Tag Archive: stupidity

As I’ve mentioned in past posts, I’m not much of a gamer.

But I do love me some Farmville.

Damn Zynga and their adorable animals!

Zynga, the company that runs the game and numerous others, started the game as a clone of another popular farming simulator, Farm Town. According to Wikipedia, ten percent of Facebook users play the game. The other ninety percent curse the game and spent a significant portion of their time deleting the countless spams from players.

Every time you do anything in Farmville, you get a little feel-good message; “Share your accomplishment with your friends!” which is Farmville talk for “Spam all your friends!’

Most of my Facebook friends are players, so they don’t mind getting the messages. Thank goodness.

I went a long time where I didn’t play at all, but I’ve gotten more into it in the past few weeks.

Damn you, pretty sheep! Damn you and your ability to eat my time!

I’m savvy enough to know that the whole thing, the accomplishments, the “quests” the added “features” that don’t really change anything, that all that is just a way to get you to play. To get you hooked until you fork over some real cash or they get enough revenue from the advertisers in the sidebar.

It’s a waste of time, but I’m not drowning puppies in my toilet so it doesn’t hurt anyone. I find Zynga’s business practices to be only slightly above a used car salesman, but look!

I found a kitty!


Get thee behind me!

(Note: this story originally appeared in the comment section of YSaC Vol. 977 in response to an ad asking for someone to come to the poster’s house dressed as Satan to scare their child into behaving.)




He was here, the guy from CraigsList! Now all of Merle’s parenting troubles would be over. With a glance down the hall towards his son’s room, where a thick fog of cigarette smoke lingered and the the muted click of glass against glass was nearly drowned out by the flood of curses, he headed towards the front door. It was Junior’s poker night; Merle had seen him only minutes before in the kitchen, dressed in his SpongeBob pajamas, getting more ice out of the freezer.
Merle hurried to the door, hoping the bell hadn’t disturbed Junior. He didn’t want to get the belt again. Flinging open the door, he noticed that Junior had been practicing carving his intials into the wood again. Better that than when he had used their living room furniture to perfect his tagging techniques.
On the steps was a large lumpy shape, vaguely man-shaped and man-sized, that smelled strongly of garlic and soy sauce. It resembled uncooked bread dough and had been splashed generously with a thick, dark red liquid. A drop fell on Merle’s wrist and he absently licked it off.

Barbecue sauce.

“Hey, you Merle?”

Merle nodded.

“Finally! Do you know how many Deffenberks there are in this town? I’ve been getting all kinds of strange looks. Where can I plug in the smoke machine?”

Merle’s mouth, which had been working as frantically as a hairdresser on meth, finally produced words.

“What…You…But…But you’re suppose to be Satan!” The lumpy thing seemed to roll its eyes, but it could have been a couple of sesame seeds shifting position.

“Of course I’m seitan! That’s what you asked for, right?”

“Not seitan,” Merle hissed “I wanted Satan! Satan!”

“Geez, you don’t have to get upset. Look, I printed out the ad. It says “satan” right here.” From somewhere within the creases in the brown mass a hand produced a crumpled piece of paper, speckled with sauce.

“Yes! Satan! The devil! Old Scratch, the Prince of Lies, Mr. Mephistopheles! Not seitan!” Merle was trying to keep his voice low but he could not help twitching his arms about like a gaffed trout. The stranger studied the sauce-dampened paper for a moment.

“Oh. I just thought you misspelled seitan. No one spells anything right on CraigsList.” He paused. “Listen, since I’m here already and I built this suit, do you want me to try scaring the kid?”

“No! He regularly terrorizes biker gangs! Nuns weep blood when he passes them on the street! Every pet within a ten mile radius has run away! An animate lump of boiled wheat gluten isn’t going to scare him! Why would you think that?!?”

The drippy lump looked down at its shapeless shoes.

“I thought he might have celiac disease or something like that.”

The thing with my finger

My right index fingertip is leathery and a bit numb today; the reason for this is a no doubt boring tale I shall share with you anyway.

‘Cause I’m a giver.

Monday night I was fiddling with a hangnail on said right index  fingertip and it was sore. In a misguided effort to stave off any infection my minstrations may have caused, I soaked a cotton pad in a mixture of  alcohol and peroxide and used a strip of  electrical tape to hold it on my finger.

 In hindsight, this was a poorly thought out choice of action, but in my own defense I’m kinda stupid sometimes. 

 Moving on. I had planned to remove the tape and pad before going to bed, but I fell asleep. This was the second, and somewhat more severely stupid, choice I regret making, even if it wasn’t my consious brain that did the deciding but my … what ever brain-bit does the falling asleep thing. I don’t know – Dammit, Jim;  I’m a receptionist, not a neurologist.

Anyhoo, I woke up with my fingertip on fire. It was tingling and felt really odd. I got the makeshift bandage off and nearly screamed. I had a corpse-finger. It was dead white and wrinkled to the point that it was almost smooth again, just a few deep, really deep, creases tracking across the surface to show that all was not well in Fingerburg. It was incredibly sensitive to everything –  water, heat, cold, touch. I can’t imagine how my poor little nerve ending have been doing.

 It took most of the day for the unnatural paleness to fade and it’s still a little wrinkled today but the skin has gone all leathery (as I mentioned up there somewhere) and feels strange. As superpowers obtained through careless accidents, this rates right up there with super-flatulence gained from eating irradiated beans.