Sauron = Rasta? Voldemort = Republican!

Today’s amusing webcomic: GOATS!

So I’ve spent the past few days in obsessive-compulsive bliss. Wading through the bottomless pile of comics I bought at the convention. Eating whatever delicious meals my live-in chef, Ed, decides to entice me with. And cleaning. So. Much. Cleaning. Cleaning in anticipation of my roommate coming home from Cancun, my other roommate revamping the kitchen, and the arrival of a sick foster cat from the Humane Society.

At first it was just sweeping the steps. Then mopping seemed like a good idea. A few hours later, Ed strolled by, cocked his head over the railing and almost passed out from the fumes. I’d cracked open a can of Circa 1880, grabbed a bag of steel wool and a power sander, and started to have a go at stripping the nine layers of cracked oil paint befouling my stairwell. I don’t know what came over me, but I think I’d like to place some of the blame on Bob Vila, Debbie Travis, and my mother’s addiction to HGTV.

The new cat, Wesley, is terribly, terribly skinny. I didn’t want to be picky, so I just asked them to give me the animal most immediately in need of a foster home. They gave me a young female, post-surgery, who has clearly been on the street, making a living as a punching bag for other cats. Her tail’s been broken in at least four places and she’s got a really bad-ass necklace of scars and lacerations behind her ears. Unfortunately, I’ve started sneezing a lot lately, and I think Wes may be the culprit. Also, she shows her love by sleeping on my head. Harrumph.

Speaking of skinny creatures: during a slothful Monday viewing of the Two Towers, my friends and I indulged in some casual running commentary about Gollum being recruited as a poster-child for why the Atkins diet is just so damn effective. This has resulted in me giving some serious consideration to reducing my protein intake. We then segued into a really bizarre speculation about whether or not Sauron is a chronic pot smoker. Some good arguments were made on the evidence of his seriously bloodshot eye, unfortunate paranoia, and clear case of the munchies, but personally I think he’d be a lot more laid back about trying to conquer Middle Earth if he were sweet on the mary jane. Yeah, yeah, I know. Mystery Science Theatre, we ain’t.

As a completely unrelated aside, I must once again express my intense dislike of Rebecca Eckler and her woefully ignorant, badly written, sorry-assed columns. Yesterday, she waxed not at all poetically about the Toronto Science Fiction Convention. Why her editor thought to give her this assignment, I can’t fathom. Her vapid, too-cool-for-school nature aside, she has no knowledge whatsoever of science fiction culture, and no desire to learn. She can’t even mock them in a biting, caustic fashion. Given my own personal celebrity wrestling match, she would be top of my dream opponent list. Maybe not while pregnant, since she’d have a weight advantage, and I’d have to pull my punches on account of baby, but post-partum – it’s on like Donkey Kong, beotch.

FYI, for those of you that are fence sitting about going to see “American Wedding,” take the plunge. I went this weekend with Darren and almost ruptured something during Stiffler’s gay bar dance-off scene – Seann William Scott is worth the price of admission.

Why so blue, Scott?

Went to see ‘Underworld’ tonight with Christie and Chrissy and Co. Then went to the Foxes Den and got drunk off my ass on Strongbow cider. Can’t believe I have to drink again tomorrow at Rob and Alyssa’s -1 year Wedding Anniversary party. Jesus. **Warning: movie spoilers ahead**

The ‘Most Sassy Award’ for uncalled for comments during the movie goes to Christie, who, when Kate Beckinsale bares her vampy fangs to get a taste of the lupine-a-licious Scott Speedman, said, “Mmm… finger lycan good!” She’s so funny sometimes she makes me want to throw up, but in a good way. In the opening sequence, where Kate’s character, appallingly named ‘Celine’, is posed dramatically on the dark and stormy, rain-battered stone turret of what seems to be a castle rooftop, she leaned over and whispered, “Are you suddenly jonesing for a pint of Stella Artois?” And when Viktor, the vampire clan leader, beat the living daylights out of a werewolf with his bare hands and then shish-kebabed him with a broadsword purely for effect afterwards, we simulataneously blurted out “Yes! Kickin’ it old school style!” God, we were obnoxious, come to think of it. There were a lot of loud remarks about telemark landings coming from me when vampires and the like would jump out of sixteen storey windows and land on their feet. And some amazed murmurs about the fact that anyone could perform in the role of Irishman-turned-bloodsucking-fiend with a less convincing accent than David Boreanaz (amazingly, the actor who played Craven achieved this, sounding even more like he’d lost his lucky charms than Angel). Other totally unnecessary exclamations included “Bad doggie! No biscuit!” when Scott Speedman first started to change into his lycan form, and “Why so blue, Scott?” at his anguished screams when he turns into the indigo-toned half-breed at the end of the movie. And of course the inevitable comparisons to the soap opera “Days of Our Lives”: really, the resemblance was striking, elaborate sets and costumes, horrible dialogue and delivery, a sleeping patriarch named Viktor, and all that jazz. I suggested that instead of a sequel (which will undoubtedly happen), the producers should consider turning it into a new, edgy daytime serial called “Nights of Our Deaths”. It could become the hip new hit for housewives everywhere who want to escape from Maury Povich, Price Is Right reruns, and As the World Turns.

We sound like complete assholes after this description of our behaviour, I know, but sometimes you’ve got to make your own fun at the movies, and this was one of those times. It was either get down with our snarky MST3K selves, or start playing scissors, paper, stone in the dark. Besides, by the end of the film, the whole audience had joined us in mockery. The death of Viktor was a masterpiece of gore-hilarity, taking the old trope of the time-delay beheading to a new and inglorious level. After a ten second staredown with Celine, a thin line of blood bisected his face diagonally and one eyeball started to slide away from the other (still managing a shocked facial expression, despite synapses and capillaries being severed). Roars of laughter rolled up and down the aisles. Sadly, although the whole point of the movie was getting the audience to ponder the question “Why can’t we all just get along?”, I think my crew pissed off Jamie’s girlfriend Erin mightily by laughing too loudly throughout the performance, which she was clearly trying to take really seriously. I’d have felt worse if the film had been an Ingmar Bergman classic, and I’d have felt better if she’d come out to the pub afterwards and let us buy her a pint in apology.

Tired now. Must go to sleep before I do the bad drunk thing and pick up the phone and start calling people.