Category: Crankypantsing

Crankypantsing

Resistance Is Futile

Shelly

I find the underlying assumption that the default state is Christian troubling. I feel the same way when I’m wished a cheerful, peppy “Merry Christmas” by the cashier at the grocery store. It’s not a huge deal. I don’t expect that there’s anything to be done to solve the problem, or even if there is a problem. I just know that it makes me squirmy.

Apparently, it’s Not Allowed to say so out loud, though. If you do, you may be told that your discomfort indicates that you’re bitter, insensitive, uncivilized, unhappy, and intolerant, or that it means you want to kill the baby Jesus. You may even be told that most Americans are Christian, so if you don’t want to celebrate Christmas, you don’t belong here, so you should move to another country. No matter that you are an American citizen and you have every right to stay right where you are, and to voice your discomfort in ALL CAPS. Because, my understanding is that it’s not okay to dictate how other people feel, and that’s what the entire exchange came down to. I felt uncomfortable about something, and was told that I have no right to feel that way. Talk about a ridiculous response!

Another thing I find troubling is the insistence, by some folks, that non-Christians should just go ahead and celebrate Christmas because it’s the season and everybody else is doing it. Why the pressure to take part in what then amounts to a secular holiday?

And all because I had the nerve to say that I felt uncomfortable when people assume that everyone else is automagically Christian. The mind wobbles.

Crankypantsing

Happy Festivus

Shelly

Since the Christmas season makes me cranky as hell, and because today is Festivus, I shall commence with the traditional Airing of the Grievances.

  • In 1979, my younger brother left a peanut butter sandwich on the table in the front hallway. I was punished for it, even though it was not my fault. To be fair, I accidentally set him on fire in 1978, so I guess we’re even.
  • I had to eat liver and onions when I was a child, and I’ll bear the emotional scars for the rest of my life.
  • In 1976, Vicky Poff stole my library book about Hawaiian gods, and I had to spend an entire month’s allowance to replace it. That grieved me terribly.
  • In 5th grade, Beverly borrowed my Unauthorized Biography of Andy Gibb and did not return it. I was over it by 6th grade, but I haven’t forgotten.
  • Speaking of book stealers, one of my former coworkers borrowed my big-assed Oxford Classical Dictionary, and never returned it. I am seriously grieved about that. Bastard! (You’ll note that my taste in reading material has improved dramatically over the years.)
  • I hate blog memes/tagging. I find them a total waste of my time.
  • I moved 18 times and attended nine schools, before finishing high school. And, no, I’m not from a military family.
  • I got the horse of my dreams when I was nine years old, but he was green-broke and ornery as hell, so he was actually more of a nightmare. I was not only grieved by this, but was damn-near killed on a couple of occasions.
  • I spent the majority of 9th grade at a school chock-a-block with preppy, rich doctors’ kids. Sophomore-senior years were spent at a teaching laboratory school, which was, again, chock-a-block with preppy, rich doctors’ kids. I didn’t care so much, though, because it was on a college campus, and it was easy to skip class and get drunk.
  • My 2nd grade math teacher told me that I was slower than molasses in January. I had no idea what that meant, but I knew it wasn’t nice.
  • My algebra and computer programming teacher was more interested in picking on kids and looking down girls’ shirts than he was in teaching.
  • My 9th grade Algebra teacher, who wouldn’t let “stupid girls” ask questions in class, is at the top of my teacher-related grievance list. That jackass should have stuck to coaching basketball, because he had no business anywhere near a classroom.
  • Math, in general, grieves me. Not so much because I had some really bad math teachers, but because I’m numerically dyslexic. I try to be careful, but there’s a disconnect between the numbers I see/think and the numbers my hands write/type, so I’m forever transposing numbers, not seeing them, or just making them up. I’m constantly screwing up my check book because of it.
  • In one of my family’s many moves, I lost nearly all my childhood books. That was Teh Suck. I’ve managed to replace most of them, but there are still a few that I’m missing.

Next, The Feats of Strength!

Crankypantsing, Music

6:58, Are You Sure Where My Spock Is?

Shelly

6:58, are you sure where my Spock is?
Ears
Ears
Ears…
— Not Quite Tori

I often get random lyrics swirling around in my head. I think that happens to most people. The lyric du jour is not actually a lyric, though. For some reason, my brain insists that Tori Amos’ Spark would be vastly improved by the above substitution in lyrics.

I wouldn’t be suffering from this malady, if I had been motivated to burn some new CDs for the car. Most of the current CDs in my car are ones I made to listen to while arting. They work fabulously well for that, but they don’t do a whole lot to enhance the driving experience. Which is why, I guess, my brain started making up random lyrics on its own.

It could also have something to do with the fact that, though I went to bed early last night, I took Benadryl because my allergies were acting up. Usually, Benadryl makes me comatose, but last night, it made me wired-tired. I kept waking up, not knowing if I’d actually been asleep, or if I’d been awake and my mind had just been wandering. When I did finally fall asleep, I had weird dreams that kept waking me up. All in all, it was not a very restful experience, so I cannot recommend this product and/or service. Ugh.

Crankypantsing, Photography

Happy Friday!

Shelly

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Belt of Venus 15 December 2005

Yesterday morning was gross and disgusting, with the dreaded “wintry mix” of snow, rain, and sleety crap. The sky cleared up in the afternoon, though, and the rest of the day was absolutely gorgeous. I got another photo of the Belt of Venus at sunset. I think this one turned out a bit better than the last ones I took. The colors are a little more saturated and brighter, I think because the reflectivity of the remaining snow provided more light. The trees in the foreground aren’t just black blobs; they’ve got a bit of shading and definition.

I picked up a track pad, and have been playing around with it. I’m a little meh about it, but for the time being, it’s giving me a break from the mouse. It’s a little frustrating retraining my mousy hand-eye coordination to work with finger-tip motion instead of wrist motion, but adjusting to it hasn’t taken as long as I thought it would. It’s still too early for a thumbs-up or thumbs-down, though. If I decide I like it, I may see if I can get a keyboard-track pad combo for my work computer. A few folks have them, but I wanted to make sure it would be an improvement before asking for one.

I went into town to register my car[1] (finally!) and to get gas and run a few other errands. But! I got to the gas station and my damned bank card wouldn’t work. They’d sent me a replacement card, because a vendor I’d purchased something from had reported being hacked. I called the bank, and according to them the new card ought to work, but for some reason it’s not. So I guess I’m waiting for a new, new card to get here. In the meantime, I have to figure out how I’m going to get cash, which is more problematic than one might think. They’ve closed most of their branches, and the ones that are still open have some seriously wacky-assed–and totally non-work-compatible–hours. Hrmph.

So, anyway, I’ve been home most of the day, with the teevee on in the background. I haven’t been actively watching it, but there’s one ad that’s run repeatedly that’s about to get on my last nerve. It’s an animated commercial for Triaminic, a kids’ cold medicine. In it, a momma clam tries to get her child clam to take its medicine. The child refuses, and the mother whips out the “I’m going to tell your father!” threat. WTF? First, why on earth is the mother incapable of disciplining her kids on her own? Second, what an awful message to send to kids, telling them that their fathers are to be feared. It’s as if a mans main role in child-rearing is to crack the whip and keep his kids in line. That’s fucked up.

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[1] I love the folks at the local BMV[2]. I didn’t have the registration for my old car (I’d left it in the glove compartment), but they still let me recycle my old plate. The only problem was that the date sticker had peeled almost all the way off it. It was still hanging on, but there was no way I could put it on my car that way and expect it not to fall off. The woman said I’d have to go to the police to get a new sticker (and pay a $6 replacement fee). Hrmph. But, she took another look at it, and said she might be able to fix it well enough to keep the sticker on the plate. She took it into the back room, glued the hell out of it, and brought it back to me. Yay! It’s a little crinkled, but it’s intact and stuck tight to the plate.

[2] Yes, that’s right. I’ve never had a long wait, even when the place was packed. They’re quick and cheerful and so far have been quite helpful. I can totally recommend this product and/or service!1!!

Art, Crankypantsing, Meta

I’ll Take Potpourri for $200, Alex

Shelly

Here’s a look at marginalia.

I have had about a million discussions about the proper care and handling of books, both from the perspective of a caretaker and an owner. A common sentiment among bibliophiles is that modifying a book in any way is an act of vandalism. Book ownership as a trusteeship; we should preserve our books for future generations, so that they might experience those books as they were originally published. I don’t buy that argument, though. A book is a living thing. The very act of reading it transforms it. From oils in your hands, which over time develop into stains, to creases along the spine, a book that has been read bears scars that testify to its life’s travels. When further transformed, by the addition of annotations, a book becomes a unique and priceless historical document. Not that my marginalia have any pretensions to such importance, but I think they are a far cry from vandalism.

One of my favorite high school teachers said that, if you hadn’t written in a book, you hadn’t truly read it. I don’t know that that’s strictly true, but being given the permission to write in text books dramatically changed the learning process for me. From that point on, I underlined, bracketed, highlighted, dog-eared, and took notes in the margins, all with great glee and abandon. Books became living things I interacted with, instead of passive things that simply existed to be read. Thank you, Mrs. Taylor, for that, and for a whole lot of other stuff. You were one of the bestest teachers EVAR.

I mention this, because it relates to my next altered book project. I still don’t have anything concrete enough to share, but it shall be forthcoming. Soon!

A Festivus for the Restivus? I used to dislike Seinfeld, but then I moved to the Land of No Cable, and discovered that when there’s nothing else on television, Seinfeld isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s occasionally damned good. There’s rarely a day that goes by that something Seinfeldian doesn’t crop up. Right now, as it’s the Solstice Season (Bill O’Reilley can kiss my fat ass), I feel like work is nothing but a revolving staff party. I hate staff parties. I don’t go to them, it makes me cranky to get the inevitable food sign-up memos, and I especially hate the twelfty gabillion e-mails counting down the commencement of the inevitable party. The worst, though, is when higher-ups go around corralling and shaming anti-social folks like me into attending. That especially pisses me off.

So, a co-worker called this morning (I’ve mentioned that I’m the only one who seems able to answer the phone?), asking me to go downstairs to meet her at the loading dock with a book truck, so that she could deliver goodies for this afternoon incarnation of The Party. I was not amused. Not amused in the least. It’s enough to make the Baby Jeebus cry. And, if that doesn’t do it, maybe this will? I mean, who wouldn’t want a menorah made out of tampons?

If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly brimful of the Holiday Spirit, whatever the hell that is. Not even the Viggo Mortensen Advent calendar has been able to ungrinchify me.

And now for a quick game of Statstacularity. I have to wonder if the folks who get to my blog or websites via a search engine bother to read the accompanying descriptive text. Because, somehow, I don’t think they do. Otherwise, the person searching for “ejaculating penis photos” probably wouldn’t have bothered visiting. I’m just sayin’… Also, “n.u.d.e. celebrity photos.” And, what’s up with acronymization? Is it supposed to be some sort of super s33kr1t code? I’m still getting lots of hits for puggles and “winter sky,” though singly, not in combination. There’s a thought, though. Imagine a Pug x Beagle, ears outstretched, soaring majestically through the brooding winter sky.

And since I’m in the mood to pick nits (whenever am I not?), the Maya people speak Mayan. There is no -n on the end of the word when it refers to the people themselves, or when it refers to their artifacts. It’s one thing for regular folks to get it wrong, but there is just no excuse for news editors not knowing the difference. That said, this mural is pretty damned cool. What’s special about it is that it dates from ~100BCE, which is 200 years before the classic period. These may be the earliest Maya wall paintings to be discovered.

Mural paintings in San Bartolo

This portion of the mural depicts a king making a blood sacrifice by piercing his penis. The practice was common among Maya rulers, who bore responsibility for the well being of their subjects. The genitals or tongue would be pierced using either an obsidian blade or a stingray spine. Pieces of bark paper were soaked in the blood, or, in some cases, ropes made of bark paper were pulled through holes pierced through the skin. The blood-soaked paper would then be burned in an offering to the gods.

To the ancient Maya, blood sacrifice was necessary for the survival of the gods, who in turn provided the Maya with everything they needed. The gods could not exist without the Maya, and the Maya could not exist without their gods.

I’m all blogged out, but since I invoked Viggo up there somewhere, I’ll leave you on this note:

I’m not anti-Bush; I’m anti-Bush behavior. In other words, I’m against cheating, greed, cruelty, racism, imperialism, religious fundamentalism, treason, and the seemingly limitless capacity for hypocrisy shown by Bush and his administration.
— Viggo Mortensen

Crankypantsing, Pets, Photography

Instant Review: Snow!

Shelly

I don’t know how much snow we finally ended up with, but it’s a goodly amount. And, it’s purty. As of last night’s news, it was six inches. We had high winds overnight, so there’s likely a lot of drifting on some of the back roads. I decided to stay home today, because I didn’t even want to think about repeating yesterday’s driving experience. It was truly, truly horrible.

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A normally 35 minute drive took me over 2.5 hours. The roads had not been plowed or sanded or anything. I saw several plows travelling in the opposite lane, with blades up, but the west-bound lane hadn’t been touched. WTF? Every place where the snow was churned up made me fish-tail, so intersections were, um, interesting. It was really a horrible, horrible experience, but somehow I managed to get home without wrecking.

The funny/good/sad part was that I managed to stay on the road, but when I got home, I slid off our lane and got stuck tight in the neighbor’s yard. Haw! Much hilarity ensued. I was wearing stupid shoes and short socks, for maximum snow-up-the-legs effect. I was also dressed thoroughly inappropriately, in a t-shirt and a hoodie, with no gloves, scarf, or hat. No shovel, either. Or cat litter. So, I had to walk home to get properly dressed and get a shovel and cat litter (and to let Harriet out, which was ridiculously funny. Harriet: “Eeew! WTF is that?!). But, I got unstuck all by myself, which I’m sure, if the neighbors were watching out their windows, afforded them much high-quality entertainment. It also gave me a chance to work off all the scared-to-the-point-of-vomiting nervous energy I’d worked up driving home, so it was probably all-in-all not a bad thing.

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And then I got to hang out with Harriet and play in the snow, which was all kinds of fun. She was much put out at first, but she quickly got her snow legs and did all sorts of snow-plowing, boinging, snow-snorting, and bird chasing. It’s a whole new world when you cover it with white stuff.

I have to say that I’m pretty happy with how the Tracker handled in the snow. Yeah, I was slipping and sliding all over the place, but not as badly as many other folks. And, after I dug myself out of the neighbor’s yard, I was able to actually get up the driveway. That would *not* have been possible in the MoonPie of Delight. *love*

One thing I do not love, though, is students. As I was trying to leave campus yesterday, they were in all sorts of inadvisable, dangerous places, doing all sorts of inadvisable, dangerous things. Cars were obviously sliding everywhere, but there were students walking out right in front of them. What the hell were they thinking?! The pièce de résistance, though, was a group of students standing in the middle of the road, throwing snowballs at cars. That kind of fuck-headed asshattery ought to be criminal.

Crankypantsing, Ladybusiness, Meta, News & Politics

Non Sequiturs-a-Go-Go!

Shelly
  • Why do pedestrians insist on J-walking at the slowest possible rate of speed? If you’re going to barge out into the street, in the path of on-coming traffic, the least you could do is pick up the pace a bit. That’s all I’m asking.
  • I did some minor clean-up and rearranging on the website. I had somehow missed fixing the navigation links on one page, as well as specifying a background color. I also rounded up the bad poetry I’d posted here, and placed it in the Writing section, along with a new piece, Three Things.
  • Shake-n-Bake tofu is damnfinegood. No, really! I hate the texture of tofu, so I’m normally not a fan. However, if you use extra firm tofu, slice it really thinly, coat it with Shake-n-Bake, then bake it until it’s crispy and slightly jerky-like, it’s delicious. Of course, it also isn’t exactly good for you when prepared that way, but whatever. It’s still better for you than potato chips, yes?
  • State-by-state GOP Scandal Scorecard. Indiana is fairly well represented, with “Our Man Mitch” leading the pack.
  • Walgreens has placed four of its Missouri pharmacists on leave for refusing to fill prescriptions for Plan B. (It is illegal in Missouri for pharmacies that carry birth control pills to refuse sale of Plan B.) That’s all well and good, but the drugstore chain has offered to relocate the employees to states where it’s legal to refuse to dispense certain drugs on moral grounds. So, it’s not like Walgreens is taking a stand. They’re just adhering to state law, and will likely foist their employees off on the less fortunate residents of another state.
  • A heaping dose of Christmas kitsch from Going Jesus, in the form of Angels We Have Heard Are High.
  • I’m suddenly getting a metric butt-load of hits from searches for “winter sky.” It’s interesting how things like that happen in waves.
Crankypantsing

Hey Andy…!

Shelly

I thought this might amuse my brother, as he, too, is a fan of the weird and wonderful.

I’m sick to death of the ubiquitous rubber wristbands. They seemed like an okay idea at first, but now, not only is there one in every color, for every cause, but you can even buy multi-colored packages of them, which boggles the brain. It’s bad enough that they’re everydamnwhere, but at least their existence had a purpose beyond mere adornment. Why would someone want to wear such an arse-ugly piece o’ cheap crap?

And then, while perusing Teh Internets, I came across this: The Original Cthulhu Fhtagn Wristband. The Old Ones are coming, folks, so spread the word! Also, Save Cthulhu! And, lo! Cthulhu house slippers! Cthulhu hats! Cthulhu backpacks!

Can magnetic Cthulhu car ribbons be far behind?

Crankypantsing, News & Politics

Saturday, Chapters 1-6

Shelly

Chapter 1, In Which People are Nicer in the Mornings

As I was leaving Bigfoot this morning, after having bought my morning cup o’ drugs, I held the door open for a young guy on crutches. He thanked me, and commented that people were much nicer in the mornings than later in the day. I replied that it was probably because, in the morning, people aren’t awake yet. I thought about it some more as I was driving to work, and it may be true. It also may be that, early in the morning, there have been fewer chances for someone else to ruin our day. As the day progresses, there are more and more things for us to get cranky about.

And, then, as I was driving down 17th street, pondering the life cycle of crankiness, some jerk ran across the road in front of me. I had to slam on my breaks, to keep from hitting him. Hello?! It’s pitch dark outside, Mr. Pedestrian, and you’re wearing black from head to toe. Whyever on earth did you think it would be a good idea to dash out in front of me, when the likelihood of me seeing you was disturbingly close to zero? Asstrumpet!

And that, my dear reader, is how people become cranky.

Chapter 2, In Which I Address Praising Beauty

Awhile back, I was in a discussion with someone who could not understand why I thought praising people for being beautiful was a Very Bad Thing. Sure, everyone likes to be told that they look good, and I think it’s perfectly fine to tell someone, “That’s a great outfit,” or, “I love your hair.” It’s even okay to acknowledge that someone is attractive. However, I think there’s a fine line between that and praising someone for being pretty. Praise should be reserved for things one accomplishes, and attractiveness is not–or, at least, should not be–something to be achieved. Being pretty does not make one morally superior, nor should it be a goal to strive toward. Rewarding it with praise only reinforces the harmful message that people who are attractive are somehow better than others, and that those who feel they are not attractive should go out and do something about it. And we wonder why people abuse food and plastic surgery?

Chapter 3, In Which I Win at Gas Tank Bingo

I stopped for gas on Friday morning. I almost always go to Bigfoot, which usually charges a couple of cents more than the other places in town. However, it’s on the correct side of the road and they carry my favorite fountain drink, so I think it’s worth paying a little bit more. Every once in awhile, though, their fuel prices are actually lower than Casey’s or Speedway. This was one of those occasions. And, it wasn’t just a penny or two, either–it was 12¢ cheaper! This morning, when I drove by, Speedway had gone up to $2.19 and Bigfoot was $2.09. Still cheaper, but not as cheap as yesterday’s $1.96. I win!

Chapter 4, In which Wingnuts Advocate Physical Violence Against Liberals

Bill O’Reilly had Ann Coulter as a guest on his ridiculous talk show. They discussed the eeevilness of Lefty-Pinkos, and why they’re big-mouthed Nazis who should be beaten with baseball bats. WTF?!

O’REILLY: All right. Be careful, Ann. They’re bad people.
COULTER: Thank you.
O’REILLY: They are bad people.
COULTER: They are bad people
O’REILLY: And that’s not an ideological statement. They are bad human beings, doing what they’re doing.

Apparently, liberals are bad, bad, very bad, people who do bad, bad, very bad things. Who knew?! I had no idea that there was something inherently wrong with liberals.

COULTER: I think a baseball bat is the most effective way these days.

As everyone knows, bad, bad, very bad people who do bad, bad, very bad things need to be stopped. At any cost, apparently. Beating the crap out of those who dare to disagree seems to be an acceptable solution. Why wast time talking, when you can resort to physical violence?

COULTER: No, of course not. They’re Nazi block watchers. This is what they’re good at.
O’REILLY: They’re Nazi what?
COULTER: Block watchers, you know. They tattle on their parents, turn them in to the Nazis. They’re little Nazi block watchers.
O’REILLY: See, this is why they don’t want you on CNN there. You’re calling them Nazis. They don’t —

In this staggering bit of irony, Coulter claims that liberals who voice dissent are Nazis (and, don’t forget, that they should be beaten with baseball bats). Funny that, as I seem to recall that it’s fascists, like the Nazis, who commonly resort to physical violence against dissenters.

O’REILLY: Yeah, but on a policy basis, what they’re trying to do on these far-left smear sites is intimidate people with whom they disagree, and then choke off their ability to get their message out. I mean, freedom of speech means nothing to these people. They really want to just bludgeon anybody with whom they disagree, or am I wrong?

Liberals are on a mission to curtail–sorry, bludgeon–free speech? I’m sorry, but how, exactly, has O’Reilly–or any other wingnut mouthpiece, for that matter–been stifled by Lefty-Pinkos? Where does he get this crap?

O’REILLY: OK, but to answer your question, CNN is perceived to be a left-wing outlet, and they don’t like your voice on the left-wing outlet. But, you know, aren’t liberals or far-left people supposed to be champions of freedom of speech? Isn’t that what the ACLU [American Civil Liberties Union] is all about?

My ass! Or O’Reilly’s complete and utter misunderstanding of the concept of censorship. What O’Reilly fails to understand is that a corporation, like CNN, is incapable of censorship. CNN cannot stop O’Reilly or Coulter or anyone else from spewing their bullshit. All CNN can do is refuse to let them do it on their network. If the government or some other institution tried to silence O’Reilly or Coulter, that’d be another matter. That would be censorship. No one is trying to stifle them, though. They’re just being told to peddle their hatemongering elsewhere, which is perfectly reasonable.

I mean, seriously, the fact that O’Reilly and Coulter are on TV, saying what they’re saying, is proof positive that there is no liberal plot to silence wingnut dissent.

Chapter 5, In Which I Complain About Daylight Savings Time

For the last umpty years, Indiana–which is split between two time zones–has eschewed Daylight Saving Time. Most of the state is in the eastern time zone. Included are the counties near Cincinnati OH and Louisville KY, which in the past illegally and unofficially observe DST, in order to keep in synch with the large cities nearby. The extreme northwest and southwest portions of the state are in the central time zone, and legally and officially follow DST. This is all very confusing, but it could be worse. In 1961, the state was split down the middle. In 1967, that bit of legislative stupidity was rectified, moving most of the state to the eastern standard time zone.

Last spring, our governor, Mitch Daniels, pushed for a vote on DST, and it passed. April 2006 will see the reinstatement of DST in Indiana. That’s all well and good (no, not really), but it now appears that up to 17 counties could end up in the central time zone, with the rest of the state observing eastern time. The line has to be drawn somewhere, and, with the possible exception of the counties neighboring the Chicago area, it seems to me that it makes sense to draw it at the state border.

Chapter 6, In Which I Consider Face Transplants

I’m sure that by now, y’all have heard about the French woman who had a face transplant. She’s now awake, and able to talk and eat. I don’t really have any strong opinions on the relative okay-ness of the surgery itself, aside from feeling deep sympathy for the patient. What I do wonder about, though, is the contingency plan, should her body reject the donor tissue. Because, you know, it does happen. The woman is scheduled to have a bone marrow transplant, using the face donor’s marrow, in the hopes that it will reduce the risk of rejection. But, that’s no guarantee, and as far as I can tell, she’ll still have to be on anti-rejection drugs–which are carcinogenic–for the rest of her life.

Crankypantsing, Ladybusiness, News & Politics, Pets, Photography

Friday Round-up

Shelly

Harriet has long contended that squirrels are eeevil, that they should be exterminated, and that she’d ought to be the one doing the exterminating. Now, we have proof that her concerns were well founded.

Squirrels have bitten to death a stray dog which was barking at them in a Russian park, local media report.

Passers-by were too late to stop the attack by the black squirrels in a village in the far east, which reportedly lasted about a minute.

They are said to have scampered off at the sight of humans, some carrying pieces of flesh.

A pine cone shortage may have led the squirrels to seek other food sources, although scientists are sceptical.

Via Feministe: A play in one act, in which a professor entered his office, to find that two students had broken in and were having sex. Now, the story is plenty damned funny on its own, especially this bit, wherein the trespassing male tells the prof to go away and threatens to report him for sexual harassment.

HALF-NAKED MALE: GO THE FUCK AWAY! THIS IS PRIVATE! WE’RE BUSY!
ME: (holding the door half-open) I’m coming in.
HALF-NAKED MALE: STOP HARASSING US YOU PERVERT OR I’LL REPORT YOU!
ME: (still holding door) You’ll report me for your having sex in my office?
HALF-NAKED MALE: GO THE FUCK AWAY!
ME: (still holding door) That’s it. Put your clothes back on. You can’t have sex in my office.

The comments, too, are worth reading. However, I found myself thinking the entire event would have been even more amusing if the prof had quietly entered the office, sat down, and gone about his regular work, ignoring the burgling shaggers.

Via The Smirking Chimp, a rant about Bill O’Reilly and the “war on [White] Christmas”. Because, after all, it is the season. It includes the following gem, on Christmas balls Holiday ornaments:

Speaking of buying, I have a problem with your online shop there, Bill. Yeah, yeah — I hate to interrupt a good misguided rant, but I’m disappointed in you guys at Fox News and the O’Reilly Factor. Being as I’m holding out hope that Christmas won’t be stolen by the liberal Whos of Evil-doer-Whoville (you can use that one, too), I went to the online Fox News Shop to buy some of your balls. But what’s this? I couldn’t find a single Christmas ball in the store! They’d been replaced by these bizarre spheres called “Holiday Ornaments.” The description under the The O’Reilly Factor ornaments claim they’re designed to adorn something called a “holiday tree.” What is this so-called holiday tree? I know what is a Christmas tree, but this holiday tree thing has me stymied. Do I need to buy a second tree? What’s the deal?

Ah, I do so love the smell of hot, buttered irony in the morning.

I’ve mentioned that I watch Survivor, haven’t I? Last night’s episode was lovely, because Judd was finally voted off (hallelujah!). Even lovelier was his reaction. After a speech, in which he claimed that no one was safe, that anyone could be voted off at any time, and that there should be no whineypantsing about it, because it’s a game, stupid, Judd turned around and cursed his tribemates for having the nerve to give him a boot to the head. What an ass!

Speaking of people who need a boot to the head, Oprah gets on my very last nerve. When she’s not busy leading her cult members in I Love Oprah fests, she’s telling women that they should submit themselves to the patriarchy. Most recently, this patriarchifilia has taken the form of touting a new and apparently mediocre form of plastic surgery, called a “thread lift.” Small barbed, plastic threads are inserted under the skin. The barbs catch and hold the tissue, so that it can be pulled tight. Apparently, one can have this relatively inexpensive and speedy procedure done during one’s lunch hour. Because, you know, women ought to have bits of plastic stitched into their faces, so that they can look more babe-uh-licious. Or something. No matter that the procedure can potentially do more harm than good. I dunno about y’all, but I don’t think pain and deformation sound very sexy.

And, don’t even get me started on her magazine. Talk about a heaping helping of harmful messages.

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And now for the obligatory Friday dogblogging, starring everyone’s favorite Boxer, Miss Harriet Brown. This was taken last Saturday, in my mom’s kitchen. Harriet is such a delicate flower that she insists she can’t lie on the bare, hard floor. She’d rather have a nice, fluffy dog bed, but a rag rug will suffice in a pinch. It’s not like there wasn’t a comfy couch for her to sleep on, either. There was, and it was even heaped with pillows and blankets and all manner of soft, cushy things amongst which dainty Boxer dogs might wish to lie. But, no. We were sitting around the kitchen table, drinking coffee and talking, so Harriet had to be in the kitchen with us. To supervise, dontchaknow. That’s onna count of the fact that humans cannot be trusted on their own. This is apparently a sacrament that every Boxer dog holds dear.

And now, a rumpus of random ramblings:

  • Whispering–I can’t stand it. All that pst pst psting drives me batshit crazy.
  • Obsessive throat clearing–I can’t stand that, either. It’s one thing to periodically clear your throat, or to do so more frequently when you’re sick, but when you make disgusting horky noises every two minutes, that’s socially unacceptable.
  • Did you realize that you can rearrange the order of tabs in Firefox, by grabbing and moving them? “The more you know…”
  • Overheard at work: “How long have we had MS Office?” Um, how long have you worked here?
  • I hate it when people ask for information, then don’t pay attention to the answer! Surely there’s a special place in Hell for such time wasters?
  • I spilled something on my shirt this morning, and didn’t notice it until I got to work, so I turned it around so the stain wouldn’t bother me.
  • While watching teevee last night, and petting the dog, I noticed that she’s getting white patches of hair inside her ears. Her muzzle started to go grey years ago, which is common in Boxers, but damn, 6.5 is too young to be going grey.
  • I have to work on Saturday. Waaah!