Tag Archive: odd


Buttons


I was watching Coraline on TV the other night. For those who have never seen this movie, it revolves around a young girl who finds a door to world that mirrors hers but is … different. It goes from quirky to trippy-evil over the course of the movie and one of the unusual things about the world is that everyone in the mirrored world has black button eyes.

This is the first indication that things are not quite right.

While watching the movie, with the main plot point of the creepy button eyes that indicate the very wrongness of the mirrored world, I see a commercial for an odd doll.

Holy. Crap.

I’ve seen these in the store, they are hard vinyl dolls that are meant to look like rag dolls. I personally think they look weird.

It would probably be a good idea for people in charge of programming to screen the commercials they play – the juxtaposition of creepy characters with black button eyes followed by happy little girls playing with plastic dolls with black button eyes was just strange.

Advertisements

The Good Ship … AHHHHHH!!!


I’ve been interested in Fanfiction for a while – I’m one of those people who want to know what happened after the “… and they lived happily ever after.” My involvement with the Library of the Damned – where my friends and I riff on the worse fics we can find, (and I happen to have a post up today) has only strengthened one of my core beliefs;

People are fucking crazy.

Let me introduce you to the wonderful world of the Shipper.

Shipper comes from ship, an abbreviation of worship, and is used to describe someone with an unnatural and unwholesome attachment to a particular fictional character or character pairing. This obsession is always sexual in nature and is really, really creepy.

There are many things I consider myself a fan of, and there are even somethings that I could be considered a rabid fan of, but I have never been so intensely interested in a fictional character that I plotted out every moment of their intimate lives.

Graphically plotted out. In disturbing detail that makes me want to dig a bunker under my house. And it’s always subjects that you would never think would lend itself to that sort of fiction. SpongeBob and the various My Little Ponies feature in a number of works that would land their authors in a psych ward in a heartbeat.

I am refusing to link any examples that would prove my point, because I don’t think anyone should be subjected to them. I’ve read a couple and I really wish I hadn’t.

If you are interested in reading a poorly-worded description of two of your beloved childhood icons engaging in the sort of behavior you normally need a credit card to see online, head on over to fanfiction.net. It’s packed with the stuff.

If fantasizing about cartoon characters is what does it for you, fine. Dress up like Wonder Woman and have your wife tie you up with your magic lasso – so long as you are consenting adults there is really no harm in that sort of thing.

When you vomit your personal fantasies onto the Internet and start crafting entire fictional worlds that revolve around your characters fucking each other, that’s when you need to step back and take a look at your life.


I was sitting at my desk, doing my usual work-related stuff, when one of our customers came up out of the blue and said to me, “You should be smiling. If my son had a job here he would be smiling all the time!”

That’s useful information, Ms Crazy Lady. If I go into an office and there’s a guy grinning like a fool behind the reception desk I’ll know to leave before the gunfire starts.

The thing that gets me is that I did smile at her. I was smiling at her when she said this to me, it’s an instinctive reaction. Anytime someone walks near my desk, I smile at them on the off chance they are going to sign in or ask me something. I just don’t have a very wide smile.

I had the same problem when they took my picture for my ID card. My co-irkers kept saying “Smile!” and I kept saying “I am smiling.”

Not everyone can look like the freak'n Joker.

I get along with all my co-irkers, I’m polite and professional, I do my job without a lot of fooling around or goofing off. In fact, if I do or say anything remotely funny I get stares as if I have suddenly pulled a rabbit out of my rectum. I have even overheard several co-irkers making bets as to who can make me laugh out loud. If I do something like wear nail polish or pull my hair back, or heavens forbid wear a little lip gloss, they become convinced I’m gettin’  some.

I’m beginning to think they might believe I’m some sort of robot.

I Fear For Humanity


Today’s post is about this little darling.

thingy

What fresh slice of hell is this?

Meet the Derma Microneedle Roller.

Notice how the second word it its name contains the word “needle”? I noticed that too.

Here’s how this thing is supposed to work – You press that wheel o’ pain against your skin and then roll it back and forth so that the tiny little needles puncture your skin and you resemble a Looney Tunes character after they’ve been shot.

This is to make you “beautiful”.

Because poking tiny holes in yourself and possibly inserting some of the millions of  bacteria, viruses, and fungi that live on your skin into them is very attractive to some people.

I can think of one.

Sellers claim it will make your skin smooth and reduce wrinkles and all the usual anti-aging rigmarole. I guess once the scars heal they would be fairly smooth, but just looking at this thing makes me go “What. The HELL?”

pokey thing

It comes in a clear plastic coffin. Like a vampire.

Wallbanger


On Friday I walked into a wall.

I have no excuse; I wasn’t doing something else, for once I wasn’t thinking about something – I was utterly undistracted in any way.

And yet I walked directly into a wall. I knew I was going to do it a split-second before I actually did it, I had enough time to formulate the thought “Hey, a wall”:THUD:

It was a hallway I have walked down many times before so I can’t blame unfamiliarity. I knew there wasn’t a doorway or other opening there, my feet just decided to turn and ram me into the sheetrock.

Here’s the odd bit – I didn’t think it was weird at the time. I hit the wall and my brain went “Huh, you hit the wall. Situation normal. Continue.” Now that I’ve had time to think about it, I’m kind of becoming alarmed that I did that.  Did I fall asleep for a second? This is not out of the realm of possibility; I sleep-walk occasionally and have woken up stuck behind a door or trying in vain to walk through the wall. But I don’t think I fell asleep, unless I was having an incredibly realistic dream that exactly mimicked what I was actually doing. Again, that would be pretty normal for me, but it’s unlikely. Maybe it’s aliens or some sort of government mind control, but then why would space aliens (or the government) care if I walked into a wall?

Perhaps I should look in to acquiring an aluminum foil beanie.

Dream Weaver


I have odd dreams.

Please, try to control your shock.

I always have, it’s just my weird brain doing its thing. One of my favorites involves me winning the lottery. Fairly standard, right? But I dream about what I would do after I win. It seems I would get up and go to work like normal, but instead of working I just sit in the lobby all day playing on my computer and ordering pizza. Naked.

And then there’s the one about the circus where I’m in charge of shaving the elephants. That one’s pretty odd. All of my dreams are strange.

 Last night was no different. Here’s what occupied my mind last night.

I went to the Governor’s Mansion for dinner.  I  either can’t remember why or I never knew why, but there I was. The governer was Bedtime Bear, from the Care Bears, and he was married to Megan Fox. Again, this seemed perfectly normal. We sit down at this comically long table, like you see in the movies, with perhaps a hundred people sitting down to dinner. All the other people were in really nice clothes, I’m in my nightgown, and Bedtime Bear… well, he’s wearing fur of course.

This pompous fellow in a tux comes in, a butler straight from Central Casting, and announces dinner in a voice that sounds like Donald Duck. Servants wheel in these giant baskets and bowls, the size of grain silos or swimming pools. The diners are suppose to take one and past the rest. I start panicking because I think I’m going to get crushed by these massive containers, so I decide to go to the bathroom. I start wandering around this giagantic place, trying to find the one bathroom. Every single room I go into has someone sleeping in it. One room has suits of armor and hammocks had been strung between each of them, each one filled. The snoring was deafening.

I finally find the bathroom, which is actually a converted closet, and there is someone sleeping in there, too. It’s Bedtime Bear’s Uncle Bob.

And then I woke up.