smiling and shaking her head like she was Bill Cosby and I was a kid from Kids Say the Darndest Things who thought that chores were ‘poopy’. It’s a good thing she was there to tell me that I was being unsanitary by touching the creamer, although I was confused as to how the creamer had gotten to the table in the first place if it hadn’t been touched, seeing as that was unsanitary.
“The cheesecake has probably been near or insomeone’s mouth.”
“The cream comes from the tits of cattle.”
Needless to say, Inspector Health was not amused. Speck removal, it turns out, is the number one killer of all imunosupressed chimo patients and other people with no immune system.
Five minutes later, I told her I may have farted in the strawberries, but I couldn’t be sure.
The Cheese March 13, 2008
My spleens, my pancreases, my duodenums and the entire pantheon of my vital and unendureably absent friends/organs: without further ado, I bring you the first in a line of what I hope will become an ongoing series of posts from me. The premise behind these is, in essence, “The goings-on at Cheesecake Etc. every Friday and Saturday night, or at least the funny bits.” Well, that’s what I wrote on the napkin.
Been there only a month and already griping. It needs to be said a lot that this is an awesome job. And you know that I’m not lying because I just said that about a job where I come home smelling like fatty dairy. Anyone else ever had toast with cream cheese, cheesecake with almond cream sauce and a half-and-half latte for dinner? Actually, ’snot bad.
We get a myriad of irksome personalities wandering blindly in—every once in a while through the back door, which is always a laugh— and, as can be said about any job that involves customers, there are always a number whose make death by chair-through-occipital bun sound sexual.
As it happens, I met just such a dramatis personae last night. (No, I did NOT get that word from a thesaurus by looking up “character.” That word was chosen because this man was a cartoon. He belonged in a leotard and neck-scruffe.) He came through the back door with about 19 or 20 other people, looking around like the chinese aliens that spent the entirety of Crash chained to the inside of a van, slowly filling up our kitchen like a bubble, only, instead of childish glee, it filled me with anxiety and a mad splenic infarction. After irrigating the kitchen of all non-staff entities, a job which incidentally preceded my paid shift by fifteen minutes, a man came in asking if he could set up in Tigers—which was not yet open to the plain old public, but it seemed this ignoramus was a friend of a member of the staff here, granting him special restaurant-opening magical powers. So I was asked, unpayingly, to assist in opening Tigers—not by my boss, or even my supervisor, or even one of the waitresses of Tigers that evening, but by the man himself. }B( (Wow, I’m good at angry smi…frownies.)
After setting up votives and preparing a thirteen-seat table with reluctant sloppiness, I actually stood behind him like a bell-hop, hoping he might shed some of his millions on me. I guess that would be confusing to you guys, since I haven’t told you about what was slung about his neck. A camera fit for ME. The most beautiful and enormous camera in the universe. Voluptuous, sensual, full of erotic curves and bootyliciousness, not to mention the classy champagne we didn’t let him serve and the HD DVD video camera he had running all night. Come to think of it, I’m a bit angry he only left a $20 tip.
Later that same night…
I was talking to a friend behind the espresso machine about attempting a boycot of Friday night shifts, when my supervisor came in, saying, “hey, don’t eat the leftover food, and don’t eat over the strawberry coulee.” As I shifted into the kitchen, finished off the cheesecake and put the dish in the wash, my friend—let’s call her Sunshine— and my supervisor—let’s call him Will Ferrel— began talking in a hushed but urgent tone. The urgent hushedness was odd, because at The Cheese, nothing is urgent, but everything is loud.
Five minutes later, as I was whipping up a cream, Will Ferrel beckons me into the other kitchen. I follow him through and we go and sit down in the Tigers resteraunt. The lights were low, we were sneaking around in a dark, smoky resteraunt, through clouds of steam issuing from dishwashers in bustling kitchens, through curtains, talking in secretive voices about confidential information passed to him through an informant on the inside; needless to say, my job involves a bit of IMF work. Will Ferrel told me that some information had passed into his hands regarding my leaving the friday night shifts. I said,
“The brown cow always knows when the fox is suckling her udders.” (“that’s right.”)
“Do you like luxury?” (“is it because of your co-worker on Firday nights, Huckleberry Finn?“)
“Six and six only equals eleven when the fulcrum is on a dead widow’s heart.” (“well, it’s not entirely becauseof him…“)
“When you’ve had a trumpet in your face for fifty years, it’s usually your ears that complain first.” (“because we’ve had written complaints about him before, and you wouldn’t be the first one to leave your shift because of Huck.“)
“Really?” (“You don’t say…“)
“And I wouldn’t want to loose a good employee because of a bad one.” (“Please don’t leave us alone with him. Please.”)
I hoodwink you not. He actually said this…to ME! Squee.
Anyways, the long and short of it all was that if I felt that I couldn’t get ‘along’/'anything done’ with Huck, then The Cheese would rather let him go than me. After weeks of thinking that I was on the verge of receiving a complaint myself, most likely from Mr. Ferrell, I thought,—he was always asking me weird questions; just that day, in fact, he had asked me what I would do if I want to make some cheesebread. Luckily I knew the answer was “we’re not aloud to make cheesebread.”—not only does Will say all that nicety about me being a good emplyee, but when Sunshine jokingly called me a slacker, he said, “Hey, he’s not a slacker.”
I’m almost disgusted at my being so widely accepted. Although, I’m glad it’s at a place where I can actually respect the employees and my employers. And even some of the customers.
