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.