Birthday Madness

   What a bizarre couple of weeks. First I'm accused of being Harry Potter with horns on, then a friend of mine decides on a whim that he needs a Loraine-hiatus, and one by one absolutely everyone besides my mom and my cousin Carla drops out of the birthday extravaganza. For genuinely valid reasons, mind you, making it much worse since it leaves me no one to whine at. All of this conspired to put me in the absolute most stinkingly foul mood since that little skirmish at Waterloo sent Napoleon into a bit of a pout. Nothing I could do would snap me out of it. Not even being bibled was funny enough to lift the cloud- the only other times I ever feel this undeniably grey is after I read a Stephen King novel, after which I usually feel pleasantly sullied for at least a week afterwards.
    As a result I wasn't looking forward to my birthday party at all- and I'm a birthday freak; mine and other people's. It butters my soul toast, and I tend to wait the whole year for mine. When it actually rolled around, up and until the actual afternoon of the party people were still barrelling out like it was a ship on fire- again, genuinely legit reasons which just burns my ass so bad. But as it turns out, we chilled, I made daiquiris, and we played some serious 30 Seconds, so all was well.

   And yes, me and my teammate, Cousin Carla, won 30 Seconds, cause that's just how we do it. It is rather shaming that at one point she frantically yelled "Ross enters and says Hi!" and I knew she meant Macbeth though. We're a little retarded like that.
    After most people had left, I got into my PJs- as is my wont- and thought I was done for the night, but as luck had it I decided to check in on Sister Estelle. As it turned out, there was a wanton sex party going on in that room, and I'd have been damned if I wasn't going to throw in my two cents. Or rather, I sat and visited with her, Barend and their friends until well past six in the morning, at which point ALL OF THE RUM WAS GONE, as Jack Sparrow might have commented.

   Shittily though, a despite-the-odds very decent jol did not stop the grey cloud from descending upon me once again as soon as all of this was over. Brenda and bebe came over on my actual birthday, Monday, which was suitably excellent, but other than that I've not felt much like doing anything of any use whatsoever. It's depressing how useless I've been. I did watch Highlander for the first time though- a review with pictures will be forthcoming once I can call myself to action.

   Then there's the animation stuff. I did promise to share the uber-short clips I've been working on, so here're the highlights:

   That's it, really. True to form, I've made a Stephen Fry puppet to work with for the next assignment, which shall be making him jump rope. Wherever you are Mr. Fry, I apologise for the indignity, I really do.

   There's also the matter of the DVD machine. I treated myself yesterday to the tiniest little shopping spree you ever did see with some of my birthday money, thinking I'd go see a movie. I wanted to go see In Time (so sue me, it looks like a good idea), but it was only showing at about half past 7 PM and I got to the mall at 10 AM. Granted, by the time I had worked my way through the labyrinthine new parking structures Mall @ Reds seems to be erecting with constant dedication it was nearly lunch and I needed a lie-down, but still. It's a lot of time to kill. I ended up going to see Johnny English 2. Allow me to simply reiterate almost verbatim how I described it to Brenda, because it is a million degrees, there's cat hair up my nose and there does not seem to be nearly enough rum in the house to spur me to write this review a second time:

"It's not even shit enough to be shit. It simply exists. If you held the movie up to your ear you'd hear neither laughter nor the heavy panting of a physical comedian trying too hard to impress you by getting hit in the nads a lot. All you'd hear is the low him of a musical score with little to discern it from the production design and the creak of several fairly decent character actors' dignities accepting large amounts of tainted pounds sterling."

    That's nearly word-for-word how I described this to her last night, so I apologise Brenda since I know you also come here hoping for new jokes, and quite frankly you're my sandbox for these sorts of things. Everyone else at least gets the benefit of draft 2.0 with better spelling and slightly improved punchlines, and since you're reading it for the second time it means nothing to you, so I'm truly sorry for ruining the excitement you no doubt felt at the thought of reading a new blog post today. Anyway, my point being (I'm doing the whole Billy Connolly thing here: "That reminds me...") that I bought myself a handful of second-hand DVDs at Cash Converters. This makes me as happy as I could possibly have brought upon myself without the use of some handheld battery operated device since I am an android that functions on the fuel of new movies for my collection. (BTW, really cute redhead working at PQ clothing, pity I walked there from Reds and thusly was as red as Dr. Zoidberg from Futurama and looked like I had the meat sweats. Couldn't look the man in the eye. Shall have to wash my hair and make a casual appearance there again sometime sans fat-person panting.)
   I got home and naturally wanted to watch my new movies all in a row without food or toilet breaks inbetween. In our house, there are two DVD machines- mine, which can play AVI files from a flash drive which we keep in my dad's room, and my dad's that has no more remote control and periodically decides fuck you bozo and freezes when you press pre-stop on the machine itself. I, for one reason or another, (i.e. had had some more daiquiris and wanted to load some karaoke tracks onto the memory stick) had moved the good machine into my room last night along with the crappy one, and was in the process of hooking it up when I pressed something on the good machine's remote. Since I had simply paused the movie I was watching on el crappo machine, I noticed that pressing a random button on this non-related remote actually had the effect of totally losing my place in the movie. Curious. I started playing around some more, and before long, I realized that there are in fact several functions that this remote can affect on the crappy machine if I cared enough to find its parallel.

   Being of the scientific mind that I am, I made several diagrams, of which this is the most recent and accurate. The pink indications are what those buttons seem to do, and the purple ones don't do anything. This is excellent- since I'm stationed with my laptop about three feet from the TV and DVD machine at this point, it means I can do such things as switch from NTSC to PAL without having to get up from my seat! I have not yet found a button for play, pause, stop, rewind or fast forward, but I have found open, off/on, slow, frame-by-frame, zoom and loop, plus any number of number buttons. I can skip chapters though, which is invaluable.

   Here's something you must know- Community has been benched from half-season in January. That means they're taking it off the air to make space for 30 Rock for the rest of the season, which was always only going to air from mid-season because of Tina Fey's pregnancy I think. Besides for the obvious bad news that this carries (HALF AS MANY COMMUNITY EPISODES GAAAAGHGHGH), it's the first sign of genuine cancellation. WE MUST NOT LET THIS HAPPEN. What the hell would the world be like without Troy and Abed in the Moooorning? I don't even remember what life was like before the Dean and his wacky outfits, nor has paintball ever seemed such a dignified and glorious sport as it has post-paintball episodes for me. I would cry, like a LOT, if this show went away. I'm already about two steps away from losing Fringe which would make me go total bananananas, but this would just send me catatonic. #savecommunity #sixseasonsandamovie Let's get it done, people. If Two and a Half Men can survive it's lead premise vamoosing, we can save Community.

   And then lastly, before I leave you to resume my obsessive-compulsive movie watching, I remind you of the penis enlargement promises sent to me by Frederick, my favourite spam buddy. One of his correspondences urged me to visit a site called yummdick dot com, and I prophesied many a search hit from that phrase. I meant this almost entirely as an easy joke, but as it turns out, I was so fucking right. By the next day, I had already gotten two hits off of some poor souls searching the phrase "yummdick", and since then I think it's gone up to over a baker's dozen. From every search engine imaginable (seriously? You people use something other than Google? I didn't know there was anything other than Google), I have been tapped by other likewise touched individuals who wanted nothing more than to understand the message Frederick was trying so hard to spread. And like malingering STD symptoms, I think it's safe to say it has. This is what the holiday spirit is all about, I think. To show that one man on a mission can truly make a difference in the world.
   And also to prove that at least there are some people smart enough to look up an URL like "yummdick dot com" before clicking on it indiscriminately.

The Devil's Spawn

   Fuck you, you fucking fuck.
   Excuse me, I apologize, that statement needs some clarification, doesn't it? Allow me to drop some backstory on you.
   Once upon a time, I had this boyfriend. His name, shall we say, was Baartin Kotze. He was a blonde, anime-looking prick who- as it turns out- had a thing for touching underage boys. When his pet boy confronted him about said proclivity, he went apeshit and like any good Christian boy whose daddy would toss him summarily out on his ear if he found out, and had a complete personality meltdown. The inescapability of his own scaliness was simply too much for Baartin to bear, and his whole mind shut down like a Christmas light factory in July. He went from being my slightly creepy best friend (and boyfriend) to cutting out every last one of his friends and having the bible tattooed upon his ever more righteous arse. He also decided at precisely the same time to cut me off completely, acting as though I'd raped his mother with a wire shower-brush, going so far as to destroy my property and write me letters threatening to report my sorry behind to the police if I didn't stop all that polite asking for my stuff back.
   This was largely because I knew why he was suffering such a spectacular identity crisis, and could probably out him to the school he works at as a teacher (!), and god knows the best defence is a good offence. He never offered an official explanation as to why I was suddenly the anti-christ, though, and earlier this year, one of our mutual friends pulled much the same stunt without the ephebophilic tendencies to explain things away. Puzzled me somewhat, but I simply wrote it off as being Baartin's influence finally stretching so far as to poison the person we shall call Bertius. (I'm really good at this protecting the identity of the stupid and helpless, aren't I?) Bertius decided to sever all ties with me via text message savagely berating me in a spiritual tone, cleansing himself of me, which was even more puzzling than the action itself really. I wondered about this for a long time. I had dreams that ranged from shooting to befriending these two morons often, and today my dear friends I HAVE MY ANSWER.

   Bertius came to visit me. About two months ago, I got a letter from Baartin, explaining in rather douchebaggy style how commendably he forgives me, and how I can come to him any time if I feel like talking to someone about my hedonistic ways. Fuck you brother, I like me a good orgy every now an again. Bertius' letter followed in marginally less condescending tones, asking for the opportunity to come by and visit, which I jumped on hoping for either an explanation or a good cat fight. I'll usually take either, I'm not picky- when I worked at Video Den I used to volunteer to phone all the people with outstanding DVDs so someone would throw a tantrum at me. It was awesome. This particular visit was less salacious. He came over all placid-like, simply stating that at the time he decided fuck me, fuck me so very hard, he had been having a religious epiphany and had been told by Castiel to cut ties with a whole laundry list of bad influences. When I asked him what it was he reckoned I had done (especially since he had sent word through a friend to me that "I should know what it is"), he backed off and said he would tell me when the time was right.
   One visit and a Facebook friend request later, he was ready to open up. He had asked to come over tonight, and I graciously agreed, thinking maybe if he was allowed to come over today he'd come to my birthday party and bring gifts. I'm easy that way. I casually mentioned that I'm still fucking curious to know why I was branded the anathema twice by two friends, and the man told me. God, did not see this coming, better than anything I could have dreamt up on my own:

   I call up demons and put spells on people. Specifically, I put spells on Maartin. I mean Baartin- shit, what did I say? Apparently, during our 7 month dating tenure, I often said things like "Gee honey, tonight I feel like calling forth Beelzebub and his petty minions, shall I get out the blood sacrifice and the rubber sheets?" And then good boy Baartin would respond, much like a badly written character in an afterschool special on the dangers of befriending the Goth Crowd at school, "Oh no darling, I couldn't possibly feel comfortable with that- would you mind awfully if I waited in the other room whilst you slaughter the innocent to your dark underlords?" I also brought out what was only referred to as a mystery "board game" that did not sound like Monopoly at all, and now I practice my dark magic to cast spells upon Maaaaaaartin's person (where did that stutter come from?), and like the friend to all that's good that he is, he is taking it upon himself to tell this to all and sundry. Apparently, upon hearing of my wyrd practices from Maartin, Bertius (who am I kidding? name's Tertius) fell all over himself to believe this kind of fabulous and utter horse shite immediately, and thusly the ensuing text message in which he "takes back all {he} has ever given {me}, and returns all {I} have ever given to {him}."
   Since then, a core dedicated group of their fellow church-goers has been rigorously praying for my immortal soul, and Tertius has been spoken to by higher powers and told to come back to me AND SAVE ME. So he did. Or tried to. Of course, thinking about this now, I get it- Maartin is talking to this group at church, and he's having "emotional turmoil", (gay urges and whatnot) and it's so fucking obvious now. IT'S BECAUSE I'M BEWITCHING THE POOR MOTHERFUCKER. Everytime he has stubbed his toe- Loraine was there. Whenever the Barely Legal magazines gently sang his name from the unmentionable isle- Loraine was there. Whenever he found himself caught in the rain without even a single pina colada, haunted by the images of sweet young boy flesh- BAM. Loraine, motherfucker.
   Fair to say, my head asplode all over Tertius' nice button up shirt. You moron- what, if I could do spells you don't think my every waking moment would be dedicated to magicking broccoli into pizza?! Use your head! This would be a goddamn goldmine, there'd simply be no time to fuck with old boyfriends and turn them gay for sport. So Tertius sits there, cool as you please, telling me how he's been spoken to by the Lord and told to save me, and I snap. I ask him to leave politely, then firmly, then rather loudly after that. He refuses. He must save the heathen girl from her own wickedness, and he shalt not move from the bed. Eventually I go get my dad and tell him to toss this little horseknuckle arsehole out on his ear since he refuses to leave, and only then does he realize I'm fucking serious. I believe I escorted him from the building swearing and shouting (or as Emma Thompson was heard to remark in an episode of Saturday Night Fry: "Shouting and blaming, blaming and shouting, blouting and shaming"), probably solidly reinforcing every single image he had of me as a pea-soup spewing question that begged the answer of a friendly weekday exorcism.
   But seriously- if you wanted to discredit me in the eyes of anyone who could be made light of your bad feelings, why go for something so bizarrely specific? Your audience is fairly narrow here, I'd imagine you'd get some sympathy mileage out of it but how wide is your pre-emptive net really? I've said this before and I'll say it again: if you're going to lie, lie better.

   I shall speak to you some more after the weekend, my lovelies. Birthday bash is coming up, and I need to test my resolve to the new one drink maximum. Ta xx

Quick 'n Dirty

   Just a quick "How's your father", as Austin would say. An update wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am, as someone from the early to mid-ninties might have commented. To business:
   Friend Morne phoned me on Hallowe'en, telling me I should hitch my lazy arse out of bed and pyjamas and into some costumery, for we were to paint the town red. Failing that, we would at minimum smear some rouge over in the vicinity of Rock Shack, regardless of whether or not anyone else was in a decorative mode at all. I relish any and all opportunities to dress up, and would slap on a wig and a moustache to go to the bathroom if you gave it a theme, thusly I aye-ayed and immediately started pulling pots of face paint out the back of my cupboard in the hopes that at least SOME of them hadn't dried up completely. As luck would have it, I had lots of white, and a couple of pots of red and black fabric paint (that comes off pretty easily from skin, and quite frankly I'm the kind of person who observes the 5 Second Rule, so it wasn't going to bother me), so I figured I could assimilate something creepy or thereabouts. For reasons you really oughtn't ask about, I happened to have a ruff laying around (not a euphemism- get your mind out of the gutter. Oh who am I kidding, I beat you there by a long shot, didn't I?) as well as some fingerless black mesh gloves and a few odds and ends that could vaguely be called "old-timey" by someone with severe glaucoma of the eye, so I was good to go.
   God only knows what Friend Morne was going for- he certainly didn't.

   And in case you were wondering, yes, this photo was taken in the late 1800's on ye olde camera phone. Morne went back and forth between being Dr. Jekyll, Dorian Grey a la League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, and just sort of fiercely dandy. It was excellent. I, however, proved once and for all that I am not alcohol-ready, and managed to make myself look a damn fool at the pool table by grabbing the cue ball when it didn't go where I wanted it to go and then nearly running Dr. Jekyll through with the cue. I also managed to give myself such a bruise on my leg as to stun and amaze you, and that is the story of Loraine's new one drink maximum.

   Frederick has made contact again. Roused by the support my last blog post generated for his work, he decided to reward my loyalty with a bit of special attention. Observe:

   Here is a man unafraid of standing up for violent lovemaking videos at yummdick dot com. That last sentence is going to get me some very odd Google search hits.

   Yes, yes I do know Fred. Don't need to tell me nothin' twice. He's somehow managed to bring together the two worlds of Tony Danza and Austin Powers in one swift comment with two hot-off-the-press topical references. Guess who's new catchphrase is Power Shags and will be worked into every conversation possible? BAZINGA, BITCH.

   And lastly, before I go away to watch more Community because it is the new altar at which I worship (seriously, have you seen that show? It's HILARIOUS), I share with you a quick new Pie-Project. I have started taking lessons in very basic computer animation, and have just graduated from making a lump-shaped ball float across the screen to working on a walk cycle. I have completed a whole 13 frames of that walk cycle thus far and I suck only medium. Ok, medium to medium-large, but I promise I'm starting the one drink maximum soon. It's forcing me to finally learn Photoshop, something that's been intimidating me like a very large, angry biker with a broken beer bottle for years. The guy kind enough to put up with "but how do you rename the little layer things?" from me is Charles from Fopspeen, whom I intend to strong arm into showing me how to animate dirty drawings as soon as I master this walking business. 
   Just as a sneak peak, here's what the puppet looks like that I'm having walk in place on screen like a drunk epileptic with body issues.

      So that's a quick and dirty update. I shall keep you abreast of any and all interesting developments, if there should ever be any.
   Hey, just because there haven't been any up until now doesn't mean we should lose hope, ok?