monster sarcasm rally

I made something vaguely like Shepherd's Pie last night. Except, of course, it's nothing like Shepherd's Pie.

Shepherd's Pie is traditionally made with lamb. Think about it... Shepherd... Lamb... Is that a joke? Shepherds are the dudes hired to look after the sheep. If you hired some guy to look after your sheep and he started chopping up the baby sheep and making pie out of them, wouldn't you be upset? Wouldn't you fire him? Isn't it sort of like naming a dish Babysitter's Stew and making out of babies?

Q: When is a house not a home?
A: When the people living in it are not related to one another. So saith the City of Toronto Fire Department at any rate...

The fire inspector checked out my house. He looked in rooms and closets and poked smoke detectors. He asked me a number of questions; one of them was whether we were related or friends. I said we were friends. He smiled and made a note. When the property manager came into the room, he informed her that a house classified as a single-family dwelling is required to contain only a single family. She advised him that this contradicted everything that had been communicated to her over the years.

This is a very serious matter. We're talking about people's safety.

Um... Hi. How on earth does that pertain to anybody's safety? By all accounts, we could have six people, 26 people, or even 126 people living in the house as long as we were all related. But now they're saying I can't live with anybody I'm not related to? How is that unsafe? How is a house of nine related people safer than a house of three unrelated people? How would it be made more safe if we started having sex?* Sheds all new light on the concept of safe sex, doesn't it?

If I had answered that Dawn was my mother's cousin's wife's niece and Kinda Cute but Evil was my same-sex common-law life partner, we wouldn't be having this conversation. We would then count as a family and everything would be nice and safe. Since, however, I said that we were friends, our house constitutes a fire hazard.

What the hell? What kind of drugs are the city planners on? Can I get some?

*A conjugal relationship between co-habitators constitutes a common-law spousal arrangement, and therefore constitutes a family.

And now for a short work of neurotica.

No, no... I said neurotica. You're on the wrong page if you're looking for anything else.

Last night a bunch of friends and I were talking about massages. My benefits package at work covers massages to a maximum of $500 per year. I have yet to go for one this year. I said so to my friends. They were aghast. How could I not?

See, I have this problem. Whenever I go for a massage, I think about how good it feels. This makes me start thinking about one small detail...

I'm paying somebody to touch me.

Ugh! This horrifies me. I can think of nothing else. I spend the rest of the time feeling incredibly disturbed. I walk away from the experience feeling anything but relaxed.

I seem to have misplaced my funny. If you have seen it, please let me know.

In the meantime, go back and reread the old posts. They're still good. At least, I hope they are.

Dear Dirty Old Man,

You are creepy. You are also quite possibly drunk. For these reasons, and a thousand others, I would like you to refrain from touching me. Furthermore, I would like to ask that you talk to me only as much as necessitated by working in the same office.

I will admit that I derived a certain amount of amusement from your behaviour last week at the company outing. You should not, however, leap to the conclusion that we had fun together. When I laughed, I was laughing at you, not with you. This is a very important distinction.

When you introduced me to a fellow co-worker whom I had already met, I smiled out of awkwardness. When you instructed him to go to the bar and get me a drink, I smiled again. This was also awkwardness. When he returned 30 seconds later with my orange juice and you introduced us again, I laughed. This time it was not awkwardness, it was mockery. How you managed to become completely inebriated by 17.30, when we had only been at the bar for 15 minutes, I do not know. I am, however, reasonably certain that you were out of your tree.

When you put your hand on my thigh, I did not interpret it as a friendly gesture. I contemplated causing you serious physical harm. It took me approximately a third of a second to determine that you were not worth my job. However, should you attempt such a manoeuvre again, you may not ever regain the use the offending appendage again.

Since that evening, you have stopped by my desk on several occasions. Each time you have asked the Ferengi if I am 'behaving myself'. Perhaps you believe this is charming. Maybe you are under the impression that this qualifies as small talk. What you probably don't know is that we hold our breath waiting for the office door to close behind you. Then we burst into collective fits of uncontrollable laughter. Again, it should be noted that we are laughing at you, not with you.

Thank you for your attention. Please go away now, or I shall shove my pen up your nose.

Sincerely,
The Sarcastrix

A co-worker e-mailed me about a project he was working on. He asked if there was anything that I wanted. I told him that I didn't know anything about the project, so, nope... no special requests. He responded by asking if there was anything in general that I wanted.

Well...

Now that you mention it, there are a few things. I would like:

• a year's supply of vegan chocolate chip cookies (fresh baked on a weekly basis)
• another cup of coffee (fair trade with organic cream and sugar)
• seven weeks paid vacation per year
• to wear jeans and runners to work every day
• arrangements made for me to bring my dog with me (a simple bed beneath my desk would suffice)
• a new iMac on my desk
• a new iPod so as to drown out the din with music of my choosing
• to begin work at NINE in the morning
• to end work at FIVE in the afternoon
• two new roommates (good ones, please)
• a dishwasher for my home
• a new washing machine for my home
• money in my bank account and the ability to leave it there
• a new muffler for my car
• a new political system (one that satisfies everybody all the time)
• time and motivation to work on my novel
• all seven seasons of Buffy on DVD
• the ability to be funny whenever I choose
• faith that can move mountains (and anything else that gets in my way)
• a super-power or two would be nice, while we're at it

So...

New Chick started today. The Ferengi is now acting like she's the boss. She seems to think that both New Chick and I work for her. I've been kind of worried that she might try to take over the training and mould New Chick to be like her. But I didn't think she'd try to assert herself above me.

Hello! Not only do I do my job well, but I can do yours twice as well as you do. Oh, and somehow... I still manage to find time to blog about 1,000 words a day!

Ferengi, I repeat my earlier statement:

You're not the boss of me!
(blows raspberry)

Fred said 'penis' last night*. Just randomly... In a noisy pub... She said

PENIS.

It was shocking. I'm not sure whether to be proud of her or ashamed of myself for being such a bad influence.

* It occurs to me that if you don't know Fred, you won't get why this is funny. In that case I apologise. I thought it was amusing. Anne will be amused. The rest of you can just scratch your heads and move along.

A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky animals and you know it.
(Men in Black)

My co-workers are blithering (good word, eh?) on about dry cleaners. They're comparing their preferred ones.

I can't believe you people dry clean shirts,
I said.

They all stopped and stared vacantly at me. Finally the Ferengi ventured to say that it was easier to dry clean them than it was to iron them. Ah, see, there's the trouble. I figure

if it needs to be ironed, I don't need to own it.

More blank stares.

I will dry clean my wool dress coat, though. The last time I washed it, the sleeves shrank about eight inches. I now have a short-sleeved wool dress coat.

Good grief! With all the incredulent staring followed that remark, you'd think I just suggested we all get naked and dance around the trading desk singing a bunch of hippie folk tunes.

So, I've been thinking. I've been toying with an idea of late. It's a pretty big deal, actually. It's such a big thing that I haven't even mentioned it to anybody. You see, I'm contemplating a major lifestyle change. The very fact that I'm considering such a drastic move is kind of freaking me out.

I'm thinking of adding a word to my vocabulary. I'm not talking about just any word either. It's one that's always been on my banned list. It's—

(hyperventilation)

Nope, can't do it. Can't bring myself to use it. Not yet. I'm not ready.

I know, I know... You want to know what word it is I'm talking about. Well, since I can't say it and I can't type it, I'll just allude to it. Think 'assassination'. Think 'associate'. Think 'harassment'. Think 'bum'.

I don't know. It's a big step and I'm not sure I'm ready to take it. Maybe someday I will be, but it probably won't today.

A friend of mine recently started a blog. She named it 'Kinda Cute, But Evil'. I think I can relate right now. Well, except that the word cute can't actually be applied to me. I think in order to qualify as cute, one has to be small.

I bought new shoes for work. I like them. They have a heel. Not a pointy little spike of a heel, but one that's thick enough for me to walk on. That's the trick with wearing heels: it doesn't matter how high they are, only that they're thick enough to balance one's weight on.

My old shoes were intolerably ugly, uncomfortable and falling apart. If I had to go to the kitchen or the bathroom, I would put them on. If I was at my desk, they were off. If I went downstairs for coffee, I would switch to my runners.

My news shoes are comfortable enough to be bearable. And, like I said, they have a good heel. I just came back from lunch. I wore my new shoes downstairs and wandered around the maze for a while. In my runners, I tower over most women. Hell, in my runners, I tower over most women in heels. That's a good thing. If you've read my 100 things, you'll understand.

Today was different, though. With my heels on, I'm nearly 6'2" (1.88 m). I tower over most men. And I like it.

Is that wrong?

I've noticed a few things about me. I mean, I've always known them, but I never suspected other people might do things differently.

1. I always hang the dish towel back up perfectly flat and straight. My brother used to wad it into the stove rack any old way. I always assumed it was because he had brain damage. Apparently not...

2. I alphabetise my book collection. Fiction goes by author's last name. If there are several books by the same author, they go by publication date, unless they are part of a series. The first book in a series is placed where it should logically go, the rest of the series goes with it, even if the author published other books in between. Non-fiction goes by topic, then by author/editor's last name.

3. I am extraordinarily disturbed people who leave partial squares of toilet paper. There is a perforated line! I don't understand people who can't use it. (Yes, Moiraine, I mean you.)

4. I re-read my blogs and e-mails about two or three times before sending them. I make numerous changes. Once a blog is published, I edit it an average of four times. I wish I could do the same with e-mails. I re-read them once they're sent and notice errors or things I could have said better.

Excuse me, I need to re-read this a few times before I hit the big orange button.

Six changes made...

Make that eight changes...

Nine... (Somebody please stop me!)

Of course I'm crazy, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong.
(Robert Anton Wilson)

Another in the same series as before...

What I really want to know is: Why exactly did I notice that the army dude has a wedding ring? I think there might be something wrong with me. Is there a 12-step programme I can join? 'Hi, my name is sic and (breaks down into tears) I like army guys. Um... No, maybe not. I'm not that bad. I just like to look. That's all. Go away now.

I frequently come across incorrect use of the word 'verbiage'. Most times, it is also misspelled. Somehow, people have the idea that this word is synonymous with 'wording'. I get notes from people telling me that they're not sure about their verbiage, and could I please check it for them. Or they say that they're just looking over their verbiage and will send me their document shortly.

This is funny.

Why is it so funny, oh great Sarcastrix? Please, enlighten us.

Well, you see little one, verbiage is not synonymous with wording at all.

Cambridge defines verbiage [noun, formal disapproving] as follows: 'language which is very complicated and which contains a lot of unnecessary words, e.g. His explanation was wrapped up in so much technical verbiage that I simply couldn't understand it'.

Oxford states that verbiage [noun] is 'needless accumulation of words; verbosity'.

So, clearly, telling me that you would like me to check your verbiage is funny. Accurate, but funny nonetheless.

Somebody changed my post about the complicated and confusing Bible prophecy site found at [typeanythinghere].blogpsot.com (Note the typo.) This disturbs me. It has most definitely been changed since I wrote it. When I find the text from the original post, I'm going to fix it. Unless THEY have deleted it off my hard drive. That's exactly the sort of thing THEY would do.

It reminds me of the time I wrote a letter to the editor of Now magazine. Most media outlets in Canada make the assumption that all pro-lifers are a bunch of uneducated, gun-toting, Harper-loving maniacs, but they actually resorted to name-calling. I wrote them and advised them that some of us were in fact literate and might not appreciate what they had to say. They ran my letter, but altered it ever so slightly. When I read it in the paper, I felt like... Hmm... You know when you watch a movie on an American television station and they eliminate the swear words? Brad Pitt shouting

'You're not your job. You're not how much money you have in the bank. You're not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet. You're not your BARKING khakis. You're the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.'

Or Will Smith saying that

'Oh, now that's BULLSLOP'.

THEY don't even try to blend the new with the old. All of a sudden a completely different voice breaks in, in monotone, says one word and then disappears. Most of the time, the one word doesn't even make sense. As long as it drowns out the offensive swear word, though, it's all good.

I have no idea where this is going, or where it came from, or even what it's about. Erm... Conspiracy... That's right, it's a consiracy! It's all part of some grand plan of THEIRS. When I figure out what it is or who exactly THEY are, I'll let you know.

For now, you'll have to just trust me when I say it's all just a big FORKLIFT consiracy.

Apparently — relatively speaking — my job is a happy one.

I want to talk about a very serious subject today: homelessness. I'd like to look at the problem from a slightly different perspective, though.

I have noticed an alarming trend in my own life concerning homelessness. Homeless men frequently hit on me. As I walk around the city of Toronto, homeless men emerge from doorways and alleyways. They sit on curbs and benches. And they tell me I am beautiful. They tell me I have a nice bum. They make assorted statements to the general effect that they think I am desirable.

This, in and of itself, is not particularly disturbing. Homeless men have as much right as anybody to express interest in me. Aha... But now we've hit on the real problem. Nobody else is expressing any interest. It seems that I am attractive only to homeless men. Why is this? Does it reveal something particular about me?

I am in no way implying that the homeless population of Toronto should leave me alone or stop talking to me, merely that it might be nice if (just for once) somebody who wasn't homeless expressed some interest.

Thank you. That is all.

My father just sent me a series of images like this one.

Somebody somewhere is really good at Photoshop and has waaaaaaay too much time on his hands.

...why so many companies went PUBIC in 2002?

(Stomps off in a huff, muttering about people's inability to spell.)

But Microsoft Word's spell checker didn't flag it.

(bunch of friggin' idiots... mutter. grumble. rant. rave.)

Binoculars? Oh my...

How can I find the right words to thank you for your gift? It was so thoughtful of you. Thank you for thinking of me. I'm sure that I could occupy myself for seemingly endless minutes. I'll examine spots on my living room floor. I'll peer into my neighbours windows. I'll gaze up at the featureless, light-polluted sky. Perhaps I can incorporate them into next year's Haloween costume. The possibilities are — erm — several.

Here's to you, Dad.

PS: You should complain to the Post Office. For some reason the package arrived four months after my birthday.

Xander: Willow, did you remember to tape Biography last Friday?
Willow: (absently) Uh-huh.
Buffy: (to Xander, proudly) See, I told you. Old Reliable.
(Xander nods and smiles. Willow is not amused.)
Willow: (sourly) Oh, thanks.
Buffy: (taken aback) What?
Willow: 'Old Reliable'? Yeah, great. (reprovingly) *There's* a sexy nickname.
Buffy: Well, I-I didn't mean it as...
Willow: No, it's fine. I'm 'Old Reliable'.
Xander: She just means, you know, the geyser. You're like a geyser of fun that goes off at regular intervals.
Willow: (disgustedly) That's Old Faithful.
Xander: Isn't that the dog that, that the guy had to shoot...
Willow: (incensed) That's Old Yeller.
Buffy: Xander, I beg you not to help me. Will, I-I didn't mean it as a bad thing. I-I think it's good to be reliable.
Willow: (stands up, annoyed) Well, maybe I don't *wanna* be reliable all the time. Maybe I'm not just some doormat person. Homework Gal.
Xander: I'm thinking nerve strike.
(Willow huffs at him and starts to go, but turns back.)
Willow: Maybe I'll change my look! Or cut class. You don't know.

At least this quiz didn't tell me I was a man's man...

You are a WRDL--Wacky Rational Destructive Leader. This makes you an Enemy of the State.

You are charismatic and winning and a very dangerous enemy. You favour justice over compassion, and would almost rather see your opponent fail than you succeed.

You impact the lives of those around you more than any other personality. People remember your name and respect you. You are a tremendous amount of fun to be around and astonishing to watch. You are generally abstinent in your habits, and you like things tidy and ordered.

When picking teams, it is smartest for others to pick yours.

Of the 53,656 people who have taken this quiz since tracking began (8/17/2004), 1.5 % are this type.

20 Questions to a Better Personality

Oh, and it's clearly not true. Um... Well, the tidy part anyhow...

Something weird's going on here... I got a comment from Martin over in Barrow-in-Furness...

And a little pink pussy-cat has taken Barrow-in-Furness. That's a gain for the Liberals, there.

...in England, saying that he'd linked to my site. I got the comment first by e-mail. The link to the site wasn't active, but when I pasted it into my browser, it took me to a very complicated and confusing Bible prophecy site. I wondered for quite a while how my blog was proof of the End Times.

Then I found his actual comment and followed the link to his profile and from there to his real site.

The thing is, the two sites have exactly the same URL. Kinda funny, no?

Update: 12 November 2004
Okay, I've put the text above back the way it was supposed to be. If THEY change it this time, I'll have proof of THEIR conspiracy.

Well, rest assured everybody, the good folks over at SaraLee (mother of Jimmy Dean) are looking into the matter. They assure me that they take it very seriously and will forward my 'questions and/or concerns' to the appropriate department.

Oh heck. Read the whole letter for yourselves...

'Thank you for visiting the Jimmy Dean web site. We appreciate your interest in our products and are happy to assist you with your questions and/or concerns.

We assure you that we continually work with our advertising agency to select advertisements and television shows that meet the requirements of our family guidelines. Your comments are sincerely appreciated andhave been directed to our marketing department.

Sincerely,
Vickie Moffitt
Consumer Response Department'

This just in... The Ferengi is angry!

I've been wondering lately. What can I do to make the world a better place? The world is going to hell — with or without its handbasket. What can I do to prevent it?

Moiraine often tells me that I can't save the world. It's depressing. But then I heard that cheesy, schmaltzy starfish story, and I thought, 'Goshdarnit! Maybe I can't save them all, but can I not save one?'

So, I'm going to do my part. And I encourage all you brave, single Canadians to do the same.

1. Everybody else is doing it; I'm just following the crowd.
2. I almost never follow the crowd.
3. I am sic.
4. I am a Christian.
5. I have two dogs.
6. I have a large rubber cockroach nailed to my bedroom wall.
7. It amuses me greatly to show it to guests.
8. I watch Buffy.
9. Lately I've been watching Stargate.
10. It's Anne's fault that I've been watching Stargate.
11. I watch too much TV.
12. The thought of Jimmy Dean sausages horrifies me.
13. I walk an average of 6-8 km a day.
14. My novel will not be finished in time for (this year's) NaNoWriMo.
15. I’m bitter about fact #23.
16. I eat a lot.
17. I’m eating a brownie right now.
18. I hate it when other women are taller than I am.
19. I had a dream once in which I was surrounded by women at least six inches taller than I was.
20. It’s the worst nightmare I’ve ever had.
21. I’m five foot ten (1.78 m).
22. I’m hungry.
23. Blogexplosion’s users have so far granted me a rating of 2.0 out of a possible 10.
24. I’m afraid of umbrellas.
25. I believe they are weapons.
26. I own a 1999 VW Jedi, 5-speed, black on black.
27. I believe there should be a licensing system for people who want to carry umbrellas.
28. It should be at least as tough to get an umbrella licence as it is to get a driver’s licence.
29. License is a verb.
30. Licence is a noun.
31. Unless you’re American.
32. They spell funny.
33. I’m still eating that brownie.
34. It’s a tofu brownie.
35. I invented two words: agorafemiphobia and velumiphobia.
36. Velumiphobia is an irrational fear of umbrellas.
37. All the characters in my blogs are real people.
38. All the names used in my blogs are made up.
39. All the characters in my blogs are named for somebody or other.
40. Only I get all the references.
41. I hereby christen a new character as Jack.
42. She has yet to appear in any entry but this one.
43. I officially weigh 121 pounds (55 kg).
44. I am a vegetarian.
45. I am a Mac user.
46. I have been one since the original Mac debuted in 1984.
47. I was a small child at the time, thank you very much.
48. Okay, not as small as I’d like to pretend.
49. This is the first job I’ve ever had in which I’ve had to use a PC on a regular basis.
50. I like my Mac 1,387% better.
51. I made that number up.
52. I mean it nonetheless.
53. I am a treehugger.
54. My hair is very photogenic.
55. My face is not.
56. That's right; I said Jedi.
57. The interior of my car usually looks beige.
58. My primary dog has light hair.
59. He sheds a lot.
60. I have never hugged a tree.
61. My secondary dog does not shed, but he does smell funny.
62. My dogs are vegetarians.
63. They are fine with that fact; thank you for your concern.
64. Fact #60 in no way negates fact #53.
65. Dogs can be vegetarian.
66. Dogs should not eat much tofu.
67. It makes them fart.
68. I like to be difficult.
69. I am a virgin.
70. Yes, really.
71. Yes, deliberately.
72. No, thank you.
73. I enjoy being the anti-stereotype to every stereotype that might otherwise apply to me.
74. I do so make sense.
75. Crying is weakness.
76. Crying is acceptable if somebody’s dead.
77. Crying it totally acceptable if it’s brought on by laughing too hard.
78. Barfi is the greatest thing on the planet.
79. Okay, gulab jamun’s better, but barfi has the better name.
80. I could eat Indian food every day for the rest of my life.
81. Seriously.
82. I eat Indian food more often than I eat pizza.
83. I have a tattoo of a farting dog on my left arm.
84. My primary dog is frequently known as Beandog.
85. Douglas Adams was a genius.
86. Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman still are.
87. I’m stronger than I look.
88. I’m a genius, too.
89. My mother told me so.
90. Yes, your butt does look fat in those.
91. I have never dated a guy who made more money than I did.
92. Or wanted to.
93. My secondary dog is sometimes known as the Incredible Puking Wonderdog, but more frequently as the Stinky Monkey.
94. My hips are too big for me to be a professional model.
95. I wear size 27 jeans.
96. I just heard somebody use the phrase, ‘most likely to lose his liver’.
97. I think this line’s mostly filler.
98. That was a gratuitous Buffy quote.
99. Yes, really.
100. I’m hungry.

So I've been sick. Really sick. I've spent five days sitting like a lump on my couch, staring vacantly at the television.

I've learned a few things. Who says television melts the brain?

For starters, television is like radio: they play the same stuff over and over. You miss a show you want to watch — wait a few hours. It'll be on again.

Secondly, the people in the marketing department at Jimmy Dean's sausage company are either incredibly stupid or way too honest.

Our eggs come from real chickens. Our cheese comes from real cows. Our sausages come from Jimmy Dean.

That's disgusting! Do they not have any clue what it is they're saying? Really? Okay, follow me here people. Eggs come out of chickens. Milk comes out of cows. What exactly does Jimmy Dean have to do with the production of these sausages??? That can't be legal — even in the US!

Attention Jimmy Dean sausage marketing staff: I do not want to eat anything that came OUT of Jimmy Dean! I doubt I'm alone in this either.

Of course, this is all moot for two reasons.
1. I'm not American. I don't think we have Jimmy Dean sausages in Canada.
2. I'm a vegetarian. I don't want the usual kind of sausages any more than I want the pooped-out kind.