So - the man in my life plays VC with some blokes he doesn't actually know around the world. Being the nerd, and thus Penny Arcade, lover he is, he, in reference to the linked comic - dealing with the nanny filter option on Gears of War - added the phrase "Your mom is one classy lady!" to his little kill counter plus thingy. Really, it's basically greek to me, but apparently when you make a kill a little plus lights up somewhere and apparently you can add a message to that which my husband, being the sarky but non-confrontational person that he is, honored with the above phrase.
Well - he has been playing like that for three days when he is suddenly approached by sum fucktard "Americain" (or Amris, as we say) asking him to remove it as he was offended.
He was offended by YOUR MOM IS ONE CLASSY LADY!
He was offended by YOUR MOM IS ONE CLASSY LADY!
HE IS AN AMTARD, WHOSE HOBBY IT IS TO PRETEND HE'S KILLING VIETNAMESE PEOPLE... and HE IS OFFENDED BY "YOUR MOM IS ONE CLASSY LADY"?
What the fuck is wrong with US people? Seriously?
Now, husband is a mellow dude - he simply changed it but I am not fucking mellow, and when he told me later that evening, I had a sudden onset of US hatred that had me beating an armchair cushion with a softball bat because I can not fucking believe the fucking self absorption, fucktard entitlement, pussy, fucking "me, me, me" mentality of these fucking people! I wanted him to tell me the guy's user name so I could create my own fucking VC account and dedicate my next three hundred days to just killing his virtual warrior and then camp out where he spawns so I can kill him again until he gives up VC and goes playing with fireworks on some civic building, like those white amtards like to do.
You are playing VC you fuck! You are an American, playing at shooting Vietnamese, who is offended by a phrase that reminds you of another phrase? And you think that is ok?
So - to the American dude who asked my husband to change his kill counter:
YOU FUCKING SUCK! YOU ARE THE REASON PEOPLE HATE THE US. WITH CITIZENS LIKE YOU THE US DOES NOT NEED ANY ENEMIES. And funnily enough - people like you are a much bigger threat to the US than any other nationality can ever be.
Because if you are allowed to breed, the average IQ of the next generation of Americans will plummet to double digits. Oh, wait - you guys are already there... Sorry I said anything.
No US citizens were, or will be, harmed in the making of this blog post. Thebutlersaw recongizes that several Americans have IQs above double digits, some of Thebutlersaw's favourite people are American. It's really just this dude. But seeing as he is so easily offended - I would like him to know what it means when people REALLY hate you. Because let's face it - a VC group is not the Women's Institute, nor is it a pathologically pc feminist forum where you can't use words like tards, because real tards can be offended (Actually, I think it is worse to get offended for differently mentally abled people when you hear the word tard - that only means that YOU think of them as tards. I don't) - it is a group of people getting together to play at killing other people. If that is your idea of a good evening, then shut your FUCKING mouth about other people's (not even) language.
Did I mention that you suck?
Whistahs! Today Supahfreak will talk to you about high strung women, and the men that love to feel superior to them.
The world is full of gorgeous, fucked up, honky ladies – the F.I.N.E women: Fucked up, INsecure, Emotional - and men just love to rescue them. But when they are well and truly rescued, then these self professed knights wanna get down from they white steeds, and the drop dead gorgeous ladies are dropped like yesternight’s phone numbers.
If you ain’t man to take care of a warm blood, then maybe you should stick with the ponies. And not just cos Supahfreak herself is a pony, albeit not a one-trick one – there are a hundred tricks up this fetlock - but because Supahfreak knows, and loves, a bunch of them warm bloods and she be jus enough fed up with these self styled heroes who swoop in, tell my sistahs that everything will be fine, cos they daddy be here, and then leave them in tatters the moment the girls start showing signs of trust “because she be jus to high strung”. Damn right she be high strung by now. Three or four dipshits like you, muthafuckah and anyone would be high fucking strung.
See the problem here is that these girls are hawt. And I don’t mean “you my sistah, so I call you hawt even though you look like a hamster with food poisoning”-hawt. I mean true blue, patriarchy approved™, page three-material hawt.
Take my girl, Pearl-Jolee. She be all that, and then sum. She be 5ft8”, blonde and done made some modelling. Real shit too, not the n00dies for sum shit photographer who’ll snap anyone who’s willing to show some titty, but runway shit, fashion modelling and all that.
Unluckiest bitch in love I ever saw.
Men think they wanna take care of her, but that only last until they need someone theyselves – and then they never, ever give her the chance to step up to the mutherfucking plate! They just go – “I ain’t gonna tell Pearl-Jolee my shit be bad, cos she so goddamn fragile…” and then one day they just up and go, telling her she ain’t shit cos she ain’t a pony. Well first of all, they fucking knew that she ain’t a pony when they came to the stable, and second of all, the bitch ain’t psychic! You want her to return the favour, you best tell her, cos she ain’t reading your mind and you ain’t telling her what you need, so what the fuck is she supposed to do?
Now Pearl-Jolee done been left again, and this time we all believed the knight in question had the staying power, but when his shit got bad – he didn’t tell her what he needed, and then upped sticks and left, cussing her out for not giving those secret needs to him.
See, these guys, they know they ain’t warm blood material. They be mules looking fo some pedigree ass, and they think the way to get it and keep it is to keep the hawt women down, feeling bad about theyselves. Now, the hawt women may not feel much sistahood fo Supahfreak and the other ponies out there, but Supahfreak damn right feel fo the F.I.N.E sisters out there and the shit they go through.
So Supahfreak sez – you want a warm blood you show you have staying power. You gotta have paper or patience or preferably both. You want high strung, you better be able to handle high strung. You want support and every day life – stick with the ponies, or get yourself another ass.
Because Supahfreak sez: “A F.I.N.E woman is for life, and not just for your school reunion”
A dear lady whose creed is based upon true greed
Call her a fraudster, she won’t even frown
Says Syliva Brown
Don’t say that she is un-mystical
Call rather her misses statistical
When a guess won’t hit home, who cares if it is sound?
That’s not my department
Says Sylvia Brown
Some have harsh words for this woman’s renown
But some say our attitude should be one of gratitude
Like the widows and cripples, whose money lie around
Can get rid of their pensions to Syliva Brown
You too may be a big hero
If all you need is a hit count of zero
“Drowned or alive who cares how they are found?
- I knew they existed!”
Says Sylvia Brown.
(Any similarity to Tom Lehrer’s ‘Werner von Braun’ is completely intentional)
Today the induction schedule and policy packs arrived with Saturday post (still a weird thing to me since Sweden hasn't had Saturday post since the seventies). It is still a matter of weird science fiction to me that this is actually happening and that as of Wednesday I will no longer be an IBMer, by Friday, I will be installed in the new flat, and by the following Monday I will have started my new job. This is enormous to someone as reluctant to change as me.
I know I have been writing a lot about crapping pants lately, but the fact of the matter is that were it up to my stressed psyche there would be anal seepage all over the place. Fortunately my sphincter disagrees. I am quite tired of spending my life in various degrees of alarm - by the end of January, I plan to be cool as yogurt. I haven't quite figured out how yet, but I will.
So, I'm typing this with trembling fingers, trying to wrap my head around the fact that this scary thing is going ahead whether I am ready or not.
In this issue of The eXile on the web the feature article about the possibly upcoming power struggle in Kremlin combined with a news article on Der Spiegel's website has me reaching for the bog roll and possibly my old What To Do in Case of Global Nuclear Warfare-manual from the eighties.
Those of us who were sentient during the eighties remember actually being scared to the point of pissing our pants about the possibility of some assjack actually dropping the fucking bomb. The young'uns might not understand this, but if i tell you that Ronald Fucking Reagan was almost as mad as Mad GW Bush-Whacko, and that the then Soviet Union was led by some seriously disturbed people and that they both sat on enough A-bombs to blow us to kingdom come forty times over, then maybe you can get a feel for the thing. This was reality to us - our schools told us that if someone dropped The Bomb our teacher would get a call and we should all drop under our desks and wait for death. Worse than being close to ground zero would be to survive and have to scrabble for contaminated food in a nuclear winter. We were seriously scared of nuclear power and The Bomb.
When Tjernobyl went off I was twelve, and for about a week I seriously believed that this was it. I lived in a part of the northern east coast of Sweden which was hit pretty badly by the stuff, and for quite some time all you ever heard were Bequerels, Cesium and natural background radiation. When the shit hit the fan we were at my extended family's farm further north - another part that was hit rather badly. We were there to help bring the cows out for spring grazing and to celebrate Walpurgis with the family. It had been a snowy winter and the spring warmth came suddenly causing all the snow to melt at once. The cows had to be moved from their grazing ground, because they were in a slope where floods of snow-water made the ground muddy and slippery and every hand was needed.
I remember standing - most likely not contributing much - in the almost wellington high flood, watching the water - clear like crystal, perfectly clean and sparklingly tempting - knowing it to be contaminated. Thinking that you would have been better off drinking muddy water from a puddle two days earlier, than this Evianesque stuff. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the lead cow's bell clanked atonally and reassuringly. My father's cousin in his silent, northern farmer, practical way, milked the cows dutifully, and then just as dutifully sent the milk off to be destroyed since the cows had grazed during the time it took for the melt down to be acknowledged and reported. He milked them by hand so as not to contaminate the milking machines - no one knew how these things worked and took whatever precautions they could think of. Government advice was to "avoid eating fruits and berries from the area" - in April, at least three months from the first wild strawberries - and "not to eat reindeer, deer or elk" from the area - in April, at least six months from the hunting season and reindeer slaughter. Any reindeer, venison, elk, mutton, beef or pork in people's freezers were sure to be from last season. We got advice what not to do in six months - we wanted to know what to do now.
I had that kind of philosophical "We're fucked, but there's nothing I can do about it" feeling that you may have upon sitting yourself down in the dentist's chair, or as the worlds largest roller coaster reaches the apex of the first dive just as you remember you fucking hate those things. I also found some time to worry about the kids in the Tjernobyl area. At first Tjernobyl was just a name. A place on Mars where bequerels and cesium came from. When i realized it was someone's home I just lost my ability to breathe for a second - I think my heart stopped for a nano-second in sympathy.
The days moved on, summer progressed and once again I found myself standing in the perfect nature around my home. It is one of those ironies of life that 1986 was a fantastic year for fruit and berries. I stood there, watching the enormous glistening blueberries, the apple tree in our back yard which was so heavy with fruit for once, that my father had to prop the branches up with poles to keep them from breaking. The plum tree had more fruit than leaves and the gooseberry bush looked like an old lady getting a tight perm and the ground between the conifers were golden with cantharellus. All of this was off limits, not to be touched. Tschandala. We were walking dead, just waiting for the cancer to pop up. When both my maternal grand mother and my paternal grandfather died of cancer of the liver and cancer of the stomach a couple of years later within less than a year of each other it was treated as a matter of course. Kids disappeared from school and came back a year later with no hair or eyebrows - these things do happen all the time, people do get cancer, old people are less likely to survive it, kids do get leukemia, but to us they were portentions of the cancerous death that awaited us all. I think I was well above twenty when I realized that I was probably not going to die in horrible pain any time soon. And in fact, statistically our county was not harder hit by cancer than the national average.
Maybe this can provide some back ground why someone like me, born in the seventies, is scared shitless at the idea of a nation with a flotilla of nuclear weapons, who is looking forward to a power struggle between Russian siloviki (the russian idea of strong politician being a murdering bastard) is being insulted by another nation lead by probably the biggest murdering bastard of our time.
You must understand something: Russia is a nationalist country with vast national pride. It is not prone to taking national insults, slights and threats in its stride. Putin is, to be honest, a murdering bastard with heaps of human rights violations under his belt - but so is Dubya, his crimes just haven't been officially admitted yet. But, what Putin also is, is a stabilizing factor in Russian politics - when he leaves, Russia will be open to any number of even madder men (in Russia, it is always men). Meanwhile, Putin compares the US placement of Short- and Middle Distance Robots in The Czech Republic and Poland to the Cuban Missile Crisis in the sixties. All this tension could have been alleviated when the US invited Russian observers, but actually turned up a notch as the Czech Republic refused Russian observers on Czech ground.
According to Der Spiegel, Putin is not too pleased, and in fact made several references to the Cuban Missile Crisis but added that the EU-Russia talks had been good, adding that it is natural to have a few tiffs. As a Swedish person, I of course do not think that it is natural to have a few tiffs - our lot believes in consensus, or at least in not raising your voices when you disagree. If Putin cries Cuba, I at least shit myself accordingly.
Another thing that bugs me is that English, American and Swedish newspapers are giving stories like these a miss. USA has no interest in anything but Iraq - at the moment mainly the Kurd-Turkish problem, UK papers are too busy blaming the immigrants for everything from global warming to the rising price of chips and Swedish papers are apparently unable to come up with anything of their own, so they just repeat whatever UK papers say about Iraq and throw in a few hundred articles about Swedish Idol contestants to fill it out. Being able to read German is almost necessary to hear about anything else - fortunately Spiegel offers English services as well these days.
But this whole - let's insult these mad, proud Russians and place nuclear warheads at their doorstep while blowing raspberries at them behind the Americans' backs... yeah.
"Permission to soil underwear violently, sir?"
Back from Wales. First two nights spent in Hawarden, at St Deiniol's - Gladstone's old library. Possibly the best B&B in Britain. The food was honest British grub such as Cottage Pie or Sunday Steak with classics for pudding, like Spotted Dick and Bread and Butter Pudding, which were all a first for me. It was strangely enjoyable in a Public School kind of way. The food was eaten in the beautiful dining room, with long tables. We were the only "touristy" guests, whereas a bunch of the others where there for the library, which is mainly theological. After dinner (or as the case were, the full English Cooked Breakfast that was served during weekends) you could withdraw to the Common Room for coffee or tea from the buffet and enjoy one of the communal jigsaw puzzles, the collection of lighter reading (any non theological books) or the chess board.
The rooms were pretty enough, and in classic B&B style the loo and bath were communal, which wasn't as much of an inconvenience as I expected, since we had a room furthest down a corridor and most people went to the more central bathrooms, leaving the ones at the end of the corridor more or less to us.
The best bit was the library though. One of the most extensive theological collections in Britain - which didn't fuss me that much - and a collection of donated literature, both factual and fictual, which was available for loan to your room. I read Cold Comfort Farm, which I had previously only seen as a very enjoyable film with adorable Kate Beckinsale.
With Hawarden as our base camp, we met up with Mother in Law2's aunt in Mold and with her as our guide we saw Llangollen, The Horse Shoe Pass and Snowdon.
Auntie B was the kind of little old English Lady that authors think they make up, but that actually exist. She was one of the most amazing people I have ever met. Sweet, kind, indestructible and more up to date with current events than I can boast of being. Cardigan, plaid skirt and bobbed hair, the whole shebang, and a personality that would make anyone just fall in love with her. She had stories from being evacuated during the war that had us in stitches - you kept wanting to hug her and never let her go. If only you could adopt aunties!
After Hawarden, Mold and Auntie B - whom I didn't want to leave at all - it was off back to England. After a lunch stop at a brilliant mountain Inn, that turned out to be the in-official watering hole of the Mountain Rescue, where I had the best Plowman's Lunch ever (I still have wet dreams about the selection of cheeses) we persisted to Chester, where we stayed in the elegedly ghost ridden The Pied Bull. No ghosts - not that I expected any, official skeptic as I am - but half of hour company could boast four poster bed. That half wasn't us, but en suite at least gave the opportunity for a well earned shower.
We decided to go directly home - with a few stops for touristing on the way - so as not to impose on our impromptu cat sitter too long. The original cat sitter got very ill just before we left, but darling E stepped up to the plate and even managed to give our little mess her medicines, which we really didn't feel we could ask from someone who volunteered in the last minute, but which E none the less managed to negotiate down the feline gullet with guile and liver paté.
As I was trying to read the map in What to See in the Lake District I stumbled upon what must be the absolute must see of the Lake District - the Pencil Museum of Keswick. I immediately realized that this was something that must be seen. It's just one of those things that are too nerdy not to do when you have the chance. You have to do it, so you can say you've done it - like reading the phone book on a Saturday night. Geek points, dontcha know?
One does not simply silly walk into Mordor, but it works quite well at the Pencil Museum. Apparently Keswick was once the proud producer of almost all the pencils in Europe, due to the rich findings of graphite in the surrounding mountains. Up until some ingenious soul decided to mine and sell the stuff, it was mainly used for marking sheep, but during the 16th century the pencil was born making the area rich as hell. Apparently the Michaelangelo school of art held its lessons with Keswick Pencils. Soon graphite became so expensive, a black market was born: highwaymen would rob the mine wagons, and Dutch merchant would smuggle the graphite out of Britain on donkey-back. - but it was not for artistic reasons that the Black Gold of Cumbria became such a black market item, it was because the graphite was mighty useful for fashioning canon ball molds, and rustproofing various weapons. So it was not long before the state intervened, and red coats were sent to Cumbria to guard the mines. Soon all the graphite became government property and no pencils were made, only canon balls. This in turn resulted in French ingenuity to come up with an alloy of low grade graphite and clay which serviced as pencils as well, and when the war was over, no one wanted real graphite pencils anymore, since the new kind was cheaper. Keswick dwindled into a market town - these days a tourist town that functions as base camp for hikers and cyclists - of a bit more than 4000 inhabitants - the town hall and tourist centre is accurately named Moot Hall. Pencils are still manufactured by Derwent Enterprises (named after the nearby Derwent Water) but these days the main product is artistic coloured pencils that aren't graphite at all.
The two funniest parts of the tour was the bit of trivia that imparted that the Americans spent tens of thousands of dollars trying to construct a pen that could write in space, whereas the Soviet Kosmonauts simply brought pencils. The other was the "Worlds Longest Pencil" which was A: not a pencil, but a yellow crayon pencil and B: not actually that either since it was a sculpture of a pencil. You could clearly see where the yellow "writey" bit had been inexpertly glued to the not even wooden pencil - not quite fitting. I laughed quite a bit at that.
We then had the inlaws here for two days, using yesterday for an outing and short hike at Cornalee's Bridge, with coffee and sandwiches, followed by a turn to Largs, where we split up for shopping and a visit to the VikingR! exhibition. Unfortunately you can't just see the exhibition, you have to follow a tour, and some of us found ice cream and shopping more alluring when faced with having to catch a tour time.
E was worried that she had only been able to check the cat once a day and that getting her medicine only once a day was taking it's toll on her - but we were met by a fluffy and contented cat, who none the less gave us a good telling off for being away for so long. She has been glued to us for the last two days, and complains to the other when one of us leaves for the shop or a walksie.
It's off to Wales for a bit of R&R. Via the Lake District. I haven't seen much of England or Wales, despite being a UK resident for three years now. (I didn't steal any jobs you could do yourselves - unless you speak fluent Swedish or Dutch, in which case you don't have any problems getting employed anyway, so don't be giving me the evils)
Nigel's family lands on Prestwick in a few hours and we'll meet them there and pick up the rental (if you slip on that word, it's renal, which is quite funny in a gross kind of way), and off we'll go.
Nigel has _two_ "mums", his mum and his dad's new wife - both of which get along swimmingly, so I actually have two mothers in law. Fortunately, they are nice people and I shouldn't be too damaged from spending a week with them.
I handed in my resignation today. I am still too stressed over everything that needs to be done before I and Nigel are both settled in Kent to feel the elation, but I _am_ glad to be rid of this place. It's just that I am one of nature's worriers (as opposed to warriors).
I am excited and scared shitless. The new job is a GOOD job, but I am frightened that something will go wrong in the process. I probably won't be able to poo until February next year when the probationary period is over.
But I have to take the chance, because if this _does_ work out, it has the potential to take me exactly where I want to be in two years' time. If this craps out, we can always pick up and do something else, but if it works out I will be on my way to becoming a specialist, and let's face it - with my social ineptitude, I NEED to be a specialist.
Carry on up the Pantheon is the opening paragraphs to yet another fanfic, written to a nonexisting book. It is more of a fanfic to a particular author's style, rather than an existing story.
I have read loads of chicklit, despite the fact that it makes me gag. I read them, because I hope to one day understand what makes them tick, so I can write one and get rich. I have more or less given up, because it is hard to write while projectile vomiting. I have, however, written an opening paragraph for an office-centred chick-lit story. Even I couldn't muster any interest in these people. How do they do it? People like Marianne Keyes and other pink, stuffed chocolate lovers? What have they tapped into that makes them sell. I can't see it, so I guess I'll die poor.