Archive for the ‘Plinky’ Category

Favourite Word

February 11, 2011

Plinky asked me today what my favourite word is. Off the top of my head, I’d have to say parsimonious. And maybe irksome as well.

Which brings me to my next point: I’m going to start a Word of the Day segment. Get ready.

Oh, and a legit post coming your way tomorrow, so stop stressin’.

Island music

January 30, 2011

Plinky asked me a stupid-ass question today.

“If stranded on a desert island, and could only bring one music album with you, which would it be? What is it about this music that never gets old for you?”

Okay first of all, who voluntarily gets stranded? This question indicates that someone would come up to me and say, “Hey what’s up, uh, yeah we’re gunna drop you off on an uncharted island in the middle of the ocean and you’re gunna be there alone and probably without food or shelter, but we’ll let you bring a CD with you. So what’ll it be?” I say fuck that. No way am I going to let you strand me. And as a parting gift to show your condolences, I will be granted permission to take along a CD? Uh-uh. No.

Secondly, who still listens to CDs? It’s called an iPod. On which one can store hundreds of free and illegally downloaded music albums. So will the island stranders allow me to take my iPod? Or is that against the rules of banishing?

Here’s another problem. If I bring a CD, fine. What would I play it on? Will my island come with a CD player? Or must I build one myself from sand and palm leaves? I mean, clearly they didn’t think this one through. And the island would also need to be equipped with electricity or a lifetime supply of batteries, because how would I charge my music player? Also, would I get headphones or speakers? These are all important factors to consider, because a CD on its own is just a stupid shiny disk of uselessness.

Oh and one more thing: EVERYTHING GETS OLD IF YOU LISTEN TO IT ON REPEAT FOR THE REST OF YOUR GODDAMN LIFE ON A DESERT ISLAND IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE! I can’t even listen to that Bruno Mars song anymore without throwing up, because the radio overplayed it. And I thought it was a good song.

So here’s what I’ve decided. I’d tell the stranders to go fuck themselves and their music album. I’d take nothing, because otherwise I’d feel like I was cheating. Once on the island, my first priority would of course be to form spears and other tools with which I could hunt food.

After that’s sorted, I’d need to build a shelter (which over the years would be come pimped out and awesome, by the way) so I’d have a comfortable crib to come home to after a long day of tanning and fishing. Food and shelter are my first two priorities. After that, I’d go apeshit.

I’d go into the jungle part of the island and collect all kinds of vine ropes and build myself a kickass swing.

I’d fashion a surfboard out of… I dunno, something, and if the waves permit, I’d teach myself.

I’d gather stones and logs and such and instead of building a HELP ME sign, visible to satellites and airplanes, it’d read PARTY HERE! Because come on, think about it. If you were a pilot, would you rather land to help a complete stranger, or land to go party with said stranger? Yes, the latter. Hence the party sign. But there’s no party. I would eat the pilot, read the airplane manual for a few days, and then teach myself to fly it. But not as a means of escape, just as a means of transport to the real world so I can come and go as I please.

I would definitely make myself a coconut bikini top, because I’ve always wanted one.

And last but not least, I would build an instrument similar to a banjo or a guitar or whatever and teach myself to play my own shit. Maybe I’d also hollow out a small stick and create a flute-type instrument, teach myself how to play, and then find a monkey and train him to be my accompaniment.

Stomach story

August 11, 2010

I ate at an all-you-can-eat sushi bar yesterday. Today, I checked some Plinky archives and found a prompt where I must write an entire poem using only words that start with the letter “s.” I didn’t think it was possible (what about prepositions?!), but apparently, it is. This poem is proof that too much delicious raw seafood can directly affect your brain.

Sushi.
Succulent sushi.

Sensational spectacle:
Salmon sashimi surrounds seafood salad,
Seaweed shamelessly shelters sea bream snapper,
Simmered scallops support salty squid structure.

Some scents seem superfluous:
Sweet soy sauce.
Some scents seem significant:
Sliced swordfish,
Spotted sea trout,
Shellfish.

Simultaneously,
Said smells stimulate salivation.

Sniff,
Sample,
Savour…

Swallow.

Alliteration much?

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The Fun Police

July 18, 2010

Tell a story with dialogue. Your characters: two cops in Alaska.

“License and registration, please.”

“But officer, I–”

“Hey. Didn’t you hear my partner? He said… ‘License and registration. Please.'” The two cops stood on either side of the vehicle.

The boy laughed nervously. “Look, officers, I uh, I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong here.”

“Just give us your license and registration, son.”

The boy was as bewildered as a deer who jumped in front of a snow plow. He looked between the two policemen and searched desperately for a glint of humour in their eyes, as if expecting them to burst into laughter, clap him on the back, and reassure him that they’re just pulling his leg. But there was no such glint. They were serious. Unsure of how to react, he carefully reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his library card and a recent receipt from Target. He handed both to the friendlier-looking cop, who inspected the documents thoroughly.

“Do you have any idea how fast you were going?”

“What? Uh, no. Not at all.”

“You’re telling us you have no idea how fast you were going. None whatsoever?” the second officer asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, I mean, if I had to guess, I’d say I was going maybe 25? 30? But it’s not like there’s a speed lim–”

“25?! 30?!” The first officer cut him off. “Are you high or something? We clocked you going forty-three!

The boy was in disbelief. Were these guys serious? So he was going 43 mph, big deal. There was absolutely no traffic, and no speed limit as far as he was concerned.

“Listen. Here’s what we’re going to do,” the first officer said, passing the documents over to his partner. “We’re going to take you down to the station and sort this mess out over some hot chocolate. You like marshmallows?”

“I’m sorry officers, but what ‘mess’ are you referring to? I wasn’t speeding! I’m just a kid, having some fun! Give me a break!”

The two cops exchanged a single, silent nod of agreement. The second one threw the documents at the boy and grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. “If we catch you being reckless again,” he growled in a low voice, “there won’t even be a conversation. Just a one-way ride to jail, you understand? Consider this a friendly fucking warning.” He released his grip, spat on the ground, and did the I’m-watching-you signal by pointing two fingers at his eyes and then back at the boy. The two policemen then returned to their car and drove off.

The boy put his library card and Target receipt back into his pocket, shaking his head in confusion. He then kicked off and, being sure to mind his speed and his steering, he slowly sled down the hill.

Meanwhile, back in the patrol car, Tyler and Ethan were in hysterics. “Aw man, Tyler, that one never gets old! Did you see the look on his face?! He was about to shit his pants when we said we’d take him to jail!”

“Yeah,” chuckled Tyler, “the sledder pull-over is a classic. Gets me every time. Hey, you wanna go down to the lake and ‘arrest’ the ice-fishers for defacement of public property?”

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One Decade Later

July 6, 2010

Ten years from now, I’m going to be in my early thirties. That’s depressing. What do I hope my life will be like?

Well first of all, let’s talk about my personal hopes. I hope I don’t look old. Yet somehow, with all the smoking and sun exposure, it’s very likely I’ll look like keeper of the crypt. I hope my hair is still full and luscious, my skin still taught and vibrant, and my teeth still in tact. I also hope I maintain a normal weight. Basically, I hope to look like Katie Holmes, in the sense that she’s fit, she looks healthy, and if you had to guess her age, you’d be like “Ehhh, late twenties, early thirties?” which is exactly what I’m going for. Minus the whole being married to a Scientologist dwarf thing.

Next up are my professional hopes. Hopefully in ten years from now I’ll either have my own marketing firm, or I’ll at least be at the top of an already existing one. I want to have a big office on the 20th floor or higher, with two walls entirely made out of glass and displaying a gorgeous view of the metropolitan city below. I hope to be a reputable individual, who’s good at what she does, and I want to enjoy my career. I hope to be able to travel a lot (for business consultancies and whatnot), and I hope to grow, even if I’m already at the top. I mean, the last thing I’d want is to have a stagnant, dead-end job that I hate. So hopefully that doesn’t happen.

As far as families are concerned, I know it’s the norm to hope for a happy marriage with a handsome husband and beautiful children, but do I really want that? Let’s wait a while and see what happens, I’m not going to write anything on paper. Babies. *shudder*

I hope my sister is the successful doctor that she always wanted to be and develops the cure for cancer. I hope my mom is retired by then and living in an institute for crazy old people. Just kidding! But I do hope she’s retired and just goes on a trip around the world or something. I hope Amadeus is two meters long and breathes fire (although it’s quite difficult to train an iguana). I hope they invent a way to make long-distance traveling easier and/or faster because I’m sick of the airline industry. I hope all drugs are legalised. I hope every day the sky is filled with rainbows. I hope all cashiers are glittering unicorns who poop the correct change directly into your wallet. I hope… ah wait. I’m getting out of hand.

So basically, if I land that perfect job in a few years and I quit smoking, this ten year plan seems pretty feasible. Mainly because it’s superficial and vain, but hey, I’m just answering the question.

When did I last thank someone?

July 3, 2010

I thanked someone over the phone not two minutes ago, for informing me that she has 75W infrared bulbs in stock.

Amadeus broke his light a couple days ago (and I can only imagine that he accidentally whipped it with his surprisingly strong iguana-tail) and hasn’t been eating normally since. The reason being, reptiles cannot control their own body temperature, and need to be a certain level of warmth in order to correctly digest food. So I went on an expedition around town to every single big pet store, in search of another infrared bulb.

One store had them, but they were like a gajillion watts and even bigger than Amadeus, so I decided that was ridiculous. Another store had a 60w infrared bulb, but it was ceramic, and I prefer the red ones because they help improve Amadeus’s night vision. So I didn’t get that one. Another store just placed the order and would be getting the new shipment in a week. And the last store I went to was also out of stock, but they had one more left in their display-iguana’s cage! I went to check it out (they were going to give it to me for free), but it turns out that she, too, whipped her light into a broken state of uselessness.

Defeated, I went back home empty-handed and went to sleep.

This morning, I thought of one last place that I know of, that I haven’t yet checked. But I wasn’t feeling too optimistic, so I decided to call first (before I drive all the way out there in vain).

“Hey, uhh, do you have infrared bulbs in stock?”

“Just a minute ma’am, let me check.”

“Kay cool thanks.”

“Ma’am? Yeah, we do have them.”

“Oh okay, but I don’t want the ceramic ones.”

“They’re not ceramic, they’re the red ones.”

“Oh. Okay cool, but I can’t handle eight trillion watts either, I don’t want my house to explode into a supernova of infraredness.”

“Well I have 60W, 75W, and 100W.”

“You… what?”

“I said, I have 60W, 75W, and 100W. And they’re not ceramic. And I’m pretty sure your house won’t become a supernova. Aaaand, we have a part sale going on, so if you buy one, you’ll get the second one at half price.”

“OH MY GOD YES! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOUUUUUU!!!”

What would I do with unlimited resources?

July 1, 2010

When I first read this prompt, I immediately thought WORLD DOMINATION! But in retrospect, I concluded that 1.) revealing my evil ploys is probably not a very strategic maneuver, and 2.) world domination isn’t really a “creation” per se. So with a little added thought, I changed my answer to a different thing that I would create, given unlimited resources.

That thing would be a teleporter. Having my own teleporter would definitely come in handy. I still haven’t decided on the final design of it yet, but I’m considering making the first version look very old-school (i.e. typical textbook teleporter that you must crawl into, flashing lights, beep bloop bleep, etc.), but then coming out with a fancier, slimmer, portable one a couple years later.


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