Kerry Allen

Playing video games relieves aggression. Little Miss Hacks with Sword would be tempted to… well, hack things with a sword in real life if she had no other outlet for her hostility.

Playing video games teaches humility. It’s impossible to be full of yourself when you’ve just had your ass handed to you by a short stack of pancakes.

Go ahead and tell people the song is “Disturbia,” but you and I know the truth:

Bom bom bee bom, bom bom buh bom bum
SCURVY LOVE!

(Theme song for Pirates 4? Oh, I think yes.)

Not quite up to the following standards of misheard lyrics, however:

Johnny Rivers’s’es’s “Secret Agent Man”

Sequined Asian man

Steve Miller Band’s “Jet Airliner”

Bingo Jed had a light on

The Clash’s “Rock the Casbah”

The sheep don’t like it
Rock the cat spa

CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising”

There’s a bathroom on the right

System of a Down’s “B.Y.O.B.”

Why do they always suck the pork?

The ubiquitous Manfred Mann’s Earth Band’s “Blinded by the Light”

Wrapped up like a douche

And the general WTFery that is any Nirvana song. (Do not even get me started. Nirvana was the Twilight of my teen years. Capisce?)

But keep striving and one of these days, you too can reach the summit of total unintelligibility.

My Texan friends are coming for all you bean eaters.

You probably put SAUCE on your barbecue, too.

Philistines.

(For the record, I’m a midwestern girl who proudly serves up spicy beef-and-bean soup and calls it chili and does not consider any kind of meat barbecue until it is swimming in barbecue sauce. Also of note, I will only eat my own homemade barbecue sauce because I’ve never found anyone else who can couple throat-searing and candy-sweet to my satisfaction.)

Riveting, I know, but I am otherwise consumed with politics and the additional part-time job I have been forced to undertake as a direct result of said politics, making me a very grumpy bear.

Chapter 2 Wednesday, whether I like it or not.

I’m practicing the “let readers make their own value judgments” thing I was preaching a while ago.

And failing.

Obviously.

Something about me compels complete strangers to approach me and confide things I wish they’d save for their priest or therapist.

While awaiting my daughter’s release from her daily prison, a woman I have never seen before in my life walked up to me. The first thing out of her mouth was “Are you married?”

Last time someone introduced themselves by asking that question, it was preparatory to a wife-swapping proposition, so I already dreaded the rest of this conversation. Clearly, however, this was one of those pseudo-questions to create the illusion of interest to justify the hours of me-me-me to follow, as I barely got out the “N—” before she launched into an account of her own romantic situation.

For some unfathomable reason, she too is single.

She proceeded to share with me her checklist of qualities the only man good enough for her will possess. “First, of course, he simply MUST love my kids. And my pomeranian. He has to be handsome and tall. Kind, and with a great sense of humor. Never married and no kids of his own because I don’t need his baggage cluttering up my life. Oh, and rich. Like, a doctor or lawyer or a business mogul.”

I responded, “I happen to know that guy.” (He’s a young surgeon, so he’s not rich yet, but give him five or ten years.) “Unfortunately for you,” I added, “he’s not looking for a self-absorbed, social-climbing leech.”

I think she may have been offended. Go figure.

I read something fairly recently that articulated my long-held feeling that a person has to be whole, fully formed, complete, and worthwhile in their own right before they can do justice to The Big Relationship. (Hence my repeated declarations that I’m unfit for human companionship. I freely admit I need a whole lot of work.)

In a nutshell, this article stated people spend years compiling a list of requirements for their perfect mate and give no thought to what they themselves have to offer to another person. They wait years for the man or woman of their dreams, only to discover they don’t measure up to this paragon of virtue’s standards of suitability, so The Big Relationship isn’t going to happen after all. Then they get all bitter and nasty because they were cheated out of the happiness they so richly deserve.

If you want the perfect guy, you’d better be the perfect gal. Start by looking at that list of requirements for the perfect mate and strive to develop them IN YOURSELF. Mr. Perfect isn’t sitting around pining for a busted fragment of a woman to make him whole. He’s a popular guy. He can pick and choose.

If you think you deserve him more than any other woman, you better be the woman HE deserves.

Until then, PLEASE do not expect my sympathy because he hasn’t called. I have none.

… this became my new desktop wallpaper about 20 seconds after I laid eyes on it.

"Forked" by DivineError

This size really does not do it justice. If you go here and click on the picture, it will expand to its full, glorious ludicrosity. (The chrome, it makes my feeble Photoshop skills weep with shame.)

For some reason, it makes me think of Jay and  Silent Bob.

Jay and Silent Bob

And being the freaky little platypus I am, that’s a good thing.

1.  Angelic daughter attended her second day of school yesterday after having the best first week of school ever (go the first day, get the rest of the week off) and was given lists of rules in all her classes to be taken home and signed by student and parent to indicate understanding. My understanding is that in every class the first and foremost rule is “Be happy at all times, or you will be punished.” I envision a school filled with children, their faces contorted with huge smiles, desperately forcing the words help us through their clenched teeth.

2.  There’s a TV commercial in these parts that says God doesn’t want children to play video games. This seems counterproductive to me. In my experience, everyone who plays video games has a very intimate relationship with God, chummy enough to chat about his Son and call on him to damn things on a regular basis…

3.  Choosing a web hosting company apparently makes use of the same brain sector as choosing a line to wait in. As I will choose the wrong line at the grocery store (where a single person ahead of me with two items will invariably be joined by a partner pulling 3 carts and want to write a check for part and pay cash for the rest, despite which she will not have enough money and will want to put things back) and the bank (where a single person ahead of me will invariably be conducting 37 transactions, each individually, none of which were prepared beforehand, and most of which involve payment in pennies), so will I choose a web host that itself completely vanishes from the internet on a regular basis, taking my site along for the ride. If you try to visit and get a “no such site” page, try again later. And if you yourself are ever in the market for web hosting, don’t sign up for a multi-year deal right off the bat. Yes, extended terms often offer cheaper rates, but if your host turns out to have more downtime than a newborn baby and you have to switch to another provider, it’s not such a value anymore.

I promised C.J. much graphical fanfare to commemorate my victory in the Swords and Stilettos Bloated Sentence Contest, but technical difficulties caused me to neglect all of my internet responsibilities for very nearly 48 whole hours. I know! I’m surprised I survived, too. So here is a photo collage of things that make me as happy as this win:

Swords. I am, after all, Little Miss Hacks With Sword.

Stilettos. I would snap my frickin' neck if I took a single step in this shoe, but I'd totally wear a pair of them with a leopard-print silk robe while draped over a chaise while a nicely put together fella fed me bonbons. Or Cheetos.

Cheetos. The crunchy kind, not those wussy puffed curl things. Note the "0 trans fat" on the package. Clearly, Cheetos are good for you.

A nicely put together fella. Eerie story. I have this character named Gabe. This is exactly what he looks like in my head. Exactly. I fell asleep one night in front of the television and woke up to see this guy in a commercial. I actually said (mumbled groggily) aloud, "Gabe, what are you doing on television?" The really eerie part: The dude's name is seriously... Gabe. It's obvious the Blue Fairy liked my vision so much, she turned him into a real boy. Halle Berry, you owe me big time.

Champagne strawberry cheesecake. I haven't had it (yet), but how could that possibly be anything short of orgasmically fabulous?

Books. I have nothing to add.

Wombats celebrating Wombat Day 2007 by eating a wombat-shaped cake that looks like it's made of wombat meat. Maybe it's not a cake at all. Maybe it's wombatloaf. Blow out the candles and eat, Uncle Fred! (Or, as the case may be, remove the comma after "eat.")