spookyevilone: (Default)
I don't generally ask people what they want, because I feel that if I ask, it more or less obligates me to do everything in my power to fulfill whatever want they come up with. I have a very long resume of accomplishing even the most bizarre requests.

So you'd think that someone who's known me as long as $Good_Twin has, that he'd know better than to answer, "What do you want for your birthday?" with "Marzipan My Little Ponies! An entire ARMY of them!" And, perhaps, that my calm reply of, "Ok" should have set off every warning bell the boy has.

Apparently you'd be wrong.

He was born at exactly midnight, August 7. I decided this called for a two-day pony event.

He just called me a little while ago, screaming incoherently because his doorbell rang and, arrayed on plastic sheeting on his lawn, were 100 My Little Ponies, made out of marzipan and pulled sugar, all individually painted with different MLP decals.

It apparently took him awhile to get them all in the house.

I'm waiting for him to go back to sleep.

Because what's better than 100 marzipan My Little Ponies?

200.

Of course.
spookyevilone: (bruegel-death)
CAVEAT: I loves me the hells out of Pizza Luce. When looking at new domiciles, I specifically looked for one within their delivery zone. Their pizzas are heaven, love, rainbows, and all things good - baked on a pizza crust. They even have gluten free pizza crust and pasta options, which is where our story begins. I normally do not do food reviews on this site but this.. this needs to be done. For the good of mankind.

One of their gluten free offerings is a dessert called a "Molly Bar", which is described as, "Our delicious gluten free and dairy free chocolate brownie."

"Ok, that's possible," thought I, "if they used cocoa butter instead of regular butter and dark chocolate, which isn't adulterated by milk.. Ok. I can see it. How bad can it be?"

Thankfully, right on the heels of that, the cautious side of my brain went, "Bitch, you are ordering one of their regular brownies, just to be safe. Just in case." The Molly Bar is $3.39, a regular brownie is $2.49. While the prices might seem high, let me inform you that by "brownie", they mean "a slab of frosted, baked chocolate heaven roughly 8"x4"." The Molly Bar was slightly smaller but denser. This turned out to be a good thing.

The super perky delivery dude showed up in a short amount of time. Taking bounty in hand, I quickly began divesting the bags of the goods. The first thing I noticed was that the brownie was frosted and the Molly Bar was not. Then I imagined a dairy-free version of frosting and realized why. It looked like a decadent, moist brick of chocolatey goodness. Eager to try this new treat, I unwrapped the cling foil and inhaled as though sampling a fine wine. It smelled of chocolate. Thus encouraged, I took a bite. My teeth met some odd resistance, a chewy texture that was distinctly at odds with "brownie" and more akin to "mochi". "A'ight, they used them some tapioca starch in this bad boy. A'ight, that's ok, that's common for GF foods. I can muscle through this."

I closed my mouth and gave a chew, savoring the bite. Attempting to savor. Only without any actual savoring taking place. At all.

My very first thought was, "If I bite my tongue off at the root and spit the entire mass out, will it stop? Will the taste of horror.. stop?" It is almost impossible to describe the sensation of creeping disgust that overwhelmed my senses.

But I'm going to try!

The texture.. Imagine a bunch of black tapioca bubble tea pearls, cooked past the point of goodness and into gelatinous mass, but properly soaked in a mix of brown and regular sugars. Then, imagine a very confused termite mistaking this mass for wood and chowing down, and for dessert, finding some cacao and carob nibs to nom on. Replete with pulp, our termite wanders down into the very bowels of Hell and finds there a baking pan. Imagine our termite puking up his bounty into the pan and wandering off, leaving it to steam and congeal.

I am used to mochi. I am used to all sorts of random Asian seafood-or-tapioca goo gels/puddings/food. The Molly Bar is a whole new level of "Jesus Christmas, what the /fuck/ is this?!"

The taste.. So, you've gotten as far as imagining a steaming pile of tapioca-cocoa termite puke, right? Now add brown rice syrup. Add to that the most horrificly bitter aftertaste heretofore unknown by the tongue of mortal man. I had to check the label, but apparently the FDA does not require "hate" to be a listed ingredient, nor "the bile of a thousand evil serpents". The entire inside of my mouth was trying to cringe away from this substance, while everything it touched was being coated with some sort of oily, waxy, bitter film. The chocolate was a lie. There was a vague, tantalizing hint of it, but it was totally smothered by the rest of it.

"Well, this is as bad as it gets. Might as well swallow it and get it over with. 1, 2, 3: Down the hatch!" Because clearly, I was so overwhelmed with abject disgust that I was beyond rational, coherent thought. I attempted to swallow it. My throat closed up around it as though to deny passage to this hellspawned, Satanic goo. It took the chugging of an entire glass of water to force it down. I could feel it, sitting there in an oily, waxy, gelatinous lump in my stomach, repudiating the attempts of my stomach acids to turn it into something digestable.

Brushing my teeth and using mouthwash did not get rid of the oily, waxy feel or the taste.

Garling with hydrogen peroxide, followed by salt water, did nothing except add a piquant salted flavour to the horror that had overtaken my mouth.

At that point, there was nothing left to do except injest copious amounts of alcohol until the nasty taste died or my tongue became so numb that I no longer noticed it. A third option was death by alcohol poisoning, and that was preferable to having this taste in my mouth one moment longer.

Eventually, alcohol-fueled ennui overtook me and the sense of loathing slowly faded. I wound up in a conversation with Kel over whether I should call a priest, a HAZMAT team, those nice people who clean up after really messy crime scenes, Mythbusters, in an attempt to rid myself of the remaining foulness - and whether any of that was preferable to cutting it into tiny pieces and freezing it to have on hand when people didn't believe me about the awfulness of this thing.

I threw it in the trash, because lo, I am lazy.

That's not the end of the story.

Something got into my trash and ate it, leaving behind the tattered remains of the cello wrap and product ingredient sticker.

There was a dead, bloated raccoon in the alley the next morning.

It could be a coincidence.

Right?

Right??



TL;DR - even if you are suicidally depressed and your life is made of tragedy and woe, you do not hate yourself enough to eat this goddamn thing! Don't do it. Really. Truly. Avoid at all costs.
spookyevilone: (Default)
is sometimes such an exercise in futility.

Our company office is at the end of a hallway. If you imagine an "L" shape, our company's on the long leg and another company is on the short leg. Their office door is 5' from ours. All of the people that work in that office are boorish, loud bastards.

One of them is a particularly heavy guy who frequently comes to work in stained clothing, reeking of BO, with filthy tennis shoes and is not in any way representative of how I'd want someone to look if they were managing my money. "Unprofessional" does not begin to describe it.

He has a habit of ripping loud farts as soon as he walks out his office door and then shouting jokes about it back and forth with their receptionist and his officemate as he walks toward the bathrooms down the hall. Not only is this gross and happening right in front of our office door, but he's so loud with both effluence and voice that he can clearly be heard by people on the other end of my work telephone.

I've politely asked him to stop. I had building management step in and ask him to stop. He says he will, apologizes, and then continues the behaviour the next day. Yesterday, I was on the phone with clients when he pulled his stunt. That was the straw that broke the camel. I caught him on the way back from the bathroom and chewed him out. He said "What are you going to do about it, whine to the building supervisor again?" in this whiny, sneery tone.

So I glared at him and snapped, "No. We have video of our front office for security reason and it has audio. I'm going to take the tape, capture every time you do it for a week, and upload it to YouTube as 'fat fucker can't stop farting'. With your company name attached. Then I'm going to make sure it's a Google #1 ranked video for at least six months."

He turned grey. "You can't do that! That's illegal!"

"No, it isn't. You're in a public hallway in a public building being an asshole. You have no right to privacy or rights to whatever images or audio clips can be made from that."

Today, he's kept his butt from making noise as he goes past my office.

Don't mess with me. I have the internet and I know how to exploit it.
spookyevilone: (Default)
(on Starship Republican, which is only getting worse...)

I love the Teabagger movement. I love that they openly refer to themselves as Teabaggers, and their actions as Teabagging. I love that they've improperly verbed a noun. Most of all, I love their lack of anything resembling a clue.

Every time I hear one of these morons blowing (edit: heh) steam about zomg SOCIALISM!, I mentally imagine a hairy sack going in and out of their mouth and muffling the words, making them all staccato, until the speaker just shuts up and starts sucking with a disgruntled noise.

Because my imagination is so very 12. And that would be your mental image TMI for the day. *bows*
spookyevilone: (Default)
I may have to stop at Michael's tonight on my way home. I just had the most awful, horrible, offensive idea that shines like a beautiful diamond made of pure, spiteful mockery.

When I finish this project, that puppy's going up on Etsy. Stay tuned.
spookyevilone: (Default)
Had S. make me the cheesiest, fluffiest, so chock full of pagan symbolism you gag on it banner for an Etsy store.

I can't look at it without either giggling or gagging. It's a beautiful thing. Then, to top it off, I wrote purple prose copy chock full of hubris and buzz words.

This was after a morning and afternoon spent making a complete crapton of herbal bath bombs and salts. The coffee grinder is my new best friend.

Have not yet managed to use That Guy's tagline of "If you need to ask what it does, you probably shouldn't buy it."

There's enough sea salt and epsom salts in these puppies that it should strip through even the most arduously applied "essential oils" from little witchlet bodies.

Of course, I can't smell anything but lavender and bergamot right now, but that should wear off eventually.
spookyevilone: (Default)
Technically, this is just a 'horrible things I've participated in'. .

I stayed late at $NEW_JOB to get caught up on a few things, which meant I took a later bus home. Mistake #1.

There were no seats open, so I moved all the way to the back of the bus, and a very nice man who might as well have had "GANGSTA LIFE!" on his do-rag stood up and gave me his seat. We're talking serious stereotypewear, here. Saggy jeans, sports team jersey with a flannel and huge puffy jacket, at least four bright gold chains, one with a large dollar sign and the word 'GHETTO' on it, Gold grills, diamond stud earring, thick, chunky gold rings on many fingers, bright red do-rag, and shoes that probably cost more than my last car. I thanked him politely and took his seat, and started chatting with him. He was, as I said, a nice guy.

Keep that image in your head. It's important in a minute.

As we're standing there talking, I catch movement at about face level out of the corner of my eye. I have severe issues with unknown objects moving in the vicinity of my face, stemming from a lot of really un-funny and physically painful shit I'll leave out of this story, but suffice to say - unknown movement near my face = me looking and probably going into kill mode.

So I look. Mistake #2.

A short, ugly, clearly drunk guy was standing in the stairwell to the rear door of the bus, pants open, masturbating - or trying to; from what I could see, either he needs a little blue pill or God hates him a lot. He's doing this while leering at me. When my brain parsed that the unknown object moving near my face was, in fact, completely and pathetically harmless, I started laughing.

Not a nice, friendly laugh. A cackling, raucous, harpylike, maniacal, derisive, mocking laugh. Which gets the attention of my conversation companion, who turns further to look.The following conversation ensues:

Dude: Tell me all white men ain't hung like that?
Me: Hell, most white WOMEN ain't hung that poorly. That's some sad shit right there.
Dude: Maaan. Yeah, I mean, I knowed some brothas who ain't got much to speak, an' I know they's this old joke about white men havin' less'n that, but dayumn! That shit's like.. like..
Me: Microscopic?
Dude: No, that ain't the word..
Me:Minuscule?
Dude: Naw, don't start with 'm'..
Me: Congenitally small?
Dude: Yeah! That's it! Cuz that's gotta be some congenital birth defect shit right there in his hand. His hand covers it! What the fuck is up with that?!
Me: Nothing, apparently. Not so's you'd notice.
Masturbation Max: You want some?
Me: *insert another very loud, very mean laugh here*

The bus arrived at a bus stop, and the doors opened.

Dude: Yeah, I want some.. *puts hands on MM's shoulders, shoves him backward. MM's hands are.. occupied.. so he stumbles backwards off the bus* .. of you fuckin' goddamn perverts to stay the motherfuck off the bus, yo! Keep your shit in your pants or keep your ass off public transportation, ya damn fool!
Me: *smirks, laughs again*
Dude: I'd say gimme five, but not until I wash my damn hands.

MM: *starts yelling and running after the bus, screaming how he's gonna catch up and kick Dude's ass*

Which, of course, just made me laugh harder at the mental image of that dirty, perverted little twig of a guy trying to take on this huge thug-looking dude. It apparently struck everyone else around us as funny, because our section of the bus all started cracking up and pointing - so as we pulled away from the screaming little pervert, he'd see all of us, looking back at him and pointing and laughing.

Ah, justice.


[Edit: And this would be the second time, ladies and gents, that a man has pulled his peepee out near me on the bus and started doing the single-palm mambo. Clearly, I am an irresistible little minx.


... and that's funny, cuz I? Look like your average midwestern librarian chick, which hardly qualifies me as supermodel material.]

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