Don’t Read the Comments

ImageI can’t tell if I have a problem with follow-up or with commitment.  From the looks of my Gmail account, I’m willing to wager that it’s a little bit of both.

Despite the massive inventory of my inbox, I was more fascinated by the population of my “drafts” folder.  Upon closer inspection, a vast majority of these emails were intended responses to pre-existing threads, incomplete compositions to ex-boyfriends (almost all of which, unfinished, and rightly so) and quite a few addressee “draft” and the subject line left unforgivingly blank.

I confess an urge to simultaneously hit “send all” on the long-forgotten compositions, if only to confuse/astound would-be recipients.  The “draft/blank” entries would sadly be omitted, unless I just type in random letters and let autocomplete populate the email addresses as they will.  I could just attribute the en masse mailing to the recent Gmail glitch and thereby avoid any and all accountability.

The “inbox” situation I have no decent excuse for.  It’s merely a testament to my email laziness.  I was one of the rare few who was pleased that Gmail opted to segregate incoming messages into perceived “legitimate” emails versus “promotional”, “updates”, “social” and “forums”.  The downside to this high-level of Gmail organization is that I now realize how very few emails I receive that are genuinely intended for my eyes only.  They’re either bulk mailings, special offers or mass invites to an event.  To the point where I will oftentimes email myself with a reminder, or a URL, and then I see the (1) next to my inbox I think, “Oh!  I got a messa – oh, wait.”  =/


Voulez-voulez-vous you’ve not got mail.

Hello. My name is Niff. And I hate Firefly.

When I used to work with DaBoon we would often have conversations that could not be summarized into a narrative, so I ended up just copying and pasting the entire conversation verbatim into my blog, or whatever.
So, after just having a conversation with another friend of mine about being judged by people for not liking certain elements of pop culture and televised media that seem to be ubiquitous amongst my like-minded friends, Rochelle and I re-enacted what is the usual response from people I know when I admit that yes, I in fact, do *not* like Firefly.
Niff: LAZY SUNDAY!  Yeeah
Rochelle: watched some firefly with the roommates
Niff: Ugh – firefly
Rochelle: had delicious thai food
Rochelle: and some pie
Rochelle: WHAT!
Niff: PIE
Rochelle: you don’t like firefly? 😉
Niff: Yes.  It’s true.  I don’t like firefly
Rochelle: OOOOO them’s fightin words
Niff: Dude, don’ gimme any of yer shit, man
Niff: I got plenty of other geek creds
Rochelle: HA!
Rochelle: do you like other Whedon shows?
Niff: I think you may need to brace yourself for this one
Niff: I HATE Joss Whedon
Rochelle: you hate joss?
Rochelle: JOSS?
Niff: dude
Rochelle: WHY!!!1
Niff: I don’t need to explain myself to you, you freakin’ Whedon Fangirl!
Niff: I learn nothing watching his version of “sci fi”!
Niff: Besides, you don’t watch Stargate!
Rochelle: hahahahaha
Rochelle: I’m not certain how I should be feeling right now.
Rochelle: Guilty
Rochelle: Sad?
Rochelle: Anxious that you’ll stop being friends with me now?
Niff: Judgmental?  You can throw that in there
Rochelle: HAHAHA
Rochelle: Wait…-I’m- being judgemental?
Niff: Dude, yeah!  I only threw out Stargate to defend myself!
Niff: See what you made me do??
Niff: You’re not supposed to be mean to me on my birthday!
Niff: *sob*
Rochelle: OMG girl
Rochelle: check yerself before you wreck yerself
Niff: Between my hatred of firefly and dislike for chocolate I was almost thrown out of the house. 😀
Niff: I’mma blog this conversation
Rochelle: sweet
Rochelle: Imma gonna be famous!
Niff: I think you overestimate the readership of my blog…
Niff: It’s not like I’m freakin’ Joss Whedon or anything.
Rochelle: hahahaha
Rochelle: Or Nathan Fillion
Rochelle: Mmmm….
Niff: Who the hell is Nathan Fillion?
Rochelle: Firefly – Captain of the ship…also star of Castle
Rochelle: Love him.  Would have his babies fer sure.
Niff: I want Captain Jack Harkness’ babies.  But, I’m barren and he’s gay, so I don’t really see that working out.
And that’s it.  That’s all I’ve got.  Go ‘way.

What this blog needs is more brain eating zombies.

Last weekend I learned the mechanics of creating a typeface.  In case you didn’t know – making a font is mind-bendingly complicated.  It’s like photo editing gone mad.

Screen Shot 2013-09-21 at 5.57.10 PMThis was my result after three days of bad posture and squinting at my 15-inch laptop screen.  I was trying to find a word that featured the best fruits of my labor.  Apparently a wizened wizard from Middle Earth was the only thing that would suffice.

Oh, and then there’s pi:

Screen Shot 2013-09-27 at 10.05.16 PM

I named my font “pomme”.  It started out as “pomplemousse” but I got bloody fucking tired of typing out “pomplemousse” every thirty minutes and abandoned the idea of naming my font after French citrus.  Great workshop though; three days, 10 hours each day.  The instructors were funny.  They wore t-shirts with typography jokes on them.  We went to happy hour.  We had painfully long critiques.  People opined.  And now I can’t stop working in Font Lab.  My Doctor Who scarf, as a result, is being largely ignored.

I’m currently watching a documentary called “Room 237”.  Well, ok not really.  It’s on in the background while I’m in the midst of this feeble attempt to crank out a blog entry.  Facebooking is killing my blog.  The irony?  I pay for the blog.

I am Jack’s epic facepalm.

I actually find myself scrolling through old Facebook posts looking for ideas to blog about.

Ok, so I’m ‘sort-of’ watching this Shining documentary.  On that note, careening head-first down a large flight of stairs looks painful.  I wonder if that was really Jack Nicholson or a stunt-double. My vote is for stunt-double.  Also, whatever happened to the Big Wheel?  I had one as a kid; I remember that the front wheel, over time, developed a flat edge on a ten-inch section of the arc of the wheel as a result from braking at what would appear to be the same spot repeatedly.  The result was an audible “thunk-a thunk-a thunk-a” during normal operation.  I suppose that’s motivation to learn to ride a bike.

Something occurred to me yesterday while I was sitting at my desk snacking on  gluten-free granola from Pike Place Market and becoming increasingly focused on extracting the raisins from aforementioned bag:  just why do raisins plucked from a cacophony of other ingredients taste so much better than raisins à la carte?  Rochelle claims that Jesus would know.  I can’t say I agree with that assessment…I mean, how popular could  gluten-free granola be in Galilee or Judea in 36 AD?  Perhaps if I’m ever witnessed to I will ask them.

– “Excuse me, but have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”
– “Uh, no…but I have a question.  Does Jesus know why raisins extracted from a bag of gluten-free granola are so much tastier than raisins on their own?”
– “So you haven’t opened your heart up to Jesus?”
– “Not unless he can answer intelligently about my raisin question.”


Voulez-voulez-vous pomplemousse.

“Great balls of fire! Don’t bother me anymore, and don’t call me sugar!”

Only until recently did I notice that the WordPress interface on my website stockpiles the comments I receive into a folder where they eagerly await my approval in order for them to appear on the corresponding blogs. When I saw the number 3,543 next to the “Comments” folder, my initial thought was, “Wow, I have far more readership than I thought!” and thus began the arduous task of perusing through the long list of commentary through my “beloved fans”, as it were. Until…

…I realized that this “comments” folder was pretty much the WordPress equivalent to my Spam folder on Gmail. The only downside is, WordPress has no method for separating the good eggs from the bad, so in order for me to cherry-pick the actual, real comments out from the “Buy your Viagra online!” posts, I have to scroll through them All 3,000+ of them.

Granted this task was not met with a great deal of enthusiasm. However, as my modus operandi as of late has been to see the Silver Lining, I figured the best approach would be to browse through all of them, looking for the valid, the mad, and inane. A shockingly large number of them were mind-bogglingly irrelevant to the post. But, I kind of invite that.

Some examples, if you are interested.

I wrote a post back in 2008 about Wikipedia Loops. Feel free to click the link and peruse at your leisure. At any rate, I found that the user “Adeyoyin” had posted the following diatribe in response to this post:

“that she’s been distancing hseerlf from everything, what sort of psychological thing does this mean. I’ve told her about how I feel and how badly I just want her to come home in person and through text messages, and when I text message her she wont answer me at all, and will only answer me if it has something to do that concerns her. She doesn’t like to be criticized at all, and she’s been screwing up a lot lately and it’s really hard for me to bite my tongue because I can’t stand irresponsibility. No matter how sweet I am, or the things I do or say, doesn’t seem to phase her at all. She left me once a while back when she got pregnant and came home 5 weeks later. So this isn’t the first time that she’s left me. I will quote her in a message she sent me. You don’t love me for who I am, you want me to change everything. You kept your hopes up that I’d change for you, but nothing will, I did the same for you. And it’s not going to bring me back. I have come to accept that if I stayed with you, we’d never be happy. We’d always have a problem, it has to be time to move on. I can’t live the rest of my life like that. The things that she’s refering to as changing for me meaning, she was a complete slob, wouldn’t clean anything, would make messes all the time, wouldn’t ever make dinner, wouldn’t buy groceries, and wouldn’t take care of our baby properly. I’d come home from work at the end of the day and our baby wouldnt be fed at all, or she would just feed her raman noodles or muffins from McDonalds. And her keeping up her hopes that I would change for her, meaning that I would lay off and stop telling her to be responsible.If anyone has experienced this in their lives, please share with me how you dealt with it, or how you got her to come home. Or in this case, if you’re a woman and a man did this to you, let me know how it worked out. I just want her to come home, and it’s been a month already and she doesn’t seem to want to come back but I’d like to change that.”

I did not correct their typos. I felt it was best to preserve artistic integrity.
I’m not sure if this person thought that my blog comment box was a personal journaling space, or some kind of message board for relationship issues, but…um. I thought about providing some feedback, but that would require me to “Approve” their post, and I like to keep my site drama-free.

“Adrian” posted on “Boon Has Tolerated this for Five Years“:
“Hey, I think this is really cool. I love the posts you make on dienerfft things you blame Lupus for. It is a funny side of blaming stray things on Lupus. Thanks for sharing.”

I assure you I made no humorous comment on lupus. What I want to know is, does this person spend their free time making this selfsame comment on random blogs? And if so…why? Do they themselves have lupus and are angry and bitter and are taking out their frustrations on the blogosphere? One can only speculate.

This one is priceless:
“But if you find yourself going off on long tangents about personal matters, it’s time to get back on track. You have to find the right balance, and with practice you’ll discover it. If you would think twice before saying something in a phone call or email to a customer, you should leave it out of your blog.

cheap jordans”
My blog IS tangents and personal matters. Move along. And thanks for the Jordans link. Do people still wear Jordans?

My favorite by far:
From “diablo 3 gold”:
“obviously like your web-site however you need to check the spelling on several of your posts. Many of them are rife with spelling issues and I to find it very troublesome to inform the truth.”

Fuck you, pal. I mean seriously. Take your self-righteous ass to Reddit.

I don’t even know what the hell this means: (click to enlarge)


I’ve only been through about 500 of them thus far. I’m sure I’ll come across a few more gems as I make progress.

Voulez-voulez-vous buy Ambien online at huge discounts!

“It’s wildly irritating to have invented something as revolutionary as sarcasm, only to have it abused by amateurs.” – Christopher Moore

uterusI now have a plush uterus. My magnificent coworkers felt that a plush uterus would make a fantastic placeholder for the real thing. I find it makes a fantastic pillow. I have been given a wide variety of plush gifts during my convalescence. I have now amassed a teddy bear, an otter, a Curious George, a flying screaming monkey, and now, a uterus. Complete with bendable Fallopian tubes. The manufacturer of said uterus has an entire amalgamation of organs for you to select from. Even glands. Thyroid, pituitary, hypothalamus, take your pick. Not to scale, mind you. I cringe at the thought of the size of the being constructed of these organs. The intestines alone would be enough to warrant an abdominal cavity the size of a Buick.

In related news: today I receive a link from the givers of aforementioned uterus. The saga continues:

Awesomesauce link.

I am now plagued by the desire to pack my uterus with me when I leave the house and take advantage of photo-bombing opportunities. Group of duck-face blondes on a Friday night? BAM! Uterus. Group of Japanese tourists in front of Pike Place Market? UTERUS. Oh yeah. I’ll be more notorious than the Travelocity gnome. Or possibly have a warrant for my (or the uterus’) arrest.

All of this “missing uterus” business, coupled with my plethora of free (recovery) time, has unfortunately also given me time to contemplate…whatever has become of my sad, abandoned-in-the-night ovaries?

Yes. That’s right. They left my ovaries behind. Lost in a sea of intestines and bladder and kidneys and whatever the hell else happens to reside in there. The Beatles’ White Album could be shoved in between my liver and spleen for all I know. They meant well; in an attempt to prevent the horrors of premature menopause and the ensuing emotional fits and hot flashes and hormone ugliness which I do, in fact, appreciate. But I digress.

So, you’ve got these ovaries right? And for decades they’re attached to these Fallopian tubes and separated by space and time and this seemingly infinite and vast expanse of land beyond their comprehension. They would see each other, smile, wave a friendly “hello”. Perhaps once in a while, holler across the void:

– “Hey man! How’d your egg go?!”
– “Pretty good! You?”
– “Eh. I’ve had better.”
– “Sorry to hear, man. Hey, wanna grab a drink?”
– “Dude, can’t! I’ve got this Fallopian guy all over my ass!”
– “Oh, right. Well, maybe someday…”
– “Yeah. Well, talk later!”

And on it goes.

Until one day…

A deep rumble…
A piercing ray of light…
A screeching noise…

And before they can comprehend the situation, they are ripped from the only home they have ever known…they only anchor, their safe harbor…and left adrift…to flounder in an uncertain future, their only purpose in life stolen from them.

What now? What was to become of them? DEAR GOD WHERE DO THE EGGS GO?!

It was at this point I began to conjure up images of my wayward ovaries, succumbing to their search for their own kind, becoming lodged in front of my carotid artery, forcing me to squeegee them back down my neck…or one of them inadvertently getting lost in my digestive tract…ye gods. Self-cannibalism! The horror. I do hope they manage to stay put. I never thought to ask my doctor if she thumb-tacked them down or anything. Maybe gave them life preservers or, at the very least, water wings for their entrails. I now have these unfortunate images of them as star-crossed lovers, no longer separated by anatomy, ever searching for one another. Just trying to find the one being in the world who truly knows them. I have my very own anatomical soap opera. I kinda wish they’d sewn them together so I could feel more cozy about the whole thing. Ok, now I just imagined my ovaries as testicles. Ew. Nevermind.

Voulez-voulez-vous it ain’t ova til it’s ova… (I know. So bad. My apologies.)

“Hey! How come Andrew gets to get up? If he gets up, we’ll all get up, it’ll be anarchy!!”

Warning: This post composed while under the influence of physician-prescribed narcotoc painkillers. Continue at your own risk.

Be advised that this may be a bit graphic, but since this is my blog and my domain that I pay for, if you don’t like it, don’t read it. Might I suggest for your oh-so-fragile psyche? Lots of cute and fuzzy things.

Ten days ago, I had surgery. A hysterectomy, to be exact. My cervix/uterus has been trying to kill me for the last couple of years, so the bastard had to go. My doctor and I tried compromising with the thing, but it would not be reasoned with. Now it’s in a medical waste dump facility somewhere since they wouldn’t let me take it home, which I consider to be violently unfair. I have the opinion I should be able to leave the hospital with all of the parts I had going into it, even if they are in a different container. They disagreed.

At any rate, the recovery process is annoying and ongoing and now I have an infection in my stitches and blood in my urine which is being investigated so I get to wait (granted on painkillers but still). One thing I have learned throughout this ordeal is, when you spend ALL of your time at home, making sure to take note of every odd-ball thing your body is doing, since it’s been violated, trying to distract yourself with Netflix and work and the terrifying content of YouTube…and people ask you how you’re doing?

They really don’t want to know.

They want to hear “OH! I’m doing great! Much better than I expected! Things are MARVELOUS!” They don’t want to hear about the “stuff”. They don’t want to hear about the fact that your body protests every time you shift in your bed and you have crusty blood and surgical glue anchored in your navel and your body protests at functions it used to take for granted. They don’t want to know that things ooze ALL.DAY.LONG. And WHY is everything I want on the wrong floor of the house? Snarf.

Because for some reason, people find the human body and all of it’s goings-on “TMI”. TMI? Pppbblltthhhh. Ok, so yes, maybe a dinner party or a business meeting is not the most appropriate locale to discuss such things. But when people genuinely ask me how I’m doing and I even hint at anything biological? Ye gods. Pregnant women of the world, you have my sympathies. From here on out, every friend I have who conceives a child, feel free to rant and rave to me to your heart’s content; I will be a sounding board for you. Now I know why the elderly tend to express themselves so passionately about the inner workings of their anatomy; they’ve stopped caring and are making up for lost time.

I honestly have NO idea why we, as humans, find ourselves so revolting. It’s a wonder people even manage to have sex. Seriously. We gross ourselves out; how did this happen? Did modern medicine keep us from having to suck it up and set our own broken legs while traveling cross-country so now we grow faint at the sight of a hangnail? Good lord people. Grow a pair and deal. Yeah, I have blood in my urine. OH MY GOD! People will watch a video of two girls eating each others feces out of a cup but I mention my internal stitches being infected and all of a sudden I’m the one crossing the line? The mind reels.

Voulez-voulez-vous peritoneal drainage!!

Is this not a reasonable place to park??

Michelle Leland…this narrative is for you.

So I’m doing my “night before surgery” shower thing, where they make you wash with the medical equivalent to battery acid, see, making it clear to not get it in any orifices lest you go blind or deaf or sterile; you are also not to use conditioner (criminal!), and during this debacle I’m wondering what the Purpose of It All is, when I just have to do it *again* in the morning. (sigh.) yes, that’s right.  They make you do it twice.  Which is altogether pointless when all I’m going to do is crawl into my bed littered with dead skin cells and the cracker crumbs and pieces of seaweed from last night and other evidence of humanity you *really* don’t want to know about, thus negating all of this “disinfecting”.

At any rate, mid-scrub, I look up, and there’s a spider on the ceiling. Not a “bite-your-face-off” sized one mind you, but modest, reddish, just hanging out, trying to build a web, I think, flush with the ceiling. Considering I’ve never seen a flying insect in the bathroom to date, I feel this is a bad plan. I find it best to advise him:

“Hey.  Dude-man.  That’s a bad spot for your real estate.  Seriously. Keep it movin’.”

The spider does not respond.

“Ok, now, I’m no expert, but seriously.”


And then…it warbles. Legs dangling, et cetera.

“Oh, HELL no…ok, pal, you fall on me, that’s it. No sympathy. None. I was willing to let you build your digs over a swirling vortex of death all you wanted but you fall on me? You’re fucked.”

It is at this point I begin to realize the surgical disinfectant I have lathered onto my porcelain flesh has exceeded the 15-20 second expiration date and is now searing my epidermis.



I then decide a pre-emptive strike is in order and go after the unsteady arachnid with my sadly unused bottle of conditioner.

I miss.
It falls. Onto my disinfected shoulder.

There’s a certain clarity of thought, a particular calmness that claims your mind, when you realize that in less than 24 hours a surgeon is going to be reaching into your opened abdomen and removing all of your reproductive organs. This tends to keep you from the predictable human response of:


And instead, you shoot it a sarcastic look which reads, “Sumbitch pleeeeease…” and with a nonchalant “flick” send him flying into the drain, Honey Badger-style. Sorry dude-man.

He hits the bottom of the tub unimpressively, legs flailing, and spirals down into the aforementioned Vortex of Death. He died so that others may shower.

crabNow, if tomorrow morning during pre-op disinfectant shower round two there’s a damn coconut crab in there, you’ll bet your ass there will be the vocal equivalent of a four-alarm fire emanating from the bathroom. There’s a time and a place and there’s just no amount of disinfecting cleanser that can help me recover from that nightmare.


Captain Jack and the Shrimp Shack Shooters

Upon beginning this blog I realized that my bloody Yahoo hosting interface hates Chrome, and Safari, and basically any browser but Firefox.  As a Mac user, I am a devoted Chrome fanatic.  But when I try and post a blog entry using this particular application in my browser of choice, it chokes and gurgles upon itself and no progress is made.  So I have sadly discovered that if I am to have a happy pretty blog, I must also have a douchebag browser.  Technology fail.

But I digress.

Riding the bus affords me certain unique opportunities that regular automobile (AUTOMOBIIIILE???)  commuters just do not experience.  Of course, these selfsame commuters do not realize that they have become one of my favorite forms of entertainment as we go careening down 520 during the wee hours of the weekday morn.  You people manage the most amazing feats of multitasking while driving.  Sure, most of you manage to manipulate your mobile devices with a fair amount of manual dexterity while operating a motor vehicle with relative (?) success.  But I’ve seen iPads, laptops, I’ve seen entire breakfasts being consumed, outfits changed, hairdos coiffed, makeup applied (one woman meticulously applied mascara in her rearview mirror while maintaining a healthy 55 MPH down I-5).  If I weren’t in a large, reinforced steel tube that could crush anything in its path should shit really go down, I’d never leave the house.  You people are bloody insane.  Legislators think cell phones are all they have to worry about?  Holy hell man, in my estimation Sephora is FAR more deadly than texting my “ETA” to my “BFF”.  People drive with their dogs on their laps – and I’m not talking Pomeranians…I’ve seen full-size Labradors and Cocker Spaniels cruising along with their heads hanging out the driver’s side window with shit-eating grins on their faces.

Of course, the inner sanctum of public transit is not the idyllic 45-minute cruise that one would hope. You have the stereotypical anti-deodorant folks, the creepy lech guy who sits next to you even though the bus is TOTALLY EMPTY, the screaming kid downing an entire bag of Skittles and his ironically bewildered mother, the people who don’t realize the volume at which they’re holding embarrassing phone conversations…or, like yesterday, dancing pirates.  True story.  No, he did not have earphones.  Whatever he was listening to, dude had it goin’ on in his head.  Oddly, it matched perfectly with the tempo of what I was listening to at the time…got my toes a-tappin’…I’ll admit it.  Must be brilliant to have that kind of soundtrack in your own head.  He even had a feather in his hat.  And some pretty sick moves for a pirate. I don’t think I’ll be underestimating pirates for a while.  What was brilliant was the effect he was having on those around him.  I find it hilarious how when amazing and odd things happen in this city, people do the “OHMIGOSH LOOK AT THIS INTERESTING AND FASCINATING ALBEIT ATTENTION-CONSUMING THING ON MY PHONE!” bit.  They were doing anything to avoid looking at this guy busting a move on the bus.  Me? I think it would be far more interesting to join in, or at least give him a soundtrack, or maybe throw confetti at him.  Or throw confetti at the OHMIGOSH, PHONE!! people.  It’s amazing the effort we put into ignoring one another.

Voulez-voulez-vous savvy?

“System.NullReferenceException”. What the eff does THAT mean?!

I’ve come to the realization that Facebook is trying to take control of humanity.

There’s a scene in “The Truman Show” – the end, actually – where after decades of mindless viewers following Truman from conception to adulthood through the medium of television the protagonist finally becomes aware that he has been the the sole source of entertainment for millions of people and, in a grand gesture, he ‘pulls the plug’, as it were.  And these millions of viewers who have been living vicariously through his eyes and neglecting their own existence for more days than they can count, for several pauses, are aghast, disoriented, and bewildered.  And you find yourself hoping that maybe, just maybe, they will hoist themselves off of the sofa and do something meaningful and profound; buy a unicycle. Learn Latin. Get a llama. Something.

But no.  They just change the channel.  Erngh.

My point is this:  whenever there’s what I call “a glitch in the Matrix”, or, to be more concise, whenever the chat list disappears from Facebook, or the masthead goes astray, or people’s oh-so-meaningful posts get sucked into the void, there is widespread panic.  The Facebook wall becomes aflood with posts from people looking for some kind of confirmation, some comfort, that someone else *out there* is also suffering. Please, please tell me your feed isn’t refreshing! Please tell me I’m not alone!!

And if Facebook were to disappear, out of desperation, would we all migrate back to the steely 140-character limit confines of Twitter?  Or even (gasp) Google+?

Ye gods. What has happened?

Facebook has made us addicted, made us twitchy, made us dependent on knowing what each of us is doing every second…and ohmigosh, please let someone have commented on that oh-so-amazing witticism I posted earlier, and did I get invited to that thing? I didn’t? But so-and-so did…does that mean they don’t like me anymore? Why did she/he/they RSVP and not tell me about it? UGH I feel like total CRAP about myself right now! No one LOVES ME! *hiccup* *muffled sob*

Facebook has made us all high schoolers again…and we’re letting it! Sad wankers we are.

I wonder how it would be possible to organize a 24 hour worldwide Facebook boycott.  No posts, no shares, no bloody ‘likes’.  Nothing.  Everyone even goes so far as to sign out of their accounts. No social media at all. Instead, we meet in person. Talk on the phone to hear each other’s voices. Read books made of paper.  Disconnect and reconnect.  Become human again.

Just a thought.

Voulez-voulez-vous Niff likes this.

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Johnny Cash.

I’ve noticed two things as of late.

1.  Dog people tend to speak TO their dogs.

2.  Cat people tend to speak FOR their cats.  Narrative-style.


The dog person:

“OH!  Who’s a good dog!  Oh yes, he’s just da best dog EVER oh yes he IS!  Who want to go for a WALK oh YES he DOES!  OH he’s just da handsomest boy ever!  Oh you like that scratch da butt ohhh yeeeeaaahhhhh that feels good huh you like dat dontcha!!”

(ok, fine.  Maybe that’s how I talk to dogs.  Whatever.  Moving on.)

And the latter school:

“Yes.  I’m a cat.  No, you may not pet me now.  In fact, you may not even gaze upon my magnificence just yet.  I shall let you know when it is time.  In fact, I would like to be fed.  That’s right.  And don’t you dare give me that noxious dry mess either – oh good god, is that beastly mongrel in my litter box again?  What a lemming.  I’m surrounded by imbeciles.  Things will be so much more tolerable when the sixth extinction hits and your apelike masses of flesh are disintegrated and we inherit the earth…”

I think the dog in the (Pixar?  Disney?  Fuck if I know) movie “Up!” eloquently sums up my preference for dogs: “I just met you.  But I love you!”  I realize there’s a kind of sick desperation there.  It’s ok, I own it.

What I love about cats, if I could love anything about cats, is how their owners make excuses for their ass-hat behavior as if it were a personality trait.  Like it’s endearing somehow.

“Oh, Seviche does this thing where when I’m needing snuggles after a rough day I call her name and she glares at me, ya know, like she wishes the Korean mafia were slitting my jugular at that precise moment?  Yeah.  So then she turns on her heel and fluffs her tail in the air with a metaphorical, “Harrumph!” and struts off…Ohmigosh!  SOOO cute!  Sigh.  Cats are the best…”

It would be at this juncture where I would be duct-taping this useless, fluff-covered sack of innards to the carpet to give it ample time to ponder the err of its foul, smug, and curmudgeonly ways and to become accustomed to its station in life as a domestic servant and provider of love and affection, NOT as an object of idolatry and worship.  Really, the perpetuation of *that* particular nonsense must cease and desist.  I think even the Egyptians came to their senses on that one.

Voulez-voulez-vous j’ai rien.