Walrus and I have been talking again (at this hour, a sure sign of trouble/hilarity). We have just been expanding on the metaphor of languages as various kinds of house cats.
American English, we've decided, is a big, fat, orange tabby with a torn ear and no taste for new people. Japanese is a sleek gray kitty who will come investigate but doesn't like to purr or be played with. The Romance languages are purrers.
Russian is a big, angry tomcat who likes to sleep on things. "I claim this couch for RUSSIA!"
Swahili is a climbing cat, doesn't like to sit still. And the Nordic languages are the friendly ones, the ones that are almost dog-like in their affection.
Additions to the list are welcome.
Showing posts with label things that we find funny late at night. Show all posts
Showing posts with label things that we find funny late at night. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The Violet Abomination
Since moving to this town, it has been my (admittedly adopted) custom to host a board games evening every Tuesday. For a long while, the regular attendees were myself, my housemate Arisbe, and our friend Francis. All of us happen to share a love for absurdity, and one week, Arisbe announced that she had found something we would all enjoy that happened to happen on board game night: the Spike show "Deadliest Warrior".
As some of you may already know or have guessed, this show was a finely honed example of absurdity and violence. The premise is this: take two categories of famous warrior (say, Shaolin monk and Italian mobster) and get some 'experts' to come on the show, talk big, and demonstrate some of the preferred weaponry. Then they put their data into a magical computer simulator and decide the victor. Complete with 'reenactments' of the supposed fights.
All three of us are history buffs of one sort or another. We decided it must be watched. Francis declared that this would require hard liquor to numb the pain of stupid; he said he'd bring some.
The next games night, after a rousing game of something or other, we sat down in front of the telebi and turned the channel to Spike. Francis pulled out his backpack and brought forth two bottles: Scotch and something brilliantly purple and slightly disturbing.
The violet liquor was something Francis did not know; he'd gotten it out of an elderly relative's cabinet somewhere, and decided that if ever there was a time to find out, this was probably it. We each took a tiny swallow.
It tastes, if you will forgive the poetry, like some rose petals died in a vat of sugar water and then fermented.
Francis declared that he was going to pour it out, but I decided I liked the color of it. He let me keep it. Even now, it lives on top of the television. Right next to the duck.
As some of you may already know or have guessed, this show was a finely honed example of absurdity and violence. The premise is this: take two categories of famous warrior (say, Shaolin monk and Italian mobster) and get some 'experts' to come on the show, talk big, and demonstrate some of the preferred weaponry. Then they put their data into a magical computer simulator and decide the victor. Complete with 'reenactments' of the supposed fights.
All three of us are history buffs of one sort or another. We decided it must be watched. Francis declared that this would require hard liquor to numb the pain of stupid; he said he'd bring some.
The next games night, after a rousing game of something or other, we sat down in front of the telebi and turned the channel to Spike. Francis pulled out his backpack and brought forth two bottles: Scotch and something brilliantly purple and slightly disturbing.
The violet liquor was something Francis did not know; he'd gotten it out of an elderly relative's cabinet somewhere, and decided that if ever there was a time to find out, this was probably it. We each took a tiny swallow.
It tastes, if you will forgive the poetry, like some rose petals died in a vat of sugar water and then fermented.
Francis declared that he was going to pour it out, but I decided I liked the color of it. He let me keep it. Even now, it lives on top of the television. Right next to the duck.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
When you dream...
One evening, my friend Francis and I were coming home from a long day out of town with our fellows. It was about two a.m. when we started the drive, and it was a two hour drive, so mostly his job was to keep me awake so we didn't crash and die.
This was several moons past, so I no longer recall the exact context of either of the following, so you will forgive me if I insert something comparably irrelevant. Please note that Francis is quite in the habit of stating things declaratively and argumentatively; it only makes it better.
Me: I always thought polecats were something like a large weasel.
Francis: Well, no, their feet are different.
Me: Different how?
Francis: A polecat's feet are kind of like... a compound fracture of the foot.
Pardon?
Turns out Francis had fallen asleep midsentence. Who knows what he was dreaming in between. It happened a couple more times on the drive, but none so dramatically as this:
Me: I like webcomics.
Francis: So, are you afraid that there will be too much peanut butter versus the jelly, or that the jelly is the wrong kind?
New goal in life: get Francis sleep deprived and semi-caffeinated more often, and have a tape recorder next time.
This was several moons past, so I no longer recall the exact context of either of the following, so you will forgive me if I insert something comparably irrelevant. Please note that Francis is quite in the habit of stating things declaratively and argumentatively; it only makes it better.
Me: I always thought polecats were something like a large weasel.
Francis: Well, no, their feet are different.
Me: Different how?
Francis: A polecat's feet are kind of like... a compound fracture of the foot.
Pardon?
Turns out Francis had fallen asleep midsentence. Who knows what he was dreaming in between. It happened a couple more times on the drive, but none so dramatically as this:
Me: I like webcomics.
Francis: So, are you afraid that there will be too much peanut butter versus the jelly, or that the jelly is the wrong kind?
New goal in life: get Francis sleep deprived and semi-caffeinated more often, and have a tape recorder next time.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
I have created... a BLOG!
Welcome to Taking the Bucket, a blog about weird things.
My good friend the Walrus and I were discussing strange stories from our lives, and it came to us that these stories really ought to be written down somewhere. Maybe we aren't the only ones who like hearing collected oddities!
And thus, Taking the Bucket is born. The goal is to post here at least one story out of our pasts, our friends' pasts, or even just the crazy present per day until we run out. If we ever manage to run out, okay, game over, we'll call it quits. Until then, I hope you enjoy the bizarre things that happen as much as we do.
We will, of course, be changing or omitting real names, places, and affiliations as necessary. Up until somebody decides to offer us a publishing deal, a movie gig, or a TV series. You know. 'Cause that will happen. Right-o.
My good friend the Walrus and I were discussing strange stories from our lives, and it came to us that these stories really ought to be written down somewhere. Maybe we aren't the only ones who like hearing collected oddities!
And thus, Taking the Bucket is born. The goal is to post here at least one story out of our pasts, our friends' pasts, or even just the crazy present per day until we run out. If we ever manage to run out, okay, game over, we'll call it quits. Until then, I hope you enjoy the bizarre things that happen as much as we do.
We will, of course, be changing or omitting real names, places, and affiliations as necessary. Up until somebody decides to offer us a publishing deal, a movie gig, or a TV series. You know. 'Cause that will happen. Right-o.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)