Not So Fresh
“Emotionable”: I don’t know what it means, but I made it up by accident one day while drinking whiskey and C and I are damn well gonna use it.
Also, I promise a real blog post soon. In the mean time, you just get to learn about C’s belated lessons in womanhood.
Raccoons Episode II: The Vermin Menace
Just FYI: The raccoons on the UCSB campus will gather, stalk, and chase you to your car. They don’t give a single fuck.
(Also, I am sick and cranky, so Star Wars nerds, if you feel the need to correct my Episode II/Phantom Menace mashup, I will happily shove an attack of the clones up your ass.)
Catsitting: A Timeline of Sorts
This is the general progression for any time I catsit for longer than a few days.
For the record, I did not actually find any cat journals. All cat journal entries are 57% fictional.
Click image if you think WordPress compression sucks.
Underpants Hack
Guys, remember The Misadventures of Ed and Bob? And The Misadventures of Bob? Well, C and I don’t stop at goats, you guys. GOATS ARE JUST THE BEGINNING.
No. No, you don’t get to see the rest of the conversation. Use your imagination. It’ll fall short.
In Which My Cat Pouts and Plots
Some number of days ago, I took this photo of my cat:
I rather liked it, but over drinks one evening, C expressed some concern over the fact that it looks like he is plotting my death. So I made this for her:
But then I couldn’t decide whether he was plotting or pouting. So I made these:
And now…now I just don’t trust my cat anymore. Let’s not forget: he’s got thumbs. There’s no telling what he could do if he set his nut-sized brain to it.
Babysitting is Fun
Yes, folks, this is the same Sasha who feeds and cuddles with Otto and occasionally submits guest blog posts. Thank Dog their baby sleeps through noise, because once the DJ showed up with the marina girls the house was rockin’…
The Misadventures of Bob
In case you missed The Misadventures of Ed and Bob, here’s a tiny bit of context.
So, C. has been on her way home from Oregon in a minivan she is not driving. This apparently has meant that she has become intimately familiar with all of the on- and off-ramps from Oregon to California. She may even have named a few. I didn’t ask. Seems kinda personal.
So I thought I would mention that sometimes you just gotta take the wheel.
Hoof to the pedal, Bob. Hoof to the pedal.
Solution: Magical Negro
Dear Hollywood,
I am at my wits’ end. I have been trying to find work for a couple years, now, and I cannot so much as get a response from the employers to whom I am applying. I am hitting rock bottom, financially. Additionally, my perspective on the world around me is increasingly negative and I am losing focus. In short, with the exception of my love life, which is suddenly amazing (although I fear misstep in that area, too), I feel like I am going about life entirely wrong, and that I need some guidance.
Hollywood, I am going to say it outright: I need you to send me a magical negro. A magical negro would fix everything. Nobody gives out life advice and guidance like a magical negro. Obviously, Sidney Poitier and Joe Seneca (see: Crossroads) are no longer available, but I would certainly love the services provided by Morgan Freeman or Whoopi Goldberg, and I would absolutely settle for Will Smith, because, you know: Bagger Vance. Djimon Hounsou is a real up-and-comer, too—and we all know he is extra magical because of his accent—so if he’s looking to expand his magical negro resume, I’m down to help.
Now, normally I’d ask for a fairy godmother. However, while she might fix everything with a wave of the wand, I don’t know how I will learn all the wonderful life lessons and find whatever I need to find in my soul without a journey by the side of a magical negro. Also, I have plateaued on my guitar playing lately, and I just don’t think anybody could help me with that like a magical negro, preferably one in a battered hat and clothes that were in style somewhere between 1860 and 1960. And Hollywood, you know as well as I do that the kind of wisdom magical negroes offer sounds better when they look and sound like they stepped directly off the plantation or out of some ramshackle blues club in Mississippi or Louisiana. That is, of course, unless he’s a displaced African tribesman (also totally acceptable but probably less helpful for guitar).
Admit it, Hollywood: you know this is the obvious and best solution to my problems.
Please get back to me with your plan and method of delivery (e.g. wall of mist, pretend janitorial staff, surprise trip to Africa or the Crusades).
Warmest Regards,
Whiskeypants
***
Dear Whiskeypants,
We only send magical negroes to white people. Negroes don’t need magical negroes because you are all inherently magical or criminals who either cannot benefit from advice or who need a helping hand from some upper middle class WASPs. We have faith that you will figure it out despite the handicap of also being part Native American, and therefore likely incredibly naïve and in desperate need of protection by white people, who will also play you in whatever movie we make of your life. Best of luck in your endeavors!
Sincerely,
Hollywood
***
Dear Stephen King…
.
Blog Composition
My dear friend Sasha pointed out that my blog composition has settled into a sort of triangle of topics. And I’m cool with that. It’s just not the topics I thought they would be. Witness:
Once again, the cats have won the internet. Resistance was futile. We’ve all been assimilated. And with that in mind, prepare yourselves for the most recent conversation with Otto, a guest blog from the abovementioned Sasha.
Puppies, Flowers, Happiness, and Light
So, not too long ago, I posted this status on Facebook: “In a weird turn of events, I might be about to start dating somebody who actually likes me.”
While to my delight this post received a surprisingly high number of “likes”, there was also some concern (both on Facebook and off) that if somebody were busy making me happy, this blog would become, as my friend Mike put it, “all fluffy bunnies and hearts.”
Gentle Readers, don’t worry.
This fantastic, amazing girl may be making me pretty stupidly happy thus far, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t a million things to be angry or frustrated about in the world. Privilege and privilege deniers still abound. Wall Street is still fucked up. The Republicans are still waging war against women, minorities, and the poor. The queer community in general is still comprised of second-class citizens in some way or another. Black kids are being murdered by racist fucks, who seem to be getting away with it. I remain constantly teetering on the edge of being unable to support myself. I still suck at guitar. I still work at two clubs. I still ride public transportation. I am still surrounded by other human beings because the stupid zombie apocalypse is late.
I could go on. But you get the point: This blog will never, ever be all fluffy bunnies and hearts. Or fluffy bunny hearts, because I want to keep the five or six readers I have.
I promise: if I have accidentally found actual romantic happiness, almost nothing will change here. The irritable snark is alive and well at terminallysnarky.com. And while I would find it extremely disappointing, this girl could always decide to dump me in some horrible way that includes kicking me in the shins and laughing while I’m down. It seems unlikely, but for those of you who are still worried about the potential for this blog’s descent into cheerful bliss, you can always hope for the worst.
I’m Sorry, Puppies
As girl quickly traverses the spectrum from Young to Asshole, this week just keeps getting better.†
Click image to make readable.†
You won’t regret it.‡
† “Better.” (11-second vid, has audio—in case you are reading this at work/school.)
† Stupid compression.
‡ Well. Maybe.
Homo-/Biphobic BINGO
In honor of National Coming Out Day, and all of the individuals coming out today (and who have already come out, and who aren’t quite ready to come out)—I sincerely hope you lose this game of BINGO:
Click Image For MoBiggification:
Olivia Wilde
My birthday is a week from today, and I cleverly created a wishlist on Facebook of things I really really want.
We’ve had some movement on my requests for whiskey: I am now in possession of some amazingly delicious highland malts (that’s a hint, a loving hint. Possibly an anvil). I have also had some success with my requests for shopping sprees and even the request for piles of money.
But to the best of my knowledge, nobody has moved forward with my request for 1+night(s) with Olivia Wilde.
Really. Really.
Didn’t I have a truly godawful 2010? Don’t you love me? Don’t you care about my happiness? And honestly, don’t you think I deserve 1+ night(s) with Olivia Wilde? I do. I really really do.
It’s not like we have nothing in common. I mean, look: She’s beautiful, talented, smart, well-off, and she has all of her teeth. And I’m smart. It would be a dream match even in the worst of circumstances.
Also, she’s married.
Dream. Match.
Think about it, folks. Take a moment right now and think about it.
…Yeah. That’s right.
(As an alternative to Olivia Wilde, I will also accept gainful employment.)
Being Single
One of the things I swore to myself upon coming out of an awful relationship (that capped almost a decade of serial dating/relationship experiences) was that I would remain single until at least the end of the year.
This is one of those things you swear, like when you decide you are gonna cut down on sugar, fatty foods, and whiskey, like when you decide you are gonna exercise more. Like when you decide to do anything you know you should do but are not 100% convinced you really want to do.
The pluses:
- Being unemployed doesn’t matter. Not being able to pay for dates or take a woman places doesn’t matter when you don’t have a woman to take out.
- I never have to clean my room.
- I have the opportunity to get my life together outside of the dating dynamic.
- I am not working my ass off to prove myself to somebody who doesn’t appreciate me anyway.
Wait, was that emotional baggage? Oops. Right, this isn’t about the women I have already been with.
The minuses:
- No girl to crawl into bed with. I am not just talking about sex. I am talking about that feeling when I walk into a room and know a woman I adore is in the bed I am about to fall into. I miss that feeling of wrapping myself around a sleepy girl, of enjoying the way she feels, the way she smells before I drift off to sleep.
- No sex. Just because it wasn’t necessarily an element of the above doesn’t mean it’s not an element. My mouth and my hands miss skin. My ears miss sounds. I am not going to tell you what my tongue misses, but you can guess.
- No license to stare. I don’t know about you, but I love looking at the women I am with. If I could I would just rest my chin on my hand and look. They put up with that better if they are sleeping with me.
- No license to tell her how hot I think she is. Generally, I don’t get to tell the devastatingly hot women around me how lovely I think they are (apart from those friends who think —tragically—that I am harmless). When I am dating I get to do that. Regularly.
- I miss having somebody I can wrap myself around, or grab by her belt loop and pull toward me. I miss finding dark corners for smooches and looking across the room to see that she is just as distracted as I am at the idea of those smooches. I miss that level of intimacy.
But where was I? Oh yeah, remaining single until the end of the year.
How am I supposed to do that when I find myself so totally enchanted? Some rules were made to be broken. Those rules include reducing: sugar, butter, bacon, whiskey, and women.
Zombie Apocalypse
Zombies have become so popular we even have a television show about them, now. They have a dance troupe, and small children have been known to stalk me, growling: “brains!”. I think one might recently have been voted into office (a zombie, not a small child. Actually, probably both).
More importantly, I have noticed that the majority of zombie flicks generally view the zombie apocalypse as a bad thing. But as a single, unemployed American lacking in basic health care, I have to say: is it, really?
I woke up this morning with the knowledge that I am still jobless and almost out of the inhaler that keeps me breathing on a daily basis. With no national health care option, I am actually kinda fucked.
Then, light bulb!—What if there were a zombie apocalypse?
I would be able to—after killing a number of the freaky undead, of course—just walk into a pharmacy, grab some Advair, some Vicodin, and some hair product, and walk right out again. That’s right, folks. The zombie apocalypse would be national healthcare. National health care—plus vicodin!
But why stop illuminating there, light bulb? Think about it!
- The mortgage crisis—not to mention the stress about having to pay rent: OVER!
- Frustration with public transportation: OVER!
- Uncomfortable political conversations: OVER!
- Reality TV: OVER!
Okay, yeah. I get it. The price of all of this beautiful freedom and ability to breathe is having to shoot the occasional family member or friend in the head, because if you shoot them anywhere else, they will keep on comin’. But it’s only the humane thing to do, folks.
I should point out for you pessimists out there that it works out the same if I become a zombie—breathing, rent, food, political discussions, hair product: all a non-issue. Health care or Hell care? I’ll take what I can get these days.
Not For Profitt
Rand Paul supporter Tim Profitt has expressed a desire for an apology from Lauren Valle, the activist whose head and shoulder he stomped on the other day. This charmer said he stomped on her because his bad back made it impossible for him to bend over (to what–punch her?) and then continued, “I don’t think it’s that big of a deal. I would like for her to apologize to me, actually.”
Man, I feel you. I hate it when those goddamn uppity lily-livered communist “activists” who are half my size get assaulted and wrestled to the ground right in front of me and I have to stomp on them because of my bad back. And I do have a bad back, folks, so I ain’t just playin’. Anyway, she was asking for it. Did you see the way she was dressed?
Profitt, I feel your pain. And I think that in addition to an apology, you should ask Valle for any resulting chiropractic, massage, and prescription expenses. Stomping her like that must have really thrown out your back.
