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.
