Well, as you are a faithful reader and know what the hell is going on around here (unlike your devoted chronicler), you are aware that The Bunny and I are getting hitched all official-like. To all the men out there, read on:
PROPOSING IS A REALLY, REALLY BAD IDEA! Don't do it. Ever.
Here's why - Your current bedbunny is a sane, rational woman, right? Cool, composed, not given to flights of wacky hysterics about the minutia of candles? HA! slap the groovy wedding-vibe on her and madness follows.
You ask for proof? Well, results may vary, but I do have a couple examples:
Before proposal:
A longtime favorite discussion around the 'ole Bomars hearth was on the nature of what constitutes Art. As in - Kant vs Tolstoy Vs Kierkegaard in a to-the-death cage-match.
After proposal:
"What do you think we should do with the leftover place mats from the reception?"
or the current favorite:
"Did you know <insert insufferably boring factoid about the wedding dress industry> and if I buy my dress online <I usually faint with ennui here>"
OR
BP:
The Bunny: "Who should we invite to <insert event here>?"
Your hero: "I dunno, people?"
The Bunny: "Yeah, people are good."
AP:
The Bunny: "Who should we invite to the wedding?"
Your hero: "I dunno, people?"
The Bunny: <hateful stare>
From these two examples, we can deduce that men and women do not have the same sense of importance or urgency regarding nuptials.
I, for one, would like no better than to have people show up with cash in hand and party until every last person we have ever met passes out. Somewhere during the party (to be determined by the mood of the festivities) an ordained-type person shouts incomprehensible gibberish about the solemnity of the event, passes out, regains consciousness, makes us lob rings at each other, passes out again and is carried off stage. DONE. see? simplicity itself. I planned that whole thing in like thirty seconds.
The Bunny's plan involves florists, the most economically parasitic trade known to man, They are even more evil than the IRS. It gets even worse from there. (Wait, maybe I'm wrong. maybe it wasn't florists...it could have been flautists. Seriously, though...why the hell would we need flautists? Women are a mystery.) (Also, as a side note, I need to get my hearing checked.)
O, Brother - take heed, as well, of the following dire warning:
AT NO TIME, FOR NO REASON, EVER GIVE A WHIMSICAL SUGGESTION TO THE PROSPECTIVE BRIDE ABOUT ANYTHING AT ALL, lest your silly idea be taken as a demand.
Me, a long, long time ago: "I wanna get married in a cathedral " (Seriously, it'd be awesome. The Wedding March played on a pipe organ, a choir singing Vivaldi's Magnificat, knights in armor....Hell yeah)
The Bunny: <dialing the local Archdiocese last week> I don't know if we can afford it; but if I can get someone to buy a kidney...
Me: "WTF? I'm not even Catholic! Wait....How much you think we can get for a kidney, though? I've got like...two or something."
The Bunny: <hateful stare>
Oh, and my personal fave - every woman she has ever met, even briefly, like on the bus or something, will come out of the woodwork offering "help". And by "help" I mean a carefully coordinated campaign of misinformation and anti-male propaganda.
Some chick The Bunny met at summer camp in 1987: "Heard you were getting married! Just emailing you to see if you wanted to use my antique rose curling press you will totally need one!!! Also, your fiancée has called in a hit on a puppy, is cheating on you with a nearsighted marmoset, and may be a communist."
Some other chick The Bunny knew from college: "Hooray! Men can't be trusted with even the smallest task! Did you know that a mere SIX MONTHS before our wedding, my husband suggested that we go out rollerskating? ROLLERSKATING!!!!! He obviously has no notion! Also, during the rehearsal dinner, he ate CHICKEN!?!?! Also, you should purchase this orbital sander so your shoes won't wamble."
And so on.
Hold the phone, I just realized something. Is this how women feel when it's mentioned, briefly, that they would like a new computer/car/tool and their guy offers sound, reasonable advice? Except all crazy? something to think about....
More later.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Religion, Obama, Preist, The Eagle,Germans, and Reeducation.
For me, O Oblate Reader, movies are like a religion. I truly believe in the whole experience. Some time ago, in my old blog, I made rather cool simile comparing going to the movies like going to Catholic mass in some old-world cathedral. It still holds true for me.
A couple of days ago I watched a couple movies
The Eagle:
Some of you may know that I am a Roman history buff. Love me some Rome. This movie passed the "Pete's a pedantic ass" test with flying colors! I know there were some inaccuracies; but because I know next to nothing about Celtic history, I had to let 'em slide. (NO one knows much about Celtic history. Anyone that says different is lying, selling you something, or one of those daffy new age hippy bastards) For instance, the Scottish actors were speaking Lowland Scots (naturally) not the completely extinct and almost completely unknown Pictish. (seriously, we have a couple of hotly debated Ogham inscriptions and some place names like "Inverness", that's it)
The movie in and of itself was enjoyable if a little shallow. The Director, Kevin MacDonald, has almost completely worked in documentaries, so you would think that the guy could find SOMETHING to get real deep about. But no, it's a pretty staid attempt at a two-guys-from-completely-different-worlds-work-together-toward-a-nigh-impossible-goal-and-find-common-ground-and-mutual-respect thing. But like I've said earlier, sometimes it's not "new" that is important, it's what you bring to the table in terms of honesty and artistry. MacDonald brings both, with one small, tiny objection from me: I love Terrence Malik, the crazy fuck. EVERYONE loves Malik. We know YOU love Malik, so there is no reason to cling to him like an insecure high-school girl in a Denny's. Giving Malik a nod, a quick smootch even, is completely OK. But to try and copy his style is not. You are a very pretty, smart girl, Kevin, and need to focus on how YOU are special, not how Terence makes you feel special.
Wait. Shit. I got my similes, allusions, and reality all twisted. MacDonald is not a high-school girl, as far as I know. OK. we cool?
I also saw Priest. Meh. As a movie, I see why it bombed in the theaters. This is a movie for stealing, not paying money.
HOWEVER you can't if you have any Sony products as your main media player. Sony decided that "free market" capitalism is awesome when there is no competition and it doesn't have to listen to the market in any way, shape, or form. They set up the Priest DVDs and BluRays with a horrible new form of anti-piracy malarkey that doesn't work if you have any computer skills at all. (So I am told by someone that I met once and found to be untrustworthy.)( HEIL, DMCA! Aktiengeschellschaften über Alles! [und so weiter]) This new form of copy protection checks against a database to see if you have the right to watch the movie. If not, it turns the sound off. Here's something to think about, there is no guarantee that this movie will work if you rent it. Think about it - even if you have the DVD from Netflix (those chiseling bastards) if there are too many entries on the DB, or your player isn't connected to the internet, you can't watch it....
I won't go into it too much further, as that would be illegal.
The only way to avoid knowing any more about it is to watch this movie on anything that is not Sony. This advice is legal, here's why:
This lame attempt at security is so easy to circumvent that even seeing it in action immediately alerts any reasonably intelligent person exactly how to circumvent it. Therefore, in an heroic act of cogitation, I came to the flawless conclusion that to save my brethren and sistren the karmic debt of breaking the law, I will simply not allow them to be exposed to the potential situation in any way! Not only am I a legal genius, I am a fucking bodhisattva.
Yeah, Priest. Paul Bettany, And the clenchy guy from the Return of the King and "Bones" in the new JJ Abrams Star Trek movie. What's his name. (Bunny says that he can muster HER Rohirim anytime...the floozy) It has one redeeming feature: If you want to have something on that is loud while snogging on the couch so the roommates can't hear you...there you go. AND ANOTHER reason to make double sure not to watch it on Sony products.
Which brings me to my main point. The Bunny.
Recently, I have been enrolled in her Reeducation Camp for Wayward Spendthrifts, enjoying languorous sessions of electroshock therapy and Assertive Exfoliation Therapy (your bits gets scrubbed with barbed wire. But my skin IS smooth now) all while listening to Her Bunnyness' lectures on the "Five-Fold Path to Home Ownership" and "Up the Bourgeoisie, Down with Renters" blasting from the tannoys. I came up with a BRILLIANT plan. The subtleties of which seem to be lost on her.
My plan is in two parts, it allows for personal recreation and ads valuable income to our coffers.
You ready?
Fuck Bitches, Make Money.
BRILLIANT. Needless to say, Bunny was not impressed.
Boredom encroaches. More next time.
A couple of days ago I watched a couple movies
The Eagle:
The movie in and of itself was enjoyable if a little shallow. The Director, Kevin MacDonald, has almost completely worked in documentaries, so you would think that the guy could find SOMETHING to get real deep about. But no, it's a pretty staid attempt at a two-guys-from-completely-different-worlds-work-together-toward-a-nigh-impossible-goal-and-find-common-ground-and-mutual-respect thing. But like I've said earlier, sometimes it's not "new" that is important, it's what you bring to the table in terms of honesty and artistry. MacDonald brings both, with one small, tiny objection from me: I love Terrence Malik, the crazy fuck. EVERYONE loves Malik. We know YOU love Malik, so there is no reason to cling to him like an insecure high-school girl in a Denny's. Giving Malik a nod, a quick smootch even, is completely OK. But to try and copy his style is not. You are a very pretty, smart girl, Kevin, and need to focus on how YOU are special, not how Terence makes you feel special.
Wait. Shit. I got my similes, allusions, and reality all twisted. MacDonald is not a high-school girl, as far as I know. OK. we cool?
I also saw Priest. Meh. As a movie, I see why it bombed in the theaters. This is a movie for stealing, not paying money.
HOWEVER you can't if you have any Sony products as your main media player. Sony decided that "free market" capitalism is awesome when there is no competition and it doesn't have to listen to the market in any way, shape, or form. They set up the Priest DVDs and BluRays with a horrible new form of anti-piracy malarkey that doesn't work if you have any computer skills at all. (So I am told by someone that I met once and found to be untrustworthy.)( HEIL, DMCA! Aktiengeschellschaften über Alles! [und so weiter]) This new form of copy protection checks against a database to see if you have the right to watch the movie. If not, it turns the sound off. Here's something to think about, there is no guarantee that this movie will work if you rent it. Think about it - even if you have the DVD from Netflix (those chiseling bastards) if there are too many entries on the DB, or your player isn't connected to the internet, you can't watch it....
I won't go into it too much further, as that would be illegal.
The only way to avoid knowing any more about it is to watch this movie on anything that is not Sony. This advice is legal, here's why:
This lame attempt at security is so easy to circumvent that even seeing it in action immediately alerts any reasonably intelligent person exactly how to circumvent it. Therefore, in an heroic act of cogitation, I came to the flawless conclusion that to save my brethren and sistren the karmic debt of breaking the law, I will simply not allow them to be exposed to the potential situation in any way! Not only am I a legal genius, I am a fucking bodhisattva.
Yeah, Priest. Paul Bettany, And the clenchy guy from the Return of the King and "Bones" in the new JJ Abrams Star Trek movie. What's his name. (Bunny says that he can muster HER Rohirim anytime...the floozy) It has one redeeming feature: If you want to have something on that is loud while snogging on the couch so the roommates can't hear you...there you go. AND ANOTHER reason to make double sure not to watch it on Sony products.
Which brings me to my main point. The Bunny.
Recently, I have been enrolled in her Reeducation Camp for Wayward Spendthrifts, enjoying languorous sessions of electroshock therapy and Assertive Exfoliation Therapy (your bits gets scrubbed with barbed wire. But my skin IS smooth now) all while listening to Her Bunnyness' lectures on the "Five-Fold Path to Home Ownership" and "Up the Bourgeoisie, Down with Renters" blasting from the tannoys. I came up with a BRILLIANT plan. The subtleties of which seem to be lost on her.
My plan is in two parts, it allows for personal recreation and ads valuable income to our coffers.
You ready?
Fuck Bitches, Make Money.
BRILLIANT. Needless to say, Bunny was not impressed.
Boredom encroaches. More next time.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
The Nature of Humor, Civilization, Egyptian Mythology, and the Blues.
Umm.....ok...so that happened. Would anyone care, learn from, or understand the reference? no? crap.
It appears that writing humor while relatively content is difficult. Almost all of the great thinkers agree with the paraphrased, usually misquoted, almost always taken out of context premise in Plato's Philebus, we see that humor comes from the
Therefore, armed with that knowledge, we see that self-deprecation or "relational" humor, when one is content, is forced into stilted falseness or impossible.
Or is it?
</ self important extemporization>
So let's discuss being "civilized" by a significant other; specifically a female other
As many of you may know, I used to write silly crap about the early part of my relationship with my honey, Kat. I used to go and drink heroic amounts of alcohol and hilarious hijinks would ensue. Now, I have almost zero alcohol tolerance, I don't go out much, and I know what "financial planning" actually means. (I used to think it meant "I have money; I will spend it on booze, cars, and women of negotiable affection. I have a plan". Turns out it means "I am broke-ish. I will sock all my money away and pay bills for some reason I haven't quite figured out yet. Because she said so"). She has "A Plan". It totally deserves capital letters and is most certainly on a need-to-know basis. I don't need to know (That seems to be rule #1 of "The Plan")
I think that "The Plan" falls upon my honey like revelations on Joseph Smith. Also, I think his magic hat is involved, because I can't find my favorite baseball caps. For instance, "The Plan" now involves me selling my precious Star Wars Lego collection to pay for something, someday. (I don't ask.) Due to our current living situation, my Legos are in boxes all jumbled up, so at least I get to put them together one last time, while I mutter something out of a Faulkner novel:
Shhh, Star Destroyer, shhh...tell me about the bunnies....the... <sob>... bunnies. <snap another piece into place>
Another part of "The Plan" involves, and this is the tricky part, NOT buying more Legos. You see the conditions under which I subsist? tragic.
Also, I have had drilled into my skull that I will not be allowed to buy the things I need to enjoy eternity. (An important piece of background information about me is that I am a devout member of the Reformed Church of Egypt; and when I die, I will take my funeral goods with me) So she is actively dooming me to an eternity of pillow shams, Pier 1 Imports soap holders and cat scratching posts.
O Reader, as you can see, your hero in this missive suffers in the gentle fetters of love.
que sera sera.
So watch this space for a delta-blues inspired wailing an gnashing of teeth, next time on Fiascos, Travesties, and Faux Pas.
It appears that writing humor while relatively content is difficult. Almost all of the great thinkers agree with the paraphrased, usually misquoted, almost always taken out of context premise in Plato's Philebus, we see that humor comes from the
...mixture of pleasure and pain that lies in the malice of amusement.
Therefore, armed with that knowledge, we see that self-deprecation or "relational" humor, when one is content, is forced into stilted falseness or impossible.
Or is it?
</ self important extemporization>
So let's discuss being "civilized" by a significant other; specifically a female other
As many of you may know, I used to write silly crap about the early part of my relationship with my honey, Kat. I used to go and drink heroic amounts of alcohol and hilarious hijinks would ensue. Now, I have almost zero alcohol tolerance, I don't go out much, and I know what "financial planning" actually means. (I used to think it meant "I have money; I will spend it on booze, cars, and women of negotiable affection. I have a plan". Turns out it means "I am broke-ish. I will sock all my money away and pay bills for some reason I haven't quite figured out yet. Because she said so"). She has "A Plan". It totally deserves capital letters and is most certainly on a need-to-know basis. I don't need to know (That seems to be rule #1 of "The Plan")
I think that "The Plan" falls upon my honey like revelations on Joseph Smith. Also, I think his magic hat is involved, because I can't find my favorite baseball caps. For instance, "The Plan" now involves me selling my precious Star Wars Lego collection to pay for something, someday. (I don't ask.) Due to our current living situation, my Legos are in boxes all jumbled up, so at least I get to put them together one last time, while I mutter something out of a Faulkner novel:
Shhh, Star Destroyer, shhh...tell me about the bunnies....the... <sob>... bunnies. <snap another piece into place>
Another part of "The Plan" involves, and this is the tricky part, NOT buying more Legos. You see the conditions under which I subsist? tragic.
Also, I have had drilled into my skull that I will not be allowed to buy the things I need to enjoy eternity. (An important piece of background information about me is that I am a devout member of the Reformed Church of Egypt; and when I die, I will take my funeral goods with me) So she is actively dooming me to an eternity of pillow shams, Pier 1 Imports soap holders and cat scratching posts.
O Reader, as you can see, your hero in this missive suffers in the gentle fetters of love.
que sera sera.
So watch this space for a delta-blues inspired wailing an gnashing of teeth, next time on Fiascos, Travesties, and Faux Pas.
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