On the cab ride home last night, the driver asked me about my accent. He said I sound “almost Southern”, which I assume means Southern American. Now, combine this with the times I mentioned a few days ago and I have to assume one of three things:
- I talks damn funny and everyone hears it and thinks I’m some foreign freak.
- I, as an independant nation, am developing an accent all my own.
- This cab driver religiously reads this website, saw my previous post and wanted to mess with me.
Of those, #2 is my favorite option. Heck, even #3 would be cool because it implies that someone actually reads this website. But most likely #1 is at fauly. I curse the Aztec god of vocalization for this. I think his name was Talkzectotl.
In other news, there was an article about police using tasers against people and a couple people have died or whatever. The most important part came when a professor from the University of Miami was asked her opinion. She said “The issue of police brutality is simply wrong. That’s not to say it can’t occur, but when police are confronted by someone exhibiting superhuman strength like a Hulk Hogan… what can they do?”
It pleases me greatly to see that scholars recognize Hulk Hogan’s superhuman strength. And they say there’s no good news.
My next post will be another offering from the defunct Ape Slave Training Manual. A prose piece starring a character who would have turned up in prose pieces every few issues, if the thing had not been cancelled before half of it was completed.
I have been recieving an abnormally high number of static electrical shocks lately. Way more than is typical. When I mention this to other people, almost all of them state that this has been happening to them too. What can this mean? Global Warming is a hoax. The real crisis is Global Static Increase. This will surely kill us all, even me, unless we do something about it. I don’t know what that something should be, but I hope it involves rubbing balloons on my head and sticking them to walls. Balloons are awesome. They’re thin plastic filled with air!
Some pizza delivey guy was on the elevator today and he said “It sounds like you have an American accent, are you American?” I’m not. But about a year ago, when I took over new staff at work one of them said something along the lines of “We were trying to figure out your accent, is it French?” and I can remember something years ago about someone somewhere also asking about my accent. What is it about my way of speaking that sounds so foreign? At the very least I am hoping that the pizza guy hated Americans and would have slain me had I been one, because that would mean I avoided that fate.
Finally, last time I showed you a page from the Fun And Games section of my now abortioned magazine. The second page of the Fun And Games section was not made up, but it was written. It would have been a full page of text. Here is what it would have said:
WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?
You helped a necrophile escape justice?
Think of the families of his victims!
You sicken me!
Around the beginning of the year, I happily foreshadowed something called the Ape Slave Trading Manual. This was going to be a little magazine thing put out by Marq and myself in which we could write/draw/do pretty much whatever nonsense we wanted and nobody could stop us even the President. I was really excited about the whole thing.
But Marq lost interest pretty quickly (even though it was his idea in the first place) and I have to face it, it’s just not going to happen. But I don’t want to waste all the stuff that would have gone into the magazine, so I am going to start bringing it to you here. Some of it (like the main photo story which was never finished and my article about how happy I was to have a magazine) will be lost, but I’ll salvage what I can.
Today I bring you what would have been the “Fun and Games” section. A maze!
On the plus side, maybe now that I am finally willing to admit my dreams of the magazine have been crushed, I will be able to write for the site here again. That’s a plus…
For the record, I did get in touch with the bank and it turns out I gave the internet server wizards the wrong three digit security code and that’s why it isn’t working. And since the three digit code is on the card itself I have to get it off that and not the monthly statement things I got the number off. And that means I have to find the card, which I left in my room at some point to keep myself from using it offline.
For those not aware, my room is a reflection of my soul. When I am extremely happy, it gets cleaner. When I’m not, it becomes a mess. I have not had a clean room since I was twenty or twenty-one. And these days, it’s a damn mess.
Now I’ll point out that on my previous Visa, the three digits were easy to remember: 505. That’s a favorite number of mine, because it scares crows (I like crows, but still…). But they (Visa/Royal Bank) called me one time about upgrading my card to a different plan where I get double points or whatever. I usually go along with them on stuff like this because I genuinely don’t care and I figure they’re probably rewarded for every person they talk into crap like this. Anyhow, I wasn’t aware I would be issued a new damn card because of this. Thanks to this, I’ve lost weeks of having an email because I don’t have my 505. The shame of it all.
I guess I’ll try to find the card tomorrow and call them up again on Monday.
Sigh. I wish I had an actual life to talk about on here…
As I check out my groceries, I occasionally note that there is a “Pregnancy for Dummies” booklet next to the cash. I am not convinced we should be letting Dummies get pregnant. They’re likely to only produce dumb offspring. Right?
Anyhow, in the ongoing story of being unable to pay for Contains2, I got a letter from the Royal Bank’s security department yesterday saying I should call them. I tried four times today and it was busy each time. Go figure.
Apart from that, not much to say. So I will simply say “Volcano Rabbits Exist” and leave it at that.
