December 22, 2012

Happy Holidays!

Happy holidays, everyone. Watch out for cacophonous carolers.

December 21, 2012

The Cats

WOW this post is overdue. My bad. But I was motivated to post today since the world is supposedly ending and I wanted to say that I had at least 1 post a month since I started this blog.

Also, for some reason, Blogger believes that this post should be double-spaced. I wasn't included in that decision-making process, nor do I agree with it, but there's nothing I can do about it. 

Anyway, on with it. 

My friends, I have a problem I need to share with you all. It's not all that serious, but it is most certainly impeding. I just need to know if anyone else suffers from this affliction, which I have taken the courtesy of aptly naming "Sicofokencatsitis". 

For those of you with normal brains, that means I see cats fucking everywhere and I can't take it anymore.
Except not usually that cute or well-defined.
I can't explain why it's cats that I see. What I have deduced is that usually, it's just that my brain mistakes everyday objects and uncharacterizable piles of rubbish for cats. And when you think about it, it kinda makes sense. I mean because cats (and other small animals) do bear a great resemblance to lumpy piles.

Anyway, this is especially detrimental when I'm driving, since the roads of Chicago are littered with lumpy piles of stuff and also hobos. But mostly the former. To me, though? All of those lumpy piles are cats. Or absolutely nothing at all. Maybe just the sun reflecting strangely off of a manhole

My car looks nothing like that. This is why I stick to stick-figures.
And around the house, it's even worse. I spend most of the day trying to figure out if things are cats or normal objects. It's terribly debilitating. 

All I want for Christmas is a scanner.
And, because yours truly believes dirty clothes belong on the floor, scattered in various locales, along with having issues with short-term memory, mere seconds after strewing my clothes about rooms like a talentless stripper, I see cats. And then second guess if they are cats or clothes.

The pile of clothes cat gets me every time.
 Please, dear readers, tell me if any of you suffer from this calamitous disease, Sicofokencatsitis. I need a support group. We can call ourselves (I for real typed "ourselfs" first. Damn.) "Sicos Anonymous"... Wait. No, not that. "Cat-seers Anon"... No... Not that either. I'll figure it out and let you know.

November 06, 2012

Well, hi!

Sup dudes.

I'm working on TWO new posts. At the same time! If you thought I was on a roll last month (which, come on, I was), wait until you see what this month has in store.

Here's a preview from one of those upcoming posts:

10 points to whoever guesses the theme.
Anyway, I just wanted to let you all know what's going on here. Expect some (hopefully) hilarious posts soon. And if you're in the USA, you know what today is. So go do that thing people do on this day, because it's important.

October 31, 2012

Happy Halloween!

Hello. Today's post is in color. But please don't get used to that. It's not gonna happen again. Ever... Probably.

Anyway, Happy Halloween!

We here at Aberrantly Errant (me and the ghosts, that is) really like Halloween a lot.

This year, I was Mugen from the anime Samurai Champloo. Here is a pic to prove it happened.

I told you, my hair, it's a perpetual mess.
And the ghosts dressed up as such:

Aren't they precious?
Which later turned into a murdering spree:

See? Precious. Aww.
The end. Now, if you'll excuse me, I promised the ghosts I'd take them to a seance at the cemetery.

Because Halloween's about honoring the dead, too. With candy!
*Note: I do not own Chris from Family Guy, Sailor Moon from Sailor Moon, or Old West Sheriffs from the Old West.

October 28, 2012

The Look

Out there, in the wild, wild world, there's a look people give that sends me to a very angry place. I've searched in vain for an actual factual picture of someone doing "the look", but alas, it's nowhere to be found. I'm not surprised; no one wants to be caught giving "the look". It's not at all flattering.

"The look" borders on disgust, but it's more than just plain old disgust. There's an element of surprise in it, too, not to mention the ever-so-subtle hint of poorly veiled anger.

So, for the first time ever on my blog, I'm going to post a real-life picture of my face giving the dreaded "the look" (I mean for there to be two thes there). It's the only way. I never wanted to do this, mind you, but for you all, my devoted readers, I've gotta make some sacrifices. This isn't easy for me.


... ...

... ... ...

... ... ... ...

*audible gulp*

Here you go, internet people:

I bear a striking resemblance to the late Bea Arthur, but with a beard.
Notice the awkward curvature of the mouth, which indicates the aforementioned disgust. Then, the eyebrows in the position that normally conveys skeptical surprise. And, of course, the eyes shaped to portray that ever-so-subtle hint of anger. That's "the look".

"When does one give 'the look', though?" you may think.

Well, "the look" comes up often, and most frequently when you've just said something to someone and they cannot believe that you're actually making noise at them. Usually, this is because the person doesn't like you for whatever reason. I usually get "the look" from strangers, and also many of my previous employers.

Here's a comic to show an example. Even though I've started including real photos of myself, I still gotta make comics because that's what my blog's about, you know? Now, to help, I'm gonna include Mrs. Sirmister, last seen in the post "The Trials of Getting a Job".

It's even worse to get "the look" from strangers. For me, it's usually because people are so astounded that this dark-skinned boy speaks such eloquent, unaccented English. 

However, I cannot claim to be an angel here, as I have also given "the look", numerous times. I can't help it. When I hear people say really stupid things, I have to give "the look". Like, the other day, this kid I tutor told me that he thinks The Beatles were a terrible band. I gave the kid "the look" without even thinking twice, voice-crackingly accompanied with an "Oh, really?". But then I had to continue on with the lesson before I quoted The Thnikkaman, which was a milestone in maturity for me because I usually would've quoted The Thnikkaman and subsequently gotten fired. So, yay me. 

I hate drawing stick figures with crossed arms.
To tie things up here, here's a short list of other times you may see "the look":

1. Mugshots.
2. On any "The Real Housewives of Place" show.
3. On any real housewife.
4. On this dog's face.
5. Most newborns.
6. Me, when seeing a picture of a newborn.
7. On Nancy Grace, all the time.

And what of you, dear readers? Do tell of your "the look" giving or receiving experiences.

October 17, 2012

The Animal I Hate the Most

And those mofos would be geese.
I fucking hate geese. Probably more than I hate hashtags and the way people drive when it's raining. Wait... less than I hate the way people drive when it's raining, but definitely more than I hate hashtags.

They live all around my house and cause a general disturbance (salute) of my daily life.

I normally love animals, all of them. And especially birds! Birds are the shit. But geese?! Fuck geese.

I hate their name. I hate the name of their young. I hate their color scheme. I hate their noise. I especially hate their noise at four in the morning when I'm trying to sleep so I can wake up and go to work, but they're right outside my window squorking up a cacophonous storm of pestilence.

I don't even need an alarm anymore.
I hate them when I'm finally awake and driving to work, but they're littered about the road, staring blankly at my car with their stupid faces, undaunted and unmoving and totally unlike any other freaking normal animal that would GTFO in the face of danger.

This happens daily.
"Well if you hate them so much, why don't you just run them over?" you may inquire.

Believe me, I'd love to. But cleaning goose guts off my car is not something I have the time or energy to do. DAILY. Because they, like most birds, live in groups. Ganders, right? Stupid fucking word. All words related to geese are stupid. And they all start with G. Even their shit, which is green. Real cute. Anyway, running one over would mean running, like, eighteen over, which believe me would be doing the world a service, but that is a fuckton of goose to be cleaning. 

The good and kind person inside of me (he's real, don't worry) prevents me from ending their meaningless existences, but next time I get the chance, I'm gonna kick one over like a pink lawn flamingo.

Because they're stupid.
I. Fucking. Hate. Geese.

October 14, 2012

The Strangest Search Keywords

Friends - I thank you for reading my blog. Or at least letting the page load.

I don't know how you all usually get here, but some people have most certainly been led here by mistake. At least three, anyway.

Sorry I'm not sorry.
You see, like any (most?) blog owner(s?), I like to look at my site's stats to see where the traffic is coming from, especially what search keywords people use to get here. It gives me a good idea of how to get more readers. Also I'm nosy. One day, last month, I was doing that exact thing, and saw... this.

This is why I hate humanity.

Now, first of all, none of the above have anything to do with my blog, except the one that is actually my blog's title. Thank you, 1 person. And I kind of understand some of the other ones since I've used pictures or captions that say that exact thing, like "I wish a motherfucker would" and "TGIF motherfuckers", which are actually both from "The 5 Levels of Being Pissed".

But, "not my period again"? And "pic of man with donuts on his cock"? WAT.
The "W" stands for "where".
It's my fault for posting the Drunken Donuts Guy story, as I know that that's the reason this person got routed to my blog. But honestly, who wants to see that? What kind of maligned and atrocious fetish is cock donuts?

And as for the not one, but two ladies (I hope ladies anyway) in dismay about their periods, I don't even know what to say. Get used to it, I guess?

But I'm not complaining. To me, it's just more readers. Well, hopefully. I mean, it makes me feel good inside to think that some confused girls were hoping for period advice and found my blog and ended up having a great day afterwards because of the lols. Lols are good for the soul, you know. And maybe, just maybe, that cock donut fetishist read the Drunken Donuts Guy story and got so incredibly disgusted (as I hope one would) that their fetish disappeared forever. Which makes me feel saintly.

"I sit and wait... does an angeeeel contemplate my faaaaate?"
 Anyway, that's the idealist in me. Most likely, all of those people loaded the page, saw that there was no period advice nor pictures of men with donuts on their cocks and promptly closed the tab to begin their search anew.

*Record scratch*

Well anyway, have a great day folks. And, you know, watch of for periods and strange fetishists. 

October 03, 2012

The BS 6 - The Parade

Damn, somehow I went from blogging bimonthly to just monthly. And it's already October, what the hell? Time, my nemesis, what malice you decree unto my bosom, what ominous shadows of foreboding you bestow upon my eyes! Will you not spare me your wroth? Lo! I beseech you, grant me reprieve of your lies.

Well that's my attempt at esoteric poetry.

Alright. This post is the continuation and culmination of The BS. Open your books to the final chapter of The BS: Chapter 6 - The Parade. Oh my dear sweet Lord, the parade.

I really need a scanner.
I've got to explain something about myself first: I am not a big drinker, at all, so when I drink, it's a riotously embarrassing time. For me, that is. Okay, so enter week 4 of my trip to Brazil. There I am one Saturday afternoon, brooding in my apartment because there is nothing to do in Middleofnowheresville, Brazil, when suddenly I decide "I need my BAC to be at least 0.20, right now". So I went to the store and got a 12 pack of cheap beer and a pizza, which is the most American thing I've ever done, and proceeded to spend my night watching movies and getting hammered. Alone. But don't worry, I made friends soon after.

That's supposed to be Brazil's flag, not a cheeseburger.
Some extra background: I'm from the American Midwest. It's very flat there. Middleofnowheresville, Brazil, on the other hand, is in the mountains. Mountains like Denver-style, not like Nepal or anything. So, not so high up, but for someone who has lived his life in a place that would make Dark Age Christians convinced that the world was irrefutably flat, this is a dramatic difference in altitude.

And what do we know about getting drunk, kids?


Yes! The higher in altitude you are, the quicker you get drunk. And what do we know about yours truly?


Did I hear, "You don't drink often"? Yes! I mean no! No I don't! Before I knew it, it was four in the morning and I was pants-pissingly wasted, stumbling wildly into my bed, which I left two seconds after collapsing into to puke what I thought was all the America beer and pizza my poor stomach could handle.

And that was the last smile I wore for a while.
"Okay," I thought, "I puked so tomorrow I'll be fine", and I passed out. And then I started having a dream about drums and thunder and riots and a parade... until I realized that I wasn't at all dreaming and that, verily, a parade was taking place right outside of my apartment. At 8:00am. My head was splitting and pounding and giving birth to Athena and I could scarcely believe that an actual factual parade was seriously happening at that moment. But it was, oh, how it was. And it was uproarious. Sleep mocked me as it fluttered away from my life. And then I threw up.

And then I threw up again.

And then I threw up a few more times.

And then I drank some water, which I threw up.

Then I brushed my teeth, and then I threw up again, mintily. 

I really got to know the toilet well that day.
I vomited about three times an hour until like five o'clock. I think I puked upwards of 20 times that day, like past the bile-puking point and into the dry-heaving point. Naturally, I was concerned, but I was too exhausted and hungover to care. All I wanted to do was sleep for eternity which was impossible because of the FUCKING PARADE WHICH NEVER SEEMED TO END.

Sometime between waiting for the cessation of Satan's symphony, embracing the toilet, and hating my life in my bed, I thought "I'm gonna see exactly how many beers I drank last night".

I went to the fridge and noticed "Oh that wasn't a 12-pack, it was an 18-pack. Huh. I didn't even know they made those. Oh shit, I should really eat that cheese soon. And let's see... there are... TWO BEERS LEFT?!" And at that moment, I could've sworn that the band crescendoed.

Now, I am not a big guy. For me to drink 16 beers and not die is nothing short of miraculous, regardless of how much greasy pizza I ingested. Clearly, I far surpassed my goal of a BAC of 0.20, that was for sure.

To try and calm my stomach, I thought that I should drink some 7-Up or Sprite or something lemon-limey like that. I went to a little corner store to ask if they had Sprite, which was an ordeal in and of itself. See, in Portuguese, you don't say it "Sprite", you say it "Shpraichee" (it makes more sense than you think), so the cashier had no fucking clue what I wanted or was talking about, with drums and trumpets clamoring in the background all the while, completely severing the means of communication. But finally, between my broken Portuguese and the cashier's patience, I got a Sprite.

She was very nice about it though. I mean, I was obviously the most hungover person she had seen all year.
I threw that up too, by the way. It tasted just as good coming up as it did going down, though, so that was a sort of vile solace.

Anyway, the parade finally ended around 5 or so, and I had stomached a banana smoothie, which served as the treaty that the warring factions in my stomach needed all along. I napped blissfully, then woke up to eat real food, now that my body was open to the idea. My day in hell was over, it seemed, and around 10pm, I laid my weary head down so I could wake up bright and early the next day to try and reach those kids I was teaching. And wouldn't you know it, the moment, literally, the exact moment that my head hit the pillow, there were fireworks. For real. Across the way from my apartment, some people were lighting fireworks. For like an hour.

Now at that point, I was just like "well if you can't beat 'em...", so I got up and snapped some photos of said fireworks. Here's one:

Perhaps in The BS - Reprise, I'll talk about that church you see there.
And then, finally, I slept. And I couldn't so much as think about alcohol again for months.

September 08, 2012

The Yellowjacket, the Horsefly, and the Surprise

I'm blogging on the run today, so none of my drawings will be making an appearance. Instead, I will supplant this post with real pictures of real things.

Err... On the run as in not at home. Not like running from the law. I'm not doing that. I'm just not at home. Right now. Today. ... I'm making everything worse.

Let's start over.

I'm not blogging from home today, so none of my drawings will be making an appearance, etc.

Okay, so, lately strange things keep flying into my car while I'm driving on the highway. This has happened to me twice THRICE in the past two weeks. <- That previous emotionally charged statement is due to the fact that when I started drafting this post, only two things had flown into my car, but as I was driving to where I am now, a THIRD thing flew into my car. It's a ridiculously apocalyptic time for me, my friends.

I'm gonna make a list.

1. The Yellowjacket

For those of you who don't live on the hellish landscape that is the American Midwest, this is the embodiment of horror commonly known as a yellowjacket:
"I'mma sting yo' face and plant eggs in yo' nose" [via]

Now, yellowjackets are not all that harmful, after you put aside the fact that they're predatory wasps and thus can sting you like 8,000 times or until they get bored. Whichever comes first. I, myself, have never been stung by anything, so I have no idea whether or not I'm allergic to bee and wasp stings.

So you can imagine my terror when, as I'm driving down the highway, I look down and notice that there is a tiny little yellowjacket ass abdomen poking out of a fold in my shirt. I was like O.O

There was nowhere to stop on the road, and I didn't know what to do, so I basically held my breath for the next ten minutes until I was able to pull over into a gas station. I needed gas anyway, so two birds and all that. So I unbuckled my seatbelt very, very slowly. It twitched. I twitched. But I had to keep calm, lest I suffer the wrath of 8,000 stings. I opened the door, gingerly, and stepped out all squatted and bow-legged so as to not disrupt the creature's resting state, and then extremely quickly flicked my shirt out and ran back, preparing myself for battle.

Except nothing bad happened. I looked, and there the thing was, writhing on the ground, just dying. I had no idea how or why this happened, and proceeded to assume that it just wanted to die next to a living thing instead of alone. At that point, I felt kinda sorry for it.

"Just... just cuddle with me... while I... die..." [via]

2. The Horsefly

Re: Hellish landscape that is the American Midwest, and enter:

And on the eighth day, God was like "You know what, fuck humans".  [via]

The picture doesn't do it justice, but those bitches are HUGE. The one that flew into my car, again, while I was driving on the highway, was at least two inches long. And also they bite. As per Wikipedia: "Most short tongued species of horse flies use their knife-like mandibles to rip and/or slice flesh apart". Awesome, right? Moreover, they carry a metric fuckton of diseases.

So yes, that guy flies into my car and I'm like "OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT" because unlike the yellowjacket, it wasn't trapped in my shirt, but rather it just flew in on a stray breeze through the window and proceeded to taunt me from the dash, doing that weird-ass hand washing gesture that flies do. So, again, I had to find somewhere to pull over, but the problem was that, at any moment, dude could've decided to fly into my face and bite the shit out of me. Which I was very afraid of. I've been bitten by one of those before, when I was a wee tyke, and it ain't fun.

I did manage to pull over, but even though I got out of the car, Mr. Horsefly did not. This required strategy. I knocked on the windshield from the outside, and it just flew over to the other side of the car. So I knocked on that side. Same thing. So I opened ALL THE DOORS and continued with my knocking strategy until the thing flew out and away and presumably into someone else's car to ruin their day.
Seriously God, why WHY?! [via]



This is Batman's homoerotic sidekick, Robin:

"Put on pants? But... why?" [via]
Just to clear the confusion, that is not the kind of robin that flew into my car. But if he would've, I would've bought him some motherfucking pants because Goddammit Robin, men wear pants.

This, however, is what flew into my car:

Herald of Spring or Harbinger of Doom? You decide. [via]
Now, I was already shaken enough by the two stupid bugs that flew into my car while I was driving on the highway. But then today, this? I'm CONVINCED that I'm gonna die soon or something. Why does this keep happening to me?

There I am, driving, rocking out, getting strange looks from the people around me, but fuck them, don't they sing in their cars? Now this time, I was not on the highway, rather, I was just in town. Then one of the above pictured birds flies into my car, slams into my windshield with a highly audible thunk, falls over on the dash, and then flutters meekly out the other window and continues on with its day, disoriented and all. Meanwhile, my heart is pounding and the people around me who were already not flattered by my one-man-band-car-show are laughing hysterically. I sent them birds of my own.

So now I'm sitting here wondering what will fly into my car next. I mean, the things have only been getting bigger. How's it go? A bird, a plane, no Superman? Well anyway, all I see are various nightmarish scenarios for my future, my friends. Pray for me. I need it.

August 15, 2012

The Time I Got Towed

It doesn't need to be said, but I will say it anyway: Getting towed fucking sucks. Also it's (one of) my worst nightmare(s). Also it's one of the reasons why I hate living in a city.

You know those signs that say "No parking here to corner - TOW ZONE"? Well, when I look at them, they might as well say "No parking here to corner - YOU'LL GET FIRED" because that's what getting towed feels like. I get paid all of six kidney beans and seven grains of flour per hour, so paying for the ridiculous towing fees seriously breaks my bank.

I don't photograph well.
Sadly, one time, I got towed. :(

And I was livid. And extremely sad. And stranded to boot! What a heinous concept, towing. Everything to do with cars is just a money drain and something needs to be done about it. We should sign a petition. I don't know exactly what the petition would say quite yet, but we should all sign it. Any ideas, toss them in the comments.

Anyway, one time I got towed.

My thoughts: "Better go make some chili I guess."
Earlier, I said getting towed was my worst nightmare, because it is (one of them), and the only good part about it all was that I got towed with my phone on my person, not forgotten about in my car. So, luckily I wasn't stranded but I was still very pissed.

So I got home and made some chili (out of my salary, you know) to pay for the towing fees being that that was all my wages were good for, and the next day I went to the tow yard. This was a harrowing experience.

I get there, and the guy at the counter's like "Whaddayawant", and the sarcastic asshole in me wanted to say "You won the lottery!", but I was not in the mood to be cute that day. I explain how I got towed, tell him my car's information, and he has the audacity to say "Wow, how did you feel when you saw your car wasn't there anymore?"

All I wanted to respond was "Probably how you're about to feel when you look and see your teeth aren't there anymore", but I just smiled (feebly) and said "Hmm". Because if I tried to make any words, I would've said something terrible, and it's probably not a good idea to fuck with someone who is in control of your car.

Anyway, I paid the guy one bowl of chili and he said "Your car's out there somewhere", which is when I realized I had to search for it in this Central Park of cars. And, you know, my car is black and has wheels so that didn't take forever at all.

Ah, you know my secret. I reuse printer paper that may or may not have stuff on the other side.
The kicker? When I finally got to my car, and thankfully saw there had been no damage from the tow truck, I got in, turned it on, and drove away very happily... until I remembered that I was almost out of gas. OH THE SYSTEM, HOW I HATE THEE.

Watch where you park, boys and girls.

August 11, 2012

The BS 5 - "My Daughter Needs to Marry an American"

Goddamn I've been sitting on this post since June 30th. That sure did take a while.

Due to the nature of the job I had in Brazil, I encountered and interacted with a lot of the teachers in the school system. Most of them were cool, but goddamn did they love drama. Part of my job was to meet with the teachers weekly to conduct an oral language class to keep their English fresh (being that they were all English teachers also). And one of these teachers... well... she said things.


We interrupt this post for a very important announcement. 

The internet just failed me. I just tried so hard and for so long to find a clip of the How I Met Your Mother episode "First Time in New York" where Robin's sister comes to visit with her boyfriend and Robin says to her sister's boyfriend, after he says something really douchey, "You say things" AND I COULDN'T FIND IT ANYWHERE. Someone help! Please!---

Ignoring that, let's move on.

So this teacher, who I'll call... Mrs. M, she was very, very, very annoying. And opinionated. And had a bad case of foot-in-your-mouth. I'm surprised she managed to walk around. She looked mostly like a pear with legs, a bad wig, and a cigarette.

Mrs. M.
She was quite something.

On our first encounter, she really left a lasting impression. I mean, first of all her English was impeccable, and I was very impressed by that, but secondly, and again, she said things. Really stupid things. Observe the following dialogue:

"Oh, my daughter lives in the US!" said Mrs. M.
"Oh, that's cool, where?" replied I.
"In California. I worry about her because she's dating an Arab, and you know, all Arabs are terrorists. I'm very worried he's going to recruit her into a terrorist organization," she exclaimed.
"... By the way, I'm Arab," I said, and left.

Of course, she apologized profusely and was very embarrassed, but I was already offended to tantamount levels. Naturally, I wasn't quite looking forward to seeing her ever again because I really didn't want to punch a woman. But I would have to see her again. Many, many times. And I would always greet her with the same "I could give less of a fuck about your existence" face.

As in, "Oh. You.", not "Oh, youuu!"
Once upon one of these times, she asked me something ridiculous. I present to you another dialogue:

"Oh hey, Noor! Long time no see!" - Mrs. M.
"... It's been one week exactly." - Me.
"Say, I have a question. What state do you live in back in the US?"
"I'm from Chicago."
"So, Michigan, or...?"
"So how close is that to California?"
"Pretty fucking far away."
"Do you have Facebook?"
"Why is this an interview? Yes, I do." (I do not anymore, mainly because of Brazil.)
"You should look up my daughter. Her boyfriend broke up with her. She's very attractive. They say she looks like me."

My mental image:

I did look her up, and I can almost swear to you that's exactly what she looked like.

But wait, it gets better.

"I'm not really sure when or how I will be in California to see your daughter..." I said.
"Well when do you go back to the US?"
"Like December."
"Perfect! That's when her visa expires! She really needs to marry an American so she can stay in the US and not get deported."
"So... I'll tell her I talked to you, kbyeeeeee!"
"... Wtf just happened."

I shit you not. I felt so... violated. And slightly flattered. She asked me to marry her apple-looking daughter with a bad wig and legs so that she could stay in the US. The best part was, I would have to move to California because I guess her daughter had a really good job with guess what website? E-Harmony. Yeah. So I thought, why can't she just get one of those people? Why me? Why do I have to marry an apple?

I never did have to marry her daughter, but I did have to make up countless excuses about why I hadn't accepted her Facebook friend request yet, because I don't know how to be straightforward.

"Noor, my daughter says she requested you two weeks ago and you still haven't accepted?"
"Oh, I've been so busy. Also it's so dark."

Which ended up becoming:

"Noor, my daughter says she requested you two months ago and you still haven't accepted?"
"Oh... my house is on fire. I have to go."

Which ended up becoming:

"Noor, you're leaving for America tomorrow, and my daughter says you still haven't accepted her friend request?"
"Oh... I... I really don't wanna marry your daughter, sorry."
"What? I couldn't hear that last part."
"I said... I... I DON'T WANNA MARRY YOUR DAUGHTER OKAY?!" And then I sprinted away.

She ran fast for a pear.
The moral of this story? If you don't wanna marry someone's daughter just so that she can stay in the US, just fucking tell the person you don't want to marry her daughter.

July 24, 2012

Guys. Wow.

Holy crap I've been absolutely terrible about posting lately. It's just been... so dark. I did most totes jinx myself with that two day in a row posting spree I had a while back. I actually had a third one started then, too, but never finished it. It's the continuation of The BS.

Anyway, I'm just letting you know that I am indeed alive and kicking, and will be posting soon. Like real soon. Like maybe even today, as long as my sprightly 2-year old nephew doesn't commandeer my laptop.

That line through my eye is an accident. Or a stress vein. Either or.

Until later, my friends.

July 01, 2012

The Way You Play "Draw Something"

Look at me, posting two days in a row! I'm proud. Hopefully I don't jinx myself. 

I recently got Draw Something and I'm fucking obsessed with it. It's so fun. Matter of fact, I invite you to play me. My username is Nishin.

But let me tell you something. A lot of people who play this game don't understand it. I play with a lot of randoms and I think a lot of them think the game is called "Write Something". It's not.

The premise of the game is that you choose a word, then you have to draw something (imagine that) that represents that word, and the other person has to guess what it is. Like charades. 

Let's say you choose to draw "elephant". This is what you should do:

The written part is what the other person (hopefully) guesses.
This is what a lot of the randoms I play with do:

There's never enough space to write something because the game is NOT CALLED WRITE SOMETHING.
And that's not the fucking point of the game.

The other thing about this game is that I believe some of the people playing it are from non-English speaking countries and are playing it in English anyway. The only problem with this is that the game, being that it's a North American game, is very North America-centric. If you're not from North America... you're not going to understand some of the things. For example, I drew this for this one random who I believe is from a Spanish-speaking country:

His name is Maxwell and he likes corn.
And he had no idea what it was, couldn't guess it, and then told me "that was really hard". And I thought, that wasn't hard, you just obviously have no idea what a fucking raccoon is. (The drawing was of a raccoon, by the way.) But I didn't say that because it's a policy of mine not to piss off people that don't know what raccoons are.

Anyway (I just misplaced my fingers when I went to type that and they produced "Zsnyqay", which I think would be a cool intergalactic race), that's all I had to say. Next post will be The BS 5. It's a good one.