Tag Archive: thoughts

Don’t Call Me A Muggle

Tomorrow the last Harry Potter movie hits the theaters.

I shall pause to give the fans out there time to put on their pointy hats and fancy capes.

:plays Angry Birds, curses at little green piggies:

Everyone sufficiently attired now? Good. Hey, no poking each other with your authentically licensed replica wands!

One of the tellers I work with is a big fan of the whole Harry Potter business; she’s not just a fan, she’s a FAN. She has had her tickets to the midnight showing tonight/tomorrow morning for months. She has also taken Friday off and has tickets for several showings on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I think all told she is going to see the same movie about a dozen times over the course of three days. She will also be dressing up to attend the midnight showing with several of her friends, who are also FANS.

That kind of behavior is on the shady side of crazy.

Before I get several poorly-written comments threatening to cast one of the three Unforgivable Curses on me, let me say that I am a fan as well. I’ve read all the books multiple times and I’ve seen most of the movies. I’m familiar with the unique world my coirker seems to find so entrancing.

I’m just not that big of a fan. Not by several orders of magnitude.

I waited eagerly for the release of each new book, but I never spent the night at a bookstore, dressed as a fictional character, just so I could buy a book. I have books – lots of them. I can wait a day or two to buy another.

When I received my new Harry Potter book, I would read it all in one sitting, but that’s nothing new. I often read books all the way through at once; I read very fast.  Deathly Hallows has 759 pages and it took me about six and a half hours of steady reading to get through it.

While I do applaud the series, it is quite imaginative and has managed to get children interested in reading instead of relying on purely electronic entertainment, I do not see what sparks that kind of devotion.

They are only books. I’ve read thousands; some better, some worse.

They are only movies. I’ve seen hundreds; some better, some much, much worse.

The devotion of the Harry Potter fans baffles me, much in the same way Star Wars fans and Star Trek fans puzzle me. I like a lot of things, but not to that extent.


My Little Sister

In the last of my series covering the cats in my life, we have Nikki.

Mua-ha-ha. Mine is an evil laugh.

She is an American Shorthair ginger tabby female, something of a rarity since most ginger tabbies are male. I like to call her Mooch or Princess Pumpkinbutt, because she likes to eat my cats’ food and when she hunches down in the classic “loaf of bread” position, she looks a bit like a pumpkin.

Technically Nikki is not my cat, she belongs to my parents (specifically my mother) and not me, but she does live in the same house that I do.

About a year after I moved out, GhostDad heard about a cat named Butterbean on a radio spot highlighting local shelter rescues. The parents went down, met her, and adopted my little sister.

Mother Dearest needed a lapdesk.

As an older cat she was perfect; no kittenish antics to worry about, she was very independent and could be left alone while they were at work without having to worry about her.

Then I moved in and brought the terrible trio with me.

She did not have much of a problem with Firefly and Fearless, they were content to let her be the top cat in the house, but Simon was another matter. Every time they got near each other there was growling and hissing, both of them wanted to be top cat and there can be only one. He cornered her one day and literally scared the poop out of her, after that Simon was put in lock down. He never leaves my rooms for fear that he will try to harm Nikki, who has gone back to being top cat in most of the house. She comes down to my rooms most mornings after I’ve shut away Simon and mooches some food from the cats’ bowls. When we first segregated them, Simon kept trying to get out. Now he knows better.

Hail Princess Pumpkinbutt!

Uh ... No. I don't play.

She has a bad back and isn’t as spry as she used to be, she is starting to have trouble seeing things but still seems to get around pretty good. She is just a crotchety old lady who doesn’t like me very much unless I have food with me.

Her favorite thing to do is to stare at my dad. She will sit on the floor two or three yards in front of his favorite chair and just stare at him for hours. It’s as if she believes can will him to give her a treat is she just stares hard enough.

Nicki's nap

I don't care if it's Christmas, it's time for my nap! Keep it down!

Nikki Kitty

She also perfectly matches to the kitchen floor.

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.


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.

I like cats.

I like looking at cute and/or funny pictures of cats, and cute and/or funny pictures in general.

I loathe with a white-hot, deep-seated hatred that burns like the heart of a collapsing star  the comments on the I Can Has Cheezburger site.

funny pictures - dis...  dis juss rong.

Yes, yes it is.

Sweet zombie Jesus, these are grown people (mostly women but I will say “people” to be politically correct) who I assume have not suffered some sort of traumatic brain injury. They can obviously use a computer, so they must have some minimum level of education. It’s not as if they are simply smashing their fists into a keyboard while shrieking like scalded gibbons; most of the comments can be deciphered given enough time and patience. (And booze.) They have deliberately decided to write like not-very-bright children. Here is a sample taken from the comments of the photo above.


May 26, 2011 at 10:03 pm


pjperry says:
May 26, 2011 at 10:05 pm

Conconeulations, Joy! :D

Joy says:
May 26, 2011 at 10:07 pm

Ah, fank yew, piperry, butt (!) wat 4?

Joy says:
May 26, 2011 at 10:11 pm

Ooooh, pjperry, Ai r sorre!!! Ai mizspelted yur naem!! Ai nawt seez 2 gud, soe ai nawt spelz gud… iz bad kitteh. Swatz selfz.

pjperry says:
May 26, 2011 at 10:19 pm

Teh conconeulations is 4 b ing teh furst, or wat we call nawt second commenter. :roll: silleh, I no. Jussta cheezland custom. Don’t werree, nawt spelling gud is a positive fing in lolspeak. :D

Joy says:
May 26, 2011 at 10:40 pm

*hugs pjperry, rubs cheak*

pjperry says:
May 26, 2011 at 10:43 pm


Why? Internet peer pressure?  For some sense of belonging? Who started this trend? (Go ahead, you can tell me. I promise I won’t hunt them down and beat them to death with a dictionary.)

The phenomenon of mob mentality (not in the “ make him an offer he can’t refuse” sense of the word) is well known; people will do things in large groups that they would never do as individuals. I’m mystified as to how this can happen over the Internet, where the mob in question is not in actual physical contact. For the most part, when you are on the Internet you are alone, just you and the computer. Have their brains decided that these other people, identified only by words and a tiny graphic, are part of their mob and therefore should be followed? They are complete strangers, chances are they live in a different state (or possibly a different country) than you. Why do you care what they think?

Gah. I just will never understand people.


WARNING – Today’s post deals with adult situations and mature themes. Reader discretion is advised.

Now that I’ve insured myself an audience filled with horny teenagers and possibly my Mom, let’s continue.

I was in the car the other day, thinking odd things as is my usual routine, when a stray thought entered my head. If you are all curious, I had been thinking about strawberries and what strawberry flavored cheese would taste like, when this thought entered my head.

I wonder if porn stars get tired of having sex all the time?

Yes, I’m a bit puzzled at the chain of logic that led from cheese to porn, but never the less, that’s how it happened.

Sure, it sounds like a great gig; you get to have sex all day long, get paid for it, and you don’t have to worry about your pimp bitch-slapping you into next week. It’s a win-win situation, right?

I don’t know about pornos specifically, but a regular movie scene doesn’t just involve the actors; you have the director, the sound guy, the lighting crew, maybe a dozen people or more all standing around waiting for you to do your thing.

And then there’s the repetition of doing the same thing day after day, year after year. I answer the phone all day at my job, when I get home I want nothing to do with the phone and will go out of my way to avoid calls. The adult film star comes home after a long day doing the vertical mamba, and their significant other starts cuddling up to them.  What can the be thinking but; “Not this again.”

That makes me sad.

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!

The H Word

I love hipsters.

It is my dearest wish in life to sit in a coffee shop in my flannel footie pajamas, drinking fair trade soy lattes that I borrowed money from friends to buy and use a Mac laptop to post poorly worded comments about how mainstream various things are.




Oh, I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t keep a straight face.

Hoo, boy.

For those of you who have no idea what a hipster is; welcome to the Internet!

I hope you aren't having trouble reading this on your Commodore 64, Captain Time Travel.

Hipsters are everywhere on the Internet and are almost universally despised. It would seem that the only person who can tolerate a hipster is another hipster. Hipster culture seems to be nothing more than an incredibly elaborate metaphorical penis measuring contest over who is the least concerned with popular culture.

Like this, but ...different.

This is achieved by a near-obsessive following of popular culture just so you can keep track of what you don’t like this week.

For some reason that escapes me, an entire subculture has grown up around buying expensive yet ugly clothes, poor personal grooming habits, and embracing things “ironically” while trying your damnedest to look as if you care less than anyone else. I’m puzzled that this has happened, when hipsters seem to to inspire an intense hatred in anyone who isn’t another hipster. But even non-hipsters are starting to dress in part like hipsters do.

Hell, even I have a pair of hipster-ish “geeky” glasses.

They make me look smart AND keep me from running into things!


Why are tight sweaters, hoodies, epic mustaches and beards, and Converse sneakers suddenly so popular?

These people look as if their mothers dressed them.

Your parents are now fashionable. Feel free to begin screaming at any time.

These people, these so-called hipsters, claim to loathe the mainstream.

They are the mainstream.

Hipsters are everywhere. In magazines, on the Internet, even on TV.

Okay... That's kinda creepy.

It’s trendy, a fad; it’s popular for people to dress like hobos, drink PBR and complain about how no one understands how indie they are.

We understand, Twinkie. We just don’t care.

I had boots like that but now they're so mainstream.

If these “hipsters” truly believed in what they claim to, they wouldn’t care what they looked like or who saw them on their fixie listening to whatever gods-awful band no one has heard of this week.

My advice – Grow up, stop acting like pretentious asshats, and maybe develop an opinion of your own.

The Pen Conundrum

I noticed something odd today.

There is a clipboard on my desk where people sign in, it has a pen attached to the top with one of those long plastic springy things. Earlier today someone asked to borrow a pen and I gave them one of the loose ones I keep in a jar. They did their business and went about their way and I got busy and forgot all about the pen.

And then I noticed something odd. People were signing in more and more using the loose pen, even moving the regular pen out of the way at times so they could use the loose one. Both pens work equally well; both are the same color, the same size, almost identical save one has a leash and one does not.

But they used the loose pen about two-thirds of the time without even testing the leashed pen to see if it worked.


Did they assume the pen was broken or in some way non-functioning?

I got curious, so I scrounged up a loose pen that was almost empty and scribbled it dry. I replaced the good loose pen with the dry one.

A good majority picked up the loose pen, scribbled a bit, and then tried the leashed pen. Some tried the dry pen and then asked me for a pen, assuming the leashed pen did not work either. Very few picked up the leashed pen and ignored the dry pen altogether.

And then someone stole the dry pen.

I will never understand people.

There is a double standard in the world.

I am, of course, talking about the wild world of panty shopping.

These things, in case you aren't familar with them.

Not long ago I was in Wal-Mart with my parents (because I’m cool like that) And was looking through the various underthings available when I thought of something.

I’m a grown woman, looking through bras, fingering the cups and such.

If I were a pervert or some kind of fetishist, no one would ever know.

Because I’m a woman.

And it’s not because I was where the women’s underbits were; I could have been in the men’s section, or the children’s section, and people would assume I’m shopping for a husband or child. I browsed in the men’s section and there was some pretty neat underwear over there, I wouldn’t mind having a pair of Batman undies. You just don’t find that sort of thing in the women’s section.

I could make these look GOOD.

They would never know if I was some sort of social deviant, but would assume I was on a perfectly normal errand.

My father, a somewhat scruffy man with a beard and large glasses, would be labeled a pervert if he had been alone in the lingerie section, even if he was on a perfectly legitimate errand.

Ditto for the children’s section. With no actual child present, a lone man browsing through the Tinkerbelle panties would be labeled some sort of child molester, even if only in the minds of those who saw them.

A woman = “Ah, that’s normal, nothing to see there.”

A man = “Pervert. I’m gonna do a search of the sex offenders registry when I get home.”

It just doesn’t seem fair.