"I'll judge you all and make damn sure that no one judges me."
"I'll judge you all and make damn sure that no one judges me."
I Start Fires! |
2002-06-13
Piggy's specs were nicked at: 9:54 p.m.
A friend of mine left Elfwood, and I am sad. He was one of the oldest users of the Wyvern's Library and he left for obvious reasons. My "moderator ticket" has been in the que for about two weeks now. The little blot of semen on the other end of it will probably decide there's a bad word and send me to the back. Before you all write me off as a senseless complainer, heed this. One of my stories was once rejected because of the word "splatter." The sentence had to do with a character falling off a roof and "splattering all over the ground." That day, I learned that "splatter" is apparently a sexual term for ... a blot of semen. Send me to cliche hell, but, um, isn't a cigar sometimes just a cigar? This reminds me of Neopets forbidding me name my pet "General Woundwort" because it was a "dirty word." Not just one dirty word, you communists. Two dirty words. I'm going to teach my kids to go up to their teachers' faces and scream "GENERAL WOUNDWORT!" If I lived my life as a meek little mouse, by God, my chillun are living my failed dreams through me! KUP OXFORD, SLAYER OF HOCKEY MOMS. By the way, I'm writing more Widerstand. w00! Is it me, or does Wal-Mart suck? And not just because it lumbers into a small town like a beast unsatiable, bellowing for offerings of tiny Mom and Pop stores which it consumes and shits out in a few seconds, destroying what took generations to build. I mean, I can never find anything in them! I want to buy some lightbulbs and I have to hunt through a city-sized fortress with aisles labled by some autistic kid. "Cookies? Oh, those are in aisle 666. Hang a right at the Ice Cream Parlour, go past McDonalds, obtain the Magic Feather from the Children of Yor, slay the Jabberwock, get down on your two knees and pray to your god." And let's say I do get my lightbulbs ... or cookies ... or whatever. I end up waiting in line for ages on the best of days to be served by blue-robed hatchet-faced clerks with mascara smeared on crooked and doused in enough cheap perfume to kill the horse behind the cart. It's not the clerk's fault that she's a figure out of a children's horror story, but isn't Fuck-Mart supposed to be about fast service? If so, I ain't seeing it. The stock staff is the usual assortment of sarcastic "rather be smoking" teenagers who drown you in poisonous glares if you dare ask for help moving a big package. But I stopped blaming the staff for making shopping at Wal-Mart the root canal that it is. I caught a glimpse of a Wal-Mart lunchroom one day. It was a huge, sterile affair with tiny metal cubbyholes, crumby tables, earwig-infested fridges and cheap-ass motivational posters with "ATTITUDE AND TEAMWORK!" slammed in bold type against a silhouetted backdrop of a woman kyaking. We've all been there. But I'll stick to Zellers for now. Less screaming kids.
Beast from Water | Beast from Air |