Pretty pretty manhole covers.
(found via Nag On the Lake)
On The Other Hand, Here Is An Upside To All Japanese Being On Acid
Posted: 3rd September 2010 by leeann in charmed, up3
You didn't have to say it twice.
I Need To Borrow Sheri’s Sneer-Quotes Machine
Posted: 2nd September 2010 by leeann in dark matter, downOur wireless service sucks out here in Swampland. All the big boys, Verizon and AT&T and Sprint, they won’t even stick a toe in the water out here. There is one local company and they know how big their frog is in this tiny little pond. The catch is, other than an appallingly stupid and annoying commercial that runs constantly on television and makes me scream curses like unto speaking in tongues, they only provide service to Louisiana and Mississippi. Wait, let me be fair. They do have some variety of coverage outside those states… at the cost of 49 cents per minute.
I could raise and train a family of pigeons and carry them with me cheaper than that.
However, since my lust for an actual able-to-make-calls-and-text-and-not-hear-that-evil-beep-beep-beep-of-lost-call-alert wireless service is growing, I decide to set aside my desire to hunt down and skin that asswad who smirks his oily way through the ads prejudices and check into Centennial’s plans.
And there the carnival began.
To look at their plans online, you need a username and password. Your username is your wireless number you have with them. So, to even look at what they have to sell, you have to be a contracted customer already.
Yeah.
I spend fifteen minutes circling that particular self-perpetuating circlejerk, trying to find a way in. If I even want to email them with a question, I have to have an account.
So I broke down and wrote them a letter, hardcopy snailmail flavor. I mentioned that I was fully aware that they have a self-proclaimed toll-free number, staffed 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I also mentioned that if I wanted to talk to someone in India, I’d call Bollywood. I found it particularly amusing that I was writing to an office somewhere in Indiana, a state they would charge extra to call. Sneaky, guys, very sneaky.
Unfortunately, if my desire to text like a true entry in the new millenium citizenry keeps up, we just might have to go to these melonfarmers. (All credit for this phrase to Sheri, she who enhances our vocabs mightily.) It’s not something I want to do, really, but needs must and all that.
I’m seriously hoping they write back. I truly am. A good old-fashioned paper-and-pen war is just the thing to keep me amused.
Until I get a smartphone, anyway. And a wireless company to serve it.
And some pigeons.
Dear Kyle,
May I call you Kyle? It is Kyle, isn’t it?
You’re a fucking asstard.
You’re 18 years old and your family is suing your teacher for your own stupidity, because you attached jumper cables to your nipples. Wait a sec…
I need to go over here and giggle at how damn stupid you are.
Jumper cables.
To your nipples.
You’re 18, Kyle. You can vote and drive and even drink in some states. You can serve in the military. You can pay taxes. Yet the old jumper cable to the nips way seemed the best, huh? You rock, Kyle.
Your family alleges you now have brain damage. Got news for you, dude, the brain damage was there prior to the whole nipple thing, and far as we can tell, is endemic to your family.
Oh, and as to the accusation the teacher “leaves the class alone for 20 minutes at a time”? Yeah, gord forbid a room full of near-adults should be left alone for any amount of time. The little snowflakes might have a conversation, or quietly study… or attach jumper cables to their nipples.
I really can’t get away from that phrase, and yeah, I realize my latest argument just killed itself. Still.
Thank you, Kyle’s family, for clogging up the court system with a lawsuit that in olden times would have been just settled by the teacher giving you a goat in exchange for your dumbass, nipple-charging dimwit child.
Sincerely,
me
PS… yeah, the teacher might be a complete waste of school budget dollars. I have no data on his qualifications. I only know if you attach jumper cables to your nipples and you aren’t getting a pile of money to be a public ego-freakshow for it, and you blame others… you’re an asstard.
Actual Useful Info. Really. I Would Not Baktag You.
Posted: 2nd September 2010 by leeann in charmed, entropyI’ve found this handy study guide to increased communication skills just a little too late to be useful for the old job. Hopefully I won’t need it at the new place but it’s never a bad thing to continue one’s education.
1. H has a new favorite show. “Swamp People” on History Channel. Basically it follows the alligator-hunting exploits of a pack of feral south-Louisianians Cajuns, and those guys, despite not having half as many teeth as your basic jack-o-lantern, do work like hell. H likes to watch me watch it and mumble to myself “What the HELL did he say?” If not for closed-captions, I’d never know what they were saying. And most of his relatives talk like that. They laugh at me for MY accent. Yeah, totally, dude, they really do.
2. Mr. Coffee is no gentleman. He just pissed all over my counter.
3. Once I get another identity so Bank of Fuckmeuptheass can’t find me all my finances straightened out, I’m getting a smartphone. Too much weirdness goes on at work for me not to share AS IT HAPPENS, LIVE ON THE SCENE. Yes, I will be abusing my capslock privileges.
4. We had a friend back in Hawaii who ate little except meat. (I originally wrote that as “little but meat” and realized it just seemed wrong.) He hated veggies, tolerated potatoes, but he loved meat. Oh my yes. He’d gorge at cook-outs until he, as he put it, got “the meat sweats.”
I just had an attack of “the coffee sweats.” It’s not that bad.
5. I had another item but I just went to the bathroom and now I’ve forgotten it.
They’ll Be Charging Admission To Just Look At Me By This Time Next Week
Posted: 31st August 2010 by leeann in entropy, strangeThis has happened at least once a week since I started work at the Little Cardshop With Pretensions (and I have to say, I really wish we had some skanks working there because “Little Cardshop of Whores” has a much better ring to it) so I’m going to compress it into one lump, better to save your eyes, my fingers, and make the most of this coffee-fueled-brainfart.
Backstory: I play World of Warcraft and Lord of the Rings Online and Hellgate: London, have for years and back in SoCal it raised nary an eyebrow when it would come up in conversation and yes, I hung around with people who would bring up World of Warcraft in conversation. I walk the geek way, grasshopper.
So yesterday in trots one of the local NerdHerders from the nearby bigbox electronics store and asks my help in picking up some magazines for his ailing mom. As we look for another copy of Martha Stewart’s rag, I mention I might bring my computer by someday to have it thoroughly cleaned. (Not that I can’t do it myself, I was just making small talk. Really small.) I told him what kind of machine I had and he tutted disapprovingly.
“Oh you got TAKEN!” he announced. “That machine is far too big and powerful for your needs. Tsk tsk tsk.”
“Well,” retorts I, stung by his criticism of my beautiful wannabe-AI, “I thought I’d get one I could expand later if I want to add more games, speed and all, you know.”
His ears perked up a little, something he could get his teeth into.
“Games? Like Farmville and Sims?” he asked.
“No, like World of Warcraft and LOTRO and like that.”
He stared at me like I’d dropped my pants and whipped out a unit to make Ron Jeremy cry.
“You…. you play… you have some… what? World of? What?”
“Oh yeah,” I threw off over my shoulder as I walked to the counter to ring up. “Played for years now.” As I totaled up his purchased I reeled off some facts about my gaming, only a little exaggerated. He flapped his face, speechless in the obvious fact that a little old ladytype was a screaming orc madman behind the keyboard.
“Okay. Wow. Okay. Huh. Cool. Bye.” And away he went, stopping once to look back to see if I’d pulled a sword on him.
I’ve talked to about three, maybe four people here about my gaming. They all acted like it was a carnival act. Apparently there’s something in the southern code of feminine behavior that prevents us boob-inflicteds from entering the mancave and using boy toys.
And I realize I could so turn that sentence into something nassy but I won’t.
Yet.
Anyway, that’s how it’s going here. I’m the resident freak of nature and I LIKE it.
Tune in next week when LeeAnn asks for her employee discount on a pron mag… just for research’s sake, you know.
look down, it's that thing you love
I do do that too, every time I see a picture of the Hot Old Spice Guy I hear his voice. Then I have to quote lines from the original commercial for the rest of the day.
“Your change is now DIAMONDS!” I exclaim to customers.
Sometimes they try to sniff me, just to make sure it’s not really Himself.
(picture found a while back at fuck yeah dementia!!1!)
I make no secret of it. I’m not ashamed. I adore Hello Kitty and all things Hello Kitty. I have Hello Kitty jewelry and Hello Kitty t-shirts and Hello Kitty bandaids and if I ever get an AK-47 you can be damn sure it will be a Hello Kitty model. There is Hello Kitty everything and of course I want it all.
The rumors that Hello Kitty is affiliated with satanism is just the icing on the Hello Kitty cupcake.
Hello Kitty's cousin, who also rocks but has control issues
Created by Mingle2.com
Despite it being a faux-shill created by a real *gak* dating site, I do love most things brain-craving.
(found at Chaz’s hotspot, Dustbury)
And I must include in any conversation about zombies my favorite song about those cuddly folk:
One of the best movies ever, “Fight Club”, is on TV right now… on Bravo.
Once they get done “editing for content” and making space for commercials and cutting out every single word that could possibly ever offend anyone, and graphic shots, the remaining 7 minutes will go like this:
I silently loathe my empty life. But wait! I’ve made a new friend, Tyler Durden, who shows me the exciting seamy underside of life that now I can’t live without.
Here is my new sort-of girlfriend. “I haven’t been found in the alps like that since grade school.”
Oh look, it’s getting out of hand.
“His name is Robert Paulson.”
My new friend, Tyler Durden, is getting more violent, what should I do? I’ll track him everywhere.
Oh no, my new friend is all in my head and my new sort-of girlfriend is in danger.
“In that case, sir, may I advise against the lady eating clam chowder? ”
I didn’t talk about Fight Club but now I have to shoot myself to get the new friend to shut up.
Hey, big explosions! Pretty!
The End.
Bravo, you suck. No bravo for you.