Jack: (in the bedroom, going over finances; muttering under his breath) "Shit."
Me: (across the house in the living room; deaf in one ear; yelling over the blaring TV ) "What's wrong?"
Jack: (yelling back) "What?"
Me: (still yelling) "You just said 'Shit.' What's wrong?"
Jack: (re: yelling) "You heard that?!"
Telepathy? A sharklike ability to sense minute electrochemical shifts in emotion from over a mile away? Can't help lovin' that man of mine?
I dunno. You decide.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Jack: (in the bedroom, going over finances; muttering under his breath) "Shit."
Surfing merrily across the Web when I should have been working led me to several Lover of Strife links in places where I know I didn't put them.
Which means people are actually reading this. Yikes.
Back when I only had five loyal Strifemongers, I didn't feel the need to update with any kind of regularity. Whenever I posted, I'd just call them and say, "Hey, did you see what I wrote? Here, let me read it to you..." But now, hell, there could be as many as eleven or twelve of you! And I don't have everyone's contact information.
I'll do what I can to step up the production of funny. In the meantime, if any Houston Pagans reading this could do me a favor and cause a scandal or a scene or something, that would really help out in the way of new and timely subject matter.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
I dropped by ye merry olde Catholic bookstore to pick up some reading material, because I've got cunning, super-secret plans involving the Fellowship of Isis and the 14 Holy Helpers (all will be revealed in time, my pets). I was browsing the merchandise and playing with a little Jesus plaque that totally looked like a Green Man when a woman strode up to the front counter and addressed the saleslady.
Customer: "Hello, I need a St. Joseph statue."
Saleslady: "To sell your house?"
Saleslady: "Right this way!"
This threw me. I'm aware of the old custom of burying St. Joseph statues to sell houses, but I thought it was, like, on the down low. While I ruminated, another customer, this time a pediatric nurse, wandered into the store and glanced around nervously before approaching the counter.
[ed. note: I figured he was a pediatric nurse on account of he was wearing scrubs, but scrubs made out of a cartoony baby animal print.]
Pediatric Nurse: "Um, hi. I need a, uh... a St. Joseph statue."
Saleslady: (with a sly smile): "What for?"
PN: (visibly sweating): "To, um... that is, I... well..."
SL: (slowly, as if to a five-year-old): "To... sell... your... house?"
PN: (eyes averted, completely mortified) "Um... yeah."
The saleslady suddenly dropped beneath the counter, resurfacing with a small St. Joseph figurine and a photocopied, I shit you not, instruction sheet. She went over the details of the ritual I mean novena with the nurse, explaining that he needed to recite the incantation I mean prayer for nine consecutive days.
At this point, I wanted to raise my hand and say, "Excuse me, yes, everyone? That's a spell. You're casting a spell to sell your house. You're practicing witchcraft, do you hear me? Witchcraft!"
But then I decided that agressively bringing this to their attention might possibly be construed as an unwelcome revival of the Protestant Reformation, or at the very least slander. So I kept my mouth shut. Besides, if they ban me from the store, it'll be an absolute bitch trying to find another source for reasonably-priced Black Madonna icons. Those don't just grow on idolatrees, you know.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
There is a school in Salem, Massachusetts called Witchcraft Heights Elementary.
This just may be... wait, wait, let me check... yes, this is the Greatest. Thing. Ever.
If the universe does in fact keep itself in balance, and I went to a private Christian elementary school called All Saints, then it stands to reason that back when he was a kid, an alumnus of Witchcraft Heights waited for his parents to go to bed every night so that he could read his Catechism and the novels of Flannery O'Connor.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
By all accounts, I'm the last blogger on Earth to get around to this topic. That said...
I drug Jack to see Snakes on a Plane last night. He was resistant at first, but I pulled birthday-boy rank on him. Everything I'd heard and read about this particular epic led me to believe it was going to be the epitome of B-rated horror, that it made no effort to take itself seriously and revelled in its own improbabilty. Which, for me, is like finding a secret treasure map to Heaven. I bounded into the theatre, claimed the official best seat in the house, and clapped with delight as soon as the lights went down.
Despite his misgivings, Jack enjoyed the film. I, on the other hand, walked out halfway through. Was it a B-rated horror movie? Sure. As produced and directed by Caligula.
I really don't know how to describe the disgust I felt watching Snakes on a Plane without sounding self-righteous. If anything, let's just say the filmmakers and I share profoundly different perspectives on what is and is not camp entertainment. Schlocky dialogue: funny. Ripping a small dog out of her owner's arms and throwing her across a plane: not funny. Glaring plot loopholes: funny. A man screaming in agony as a panicked mob tramples him to death, driving the heels of their shoes into the side of his head: not funny.
To his credit, Jack left the theatre to come find me after I stormed out, and during the drive home he did his best to disperse my apoplexy, while I did my best not to get off my high horse. We rode in silence for awhile, and then he grinned and said:
"I am sick of all these motherfuckin' Witches on this motherfuckin' Astral Plane."
Okay, that was funny.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Knowing that birthdays make me grumpy and/or pissy, the illustrious Red Delicious sent me the following happygram:
Here’s to you! May your day be filled with peace, understanding, and suggestive artwork. Plus, the various leaders of world religions have gotten together in your honor.
Bacchus (accepting on behalf of Jupiter)
Satan L. Ron Hubbard
Gaea & the Horned God
I like how he thoughtfully replaced Satan with L. Ron Hubbard. It totally plays into my suspicion that little baby Suri is the Scientology Antichrist.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Celestial body 2003 UB313 (a.k.a. "Xena") was officially named Eris after the Greek Goddess of strife and discord on September 15. According to the International Astronomical Union, the name was chosen to acknowledge all the controversy that resulted from the object's discovery: primarily, the recent demotion of Pluto from planet to dwarf planet.
Whether or not this will have any impact on modern astrological thought remains to be seen, but as far as I'm concerned, Eris is finally getting the recognition She deserves. And you just know the Discordians are shitting themselves right now.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
I haven't been feeling very bloggy lately. The death of the Crocodile Hunter really got to me, far more than I would have expected. I think it's due to the terrible crush I had on him, along with the bitterly ironic nature of his demise. [ed. note to the secular media: Stingrays hardly ever kill people. Please stop writing "news" stories about the dangers of stingray excursions. Oh, and while you're at it, get off the cruise industry's back, for crying out loud.]
The impending doom of my birthday is creeping up on me as well, an annual angst gala currently poking holes in my normally chipper, sarcastic facade. Perhaps to take my mind off of it, I'll do some research and see if I can determine Steve Irwin's religion, then drop by an affiliated church and light some candles for him. Honoring the dead strikes me as a handy way to drain away the self-centered, nihilistic navel-gazing in which I'm currently wallowing. Or at least put a few things in perspective.
Speaking of perspectives, my personal perception of reincarnation is spherical rather than linear. As such, I sincerely hope Irwin comes back as a crocodile in ancient Egypt.
Friday, September 01, 2006
My minivan passed away last night, after a long struggle with her alternator and power steering. She was 12.
In lieu of flowers, donations may be sent directly to me: preferably in the form of something sporty with 4-wheel drive. Decent gas mileage would make for a nice change, too.