Jack and the Beanstalk

There’s this pub attached to the hotel where I go dancing; I’ve been to this pub a few times. The first time I stepped foot in the bar, I met this guy named Jack. I sat down a couple seats away from him and it took him all of 3 minutes to start talking to me. I think he opened with “Have you ever seen Alcatraz?” because there was a commercial for that show on the TV above us. I had to say no because, for one, I had never watched it, but also didn’t even know it existed. In fact, I had to look at the TV to understand what he was asking me.

Luckily, the guy a couple seats down from me actually had things to say on the subject and the three of us had a nice conversation about TV shows. I say the three of us, but I think they mostly talked and I was just hoping that something Simpson related would come up so that I could actually contribute to the conversation. I’m not sure if it ever did; I might have just sat there and looked pretty.

Conversation ended up turning to what brought me to the bar that night; I explained that the hotel next door had salsa dancing. He said he didn’t know that the hotel offered such things, but that it explained why he often saw little Latinas wearing sequin-y clothes on Saturday nights. I told him I wasn’t sure the pub even existed and I certainly didn’t know that it had five pool tables. I think it’s safe to say that we both learned something that night.

Stopping in at the pub before dancing quickly became my regular routine; every time I went there, Jack wasn’t there. Until about a month ago. I pulled up a seat at the bar, he looked over at me and said “Oh, hey… … salsa dancing, right?”. That’s right. I ordered my drink and he reminded the bartender that I enjoy lime in it, even though I forgot to ask. Always looking out for me.

Last night, I went back, I sat down at the bar and a couple seats away from me was Jack. I hardly recognized him, he normally sits on the right hand side of the bar, and that night he was on the left. I guess he didn’t recognize me from that angle either because he asked if I was going samba dancing. Close enough.

He was playing Keno and asked if I play. I said not really and I had only just recently learned how it worked. Jack set me up with a game card and told me to fill it out. The only other time I’ve played the game, someone else was driving and all I had to do was pick numbers. I tried to fill out the card and make it look like I knew what I was doing since I’d just declared my knowledge of the game. I may or may not have had to ask a question or two.

After filling out the card, I looked at it and said “I’m done now!! … … So… how do I turn this into a ticket?”. Apparently I don’t know that much about the game. He summoned the bartender and made it happen because next thing I know, I have a Keno ticket in front of me with my numbers on it. Magic.

My first draw comes up and within seconds my two numbers are drawn. I’m very excited about my win, which is so unlike me, I know. I bounced in my seat, clapping my hands, saying “I won, I won!”. After that, every time, one of my numbers got drawn Jack would clap his hands and say “One more…”.

I’m not sure if he was making fun of me or not.

My other nine draws were a bust, but I was still high off my win, so it all ended well. I cashed in my ticket and the bartender asked if I wanted to replay; I decided to quit while I was ahead. I got my $10 cash, and slid it over to Jack, since he was the one that paid for the ticket. I guess it wasn’t that magical after all. He wouldn’t take it. He said I won it, told me that they were my winnings. I did the whole “No, no, I insist”, he did the same thing; I feigned a valiant effort, but inside I was really like this:

To try and make it up to him, I ordered us a shot. It’s the least I could do. After awhile, he was getting ready to leave, as was I; my bill got dropped on the bar. My bill which miraculously only contained half of the drinks I ordered. Any other place, I would have brought this to the bartender’s attention, however, at this bar, it’s par for the course. For some reason.

Jack snatched up my bill, grabbed my $10 win, threw another $10 onto the pile and handed it off to the bartender. I reached across the bar and grabbed the pile before the bartender could get there. I gave him his $10 back; he put it back on the pile. The bartender, smart girl, walked away to give us some time to settle our dispute. I gave him his $10 back, he put in back on the pile. I started to give him his $10 back, he pushed it aside, literally ran away and said “Have fun at salsa!”.

I walked out of the bar, high on my win, drunk off my drinks, with as much money as I walked in with. That just doesn’t happen everywhere. Gotta love that place!

Peter the Rabbit

When I was a little girl, my favourite time was when Granny would tell me a story. She was quite the storyteller! Granny didn't read her stories from a book and, as a result, her stories never came out the same way twice. She was just making shit up, after all.

My favourite story was about Peter the Rabbit. Peter was a rambunctious little rabbit who hopped around town and got into trouble with the local farmer... Farmer Mac? I can't remember his name. Anyway, Peter would go into the farmer's field and eat all the carrots and then get chased away by the farmer. He had all sorts of adventures. I loved hearing about Peter the Rabbit.

Note: I realize that Granny didn't invent Peter the Rabbit. She used the basic story and made it her own. Why? 1) We didn't have the book for her to read it from. 2) She drank too much whiskey to remember all of the nuances of the original story. Case and point: one time she told me the story before bed; immediately after finishing the story, I asked to hear it again. I got a different version all of five minutes later.

Being raised in a city, you'd think that I would have had limited access to farmer's fields. But I was raised in Vancouver, BC, which seems to have a high per capita rate of backyard gardens.

I clearly remember this neighbour that lived down the alley from us. I guess the yard was elevated from alley-level because there was a steep concrete incline leading up to his fence. Most of his yard was a garden and the house was far enough away that gave me the illusion that it was actually a farm. I liked playing by his fence; pretending that Peter the Rabbit was in his garden stealing carrots.

When I grew weary of Peter the Rabbit games, the tiny little ledge also provided hours of gymnast training. I'd pretend it was a balance beam and prance around on it as if I was training for the Olympics.

Danny used the alley for different forms of entertainment, namely, burning rubber. (That's what we called it when you rode your bike really, really fast. Like, so fast, that the rubber on your tires burned off!*)

*dramatization - may not have happened

Basically, he rode his bike up and down the alley repeatedly. He'd ride by and ask if I saw how fast he went that time, or if I saw the pop-a-wheelie that he pulled. I'd ask him if he saw my balance beam routine. We both agreed enough to satiate the other, in hopes that next time, they might actually be watching the trick.

I remember one day, my brother had a friend over, which meant that I got to play by the fence without having to repeatedly tell Danny that he just did the "best pop-a-wheelie EVER!". It also meant that there was someone else in the alley that day; someone that was much more judgemental of me and my form of entertainment than my brother was. I guess Danny was used to it.

I can remember this kid asking my brother "What is your sister doing?!"; my brother replied "Oh, she's just doing gymnastics...". Looking back, I'm thankful for the way he responded; he very well could have said "Playing with her imaginary rabbit friend, named Peter.".

Regardless, his friend was an asshole and wanted to ruin my fun. He started riding by and yelling things at me trying to break my concentration. I was consumed in my own little world, so I didn't pay attention to him. This just fueled his need to knock me down a peg. Or to just knock me down.

He started riding up on the incline, like some sort of motocross stuntman, in the middle of my routine. The first few times, I just kept right on going. I real gymnast wouldn't let a motocross racer interfere with the routine, right?

But he started getting more and more determined; riding farther and farther up the incline; getting closer and closer to me. He was relentless. Eventually, I started feeling the wind brush past me as he sped by. I started getting scared. I started becoming less confident in my balance beam abilities. I was succumbing to the stress of two very different sports colliding

I fell. Right down the concrete embankment. Pretty much face first. He laughed. I cried. My brother asked "Did anyone see that pop-a-wheelie?". I ran home. My brother's friend yelled at me for being a scaredy-cat; he "wasn't actually going hit me". By the time I got home, the blood was pouring out of everywhere

When she got the blood cleaned up, it turned out that my wounds were superficial and "I'd live". It didn't feel like it; I was traumatized and I wanted to feel better. She started putting band-aids on my wounds; I wanted a band-aid everywhere it hurt. I had a cut on the inside of my upper lip, it hurt. Granny told me a band-aid wouldn't stick there; I told her to put it on the outside, like a moustache. Geez!

When my mom got home later that night, Granny told her to "go on in and see Patches". Mom came into my room and saw 75% of my face covered in bandages. She rushed out and demanded to know "What the hell happened?!". Granny told her my story; Mom suggested that we go to the hospital. Granny told her that I was fine, Mom said "But her face....". Granny said "Oh, Lolo, half those band-aids weren't even necessary. I just put them on to shut her the hell up!". Love ya, Granny!

This is what I have to deal with

I'm really thankful that today is Friday and I have the whole weekend to cope with this before having to see a 'certain someone'. Rather, he should be thankful that I have the whole weekend to cope with this before he has to see me again.

And here's why:

You're actually skewing Google search results, Gorm! You're the reason for my ultimate demise. You suck. So bad. I hate you.

I will never forgive you for this. I'll never forgive you, or your children, or your children's children.

-

-

For three months.

Moving?

Based off a name suggestion by a certain Brain Trepaning (big thanks!!), I secured another blog address. I googled it and there aren't 75 million other blogs by that name - success! But now that I have a new name and address I'm overcome with feelings of nostalgia; feeling a bit sentimental towards my original name and address. I mean, I can't just pack up and move on, can I? What will happen to hwhitey1980?

I suppose I can (somehow) transfer over my old posts, but then the dates will be all wrong. And it seems like a lot of work. And what about all the comments? It's like I'm just going to erase everything that I've built over the last year and a bit. I can't just start new either, because there will be so much left unsaid and things will seem weird without the history... things are probably weird enough with the history.

So anyway, my new address is: www.thatwhitegirlsblog.wordpress.com. There is one post, but it's really not much of one. I'll keep you posted (RDRR) as to what I decide to do. Suggestions? Bring 'em!

Back-passin' Mike

I mentioned in a previous post (although briefly), that I love foosball. Just in case any of you were hoping for a post about foosball, I decided to oblige and write one. Enjoy.

It all started about 6 weeks ago. As part of a workplace fundraiser, a foosball tournament was scheduled to take place. I didn't even consider taking part until someone sent me an email saying "I may not be good at the game, but I'll likely be really excited about it. Who wants to be on my team?".

Having never played before, I couldn't help but think that, I too, would not be good at the game, but would be quite excited about the experience. I replied to the email saying as much. Another colleague came forward and professed to being the Foosball Master; the playing training began.

Our playing has built up over the weeks and it has gotten to the point where we play constantly. Sometimes multiple times a day. I (we) now have to calculate the hours worked in the day based on:

1. when I arrive


2. when I go home


3. how many minutes of foosball played during that time

Even though I have a lot more experience with the game than I did 6 weeks ago, our games still follow the same pattern. (*dramatization - may not have happened)

Our games always start off the same way. We're both eager and ready to let off some steam.

Within minutes (seconds?) of playing, the ball ends up in my zone with him on the attack. It's a very stressful moment as I pass him the ball and he lines up the shot.



Inevitably, he scores. There's no stopping the rocket that he calls 'just a shot'.

Yet, I'm just as concerned every time.

It continues on. As I get better at defending the net (that's really all I can do), he soldiers on.

It gets to the point where I've exhausted all of my efforts towards The Rocket and admit defeat.



And then he turns around and is a complete jackass about the whole thing.

Just when I don't think I can take the abuse anymore, he spends an hour coaching me on techniques; showing me where I go wrong and how I can improve. Maybe I just need more practice and then I'll be able to stop The Rocket. If that's the case, I'll be able to stop anything! Then, I'll just need to work on scoring.

I think I'm going to be a Foosball Master too. Thanks Gorm!! :)

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing illustrations.

Then I looked up "Syphilis" under Google images.... I saw things you can't unsee.

The past few days have been a roller coaster of events and emotions; I've come to the conclusion that the universe hates me and wants me to cry.

I think I wrote a post about karma, or Murphy or The Spite Gods having it out for me. Well, folks, it's happening again. Luckily, for EliseArt, I will be able to reuse pictures from the post that I'm pretty sure I already wrote. These are all true stories. (*dramatization... may not have happened).

Stompy moved out and my landlord was working on the place getting it ready for the new tenants. He called and asked me to go through the storage room and pick out anything that wasn't mine and he'd deal with it. Sounds great. I pointed out a few items, one of them being a set of crutches, and he took them away. All the while, I was eyeing the crutches, thinking "Wow, those could come in handy!".

I was reluctant to actually keep the crutches, because of karma, or Murphy, or The Spite Gods or The Universe having it out for me, so I let him put them out in the alley. Later that night, I went and had a few drinks with K, told her about the crutches and said "If I take them, isn't it just asking to get hurt?". She said no. And then I fell down.

I didn't hurt myself in an I-need-crutches-kind-of-way, but it sure answered my question. And the answer is, yes, yes it is just asking to get hurt.

The other day I was driving home and realized I needed gas, I also realized that I forgot my wallet at home. I had to stop in at work for a few minutes before heading home and chuckled to myself when I considered calling BCAA and having them bring me $10 worth of gas, just so I didn't have to go home and then go straight back out. I thought it's a bit ridiculous, but I never use BCAA so I might as well. Then I realized that my BCAA card is in the wallet I forgot at home. Dammit.

I cleaned my car the other day and it made me think that maybe my car isn't dead to me and maybe I don't need to buy a new one soon, maybe it is a good car. And then this morning I was driving to work and BAM - it sounded like my front brakes fell off and were just rolling around in the wheel well. I was pretty sure the car was going to burst into flames. I parked it and then walked the rest of the way to work.

I went about my day and I decided early on that the breakdown wasn't the end of the world, it would almost work out well. My mechanic is close to my home and my home is close to the polling station for the election. I could tow my car to the mechanic, walk to the polling station and then be home, all within a reasonable time period. It was practically perfect.

As I was getting ready to leave, I thought I'd give the mechanic a call just to let him know I was going to tow my car there. I get the voicemail, which isn't unusual, and I listen to the greeting and it says they're shutdown UNTIL MAY 23rd!

My other mechanic is in Surrey and there's no way I could be back in time to vote. Luckily, BCAA was able to fix my problem and I didn't have to have my car towed and repaired. So.... never have to use BCAA, huh? Blamo - Spite God powers initiated!

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing illustrations

I must have homework to do...

Here's a little glimpse into the ridiculous ramdon-ness that I call life...

Jan 30th
EliseArt sends me & Gorm an email with a picture of an ewok. (That's not all... it gets much more ramdon). She purchased a drawing tablet and the following conversation between me & Gorm ensued:

Feb 5th
Gorm: Yes, people emailing my hotmail are more privileged as I respond more than once a week normally.

Me: Well, aren't they a lucky bunch then!

Gorm: And now, so are you!

Feb 6th
Me: Woo - hooo!! I'm special, just like everyone else!

Gorm: "Which is just another way to say - nobody is" -The Incredibles

Feb 7th
Me: "D'Oh!" - The Simpsons

Feb 8th
Gorm: "Ha Ha!" -Nelson Muntz, The Simpsons

Me: "I think he's really hurt" - Milhouse Van Houten, The Simpsons

Gorm: "Why...why was I programmed to feel pain?" - Linguo, The Simpsons

Feb 9th
Me: "This hurts more than it looks" - Homer Simpson - The Simpsons

It's been going on like this ever since. We've, literally, been emailing Simpson quotes back and forth for months now. Holy fuck. And since Mar 22nd we've been on a single episode - Lisa The Vegetarian. We've dropped the quotations and stopped ending everything with "Person Who Said It, The Simpsons" so now it has taken on a structure of that of a screenplay (much like the above).

It doesn't happen everyday, but whenever I get one of these emails it's pretty much the highlight of that day for me. It makes me ridiculously happy. I love every bit of it. I love seeing what quote he uses and I love the scenes that play in my head as I relive the episode for myself and I love having to come up with my own quote.

It's so ridiculous, I just had to share. And you know how gmail starts a new conversation after 100 replies? No? Really? You don't? Well it does. And now we're on our second conversation.

Guilt. Is there anything you can't do? We'll be right back.

The following excerpt is a comment on my last post:

Guess what tomorrow is? The one month anniversary of your last post.

AAAAAaaand, if you don’t post next week, there will be no posts in March!!!

Let me show you a data point of scientific data:
April 2007 (1)
February 2007 (1)
December 2006 (3)
September 2006 (1)
May 2006 (1)
April 2006 (2)
March 2006 (1)
January 2006 (2)
December 2005 (1)
October 2005 (3)
September 2005 (1)
August 2005 (4)
July 2005 (1)
June 2005 (1)
May 2005 (2)
April 2005 (3)
March 2005 (1)
February 2005 (3)
January 2005 (6)
December 2004 (2)
November 2004 (3)
October 2004 (3)
September 2004 (8)
August 2004 (2)
July 2004 (4)
June 2004 (6)
May 2004 (7)
April 2004 (12)
March 2004 (13)
February 2004 (8)
January 2004 (7)
December 2003 (7)
November 2003 (10)
October 2003 (19)
September 2003 (12)

This blog started off healthy enough – and then there were no posts in November 2005! The following months were a write-off (if there were any posts at all) and only a few entries later, it was all over!

Even if it has no illustrations, even if its not your best work, some people need to read new blog entries and not see them head down the haunted path to non-existence.

I failed on the one-month anniversary front, however, I win with a post in March. Go me. I do, however, have one issue with this comment. Let's face it, I likely have many, many issues with this comment, but I'll limit it to just one. This commenter is trying to convince me to post using statistics and although it appears to have worked, my issue with it is this: You can prove anything with statistics; 14% of people know that.

So, why haven't I been posting? Well, I got a new guitar and although she's really pretty, she's quite demanding of my time. If I don't play enough attention to her, she sits in the corner and looks sad. And, I can't have that.

Also, school. I fear that next semester (also known as the semester from hell where I'd rather curl up under a rock than deal with all the responsibilities and deadlines) will only make things worse. I'm taking three classes. To some, that may seem like a cake walk, to me, it's a life ruiner. Literally.

I've also been spending a lot of time on the outside. It's a wonderful place with fresh air and animals and stuff. I take my brother and his dog for a walk every week. (which reminds me I should have called to remind him that's it's doggie day today). I'm slowly but steadily moving my way up into 'favorite aunt' status with his dog. That makes me ridiculously happy.

What else makes me ridiculously happy? Ice-skating. It makes me feel like a cross between a child and a divorcée. Odd combination? Not if you think about it. I feel like a child because I get super giddy when I'm skating. I glide around with (what my brother calls) my shit-eating-grin on my face. I laugh pretty much constantly. High on life - OH! That's what those after-school-specials were talking about. I wish I discovered this before I discovered drugs and alcohol. I feel like a divorcée because even though I'm living life and having fun, I'm really truly afraid of falling and getting hurt, again.

I think that's about it. My apologies for sucking it up in the writing arena and big thanks to Gorm for giving me the kick in the pants that I needed to post something. I suppose he's right, illustrations are not absolutely necessary and this wasn't my best work. Thanks for that. Happy reading. Yay - new post! :)

Soooo.... how was your weekend!?!?! *grin*

Happy New Year! Here's a quickie* post to tell you something extraordinary that happened to me on NYE. It was a great night!

*note - this was supposed to be quick post, without pictures (because I'm not EliseArt) but then I decided to draw pictures (I'm sorry) and it took me like 2 hours to compile this post.

First, I met up with K and we headed to The Keg for dinner and drinks. Mostly drinks. They have this lemon meringue martini that is absolutely delicious. They also had this super special that I ordered and K ordered a regular steak dinner and we split all the extras (salad, dessert, CRAB!). It was pretty much the most spectacular dinner ever. But I did regret sharing the crab with her.

After dinner, we went down to the pub to play pool and have some drinks. Mostly drinks. We used to frequent this bar on a semi-regular basis. And by semi-regular basis, I mean we went there once a week, every week, for a year. And a half. So, it's safe to say that we know people there.

We walked in, and were expecting to see T behind the bar, but he wasn't there. He was pretty much the one we went to see, because we knew he'd be there for sure. And then it turns out, he wasn't. We thought it all might be a bust. But we decided to play pool anyway and see what happens.



Shortly after, K spotted Jo on the patio. She came in and said hi and we said we'd see her on the patio in a little while. I technically* beat K at pool and this guy had already called winners, so I had to play him.

*note - she was kicking my ass and then accidentally sunk the 8ball. I won by default. (the two greatest words in the english language - De Fault, De Fault!)

I started off pretty good - sunk like 4 balls in a row. It almost looked like I deserved my win. I was pretty pleased. Especially when I did this super trick shot (totally not on purpose); the look on this guys face was "Oh no, I've been had". Once I told him it was an accident, he looked more relieved and then proceeded to kick my ass.

At some point, K tells me that S is outside with Jo. We decided that we'd go out and say Happy New Year after I got my ass kicked. We didn't have to wait long.

We go outside and S says "Hey Girls! What's happenin'!?". Not much, not much... we started getting into a place at the table, S says "You might know my buddy Brandon..." Just as I'm about to sit down, the guy turns and looks at me:





I dropped everything and hugged him and said "OH MY GOD - IT'S BEEN SO LONG!!!". Meanwhile (i.e. simultaneously) he's having the exact same conversation with K. S is at the table, completely flabbergasted, saying "Yeah, so you may know my buddy Brandon.... I guess you might know my buddy Brandon... I guess you know my buddy Brandon..." Too funny.

So Brandon was my brother's best friend in elementary school and we were really good friends for a lot of years. Realistically, it's been 15 years since we've seen each other. To say it was a total trip to run into him, would be the understatement of the century (or at least of last year). To say that I ran into him, at a bar, that I go to pretty much all the time, seeing him with someone that I always see at this bar... well, you can't really put that into words. I was shocked; I couldn't believe it (I can't believe it). Needless to say, I spent most of the night going "BRANDON! IT'S SOOOO GOOD TO SEE YOU!!"

S routinely hits on me when he's had a few... dozen, beer that is. It's harmless; nothing ever comes of it; he works with my dad and is probably terrified. Anyway, at some point, after he reached this point of drunkenness, he said "Ah geez... I wouldn't have brought Brandon if I knew Heather would be so into him" Or something to that effect.

My reply? "Oh S. Don't worry - he's not competition; he's like a brother to me!". To make matters worse, K leaned over to him and said "Really? ... So now what?!?". How embarrassing; but a great night nonetheless!

P.S. Dustin: Please refer to above pictures; this is the reason I need EliseArt. I'm sure you now understand. Please forgive me for (and be patient of) the time I take out of Elise's day/life to illustrate for me. I'm positive we now see eye-to-eye on this matter.

Watch out - your cheese has a label on it!!!

I've been given the challenge of writing: Best. Post. Ever. and even though it was stipulated in said challenge that I should feel no pressure, the overwhelming feeling of pressure is ever present. I can't even think of a story, let alone, write the best one. Shit.

Here goes... I can only hope that the lack of substance in this post is overshadowed by illustrative goodness. No pressure EliseArt.

When I was around 6 or 7, my mom had a boyfriend and he had a daughter my age. Naturally, we became best friends. One summer, Mom's beau, Bo, was going to Alberta to visit family. He thought it might be a good idea if I went along and kept his daughter company. We ended up going three times altogether, one time after him and Mom broke up.

The first time I went there, I was a bit out of my element. We stayed with his family; they had a farm with horses and chickens and a pond and everything. Although, in theory, I liked all those things, in reality, I had no idea what I was doing. I had 'city kid' written all over me.

The very first thing I learned about horses was to never approach them from behind. If they don't see you coming, they'll get spooked and kick you. I also learned to feed them with a flat hand, so they couldn't bite off your fingers. Both are very good lessons to learn.

Then I learned to ride them. I only ever rode them with an experienced rider in front of me. I'd sit behind the saddle and hold on for dear life. I was told I was a natural, which made me feel better about the city kid beacon emblazoned on my forehead.

I became very paranoid about these two lessons I learned. Every time I'd see someone feeding a horse I'd want yell and warn them about getting bit.

Anytime I saw anyone walking behind a horse, I'd want to yell out for them to keep back.

I didn't want to see anyone get hurt. But then I'd remember that they'd been around horses a lot more than I had, so they probably knew already. Afterall, these were the people that taught me these lessons.

Fearing that I would live up to the city kid stereotype even more if I vocalized my concerns, I kept them to myself. However, I confided in my friend about my internal battle. She mocked me every chance she got. She would constantly remind me that she 'goes there every year' and 'rides horses all by herself'. So I definitely would never have corrected her for fear of her mocking me until her voice was hoarse.

So one day we were playing in the field with the horses. And by 'we were playing', I mean, I was standing at a safe distance observing the horseplay. I see my friend walking across the field behind this horse. She was at a safe distance so I didn't fear for her safety.

Her path was directly behind the horse and at a diagonal, so she progressively got closer and closer to the horse.

I started getting a bit nervous.

At one point she was standing directly behind the horse.

I got really nervous, but didn't call out, out of fear of ridicule. But because I was keeping it in, really, I was just flailing my arms, looking terrified in the middle of a field with nothing at all around me. (Let alone something scary nearby).

I was fairly certain my friend was safe. The horse was completely unaware that she was behind him. And then my friend did the stupidest thing ever.

She literally gave it a pat on the ass. Naturally, the horse spooked and bucked.

 

She seriously flew through the air at least 4 feet* and smashed into a fence.

(*memory says it's more like 8ft, but that seems unrealistic, so I'm cutting it in half for conservatism)

She got up. I ran over to her and asked if she was okay. When she said yes; I burst out laughing and told her that I totally saw it coming. She was really mad (for some reason) and questioned (nearly hysterically) why-oh-why hadn't I called out to her? Why!? Because Karma's a bitch, that's why!

 

 

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing the illustrations.

I bent my wookie

I was playing the guitar the other day. I had just learned a new song, so I was OCD-ing pretty bad. Something which I haven't done in awhile because 1) I haven't been playing guitar much and 2) I haven't been learning any new songs. The two may or may not be connected. Anyway, it's easy to imagine that I was quite focused on what I was doing.

 

All of a sudden I heard this noise; it was loud and it was a voice.

It was so loud I didn't even know what it was saying. It really freaked me out. I abruptly stopped playing guitar and looked over my shoulder towards the noise with pure terror on my face.

My heart was pounding; I was sure I was going to see some monster bursting through my wall, coming to get me.

And then I saw it. A pop-up notification that my anti-virus software had an update. This particular software includes voice-notification in addition to the temporary pop up message. I had been listening to music through my computer earlier that evening and every volume knob was cranked to the max. Thus, when the nice lady told me that I should download an update, I nearly crapped myself. All I could do was laugh while I waited for the palpitations to subside.

 

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing illustrations!

Attack of the Corn!! Part 3

It's been awhile so if you haven't read, or want a refresher on, my story please look at this and then this first.

The Corn Plants

Stretching, stretching, stretching... with all my might just trying to pull myself to the surface. The soil becomes a bit brighter and drier... it gets a bit easier... bit by bit. Success - bright sunlight pours down on me. I've finally reached the surface. I grow. Small bugs try to come near, but I repel them with pure will.

Something seems to have awakened in me. The same goes for the others in my crop. There's a crop next door, but none of those corn even acknowledge our existence. Assholes. Ignoring us won't make us go away, if anything it's going to want us to take you out... stupid corn.

Our farmers are weird, they wear these white coats and act important. The farmer next door wears overalls and acts like a yokel.

But that's okay because soon enough the corn revolution begin and we will cut them down to size.

We've been getting messages from the mother corn, but as of right now we haven't figured out how to communicate back to her. In time, we'll get strong enough and smart enough to respond. But we'll have to keep it under wraps as well, so that the farmers don't catch on.

... Several weeks and a couple generations of corn later...

We've been successfully communicating with the mother corn. I can't believe our grandparents couldn't figure it out. Communicating: it's as easy as lying down.

I can't believe the farmers haven't caught onto this!

... Several months and a several generations of corn later...

Alright. Our collective intelligence is up, we're communicating with the mother corn on a daily basis. We know what we're supposed to do... we just don't know how to do it. We're stuck in this ground with these long root-like tentacles. We need to mobilize. Lying down isn't good enough anymore - we need to act! We've started producing off-shoots of ourselves in hopes that these beings can figure out how to become mobile. It seems to be working; the farmers come round and collect them on a daily basis.

The Corn Off-Shoots (a.k.a. Corn)

After being removed from the corn plant the farmers take us into a lab of some sort and start disecting us. It's rather gruesome. Corn juice everywhere. Eventually the disecting stops and they start ripping us to shreds with their teeth, all the while commenting on how sweet we are. I've had to sit here and watch as the farmers murder my fellow corn. The mother corn said there will be an event that will activate something inside us, so we will be able to move under our own will. I can't figure out how that is going to happen, but I'm keeping a watchful eye.

The farmers must be getting broke - they were talking with the local yokel and were trying to sell him corn. Now, I know I'm smarter than the average corn, but they should know better: yokel grows corn, why would he buy it from them??!

An older man walks into the lab and peers down at me. He seems important, what with his top hat and everything. The dorky farmer with glasses stutters and says "I'm sorry Samuel, it's just that no one wants to buy it."

"What do you mean? It's perfectly good, right? I mean, it is sweet, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Very sweet."

"Then people will want to eat it."

"But they don't."

"Fine. Well, I can't let this all go to waste. I'll take it home and have Martha cook it up."

This "Samuel" bends down and picks a bunch of us up and mutters something about cornbread. Not sure what that is... We get into a car and drive for sometime before we reach our destination. Everything the mother corn has ever told us is running through my head - we're the first corn that have gotten out, we need to keep an eye out for what she prophesized.

She said there's an animal that is at the root of all our problems. If this animal didn't exist, no one would eat corn. We need to find that animal and destroy it. As with all hierarcys, the smart ones are at the top and if we take those out, we will have control over the rest. We will have to travel great distances to find the top animals, but they will all be in one place.

We get transported into a house, the lady grabs me by the ear and drags me over to the sink and proceeds to skin me alive. Silk everywhere. Next, when I don't think I can take anymore, she bring me over to a boiling pot of water... oh no, that looks hot!... but she places me gently next to the pot. I look around I see large slabs of red meat. The lady is complaining to the man who brought us here, saying how eating too much red meat is bad. The man responds with, but cows are so good and they go so well with corn.

There were cows on the farm next door, I remember what they look like. I see a gold brick glistening in the distance... I look closely and see a picture of a cow. Butter. Butter and steak. They both come from cows... this must be what the mother corn prophesized. We must take out the cows.

I got tossed into the boiling pot of water. The first couple minutes I thought I was going to die, but something inside of me bubbles to the surface. I start moving around. At first, I thought it was the boiling water that was making me move and then I realized it was me. The lid on the pot begins to move... I see the lady peer down at me and I leap out of the water and eat her face.

That's it! Heat activated corn! All we have to do to get mobile is to get heated up, if we get mobile we can take over the cows and then the world.

The man comes running in the kitchen after hearing the lady scream, he screams when he sees what I did to her face. I jump at him and eat his face too. I scurry out of the building and attempt to find my way back to the corn. It's easier than I would have thought... it seems like I have a honing device built in. I force the local yokel to harvest my siblings and cook them. We are now an army of mobile, blood-thirsty corn.

Since my departure, my siblings have learned more about cows... it's like they were aware of my thoughts... we're connected more than any one of us thought possible. The mother corn said we need to find the smartest of the animals and take those out... my siblings have learned that there's a place in this world where cows are worshipped and it goes against the human's religion to kill or eat them. These must be the smartest cows in the world if they convinced humans not to eat them. We must find these cows. We must go to India.

Dawn Knotts-Wade

I was watching the news today and saw a story of corn gone wild. At first I thought it was a joke, but then I saw hundreds and hundreds of corn marching across the country, headed for the Atlantic. Eating any human that tries to eat them. I knew instantly that this corn is Ian's corn. I knew this would happen.

I sat, mesmerized, watching the TV, the reporters are interviewing people to get their take on it. Most are flabbergasted and can't understand what's happening. Others are sure this is what Nostradamus predicted. And others still are welcoming the corn with open arms; Shiva prophesized a new beginning; the people of India are convinced this corn is their new symbol of hope and prosperity.

... ... several months later ... ...

The corn have crossed the Atlantic. Some swam, others latched on to barges. They have landed in Africa and have made their way their way through the middle east. Oh. My. God. They are going to India.

... ... several weeks later ... ...

The corn have made their way to India; the result is what no one expected. The corn have massacred all the cows in the country. But all the saturated fat has increased their strength. The Indians cannot control the corn. We must do something!

Completely overwhelmed by the corn, I decided to take in a movie. I was standing in line waiting for some Junior Mints when I saw it. I don't know why I didn't think of this before!! I must tell Ian. I called him at work immediately and told him of my plan. He thinks I'm crazy. I think he's an idiot. I'm going to India and I will single-handedly fix this problem if I have to.

Luckily, the people of India are more than willing to help me help them. I tell them of my plan and we start brainstorming ideas. We need desiccant. My plan won't work without it. Luckily, again, India is the largest manufacturer of electronics and therefore has the largest supply of those silica packets that keep things dry.

We start looting the factories and stores and robbing anyone and everyone for silica. They think we're crazy, and maybe we are, but they hand over the packets because it's not worth dying over and they can see in our eyes that we will, in fact, kill them for their silica.

We have collected more packets of silica than we can count. We spend days emptying them into the storage units of crop dusters. It's game time. We've herded all the corn into a small 4 block radius. We crop dust the fuck out of them. At first, nothing appears to be happening. Then, the ears of corn start shrinking. As if all the water is being sucked out of them. It is. That silica is damn absorbant. Night falls. We can't see our progress any longer, but continue dusting throughout the night.

Day breaks. The sun comes up and lets us see what's happening in the corn block. They are weak and dry, but vicious. The sun is in full force. It's 45 degrees Celcius. Hot enough to fry an egg on your forehead. Brutal. But we need this.

In the distance I hear a shot. It sounds like a mix between a gun shot and a sonic boom. I hear another one. And another one. So that's why people say "pop a cap in your ass"... it's working...

We fly over the corn zone and see it. Giant white balls littering the ground. The corn is self-destructing. But we're not done yet. We'll need to make sure no corn is left standing.

We're going to have to eat our way out of this.

And that's how genetically modified corn nearly took over the world and how Dawn saved mankind.

The End.

Quick - randomly say something random!

I am the 2%. What's the 2%, you ask? 2% represents the fraction of the general population that have unbelievable things happen to them, things that do not happen to the other 98%. Sounds okay, right? Riiiggghhht.

The 2% has two sides, two extremes. One extreme is: unbelievably awesome things happen to me! Things like winning the lottery or never having a sunburn. The other extreme is: I can't believe this happened... why me... wwhhhyyyy!?!

I have yet to win the lottery and I get a sunburn every summer. I'm the 2% that gets the shaft. Oh come on, I must be exaggerating... just being dramatic, right? Wrong.

One Sunday morning, I woke up on my friend's couch with a headache. We'd polished off more than our fair share of booze the night before so I wasn't so surprised that I was under the weather. What I did find odd was my hands. They felt.... weird.

Upon first inspection they appeared to be slightly red and felt almost numb. I was sure I slept funny and it would just take some time for the feeling to come back into my hands. I was right. But what I didn't anticipate was that the feeling that came back ended up making my hands feel worse. That and they were swollen. And I mean, sausage fingers kind of swollen. I convinced myself that it was normal and there was nothing to worry about. Denial can be a powerful force.

A little while later, I noticed my pants were chaffing me. They really seemed to be digging into my stomach and it hurt. A lot. And they had an elastic waistband. That's not quite right, so I inspected my stomach and it was also red. Nothing to worry about here. All is well.

A while later, after changing into some larger pants and they too became uncomfortable, I suspected something else might be happening. I, again, inspected my stomach.

Small raised bumps had appeared. The tell-tale signs of an eminent rash. I was convinced I was having an allergic reaction so I popped a couple anti-histamines and hoped for the best.

The following day I woke up, with swollen hands, a rashy belly and sore feet. But that's what Monday's feel like, so I went to work. After spending the day at work, I came to the conclusion that I might have more problems that I originally thought.

I still wasn't feeling well and I certainly wasn't hung over. I decided to go to the doctor.

I went to a walk in clinic, feeling a bit like a tool. I can't believe I'm here just because I have a rash and I can't make a fist because my fingers are so swollen and why do my feet hurt?... The doctor came in and asked why I was there. I think I'm having an allergic reaction. Why? Well, because I have this rash and look at my hands! He looked me over and asked some general questions: how are you feeling? have you been sick? how long ago did you have this cold? did you have a sore throat? how do your feet feel? They hurt, in fact.

He took some notes, my temperature and then looked at me and said: "I don't think you're having an allergic reaction. I think you have scarlet fever. Do you know what that is? I've heard of it... I think he realized that I had absolutely no idea what it meant because he explained it to me.

Scarlet fever is caused by the streptococcus bacteria (the one that causes strep throat). Now, certain strains of this bacteria secrete a certain toxin and certain people are sensitive to this toxin and it results in a full body rash. This occurs in roughly 2% of the population. Of people under the age of 12.

Seriously. I had a childhood disease at age 27. Fuck you, 2%.

He wrote me up a blood work order, took a swab of my throat and told me to come back in two days. Scarlet fever, left untreated, can cause kidney failure, so he was pretty concerned about it. He had also never seen anybody that picks out their own clothes get scarlet fever before. I went back in two days and he looked me over again and decided that he wanted to send me for more blood work. He wanted to test me for everything that could possibly cause a full body rash (sounds reasonable), illnesses such as mono (okay, that's not too bad) and syphilis (what!?!?).

Oh, don't worry, he said, I don't think you actually have syphilis, I just want to be sure. Okay... sure... no problem... I'm clean...

I went and had the blood work done and went back to the doctor in two days time to get the results. I had to go in the middle of the day, so I had to leave work and go back after my appointment. At first, I didn't really consider syphilis as an actual cause of my problems. But then the doctor walked out, went up to the receptionist and said "I need an infectious disease agent on the phone now." Infectious disease agent? Syphilis is probably an 'infectious disease'. Oh dear God, I have syphilis. How long have I had it? Can it be treated? Where did I get it from? Who gave it to me? Who have I given it to? Am I going to die?

By the time they called my name to see the doctor I was pretty much sweating bullets and had convinced myself that I was a dirty whore. I went into the examination room and waited. And waited. Oh no, he's probably waiting to talk to the agent before he comes in here. He finally came in and said: I got your test results. Uh-huh. And it came back negative for mono. Uh-huh... And negative for everything else, but we don't have the results for the strep tests yet. So, no syphilis? No, no syphilis, come back in three days for your strep results.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief. No syphilis, I'm not a dirty whore. No awkward telephone conversations for me - success! So I went back to work feeling pretty good about myself and I told the story to one of my work friends. I was kinda ashamed that I had to have the test done in the first place, so I was trying to keep it on the down-low. But when I got to the point where I said he tested me for syphilis, my not-so-subtle friend yelled out "YOU HAVE SYPHILLIS?!!?!?"

Everyone turned and looked. I was mortified. NO! NO SYPHILLIS!! It came back negative. But that doesn't make it any better, does it?

So I went back to the doctor and got my results. I never had strep throat - my throat culture came back negative. My blood work, however, was positive. The doctor was slightly baffled... how can you have it in your blood if you don't have it in your throat? Almost no one gets strep in their blood without strep throat.... Almost no one? Like 2% of the population? Sounds about right.

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing the illustrations and being so damn excited about drawing the pictures that I had to write the post.