monster sarcasm rally

PS: I still [heart] SS

So let's recap my reading list since school finished up for the summer at the end of June.

First off... I read something Snow Crash. Then maybe something else. I'm pretty sure. I mean, I think.

I'm a little confused on what I read and when. But I did read Snow Crash at some point this summer. It's a really good semi-satirical, cyberpunk, quasi-archaeological sort of tale, if it did drag out somewhat unnecessarily.

.

Square Mile... This is the one I forgot. I'd read it a few years ago, before I started my current job. But rereading it now was different. For one thing, it's set in the industry in which I now work, so I understand it better. For another thing, I've been to London a few times, so I know a lot of the places that are mentioned. Anyways, it's a good read.

.

Then I reread the Order of the Phoenix. Harry's really whiny in that one. I know it. You know it. Everybody knows it. The thing that everybody seems to forget, though, is that he's 15. Have you met any teenagers? They're all snivelling brats with entitlement issues. Still, it was good.

.

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When we went to see the movie of the Order of the Phoenix, we saw a trailer for Stardust. This troubles me. I mean, I'm excited and all, but I'm also worried. Gaiman's books do not have a great track record in becoming movies. It looks good. I will go see it. Having seen only the trailer, though, I can already tell that they've messed with the story. For starters, they changed the main character's name. What's up with that?

After that, I reread the Half-Blood Prince. And Snape broke my heart. Or, well, he would have if I had one. But I still held out hope that he would redeem himself in the end. And I had theories...

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When I finished that I moved on to the Deathly Hallows, which I finished last Friday. And yes, it's true: everybody dies and Voldemort wins. I don't want to say more since I know people haven't read it.

After finishing the last Harry Potter, I found myself incredibly disappointed. I don't mean I was let down by the book, although I think it did leave some questions unanswered.

No, I mean... Well, I started reading the series almost six years ago. Certainly I've ready plenty of other books in the meantime, but I always knew there would be more of Harry & his friends to come. This time there won't. It's all over. It left me feeling sadly disillusioned.

For a few days I didn't know what to read. Then I came on the idea to put fiction aside for a few days. I started Freakonomics. It's a quick, easy read, yet... I don't know. I can't figure out how to describe it. It's all glaringly obvious when you think about it, but the trouble is most people don't think about it. I don't agree with all the conclusions he draws, but the relationships are right there in black and white.

The funny thing is that he goes on at length about how showing a correlationship between two things doesn't prove that which one is cause or which one is effect, if indeed they're not both caused by something else entirely. Then he shows you that there's a relationship between two things you never thought of, and says there you go, proof that A causes B. Only it's not. But still... Definitely gets you thinking.

.

And now I've moved on to Valhalla. Can't say much, though, as I've only made it to page 9.

Stay tuned...

I know I've said this before

But... I really need a wife. A heterosexual male wife.

Even a platonic heterosexual male wife would be okay. Whatever, I'm not fussy.

Mr Coupland knows what he's talking about

Each individual member of my family is weird to wacky. Get two or three together, and they range from incomprehensible to mildly infuriating. Get everybody together in one place at one time... Or well, try to at any rate... That's just asking for trouble.

My whole family's coming to my house for dinner tonight. Or, at least they're supposed to be... This is my mother's idea, of course.

My dad's youngest sister won't come because she's the only Gay in the village, you see. His middle sister won't come because she's got her panties in a bunch over his most recent obfuscatory attempt at being funny. My mum's sister won't come because she doesn't like my dad.

My mum's mum probably will come but won't know who any of us are. My dad's mum probably won't come because she believes that her former husband will somehow escape from the loonie bin and steal her house while she's gone.

One of my cousins won't come because she's an anti-social, snot-nosed bitch, but that's all right because her children are virtually feral anyways. One two of my cousins won't come because he they no longer has have contact with anybody in the family. One of my cousins won't come because he's busy fighting somebody else's war in Afghanistan. One of my cousins will come because he's generally an all-round good guy, but my dad will spend the evening glaring at him because he's got tattoos.

My parents will be there. My dad will undoubtedly find something to shout about, and it goes without saying that my mother will find something to cry about.

My dad's dog will also be there, but Flatula, Goddess of Wind, wants very desperately to eat her. My dad's dog may object to that, and since she's younger, healthier, and twice Flatula's size, she stands a pretty good chance of winning any fight.

You think I'm exaggerating, don't you? Well, okay. Maybe I am. But not as much as you think and probably not in the ways you expect.

Note to self: don't say it

What society says I should say...
Congrats! That's so exciting! I'm sure you'll be a wonderful parent.

What I want to say...
Holy crap! Have you informed Children's Services yet?

Of course, my mother always taught me: if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.

But then, if I say nothing, it's as good as saying...
Holy crap! Have you informed Children's Services yet?

No, really... My mother taught me that. She said it all the time. Why do you ask?

Update: I did the sensible thing. I said...
Ew. Babies are gross!

Go to your room

Dear family,

You are acting like a big bunch of snivelling, poopy-pantsed babies. You are all over 50. Please cease and desist immediately.

If you feel the need to behave like children, please choose silly, happy, enjoying-life-without-responsibility children to emulate.

Thank you in advance for your co-operation.

Sars

Disgustipated

On the 20th of February rumours of toxic pet food began floating around. On the 2nd of March the first death officially caused by the tainted food was reported.

On the 16th of March Menu Foods of our very own Mississauga (that'd be MEW.UN on the TSX if you're interested in that sort of thing) issued a press release recalling pet food sold under something like 30 different brand names. The food affected had been manufactured between the 3rd of December and the 6th of March. This means the company continued to manufacture and distribute food after the first death was linked to their products.

One interesting thing about Menu Foods is that it is not a pet food company as such; it is a manufacturer. Pet food makers come up with their recipes and processes, and then outsource the actual production to companies such as Menu Foods. The way it all works means it can be very difficult to determine who is actually making the food you're feeding your pet.

As of today, the recall has affected five different manufacturers, 95 different brands of pet food, and includes some 60 million cans and I'm not sure how much dry food.

Walk around your local PetSmart. All the brands the ones here carry were affected. All of them. Ya, that's right, they don't carry a single brand name that wasn't affected.

When the recall was first announced I checked the list. I thought I was feeding my dogs the very best foods. But guess what... Flatula's brand was on the list. No, it wasn't the particular variety that I had bought, but nonetheless... I don't want to feed my dogs anything made by a company that would a) allow this to happen, or b) continue manufacturing and distributing product after suspicions were first announced.

I promptly switched her over to another brand. This morning however, I learned that the Stinky One's food has been added to the list. Again, the brand name is affected but not the specific variety. Still... Not good enough. Hello... Cross contamination, anyone?

So, for pete's sake, check your pet food. Look up the company on the web. See what you find. If you did this already in March, do it again now.

Watch out for reassurances like this one. Note that it doesn't say that Menu Foods does not manufacture any of Performatrin's food, nor that all food is manufactured in-house. Nope. Just that their food hasn't been affected. Not yet...

Look for companies that offer real reassurances. American Merrick Pet Foods states that it DOES manufacture all its food in-house and that it DOESN'T import any ingredients from China. It DOES tell you where all its ingredients come from. Canadaian Holistic Blend makes similar statements. 

If you think your pet may have eaten any of the contaminated food, get him to your vet for a simple blood test. If your brand shows up on the list, even if it's not the variety you serve your pet, switch brands. And research the new brand thoroughly. If you're not sure which brands are affected, talk to the staff at your pet supply place. And don't even bother with PetSmart.

[end lecture/rant]

Politically incorrect

I try to avoid the news, since (as a rule) it's all bad, but sometimes little snippets filter through to me.

The federal government unveiled its budget the other day. Now, I know, I know... Nobody's ever happy. But really, I'm not happy.

My reasons for being displeased with this will undoubtedly displease you. You will call me selfish and heartless. Well, you can just piss off.

The government announced big tax breaks for families with children. Each of your spawn qualifies you for a special annual cut.

Congratulations! You've cluttered the planet with another one of your useless offspring. Or maybe you're just too dumb to operate a condom. Or maybe you're a good parent whose child is not only intelligent and well mannered but so adorably cute that you're sure I'd just love it to bits. Whatever.

Look at it this way, the government needs $X per occupant per year to maintain this country. So guess what this special tax cut means. Ya, it means that I get to carry your burden. It means I am (yet again) being penalised for failing to conform to societal norms.

I didn't ask you to have kids. I was not involved in their conception. I have no intention of being involved in their lives. I don't see why I should have to foot the bill for them.

I don't like it.

What's the plural of apocalypse?

My dreams lately have all been apocalypse-themed. Not sure why.

Last night there was some sort of unspecified end-of-the-world-type conflict going on. I was conscripted into some bizarre, haphazard military-type thing, which was run by my high school phys-ed teacher. We lived in tents inside a parkade, which was still actively used as a parkade.

Somebody was pregant or thought maybe she was. I was elected to go find a doctor. In the parkade.

I'm not sure what my subconscious is trying to tell me. Maybe I've been watching too much end-of-life-as-we-know-it TV (e.g. Jericho, the ridiculous War of the Worlds, some episodes of Doctor Who go there, etc.). Maybe... Well, face it: the world is headed to hell in a handbasket. But really, I think it's because deep down I believe the world will end before I move into my new house.

Or maybe I just eat too much cheese.

Ouch

I was going to write, but instead I'mbusy having a wicked headache.

I had a dream

Dear _______,

The other night I had a dream. I had bought a house and it was finally move day. The house I had bought was one of those with 'third floor loft potential', meaning it was tall enough for a third floor, but there was no staircase and it was all just unfinished attic space. I think I wanted to develop it at some point, but had no immediate plans to do anything with it.

When I arrived at the house, all ready to start moving my stuff in, I found George from Grey's Anatomy waiting for me. He had completely finished the third floor for me. Everything was done: the stairs, the walls, the doors, the floor, the paint... Everything.

It was also inhabited. By you.

George was so proud of his work. He seemed so happy as he showed me everything he'd done. He knew how much help you were going to need with the baby you were apparently having. And you told him all about how much I wanted to help. And so you got him to do this. For me. So that you and your stupid baby could live with me so I could support you both.

My eyebrows are getting all twitchy just thinking about it.

I need... I mean... That is... I...

I think my blood pressure's higher than my father's.

Never mind.

The end.

Life is messy

And it's messing with my head.

How do you spell the sound of teeth chattering?

Numfar, perform the dance of abject terror!

Eeeeeeek!

This is getting scary!

Boxers or briefs?

Two months of overwork-work and copious amounts of schoolwork added up to one brutally exhausted, entirely unwell Sars.

I spent several days stubbornly sitting in my cubicle, refusing to admit to being sick and go home, and six more as a lifeless couch adornment.

Many exciting/annoying/amazing/mind-numbingly stupid/dull/ interesting, post-worthy things have happened in the interim. I have neither the time nor the energy to write all the stories I ought to. So instead, I present the following brief synopses...

Sars Trek IV: The Voyage Home
This one ended with me calling the driver an asshole and storming off the streetcar in disgust.

Finance 603: the final exam
Cash flow statements rarely include rambling paragraphs about the amount of cold medication the writer has imbibed or how much she hates calculators. Mine did.

It is a good rule in life never to apologise
My dad and I fight. We argue. He refuses to speak to me for days/weeks/months. Then everything's fine again. That's just how it works. Now he apologises?

or

Can't buy me love
Shopping makes me suicidal/homicidal/obsessive/ compulsive/ generally unpleasant. And that's just a 30-minute trip to the Eaton Centre. Imagine what several months of thus-far-unsuccessful house shopping does to me...

My father the Liberal
My parents made a shocking revelation on the weekend. And, yes, that was a capital L. I may never recover.

Oh to be 22 and have no experience
I met a guy who was three months into the full-time MBA programme at my school. He was excited to hear where I worked. Why? Because my boss just hired him to work with us for a three-month work term. He'll outrank me.

Stinky the lumpless wondermonkey
The vet was about to inject the anaesthetic, but he couldn't find the lump. He thought maybe he was misremembering where it was. Um... It was there yesterday!

Save the cheerleader. Save the world.
Okay, so they saved the cheerleader, and the world's still going to end? And where the hell'd the dragon come from? And see, I told you she'd turn good in the end. I just didn't expect the end to be the middle. No, I will not wait until January. I want answers now, darnit!

Poor baby

On Saturday, following a long overdue grooming, I noticed an unexpected lump. I have no idea how long it's been there. I feel bad that I didn't notice it earlier, but... Well... Usually there's so much hair there that it would be hard to notice anything. In fact, the hair gets all gummed up and matted. Things get lost in there. Whole ecosystems have formed in there.

So, anyways, the lump... Doc says it has to come off. He jabbed a needle in it. Surprisingly, it didn't burst. It seems to be solid.

Though not good, it's not a huge deal, he says. Some local anaesthetic and a few people to act as physical restraints while he does his slicing and dicing, and it'll be all over.

Poor Stinky Monkey! He's got a lump on his booby.

Well, okay, it's not on his booby. He doesn't actually have boobies. You know, what with being neither human nor female and all... But he's got a lump and it's near where his booby would be if he had any.

I just don't know

I talked to my parents the other day. My dad told me something. Now I'm really worried. I mean, they say these things are genetic, right? What if this happens to me one day? Would I still be me if it did? And what about my dad? Will he still be Sarcastor the Truly Stubborn? Will the rest of his mind follow?

He's thinking about buying an automatic.

How not to make cannabutter

So, my patient finally ran out of her special biscuits while I was on vacation. She needs more. Only... Well, my usual sources are out of town.

Sources? What's up with that? If it's medicinal, then the doctor should be prescribing it, no?

See, I didn't quite tell you the whole story last time, eh? I didn't want you to get all judgey on me. Then I remembered that I don't care.

It is medicinal. It's just not prescribed by a doctor, mainly because vets aren't allowed to prescribe medicinal marijuana.

Ya. Valentine. My funny Valentine. The vet told me that if everything went really well, and she responded as well as could be hoped to all her medications, then she might have three months to live. That was seven months ago.

And she's fine — if by 'fine' you understand me to mean 'better than I have any right to expect'. She's happy. She's strong. She's ridiculous. And she's not just alive, she's full of life. But she gets restless, especially at night. She needs to eat obscene amounts of food. And she's got to be in some pain.

The weed biscuits help out with all three of those things. So I make them for her, and I give them to her. She loves them. She's a complete pothead, that girl is. I'm okay with that.

But anyways... My usual sources are out of town. Last time I bought pre-made butter. See, you can't just toss weed into cookie dough. You have to disolve it in fat first. Otherwise, all you get is weed-flavoured cookies, but none of the 'good stuff'.

A few days ago, I managed to score a bit, but not in butter form. No problem, I figured. Surely I can find instructions on the internet.

I did. It looked pretty easy too. I got everything all set up, stirred it a bit, and then left it to simmer. I sat down to watch a movie.

A while later Anne sniffed the air. Do you smell burning? DutchBoy came running down the stairs asking the same question.

Uh oh!

[glossing gracefully over the two-metre high flames]

So my stash is gone. Valentine still has no cookies. My sources are still out of town. My house stinks. And there are some really cool black stains shooting up the kitchen wall, over the cupboard doors, and spreading out across the ceiling. And my dish brush melted.

[sigh] This was supposed to be a funny story.

Shut up, Russ

I went on vacation. Oh, yes, I really did. I have photographic evidence and everything.

See, here I am in Germany, on a train.

And here I am before the great Wank.

And speaking of Wank...

Guess what I found at the top.

Oh, and...

And this too I suppose...

In Germany, there are dogs everywhere. In Amsterdam, there are statues of dogs.

Ya, statues of dogs...

Really... Why?

And, yep, the requisite tourist picture of an Amsterdam canal.

Gotta love them public pissers, eh? No, seriously, have a good look at them little mini-statues. Hint: they're not dogs.

And here I am in the outer boondocks of Amsterdam with Rose and her brother's flatmate's sister. Don't we look HOT? Of course we do; we are hot.

Here's Anne in London.

Dudes, there's a freaking face in Stonehenge. I went there to look at the stones, and instead they were looking at me. Trippy.

This is my pint of Sleeman. In London, baby!

Anne and my old roommate at some random little pub near Goodge Street station. Goodge is a funny word, dontcha think?

Anne made me take a picture of a penis pot.

So there you have it. Photographic evidence. I'd show you more, but I need to go to bed, and you don't care. Except for you, I know you care. Loser.

Too bad, I ain't telling

Hmm... Well, I called my landlady last night. I wanted to set up a time to get together with her to talk about pricing and all that. Of course, as per usual, when she doesn't want to talk, she conveniently forgets how to speak English.

She said something about her son. Or her chin. Or perhaps it was her son, whose name was Chin. And something about somebody who couldn't speak enough Chinese. I guess that would be me, since I speak none.

Then she said: You no worry. I want to sell house. You no worry. I have to tell you before I sell. Bye bye. Then she hung up.

The thing is, it's okay, because I have a plan. Now, my plan has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the house. It just means that if it doesn't work out, I won't really care. Because, of course, I'll be dead. No, not dead. And not in Winnipeg either, although somebody once told me they were the same thing. And by 'told me' I mean she stood outside my window at six in the morning and shouted at somebody who may or may not existed that Frenchie was gone. Gone, I tell you. Gone! He was dead. Or he was in Winnipeg, nobody was really sure. Besides, it was the same thing, really. Then she shouted some more.

Ya, anyways, my point is: I have a plan.

Story to follow

Guess what I'm buying.

Rachel doesn't get to answer.

Not welcome here

If you're here because you think I'm (intentionally) funny, you are welcome.

If you're here because you think I'm (unintentionally) funny, you are welcome.

If you came here out of morbid curiosity, you are welcome.

If you're here because all the cool kids are doing it, you should grow a spine, but still... You are welcome.

If, like about a tenth of the visitors here, you're here looking for Camille Coduri's tits, eeeeeew! You should be ashamed of yourself. But if you want to hang around and read some sarcasm instead, you're welcome.

If, like about a third of the visitors here, you're looking for the picture of Riley that I can't seem to find to delete, you should know that you can't have him. He's mine. I mean, um, you're welcome.

If, however, you come here because you are a crazyinsanesuperpsychobitch (not the crazyinsanesuperpsychobitch) intent on stalking your exboyfriend, then please... Get a life.

Like I always say...

Never trust a person.

Bored now

How was your weekend? I booked a vacation to Ibiza. On Sunday, I made special cookies before heading out to church.

I know. You're shocked. You're befuddled. Your nice, wholesome image of me just defenestrated itself. Well, all right then... I confess. Neither the vacation nor the baking was for me.

The vacation was for New Chick. And the cookies were nutritious and medicinal (mmm... sweet potato, spinach, and marijuana). And still not for me.

A few weeks ago, I booked New Chick a flight to London. She has 12 days in Europe. The first four days and the last four days have been planned by the friend she's visiting. The four days in the middle, though, are all hers, as her friend has to work. She bugged me all week to help her plan her those the four days.

So I spent a week listening to her change her mind ever few minutes about where she wanted to go and what she wanted to do. At one point, she suggested Turkey.

Wait. Where is Turkey? I can't go there. That's not even on my map. I just bought this map; I can't go some place that's not even on it.

And, of course, all the actual planning is up to me. Find a cheap flight. Find a good hostel. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Barcelona maybe? No. How about Venice? No. Paris? No. Oooh, Lisbon? Ya, definitely Lisbon. No, not Lisbon. Maybe Paris. No, not Paris. Blah, blah, frickety, frickin' blah.

Eventually, I said never mind. I know where you're going.

Of course, she wanted to know where.

Ibiza.
What? I've never even heard of it. [starts typing] A-B-E-T-H...
No, loser. Ibiza. Eye. Bee. Eye. Zed. Eh?
Why would I want to go there?
Just trust me. Now, shut up and give me your credit card.
Okay.

As I was booking the trip, some of the guys from our department wandered over. She started whining about how horrible and mean I was and how I was making her go on vacation and how I was planning everything and sending her to some place she'd never even heard of.

Oh cool. Where you going?
Some place called Ibiza.
Sweet! You're going to love it.
[bewildered] You've heard of it?
I've been there a few times.
Me too. I lived there for a few months.
If you're into drinking, partying, having sex, and doing drugs, you'll love it.
Oh, okay then.

Ya... Me? I'm the sort of person who deliberately and for no good reason goes to Frankfurt (the financial capital of Europe) on vacation. I always wish I was a wild and crazy partier. But then, given the opportunity, I'd rather just go home and watch Star Trek or something. It's not even because I'm old. I was even worse when I was younger.

Where Bay Street meets Sudder Street

One year ago I was in Calcutta. I was in Calcutta and I was lost, angry, and confused.

I love India. I miss India. I don't deserve India.

The locals I met in Calcutta were richer than I will ever be. The hypocrites in India were nearly as self-righteous and ignorant as I was... am... nearly as self-righteous and ignorant as I am.

A year ago I was angry because of all the rules and constraints imposed upon us, rules I thought were designed to protect us from crazy, dangerous, scary India. And I didn't want to be protected. But really... Maybe those rules were intended to defend India from me.

A year ago I was confused about how I felt about someone. Today I worry about how Meredith Grey feels about someone.

A year ago I was sitting in sunrise mass, overwhelmed by the smell of hash floating in through the window. Today I'm floating in a haze of Advil Cold and Sinus.

A year ago I was walking 5 km through the slums of Calcutta to spend my day sitting with a crazy old lady who spoke rapidly and endlessly in a language all her own. Today I sit in my grey and beige cubicle, wearing my pretty stilettos, listening to New Chick prattle rapidly and endlessly about things that only she cares about.

Some days I love my life. Most days I am pleased with most of the choices I have made. Generally, I'm all right with who I am.

Today... I'd rather be in India. Smelly goats, four a.m. warbled calls to prayer, toothless hagglers, weird head bobbles and all.

Valentine's day

Life's not a song. Life isn't bliss. Life is just this: it's living.

I shouldn't have named her for a Heinlein character: I should have given her a superhero name. Or maybe a soap opera character's name (if I knew any).