Wednesday, February 25, 2009

There's no excuse for my inappropriate sense of humor

However, the fact that it's shared by so many others is comforting. And on occasion entertaining.

I'm about sixteen pages worth of Dear Jesus letters in, but my favorite has to be on page seven:

if there really was a god why does he let children get raped

Because the sweet, sweet tears only make Him stronger...

What's horrible to me isn't so much that I find that hilarious, but that if the Old Testament god were real? The best we could expect is a gargantuan indifference to the suffering of innocents, and at worst, well. . . .

See above.

"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

Saturday, February 21, 2009

No longer shall I be plain Alonso Quijana!


I don't feel any closer to death. In fact, I feel a bit farther, since I suffered from headache-y nausea all day that finally cleared up with distance from work and the killing off of unimportant brain cells.

Wasn't gonna hang out with the movie group for bowling, but changed my mind, since I'd never been, and I figured I'd be dog sick for the Awful Day. In that case, why not do something fun before, right?

Some of us got baked, then we went to Appleby's. Overpriced, mediocre food, perfect for someone with the mega-munchies and nothing in the way of standards. Drinking. Then bowling. The bowling alley was like white trash-istan, though some of it was not unpretty. Skanky, but not unpretty.

(One thing about trembling on the cusp of the big duce y nueve . . . everything that looks remotely cute is apparently jail bait. Or jail bait's hot MILF.)

Some coworkers joined us at the bowling alley. By the end of the night, many things had happened:

--I tried a new seasonal Sam Adams and feel face-first into love
--I rolled a strike completely by accident on my third roll, then not again. Subsequently, my best rolls were all the accidentally ones. Especially that one that bounced off the bumper and KO'd eight pins.
--Conversely, I accidentally destroyed part of a bumper-lane-thingy and chipped a bowling ball. But on the flip-side, I have a sliver of bowling ball as a souvenir of my maiden voyage down the lanes.
--I poked a hole in my hand when Friend tried to head-butt me and I tried to stop her by palming her granite head. She was wearing a cap that had a sharp thing on it, and, well, ouch.
--I got no sympathy for my hand injury.
--A friendly coworker became a friend and apparently we're cruising a gay-bar together at some point in the near future. And possibly a strip-club.
--I still look like I'm twenty.
--Friend's SO is pretty when he throws rocks, like lanky, lovely lightning.
--If life were The Big Lebowski, I'd be Donny. I accept that, no matter how much I might wish I was Walter. Another friend, who I'll call the Lithuanian Wank-face is Walt. Friend is The Jesus (that fucking creep, she sure can roll). Friend's SO is Lebowski. New Friend's Jacky Treehorn because she's raunchy and badass.
--Friend stole one of my rolls while New Friend was trying to set me up with one of her friends, 'cause apparently Shomer Shabbos means fuck-all, no matter how loud I scream it at Jewish bowlers who're winning.
--My game, such as it is, improved. Two games and I came in dead last in neither.
--I hope I don't get athlete's foot.
--I turned twenty-nine.

One day, one year, one hour, one whatever closer to my dirt nap. And for once I'm not scared. It's like Mr. Clemens said:

I do not fear death. I had been dead for billions and billions of years before I was born and had not suffered the slightest inconvenience from it.

Totally smile-worthy. And not at all scary. For now, at least. I guess I'll try to hold onto that feeling.

So, I guess that's it for this particular anniversary of my birth. In the mean time I am, and will always remain--

Thursday, February 19, 2009


I don't want an iPod. I've never used an iPod. Like electronic organizers and hover-bikes, they're just another doohickey I don't need and have no interest in wasting time learning how to use. I have a music player that's modestly-priced, reliable and only plays music. I like that that's all it does, as opposed to: my taxes, my hair and a great impersonation of Christopher Walken.

So. Just when I'm sick of hearing my coworker gush about her new 8gb iPod Touch, a friend who, apparently, is made entirely of serendipity, sends me this:

Sony Releases New Stupid Piece Of Shit That Doesn't Fucking Work


I am vindictated. And sleepy. Seacrest out, yo.

"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

Monday, February 16, 2009

What. The fuck?

A friend IM'ed me this story, and. . . .

Seriously. What. The fuck?

What's creepy isn't the age difference, at least not to me, but the fact that Papa-bear looks like he's nine.

I don't approve of adults fucking the underage, no matter how old the kid looks. But if the kid looks like, oh, say, eight or nine, it's a hell of a lot creepier than if the kid looks twenty-five. There's a line between scumbag, and pedophile. And a line, still, between idiot and scumbag.

Now, this chick is only two years older, still a minor herself. However, the boy looks like he could be her son. So even if he was twenty, if he looked like that, it'd still be hella creepy--especially since he seems slightly less mature than the average thirteen year old.

Coincidentally, a coworker of mine has a thirteen year old son, in the seventh grade, with a sixteen year old girlfriend. Doesn't creep me out, and why? Because he looks like he's nineteen. He's six one, on the wrestling team with high schoolers, ripped, and handsome about the face.

::pause to contemplate the nonexistent hell I'll be going to::

He's hot. Like, cute-studly-fratboy hot. He looks like he's nineteen. I both cheer his girlfriend for catching him while he's still young enough to mold into semi-civility, and applaud him for holding the attention of a girl who should be sniffing around college guys. They're both minors, and they both like each other. And neither of them look vastly older than the other. She's not attracted to some tiny, third grade-looking boy, and he's not attracted to a member of the gingersnap brigade.

I'd like to say it's not looks that matter, it's what's on the inside that counts, but the fact is no one can see anyone's insides. I hope. When two people meet in person, they're attracted to physical characteristics first and foremost, not his big heart or her great sense of humor. In the case of my coworker's brat, it's not creepy because he doesn't look like he should still be wearing underroos, forget changing them.

This Sussex case, however . . . it's just icky. Because she wasn't attracted to a thirteen year old boy, but a boy who looks like an undersized nine. And maybe she didn't start looking like a grown woman till after she got knocked up, but even if she looked thirteen herself, loverboy did not:

“I didn’t think about how we would afford it. I don’t really get pocket money. My dad sometimes gives me £10.”

And he's not even thunderingly smart, mature, and responsible (obviously) , to say that despite his tiny, fetus-boy frame, he could woo an older girl who, again, should be sneaking around with seniors or college freshmen:

“We didn’t think we would need help from our parents. You don’t really think about that when you find out you are pregnant. You just think your parents will kill you.”

But then again, she's not exactly Miss Modern Maturity, either. Maybe they're both mentally ten. Or just plain 'tarded.

Chantelle and Maisie were released from hospital yesterday. They are living with Penny, Chantelle’s jobless dad Steve, 43, and her five brothers in a rented council house in Eastbourne. The family live on benefits. Alfie, who lives on an estate across town with mum Nicola, 43, spends most of his time at the Steadmans’ house.

He is allowed to stay overnight and even has a school uniform there so he can go straight to his classes in the morning.

Alfie’s dad, who is separated from Nicola, believes the lad is scared deep down.

He said: “Everyone is telling him things and it’s going round in his head. It hasn’t really dawned on him. He hasn’t got a clue of what the baby means and can’t explain how he feels. All he knows is mum and dad will help.

“When you mention money his eyes look away. And she is reliant on her mum and dad. It’s crazy. They have no idea what lies ahead."

I know what lies ahead: in about twelve and a half years, Alfie and Chantelle are gonna be grandparents. And from a somewhat more reputable source. . . .

Well. At least someone in their families had the good sense to capitalize on this. They're gonna need all the money and help they can get. And luck, since those overnight visits are gonna create another little photo-op in about fourteen months, or so.

"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Dose o' Babble

On, I posted about wanting to help get the atheist bus campaign going in NYC. No response. Maybe I should just bug the Poohbah, himself?


Finished Hitchens' book on Thomas Jefferson, just started his book on George Orwell--I can't get enough of the way he writes and talks. I'd read a laundry list if Hitchens wrote it.

Also reading "The Anvil of the World", by Kage Baker. Not as good as her Company novels, but still incredibly engaging. After that, the first three novels of Glen Cook's The Black Company series. An omnibus I'm tempted to steal, I love it so much.

Comfort reads, eh?

Stuck on a loop in my head? "This Is Hallowe'en", the revisited version by Marilyn Manson. Weird thing is, I don't particularly care for "The Nightmare Before Christmas". It's Tim Burton, but . . . meh. It's still my least favorite of his movies.

And just when I managed to get the revisited version of "What's This?" by Flyleaf out of my head. . . .

Also peeked into "Descartes ' Bones", by Russell Shorto. Read about thirty pages to see if I could get into it. I like it, so far.

Finally, finally, after a month and half of waiting, am getting my turn at "Doubt", as well as "Infidel", and "The God Who Wasn't There".

"Religulous" comes out on dvd next week, for which I'll do a dignified squee.


I'll have to stop by Best Buy or just Amazon it.

"Friday the 13th" comes out tomorrow. I might see that with the movie group, or just get blisteringly drunk at a friend's Friday 13th party. Or maybe I'll just get blisteringly drunk and see the movie, thus killing the de-soberifying and embarrass-my-friends birds with one mighty, Jack Daniels-flavored stone.

I like to multi-task.

Writercon, in July! I'm such ashameless fangrrrl. To the tune of a grand, even. C'est la vie!

I'm gonna watch RoTK till I fall asleep. All hail Frodo!

"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft

Sunday, February 8, 2009


Well, if I'm not supposed to eat it, then why is it in there with my beef jerky?

"No horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace." --HP Lovecraft