We interrupt your regular broadcast due to a terrifying realization…

…That the cats are creepily accurate feline reflections of Boyfriend and I.

The female is:

Thinner
Lighter
Neater
High-strung
Overly Sensitive
and Prone to Poorly Timed Fits of Affection

The male is:

Bigger
Darker
Sloppier
Laid-back
Largely Unflappable
and Prone to Napping in Unlikely Places

I sense a cosmic conspiracy of Berúthiel-esque proportions. One of these days, Boyfriend and I will simply be replaced by the carefully disguised doppelgängers, and no one will be the wiser. Not even you. The white cat, Mingo, will continue writing a column on all things Eastern European for GlobalComment, occasionally interrupting herself to inteview people far more interesting than she is,  or else to put up rants on this blog. The brown cat, Fanty, will prowl the exciting world of venture capitalism and watch cooking shows in his spare time.

Boyfriend and I will, in the meantime, be trapped in some spatial anomaly. I can only hope that the spatial anomaly in question comes equipped with a Playstation 3 and a shelf of decent science fiction. And sofas. And maybe a Snow Cone machine. A Snow Cone machine isn’t too much to ask for being trapped in a pseudo-scientific disruption of the space-time continuum.

I do my best Sarah Palin

This picture was taken way before Palin was ever picked as McCain’s running mate, back when my hair was darker too:

glancing up from my Tolkien and toward Russia
glancing up from my Tolkien and toward Russia

I don’t think it’s very similar at all, but I’ve been using it on LJ, and two separate comments to the tune of “omigod is that, like, a Palin Halloween-themed userpic” have appeared. Hmmm. And here I was still agonizing between going as Jane Sixpack or Bill O’Reilly in “WE’LL DO IT LIVE” mode (I’ve been in that kind of mood).

Dear Dumbass: No, I am not stealing “your man,” Gerard Butler

So, like, you know, I keep up with the search-terms on this blog.

Recently, I noticed that I’ve been getting a lot of hits off of the name “Gerard Butler.” There’s no conspiracy going on here: I’ve featured Gerard, and, coincidentally, people are now searching for Gerard, because “RockNRolla” is out. Nothing out of the ordinary, right?

Except that, this morning, I noticed several bizarre, rambling, accusatory comments in my queue. Now, I was a bit harried this morning, seeing as the power kept going out, and I had about forty e-mails to get through before my coffee got cold, so, irritated, I just pressed “delete.”

Now that the day is almost done, though, I have remembered that oddly similar comments were thrown at One Female Canuck, when she wrote about meeting Gerard briefly somewhere. It’s a strange coincidence, and it has me wondering, is there, like, one truly special individual who stalks the blogs of anyone who dares mention Gerard Butler and then goes off on a weird little rant that accuses the author of having a clandestine relationship with this actor?

I suppose there are worse things to be accused of; I’ll take the accusation of bagging Butler over, say, being accused of serial-killing orphans or wearing shoulder-pads, but still, there’s nothing pleasant about being told something along the lines of “you were SEEN with him recently, you home-wrecker, and soon you’ll be EXPOSED!”

It just really annoys me, because I’m a fan of Gerard, and if there is one thing I take seriously it is my fandom. DO NOT IMPINGE ON MY FANDOM. Don’t tell me who I can and cannot write about, whose pictures I can and cannot post, and whose awesomeness I can and cannot speculate upon. My fandom is like a sweet baby tiger with adorable little whiskers, and I am the enraged, roaring mother tigress standing at the cave entrance, about to flail your miserable ass alive for daring to come anywhere near my sacred domain.

OK, seriously now… If you show up on people’s blogs and endlessly prattle on about how “Gerry is [your] man,” chances are, that’s news to him. And, if I were to give you any advice at all, it would be this:

Take a walk. Get out and meet people who exist in close proximity to you, in more than just the two-dimensional sense (action figures of King Leonidas do not count). Your fantasy life, while certainly rich and elaborate, is turning you into a major creepy jackass. It’s sad, it’s pathetic, and it’s not the kind of stuff I want to be staring at when I have my deliciously bad Nescafe.

The Gentleman Has Standards

Noticed via The Pervocracy & Something Awful.

I have to admit this, I am one of those sappy, boring people who generally cannot bring themselves to make vicious fun of anyone’s quest for love, no matter how idiotic or misguided. Unless I read something like this, that is.

I suppose I could get all serious at this juncture, and talk about how self-hating women might flock to this guy, eager to be validated by his “high standards.” I could, but I’m not going to, because it’s not going to change anyone’s mind. I’ve seen friends, both men and women, drift from one abusive relationship to another, and I learned that keeping a lid on well-meaning advice and making yourself available should the person in question come to you for help is all you can do. Otherwise, you look like an ass, the other person feels like an ass, and there is that weird, awkward vibe that can never be quite erased no matter how many times you get drunk together or gossip online at four a.m.

So. Moving on.

There’s lots of gems scattered about this gentleman’s narrative regarding his search for the perfect woman, the rules of courtship, the meaning of the word “whore,” etc. Here are, however, some of my favourites: Continue reading “The Gentleman Has Standards”