Random Thought Tuesday, Feb 6

Without a doubt the best superpower: manipulating probability. Think about it! What’s the probability that I can fly? Pretty much zero. Okay, let’s up this to 100 %. Woo! What’s the probability of someone giving me a million euros? About 0.5 %. Let’s up that to 100. What’s the probability of me being able to kill someone with a tray? This has super villain possibilities, I like it!


They’re doing what with the tide pods now?

As per usual, I’m a bit behind the times on internet trends, so there is a 66 % change that this will be last year’s joke by the time this post uploads. But anyway…

We’re doing what with tide pods now?

And apparently this is not a fucking joke. I live in a world where I get told people eat laundry detergent and it’s not a fucking joke.

I’ll be the first person to admit that I don’t get teens. I mean, I know all the research of enhanced risk taking and chance of lack of self-control due to a developing brain and possibly a bevy of hormones. I know teens are into stupid shit. When I was young we stole traffic signs. Or the odd park bench. We terrorized the local hangouts with drunk guitar playing and more than one of us sustained an injury during headbanging sessions. It was an innocent time in the early days of the internet.

Now the internet’s in full swing. There are cameras everywhere. Everyone you know has a camera on hand. You’d think in this Big Brother-esque scenario that we have always dreaded people would think twice about the kind of pictures they leave for their progenitors and the fucking world in general. You’d think.

You’d think that people would think.

I think we all keep learning important things about human nature here. And also that stupidity is contagious.

I guess the hypothesis is that if everyone does the same stupid thing it will be viewed as less stupid overall. The stupidity will just be evenly spread between all participants like so much Philadelphia cream cheese. It’s the “In” thing, like shoulder pads and JNCO jeans and whatever happened to your dad’s hair in the sixties. I regret to inform you that this is not how it works!

This is how it works: To find out how stupid a group of people is, simply take the IQ of the dumbest and divide it by the number of people in the group. Add not-fully-developed brains to the mix and tell me why you haven’t shot your modem yet.

Also in theory, I get it. Tide pods feel denser than water but not entirely firm, kind of like a nutritionally rich fruit. They also smell fruity or flowery. So of course your monkey brain goes, “Eat it! Eat the fruit! It’s good for us!” But your job as a homo sapiens is to shut that monkey down. Stupid monkey! Do not eat the poison pod! What next? Your lizard brain goes, “The washing machine is vibrating, it wants to mate!” and there goes another challenge?

It’s detergent! You wouldn’t drink detergent out of the fucking bottle! Oh, what the hell, you probably would.

Now the company is trying to recall the fucking pods and issue warnings like that was even necessary. No! Don’t do that. Let natural selection take its course. This is nature’s way to tell us it’s time to cull the herd again. Have the fucking kids recalled. These teenagers are clearly defective, call the parents and tell them to produce new ones. Back in the day when your stupid kid ate the poison ivy you had to make another one, too, it was good enough for grandma and it’s good enough for you!

Well, that’s one way to get high, I guess.

Picture it: It is a grey, cold Tuesday morning. Your Boyfriend has gone to work at six in the fucking am because old people need caring at 7. You have gone back to sleep because your schedule will not see you out of the house before noon. And then this happens.

Boyfriend came back home at 9 am high as a kite, rendered unable to work. Why? Because he overdosed on nose drops.

You read that right. Boyfriend’s been having a bit of a cold or tonsillitis or both, so he, uncharacteristically, went to the doctor’s and got some meds. One of them were nose drops for his poor stuffy nose. He took them in the morning, then got a headache and took an aspirin. Then all hell broke loose.

So he comes in at 9, I stumble out of the bedroom to check what’s up, and he’s sitting at the dining table, taking his blood pressure and laughing his fucking ass off at everything. At this moment, I knew exactly what to do.

I got my phone and made a video. But that’s beside the point.

I was also trying to tell knock-knock jokes, because that’s a tried and true remedy for patients who are laughing at their own hands, but he was having none of that.

Then I checked the package leaflet and now I feel like living in Bizarro World. The side effects of a nose drops overdose may include psychosis, hallucinations, high blood pressure and accelerated pulse. There was no warning not to take them with aspirin. Yeah, this man needs a doctor.

I mean… just the fact that fucking nose drops can cause you to hallucinate… I… what?

His blood pressure was through the roof. So was his pulse. Then he got the idea to finally assemble his Lego Tardis I got him for Christmas. And he kept complaining he wanted to watch Doctor Who. And how stoked he was for K-9. When I said, Honey, go to the doctor, I did not mean this Doctor. Does he even have a license? I don’t believe this man has ever been to medical school!

I couldn’t make this up if I tried.

So while he came down after a while (and one Doctor Who episode) the doctor’s office was finally open and so he went. And I’m sitting here, three hours later, mind boggling over the fact that nose drops can make you trip balls apparently if you try hard enough. Or even if you don’t.

You could sell this shit to high schoolers, make a fortune!


Brb, coming up with a new business venture.

Kidding, those are prescription only. I’ll never be able to fake enough of a cold to keep the business going.

World’s Best Allrounder

If I had magical engineering powers, what would I build? Seriously?

A TARDIS, duh! Post’s over.

Oh, you wanna know why? Well, think for a minute, will ya? Sure, I could build a replicator to replicate food and other goods. OR I could go to a future where that already exists. Sure, I could build a robot servant. OR I could go to a time period where that’s already mainstream. Sure I could build a super fast quantum computer. OR I could pop into 2236 and try theirs.

I mean, I could also build a space ship… oh wait, I have one!

Or a time machine… oh wait, I have one!

Or a really big wardrobe that doesn’t take much space on the outside, oh hey, the Tardis’s got one.

Maybe some sort of magical laundry device, oh wait, we got one of those, too.

I guess I could just build something really impressive to steal your girlfriend, oh wait, I got a spaceship, chicks dig spaceships.

Literally, a Tardis is the only thing you’ll ever need, because the thing comes standard with so much technology and everything else will be invented eventually and somewhere, you just need to go there and get it. And avoid ill-tempered bastards in silly hats and robes while you’re at it.


Why Gallows Humour Will Keep Me Alive Until 98

The other day I saw a tramway decorated with Christmas lights, a Christmas wreath and a big bow in front. Just driving around, content as you please, with some people on board who seemed to be having themselves a glorious time. And the first thing that popped into my mind was, I want that for my funeral. Party train! All the way to the cemetery! Put a table cloth on my coffin and use it as a buffet table! Beat that for a wake!

My former therapist would remind me that planning elaborate funerals for myself is neither normal nor conducive to my mental health. I have another theory about my funeral obsession: If I plan it in a way that makes me sorry I’m going to miss it – you know, by being all dead and stuff – this will convince my jerkbrain to stay alive through sheer stubborn bloodymindedness. I see my therapist wagging his finger at me as the train goes past, but what does he know?

Anyway, it’s almost midnight, I went to bed two hours ago in a heroic attempt to get a decent night’s sleep because I have an important presentation tomorrow, and here I am, wide-eyed as a marigold. Oh, who cares about presentations? Who cares if I look like an extra from The Walking Dead and sound like one, too? It’s my own stupid fault anyway because I made the mistake of reading. Reading before going to bed! That thing people do to fall asleep! But somehow reading doesn’t make me sleepy, reading recharges me. Even if it’s reading for class. Boring reading. Oh, when will I learn?

It’s all because I went to bed at 10 pm. I’m my own Dorothy Parker now. If only I’d learned from her example, I’d have known that nothing good ever comes from that. Then I wouldn’t be in this mess right now, typing away at almost midnight. Reason, prudence, common sense that tell you to get a solid eight – what have they done for me lately?

Well, it’s not just the reading. The stress might have something to do with it. Presentations are stressful. And everything else in life, too. But the night before the performance, that’s so me! And yes, a presentation is a performance. If you can perform gender, you can perform being a normal human. And there’s the wagging forefinger again. Yes, yes, it doesn’t do to sort people into ‘normal’ and myself into ‘not normal’. No matter how true it is in practice. But what does the old quack know, anyway? If this whole therapy thing had been any good I wouldn’t be in this mess right now  at 11:40 pm when all the decent people are just heading out the door.

If I fall asleep right now I still get seven hours. That’s a big If. Almost as big as the joke I’ve got planned for my cremation. It all depends on whether or not I can convince someone to hide five pounds of popcorn kernels in my coffin.

Again with the funerals. Yes, yes, I shouldn’t. But what can I do? It’s what I think about when I’m stressed. I’m not suicidal; I think. To use the words of an ex-friend, if I was really suicidal I’d be dead. Either way, no one inherits anything unless I get a train to chug-a chug-a me over to my semi-eternal resting place. And whoever does the best locomotion at the reception gets the good silverware. If I have any good silverware, that is.

Dorothy Parker would just get up and read her head off. Then again, I’m pretty sure she also drank herself to death. Maybe I should do that. But booze is costly, like… really now. I got my dad some fine whisky for Christmas because the man’s a connoisseur, or whatever that godawful French word is for people who like expensive stuff once in a while. Spell-check will tell me. Ah, there it is. And I spent an ungodly amount of money on just two bottles. I mean, I suppose if you die penniless that’s just excellent financial planning, but still. What if I’d need an emergency bottle of whatever I’m drinking myself to the pearly gates with? And you can’t drink yourself to hell on cheap booze. That’s just not classy. Who ever heard of someone dying from Heineken, or Bud Light, or Eristoff Ice? No, no, no, it has to be the fancy stuff. Otherwise it’s just sad. Death shouldn’t make you sad, that’s what taxes are for.

Maybe I should try for those seven hours. Or a bit less than seven now. Maybe my upstairs neighbour should get their bladder checked, because they always get up to pee at the exact same time each night. Thin goddamn walls. I wonder if they can hear me type. Are they thinking about their funerals, too? They should, because I’m calling dibs on the train.

I suppose I’ll just leave ol’ Dorothy here for other sleepless minds to read (or people in the southern hemisphere who are wondering why I’m talking about midnight at, like, noon.): “I might repeat to myself, slowly and soothingly, a list of quotations beautiful from minds profound; if I can remember any of the damn things.”

You tell ’em, Dot. Now, post this or sleep on it? Reason, prudence and common sense are sitting in the corner, drinking fizzy water and shaking their maiden-auntly heads. Eh… I’ll just smash my face into the touch screen and see what happens. And then I’ll try to get some 6 and a half hours. Maybe.

WoW Wednesday: Skeletons Doing Stuff

If you run around Azeroth, or Outlands, or anywhere at all you’ll notice one thing: no matter where you go, there’s lotsa dead mofos. And sometimes, they make you wonder just how the hell they died, because… huh? So just in time for Halloween, let’s look how skeletons in WoW spend their free time.


Skeleton number one, this guy who met with an accident in the middle of a drum solo:

“Draenor must hear my sick beats!” *shooty shoot* “Everyone’s a critic!”


And I’m sure we all have that one friend that you hate to play board games with because they take for-fucking-ever to make a move because they’re ‘thinking’:

“Don’t rush me, Timothy.”


The most fun for some people is going for a swim. Unless you’re in Draenor. Then you should probably stay as far away from any body of water as possible:





What’s more fun than being a corpse under water? Playing Romeo and Juliet in the fortress of Stromgarde:

Two tinkers, both alike in dignity, In fair Gnomeregan, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where gnomish blood makes gnomish hands unclean

Okay, so maybe I’m reading too much into that bottle. And maybe I’m slightly ignoring the overall gore of that table.


If you’re in Stormwind, avoid the barber. Why? ‘Cause:


I wouldn’t trust any barber who can’t even properly hide the corpses of his victims.


It was a normal day until Sudden Inexplicable Death. These guys are chillin’ atop a mountain in Blasted Lands. The crystal in the middle looks suspiciously like some Twilight’s Hammer accessory. Maybe this is what happens to Twilight’s Hammer’s interns?

“Join Twilight’s Hammer clan, they said. You’ll have fun, they said.”


Such a nice day for fishing, you think. No one’s gonna gank you right out in the sticks in Tirisfal, you think.


Until someone stabs you right in the… left butt cheek, apparently?


Probably while trying to fish out this gnome who had a terrible plane accident:



And then there are these skeletons in Vale of Eternal Blossoms who can’t even.


…decide what the hell they are, that is. They look like some sort of weird Saurok at a first look. Rest assured, they are not:


If this is a reference to something I have absolutely no idea to what and I’m not sure I want to know.


So your grandma was making her famous Nagrand apple pie and sends you to pick some apples, but then you took an axe to the face:


On top of a flying piece of rock, in old Nagrand. That’s as good an explanation as any.


This is one of those things that are not just weird, but take an express train to Uncanny Valley. First you think, oh how cute, a little raft.


Then you get closer and it’s like, whuh?


But the thing that throws me is not the pink doll, or the judgy looking birds, or the three empty bottles. It’s the fact that this fella has been dead long enough to completely decompose, yet somehow the fruit still looks fresh.

And that concludes this week’s skeletons. Next week we’ll look at… I dunno. I’m pretty busy this week. Let’s keep it a surprise!


Random Thought Tuesday, Oct 27

So I’ve been thinking…

Cats. How weird is it that humans keep cats? Like, their big burly dangerous ancestors used to hunt our hairy simian ancestors and now we keep smaller versions of them in our homes, even thought they’re technically no use whatsoever. What is this, some sort of payback? And if yes, whose?

Rant Day! Things That Pissed Me Off, Oct 19-25

Item 1: Dear guy on the tram, I’m sorry I spent the entire ride staring at your Captain America belt buckle, I’m sure you thought I was staring at your penis, sorry for making you feel objectified (and double sorry if you enjoyed the attention). I mean, I guess I could have just screamed “Captain America!” and pointed straight at your general belt area, yet somehow I feel that would have been worse. But, honestly? A rather large belt buckle on low rise pants is nothing but a penis advertisement. A dick ad. A cock sign. If you put a very large and colourful metal circle directly over the bulge, chances are all eyes are gonna go straight to the money maker. I mean, your loose fitting hoody was tucked behind it. So…

Item 2: More shapely dudes need to wear slim fitting pants. So I get on the tram and immediately my thoughts set back human evolution by about a million years, because daaaaayummm, he got them long lean legs! Not that I always want to get on public transport and have my inner horny ape come out, but… actually I do. So thanks, guy in the tight blue pants. Nothing against ogling women’s legs all the time but a bit of variety doesn’t come amiss. Get it together, every other dude!

Item 3: Whyyyy does everything have to be done at once and by me? Are there no other people in the world? Has the zombie apocalypse finally happened? Why do I have to do everything?

Item 4: All my deadlines are, through none of my doing, really close together and I’m having a mild freak out. How am I going to write all those papers?!

Item 5: I need to get a grip on myself and pester people about supervision. Like, reaaaalllyyyy get on their nerves until one of them shows mercy. Ugh, people contact, eww.

Item 6: Another complaint about public transport? Say it ain’t so! Dear group of youths (six of them! Fucking six of them! Oh, the humanity!) who looked like you escaped from a Pinterest fashion board, why do you think leaning against the door is a good idea? Especially when we’re approaching a much frequented station? Prepare for the Expectant Eyebrow Raise of Doom. Then prepare for a pair of cheap plastic Chelseas to land on your suede Oxfords. Get. Out. Of. My. Way.

Ohhhh, whyyyyy must it be too cold and wet already to bike everywhere?