Just joshing, nobody cares.

Just thought I’d make this a nice symmetrical post. .tsop lacirtemmys ecin a siht ekam d’I thguoht tsuJ mp 20:01 @ noJ -sweN :rednu deliF

In my professional opinion, the only adult males who like Bjork are pedophiles. Her voice sounds childish, she wears goofy kiddie-Halloween costume-esque outfits, and she looks like a four year old girl. And yet, people still fall hopelessly in love with her, then ship her ACID BOMBS (I know, it sounds awesome. I wish I could get my hands on some of these ACID BOMBS. Sounds like another way to say ‘a bad trip’) along with videos of them applying face paint and shooting themselves because she doesn’t return their sentiments.

So if there’s any Bjork lovers out there on the Information Superhighway, I would just like to make it known that you are probably either a conscious or suppressed pedophile. Just thought I’d give out that helpful little tidbit of diagnosis, free of charge.

EDIT: After listening to some more Bjork, I guess I’m a little bit of a pedophile.

Browsing Wikipedia is a very enlightening affair.

1. Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure is based loosely on  Ladri di Biciclette, or The Bicycle Thief, the Italian neorealist classic.

2. The production third Die Hard movie was investigated by the FBI because the heist that was outlined in the script could actually work.

3. Apparently every single human being shares one interesting physical feature in common- they all weigh less than your mom.

I made one of these interesting tidbits of movie trivia up, guess which one it is!

INT Dobb’s Shack

Dobb’s shack is dilapidated, a rundown version of the shoddiest one bedroom shack ever built by man. Somehow, the dirt encrusted window allows in less light than the cracks in the wall. The solitary lightbulb, dirtied and hanging by a single wire in the center of the room, is dark. Stacks of pots and pans form a miniature city in the center of the room. Pipes hanging miserably from the ceiling drip disturbingly mucus-like fluids onto the grimy newspaper covered floor. There is a half built mailbox lying on a skeleton of a couch, springs rusted through and supports sharp and unpleasant. Dobb himself sits on the floor, eating something directly out of the fridge, plug lying disconnected on the floor in a particularly mucus-y puddle. His shirt barely restrains his abundant body hair, and his face looks as if it was fashioned with the wrong end of a shovel. Mucus-liquid is dripping directly on the top of his head as he finishes whatever it is he is eating. It runs down his grizzled mess of a face, down his flabby, grubby body, and pools in his unclothed lap. He coughs out a hair.

And yet Dobbs is still more attractive than you. I mean, damn.

DOBBS: Seriously, man, take a shower or something.

I had a dream where I was the background singer at a nightclub, and one of the performers became extremely depressed. She wouldn’t stand up from her spot on stage, and no amount of consolation would rise her from her depression. So, in the spur of the moment, I cued the band and made up this song.

Sing a happy song

Sing a happy song

Life is okay

Things aren’t that great

But what the hell

Let’s get this over with 

Later I asked the person who had been attempting to console her what the matter had been, and she said “It’s her birthday, and she didn’t want to have to assassinate her husband.”

I shouldn’t be allowed to have dreams when sick.

My brother’s name is Michael, and he is awesome in every way. He is taller than a ship’s mast, and his arms are as thick and burly as an ox. His stride is fifty leagues, and he has eighty wives, who have each bore him at least twenty children, all who are named after their father. What about the girls, you say? There are no girls. Michael’s children do not have a fifty/fifty split of genes from their mother and father. Their father’s genes fought and killed all of the mother’s. The US government would be after him for this obvious disregard for US human cloning law, but they fear his face melting guitar solos which he unleashes upon any who would oppose him. He carries a guitar fashioned out of what was previously the world’s largest redwood tree, painted crimson with the blood of enemies, and for his amp he utilizes the resonating frequencies produced by the very Earth itself. Tesla’s “earthquake machine” had nothing on Michael playing a simple blues chord progression, or Lord help us, the solo in “Layla”. Were he to ever improvise and make up his own song, the vibrations would cause the Earth to collapse into a singularity, the event horizon stretching out into infinity. Michael would only be moderately inconvenienced by the fabric of time and space being torn asunder thusly, and would swim to safety and chill in another dimension, until events repeat themselves there.

Also, he’s helping me with some projects.

Super Mario Galaxy has been being way more aggravating than any game where the ultimate goal is to collect brightly colored smiling stars should be. I run around falling into black holes, getting crushed by huge blocks, and repeatedly being reminded by rabbits with neon gay colored ears telling me that I should “Jump high and spin to get things in high up places!”. “I hope you get raped to death!” I cheerfully reply, and fall into a black hole. “TOO BAD,” the game points out as Mario’s tiny, plump body is torn apart by the infinite gravity and his flesh and bones and trademark some type of clothing deep being pulled within the singularity, doing whatever bits of matter do when they get sucked into black holes (watching Family MATTERS, probably. Oh ho ho, I crack myself up.), Nintendo just being their regular helpful selves.

It is fun to play, though, otherwise I wouldn’t put up with the constant barrage of death and cute. Well, I might, but only if the cute things were the ones dying. And if there was blood involved. And perhaps high powered automatic weaponry. And dismemberment. Actually, all that stuff might just make it fun on its own.

I am also playing Crysis and Stubbs the Zombie, but what can I say about either? Stubbs is a one trick pony, it would get old really fast if the novelty of eating people’s brains or clubbing them to death with their own arm isn’t enough for you. Crysis is stunningly beautiful, and puts the FUN back in killing North Koreans! (Digital ones, of course. Ha ha. >_>)

And Mike, I know you read these things, so if you come upstairs and start reading my post back to me in a voice that makes me sound like a small minded pretentious small-town-girl-with-big-city-aspirations again, I will start making puns every time I see you. That is the trade.