Oh teh snap, byatches!11!!

What can I say...

Get a Cash Advance

Because I've turned juvenile blog speak into a fuckin' artform. Teh roxxor!1!!!

"Enterprising" Cat

Because I work for a certain insurance company, and we have a certain competitor with a certain reptilian spokes model...and though I'm certainly not the type to go all gungho competitive on behalf of my employer, this lolcat gave me the giggle-snorts. Dudez, we totally be needin' this sort of kick-ass mascot.

Harry Hoyay Version 2.0

So as Brandon pointed out, the images in the prior post aren't opening up in a separate window. FAIL! Until I manage to fix the bug, try these links. Aight? Peace out.

Panel 1

Panel 2

And Rowling said, "Let there be Hoyay!" And it was good.

This post is brought to you because I was bored, Peep Tarv is a comic inspiration, and J.K. Rowling, drunk off her millions, decided to throw good ol' wacky fandom a bone while simultaneously giving fundamentalist yahoos a kindly "fuck you." And that's teh roxxor in my book.

*************One little thing before we proceed: Despite being way past the fandom prescribed spoiler guard period, I'm going to go ahead and warn peeps who have a) just started reading the Harry Potter series , or b) been living on Mars for the past three months...in a cave...with their eyes closed and their fingers in their ears singing "la la la la". Take heed. Thar be a few wee DH spoilers here, matey! You've been warned, so don't bring wank into my house. ***********************

And the fangirls sing "squee squee squee, squ-squ-squee, squee squee squee squ-squ-squee".

Ooops. I blinked. Then I screamed.

You got to love a show that warns you, "Don't blink. Blink and you're dead. Don't turn your back. Don't turn away. And don't blink." All I know is that I managed to jump just about six feet out of my skin while watching the Doctor Who episode Blink

Damn, that was some crazy-scary-brilliant shit. I highly recommend its viewing, perfect for Doctor-N00bs!...just make sure to have some eye drops on hand. Seriously, watch this episode and you'll understand why I can now add statuary to my list of irrational fears.

Best Cheezeburger Ever!

For those who do not obsessively keep up with I Can Has Cheezburger, this is a great drink-snortin'-through-the-nose gem:

Untitled Post No. 1

As some of my peeps already know, today marked a rather unpleasant anniversary for me. The kind of anniversary that doesn't warrant a reminder, because you start experiencing weird memory sense symptoms of anxiety and nervousness days prior, along with the kind of dreams that wake you with a start at the crack of dawn, leaving behind a heavy sensation of regret and loss because it just felt so frickin' real moments ago, and yet, was all in your damnable head.

That's why being employed rocks. In addition to that nifty thing called a paycheck that buys me cool junk (and keeps the electricity on), it provides an occupation to keep me one busy little bee. So busy that I actually, dare I say it, forgot to participate in the obligatory moaning and wailing and tearing of hair to a backdrop of Mozart's Requiem on a day like today...which does cause me to harbor a biteen of guilt for not carrying on in ceremonial hysterics, but is mostly an incredibly, understandable relief. The compromise being that though the bolded numbers 2 and 5 glared back at me from my desktop calendar throughout the day, I sorta kinda maybe felt that I'll finally be ok, at least in a way that allowed me to focus on the tasks at hand and managed my work with ease. So much ease, in fact, that upon returning home I settled in for a rather pleasant evening of a little wine, a sandwich and Netflix's latest delivery of the Queer as Folk series.

Of course, it would have to be the Season 4, Episode 6 disc that I watched.

I'll spare the spoilers for the eagerly-anticipating-uninitiated, but I know at least a few of you out there know of which particular episode I speak.

*emo tear*

Curse you TV for making me feel stuff and have empathetic emotions! What happened to the schmoop, and the snark, and the hot man-on-man action?! You had to get all serious (again) now? Of all days?! Jeez! Lame melodrama lameness!

Don't worry. I'm quite all right. Nothing a little healthy cry and a toast of 12-year-old single malt Scotch couldn't cure.

But Mom, as dear as I hold you in my heart, and as much effort as I make to honor your memory, there is no way in hell I'm mixing good Scotch with water. Seriously, I can't do it...but you already knew that didn't you? :)

D'OH! And Double D'OH!

THIS KITTY LITTER COST ME $300!

I shit you not (and pardon the pun). Thanks to this litter, I am now $300 in the hole and probably lost two years off my life. Well, maybe I exaggerate, or more accurately, I can be such a horrible little asshole. Because upon discovering that I was out litter, I was too lazy to shuffle my ass to Pet-Smart and buy my usual brand of commie-pinko-patchouli stink-hippie approved brand of kitty toiletry that is Feline Pine (TM), because I'm all for saving the earth and recycling and shit, but the sole reason I buy planet friendly litter is because I have an asthmatic cat.

So in hindsight, purloining some clay litter from my current border, Punky "Punks-a-Lot" Thomas, was an exercise in stupidity. I knew it was likely to give Misao a case of the wheezes...but it was just a few days, I said. I'll go and get some new litter tomorrow, I said. Well, by Wednesday, Mimi Darling had gone from the occasional sneeze to a full blown asthma attack complete with respiratory infection and fever. And it scared the pants off me.

I am such a shitty parent. Skipping a day of work, spending $300 on vet bills and using my weekend to nurse a snotty, cranky kitty was light punishment. Hell's Bells, I learned my lesson. And I say this with my most sincere Joan Crawford voice.

"NO CLAY LITTER EVVVAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!"

The good news is that Little Misao is on the road to recovery and almost back to her old self, by which I mean she's gorging on food, bullying her brother, and licking the skin off my face.

Bad blogger! No soup for you!

Yes, I've fallen off the bloggin' wagon. Which draws the conclusion that either my life is one hell of a whirl-a-wind-mile-a-minute-hootin nanny-too-hung over-to-post-adventure, or that what I have to blog about has all the excitement of a late night defensive driving course. I can't entirely vouch for the former, although the hang over part is not entirely inaccurate at times... Let's just call it "technical difficulties".


Actually, I have a bad habit of chatting and posting to other blogs/forums and neglecting poor Flen Flyys. So, I'll try to cross post as often as possible in order to keep my stats in check. Here's a not-too-incriminating post from a couple of weeks ago in response to the following blog:


http://austinist.com/2007/08/28/truesday_pushin.php#comments

And my oh-so-amusing, pretentious response:


Wow. This blog brought back such wonderful nostalgia from my own Pier One days (*sigh*...many, many moons ago), when I worked at the now defunct Airport location near Highland Mall (or the Mid-Town Spa bath house, whatever is your best point of reference). We never had a super-pooper, but we did have our share of crazies, and the gold medal went to The Wanker, a middle-aged man with a horrendous Grecian-for-Men dye job, who probably would have been a fantastic serial killer had he not been such a sad underachiever. The type of man who thought it best to served his country by periodically coming into our mercantile on an idle Sunday to masturbate. And not just some cheap rub-a-nub through his polyester trousers kind of masturbate, but a full on whipping out the turtle head and shaking it angrily at the world sort of yanker. I'm still mildly curious, in a purely academic sense mind you, as to what inspires a person to waltz into a store full of overpriced furniture soldered together by the bleeding hands of third-world children and think, “Hey, this would be a great place to start pulling my pud”, because from what I could decipher, he wasn’t ogling anyone in particular. In fact, I was led to conclude that Kiln rugs and batik napkins where amongst his list of turn-ons. The worst of it, aside from catching him flagrante delicto, was that he always attempted to mask his misdeeds by touching every piece of merchandise within reach…and one of us poor unfortunates would later draw the short straw to straighten up said tainted section, praying that our hands didn’t touch something sticky. This occurred at a time when our staff was mostly female. It wasn’t until we had a few of our own Dobermans on staff that The Wanker was finally intimidated enough to sniff out new territory. Nothing like a bulky stoner standing out on the floor with arms crossed like Chief Kicks-Your-Ass to rid our little retail world of an ol’ crusty skittle-diddler.So this Bud’s for you, Oh Noble Dobermans of Pier One. You are the real American Heroes.

Go Me!

I passed my C & P licensing test today. With an 88%. What else can I say...

Does anybody still read this?

So Peep Tarv called me out. Rightfully so. Long time, no post, guys, and I'm sorry about that. I’ve been vury, vury busy. Moved to some new digs, gots me a (hopefully) nice new job FINALLY, and am currently trying to balance some intense studying for my P&C certification test while reading the new Harry Potter book as quick as possible to avoid spoilage…because yes, I’m that much of a freak ‘n’ geek. There will probably be a nice spoily emo-rant when I‘m done. Fuck off!

In other news, they made me give four sets of finger prints to the FBI…because insurance is teh serious bizness!1!!! (No, really, that don’t fuck around. It's kind of creepy.) The upside is that I have a short commute. Go me!

I'll try to write a decent post once I get through all this licensing/potter crap. Tah.

Haikus! El Yea!

Haiku2 for flen-flyys
wonderland trying to get out of wonderland trying to get out
@ blogspotadvogato.orgblogger.comblogs.gnome.orgblogspot.comdeadjournal.comgreatestjournal.cominsanejournal.comlivejournal.commyspace.comspaces.msn.com
Created by Grahame

Haiku2 for flen-flyys
to just curl into a fetal position and chant no place like home
@ blogspotadvogato.orgblogger.comblogs.gnome.orgblogspot.comdeadjournal.comgreatestjournal.cominsanejournal.comlivejournal.commyspace.comspaces.msn.com
Created by Grahame

Haiku2 for flen-flyys
of shit that makes me feel like a grown up which is also quite awesome
@ blogspotadvogato.orgblogger.comblogs.gnome.orgblogspot.comdeadjournal.comgreatestjournal.cominsanejournal.comlivejournal.commyspace.comspaces.msn.com
Created by Grahame

Yea, I promised to write a real blog post soon. Just let me recover from a weekend of moving all kinds of crap that I don't need.

Another reason to join the gym.

57%Mingle² - Free Online Dating


Seeing as how I help write the book to Bitten! A Zombie Rock Odyssey, I fully expected my stats to be higher. My main hinderance is being horrendously out of shape...and that my tiny black heart still holds enough human decency that I'm not willing to be a complete and utter asshat to innocent people. Hmmmm...must work on that.

Seriously. Dude. GTFO!

This post is for you, dude. You, the gork wearing stone-washed jeans and a Lords of Acid t-shirt, struttin' around HEB looking to score. If you insist on using the super market to pull your mad moves of studdom, why not maintain some sense of normalcy and troll the produce or wine sections? Because most people, possessing even a modicum of social grace, would deem places of food and alcohol as slightly more appropriate grounds to engage complete strangers. Oh, but not you. You came down the feminine hygiene aisle with a wink and a swagger and a "Hey, ladies, how's it going?" like it was a fucking mardi gras celebration.

Hmmm. Do you see what we're shopping for here, Skippy? Because if you noticed the goddamn box of Tampax in my hands, then you'd realize that the answer to that question involves the words "my", "crotch", and "bleeding". Seriously, dude...what the hell is wrong with you? When a woman is shopping for tampons it automatically, indisputably means she has absolutely no interest in anything you have to say. Those tampons are Nature's way of saying "Stay away."

No, I take that back. It's Nature's way of saying "GET THE FUCK OUT!!!"

You got off easy this time, my friend. Next time you decide to cruise the heart of darkness that is Aisle 8, we girls just might play a little game of "Orpheus meets the Maenads".

Le Weekend Round-Up: Cake, soccer, & hamsters

This post is brought to you by the word Awesome:

I had a fairly awesome weekend. At least I think I did, because I did a lot of drinking, which is usually the best indicator that awesomeness ensued. Plus I think I saved the world a little, which is also quite awesome. On Saturday, Pal Tim, our own little Cinco de Mayo baby, turned the big 3-0. Woot! And I must say that Tim handled turning over that particular mileage pretty damn well. I mean, look at him. All that enthusiam, that eagerness, all that general awesomeness (actually, he looks a wee bit terrified of his cake, but I will vouch as a witness that he was happy as toast). I can't say my attitude was nearly that healthy, because I reacted to thirty like my name was Logan and I had a smoking Timex jammed in the palm of my hand. Oh, and the cake? Oreo. Awesome.

Awesome weekend continued into Sunday, where I got up at the crack of dawn...errr, 8:30, to go watch the Arsenal vs. Chelsea match over at Fado with some of my Peeps. Getting up after four hours sleep was not so awesome, but drinking beer at 10:00 a.m. was booyah awesome, so the universe balanced out. By the way, did you know that Peter Jackson daylights at Fado's? Seriously, he was serving us drinks and food and shit. Despite his vast post-LOTR millions, he stays in touch with the common folk. Damn Pete, that's pretty awesome. As for the game...well, neither awesomeness nor lameness...because draws are anticlimatic that way. Though Chelsea got a red card, which was kind of awesome, and Arsenal nearly scored an upsetting goal in the overtime, which would have been totally awesome, but it hit the rim...thus it was lameness. But I had another beer by that time, so lameness forgotten. Speaking of lameness, I didn't document this event like I should, despite having my camera on me, so we'll have to make do with this not-so-awesome mock-up, (and unfortunately that is a fairly accurate representation of what my hair looked like in the morning...sooooo not awesome).

We closed out the Sunday with rest, relaxation, drink, ...oh, and saving the world from what ultimately proved to be the underwhelming evil that is Yig. We were awesome, partly because Yig is a total pussy, who was beat up by an army of Ham-Hams, though it still took about four hours to defeat this monstrosity of the netherworlds...which was mostly due to us having to consult the Big Rule Book of Warfare until we knew what the fuck we were doing (The B-man was awesome). Normally this is where I would insert an awesome little political rant comic of Dubya and Maliki bitching about faulty die rolls and who has more tokens to tap a combat initiative card...but battling Yig wore me out, so here is a picture of some sleepy chibi battle hamsters, who shall arise again to defend the town of Arkham. Teh Wootzer Awesome.

By the way, can I get one of those awesome re-do cards for Real Life? I'd totally tap that shit at least three times a week.

The Magazine Meme

So Pal Tarv tagged me a meme. As far as memes go, this one's not so bad, especially since I have nothing better to post at the moment.

What magazines do you subscribe to?

I use to subscribe to a shit-load of magazines, to the point where I had the equivolent of a small sequoia forest piled high in my bathroom. I mostly stuck to the classics: Entertainment Weekley, National Geographic, Discovery, and Newsweek. I also indulged in the occasional American Theatre, Match, and American Anthropological Annuals. But over the years I decided to simplify and reduce my monthly fix of periodicals to the essentials, the ones that most reflect the essence and influences of my life.

Epilogue...

So here it is. The duvet cover that nearly cost me my eternal soul.

It's blue. Really blue. Kind of a karate chop to the throat BLUE! But it matches the curtains. And as a bonus goes quite well with that lovely yonic painting above the bed. Not bad for $29.99.

In all likelihood, I will venture back to Ikea. You'll notice that rather smart looking rolltop desk in the corner (or as Peep Ian suggested I call it, an escritoire...but I don't think I need to give people yet another reason to pop me in the mouth). Shamed as I am to admit it, I sort of like having matching furniture. It makes me feel like a grown-up, which is certainly appropriate now that I'm 30. Replacing a perfectly functional bookcase and nightstand on the grounds of aesthetics is, in truth, a bit silly and comes with the risk of turning into one of those poser yuppie types. But you know what? Bite me.

So, in conclusion, the adventure of "Romancing the Duvet" was an overall success. A few trips through the washing machine, and it'll be as soft and pliable as George Bush's brain.

There is just one problem, however. A little technicality that hadn't crossed my mind upon purchase. There exists a cardinal rule regarding cat "ownership" and the procurement of home furnishings. In fact, growing up in a house full of cats, the most important question to address when buying a new sofa or replacing the carpet was "Will it show cat hair?" A point of contention I failed to consider. Observe:

Ah Dammit. Well, at least I have an in-house washing machine to cure hirsute linens. But you know, it's this kind of shit that makes me terrified that one day I'm going to meet a totally awesome dark-skinned man, and I'll have to dump him because he "shows too much cat hair".

Down the Rabbit Hole...

My duvet died. It was a nasty death. The problem with low thread count Indian cotton is that once it starts a rippin’, it’ll keep on going like the damn Energizer Bunny. I really should have sewn the initial tear immediately, but I’m easily distracted…(or is that lazy?), and that tiny hole soon turned into an ugly gaping maw. D’oh! We had eight lovely years together, ol’ friend. May you live on as a beautiful collection of dust rags.

So where can one buy an affordable, durable, not baboon-ass-ugly duvet in a specific shade of blue to match the bedroom curtains? Did someone say Ikea? Oh, I think they did...Welcome to my efficiently modern Swedish nightmare.

The road trip north was fairly innocuous, making me completely unprepared for the onslaught of Ikeadom I faced upon entering the store. I should never have attempted this trek alone. Always take a buddy when going to Ikea. Better yet, hire a Sherpa. Despite the relatively low altitude, one might experience light-headedness, disorientation, and palpitations when encountering a Dante’s Inferno of home furnishing.

Where the hell am I? I spent the first hour circling a labyrinth of bathroom fixtures and living room sets, with nary a pillow or mattress frame in sight. In hindsight, I should have stuck to the path of little lit arrows along the floor. They just might be there for a reason, like guard rails, bars, and warning signs on a polar bear exhibit at the zoo. All I know is that I ended up in some nowhere land surrounded by a group of emaciated suburbanites who, by the looks of it, had lost their way a long time ago and gone completely feral. I had to beat back one grup with an Einklienschtochenblockin Lamp to keep him from eating my skin.

After a rather thematic encounter with Georges-Antoine Kurtz, rescue came via a “yellow shirt” (which totally blew my mind because I thought they were the stuff of legends, like unicorns and hinklepunks). He asked if he could help me find something, and when words fail me, I always resort to blurting Simpson quotes: “I’m somewhere where I don’t know where I am!” He regarded me in much the same way one would regard a retarded kid hugging a tree, but graciously guided me to the rather pleasant land of bedding. At this point, I was going to buy a goddamn duvet, even if it looked like a pile of puke on the kitchen floor from that one friend who always overdoses on Jell-O shots. I was, by fortune or favor, able to procure something substantially less caustic to the retinas.

But I still had to find my way out of Wonderland. Trying to get out of Ikea is just as harrowing as getting in, because it just keeps…on…going (Seriously, I’ve had gyno exams less irritating). Every time you think you’ve finally reached the end, you’re confronted by more piles o’ crap in every unimaginable perversion of geometry. I experienced an overwhelming temptation to just curl into a fetal position and chant “there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home” before eventually crawling my way back to the light of day, by which point I'm convinced that more souls have been lost to Ikea than Mt. Everest.

Sheesh! What a technicolored mindfuck. Stick a dancing midget in the middle of this and it’d be a David Lynch film. You know, the kind everyone watches but no one really knows what the hell is going on.

EXPECTO VOMITUM!

It’s been at least six years since I last made an offering to the porcelain alter. I’ve got a cast-iron gasket for the most part, but even I’m no match for a fucking stomach virus. The problem with not puking on a somewhat regular basis is that you become very bad at reading the warning signs. The swirling gut and heartburn I could easily ignore, but it was the violent shaking that alerted me to move my ass to a linoleum lined environment pronto, or I’d have the unpleasant task of scrubbing berber carpet while feeling like ass.

Damn, but I hate being sick. Especially the post vomit mouth rinse, when you’re desperately trying to get rid of all the chunks caught between your teeth and gums without touching them with your tongue. *blech*

Oh, and mealy upchucked wine? Let’s just say I won’t be ordering a sangria margarita anytime soon.

Ta-da!

I don't know why in hell I've started this page. I'm the world's worst blogger. Ask my peeps. Always felt like too much damn pressure to post something...oh, let's say significant...worldly...intelligent? Then I started reading friends' blogs, and they were posting absolute blah without shame. So why can't I? Plus, I can keep my smut on live-journal where it belongs.


Well, maybe I'll keep a little smut here.



But the question of the day is whether I'll actually post more than twice a year? Eh...we'll see. I asked Saitou, but he doesn't seem to have much confidence in me.