There is no fucking hole
Today I'm spending time at a Kistulotican Industries Branch Location (my mother's apartment - which is looking a lot better than when I helped her move in just . . . wow it's been months already? shit.) and it's been . . . interesting.
After smackin around some Wii Motes all hardcore on mom's bigger tv (Mmm Rosalina, one day we will make a galaxy all of our own! But you won't have those silly thoughts anymore, will you? Nope nope!) I watched a Jack Black comedy special my mom had recorded. It was Red White and Screwed if I recall properly, and was priceless. Hill-fucking-larious. One too many ls, but I don't give a damn. Two, actually . . . Next, I watched a Mitch Hedberg special she'd also recorded.
This was while sipping Doctor Pepper and nibbling on muffins, by the way.
So . . . I hear it now.
"Well Carin/Madam/Queen/Empress/idiot, why is your blog post entitled as it is? Doth thee suffer from hair cancer/brain worms/a vulcan mind meld gone wrong/feminine dryness or tis there a point to thine mad ravings?"
Well Person/slave/knave/jedi/fuckhole, I do indeed have a reason, a reason most foul.
The reason I'm over here on dial up instead of my internet of queens was to wait for a special delivery of furniture and then to assemble said sacred delivery. There's just one problem. Step 3 calls for part B to go into part C. THERE ARE NO FUCKING HOLES LEFT ON PART C!!! If you wanted there to be hones, YOU FAILED IN YOUR TASK MISERABLY! Where the fuck is the fucking fuckhole you fucking fucker?! It's not bad enough that there is no rhyme or reason to this maddening thing as it is, but then you must exclude not parts, but FUCKING HOLES?!
Nickleback is playing right now, the CD "Silver Side Up" (no, not just so I can be clever and haw haw be listening to silver whilst talking - besides, Aurora's the girl who likes Nickleback), and the one question on my mind is this.
Who made a deal with Mephisto to retcon these holes?
Fuck.
Did superboy punch away the brief time wherein the holes were drilled? Seems unlikely. I've done nothing to sabotage the return of Earth-Prime, or Earth-2 for that matter.
The divine comedy is ME right now. Fucking holes. I was going to be a good daughter and have it done by now! I WOULD IF THERE WERE HOLES! I admit, a part of me does worry when I show my mother she will somehow figure out with a cocoanut radio how to solve our otherwise certain doom . . . but at the moment? War. Famine. Death. These are what I see.
That's a Dragonlance quote by the way. Snort that one up your left nostril. Not your right, you may develop hair cancer.
Yes. Hair cancer, philistine.
Goddess this is so infuriating. Only about... -counts- two hours until my mother brings to us deliverance in the form of Chicken Fried by Kentucky itself . . .
Fuck.
Oh, I read all of 52 the other day. Fun comic series. I kinda hate that The Question got himself cancer-ganked (I think just like Barbra Gordon's disability, in a world where people routinely die and return from it as if it was sunday brunch that something could stave off lung cancer) but I like Renee Montoya as the new Question. She's fun. I also enjoy Batwoman. Since they are both old flames... mmm... there's fun in that.
I like their costumes.
Hmm... what else to say...
I think I'll end this saying that though I have more writing plans, I only see Scribe and Shadow chapter 2 reaching the update this week. Sorry. Next week I'll do my best to write some more - I think I've finally gotten my steam back. Somewhat.
Tune in next week to find out where gerbils come from: hint darchRi eerG
~Madam Kistulot/Carin/Queen of the World/Empress of Sapphic Enslavement and other fun things
After smackin around some Wii Motes all hardcore on mom's bigger tv (Mmm Rosalina, one day we will make a galaxy all of our own! But you won't have those silly thoughts anymore, will you? Nope nope!) I watched a Jack Black comedy special my mom had recorded. It was Red White and Screwed if I recall properly, and was priceless. Hill-fucking-larious. One too many ls, but I don't give a damn. Two, actually . . . Next, I watched a Mitch Hedberg special she'd also recorded.
This was while sipping Doctor Pepper and nibbling on muffins, by the way.
So . . . I hear it now.
"Well Carin/Madam/Queen/Empress/idiot, why is your blog post entitled as it is? Doth thee suffer from hair cancer/brain worms/a vulcan mind meld gone wrong/feminine dryness or tis there a point to thine mad ravings?"
Well Person/slave/knave/jedi/fuckhole, I do indeed have a reason, a reason most foul.
The reason I'm over here on dial up instead of my internet of queens was to wait for a special delivery of furniture and then to assemble said sacred delivery. There's just one problem. Step 3 calls for part B to go into part C. THERE ARE NO FUCKING HOLES LEFT ON PART C!!! If you wanted there to be hones, YOU FAILED IN YOUR TASK MISERABLY! Where the fuck is the fucking fuckhole you fucking fucker?! It's not bad enough that there is no rhyme or reason to this maddening thing as it is, but then you must exclude not parts, but FUCKING HOLES?!
Nickleback is playing right now, the CD "Silver Side Up" (no, not just so I can be clever and haw haw be listening to silver whilst talking - besides, Aurora's the girl who likes Nickleback), and the one question on my mind is this.
Who made a deal with Mephisto to retcon these holes?
Fuck.
Did superboy punch away the brief time wherein the holes were drilled? Seems unlikely. I've done nothing to sabotage the return of Earth-Prime, or Earth-2 for that matter.
The divine comedy is ME right now. Fucking holes. I was going to be a good daughter and have it done by now! I WOULD IF THERE WERE HOLES! I admit, a part of me does worry when I show my mother she will somehow figure out with a cocoanut radio how to solve our otherwise certain doom . . . but at the moment? War. Famine. Death. These are what I see.
That's a Dragonlance quote by the way. Snort that one up your left nostril. Not your right, you may develop hair cancer.
Yes. Hair cancer, philistine.
Goddess this is so infuriating. Only about... -counts- two hours until my mother brings to us deliverance in the form of Chicken Fried by Kentucky itself . . .
Fuck.
Oh, I read all of 52 the other day. Fun comic series. I kinda hate that The Question got himself cancer-ganked (I think just like Barbra Gordon's disability, in a world where people routinely die and return from it as if it was sunday brunch that something could stave off lung cancer) but I like Renee Montoya as the new Question. She's fun. I also enjoy Batwoman. Since they are both old flames... mmm... there's fun in that.
I like their costumes.
Hmm... what else to say...
I think I'll end this saying that though I have more writing plans, I only see Scribe and Shadow chapter 2 reaching the update this week. Sorry. Next week I'll do my best to write some more - I think I've finally gotten my steam back. Somewhat.
Tune in next week to find out where gerbils come from: hint darchRi eerG
~Madam Kistulot/Carin/Queen of the World/Empress of Sapphic Enslavement and other fun things
Labels: comics, Madam Kistulot, rambling
posted by Madam Kistulot at
4:30 PM
2 Comments:
Awww *pouts and hugs*
I'm sure you'll figure out some way of getting the pesky thing together... even if it has to be like... the picasso table
And S&S chapter 2 is Yumminess! Makes the anticipation for chapter 3 all the moreso!
Every once in a while, comic books attempt to tackle "real world issues" like cancer or drugs or the World Trade Center getting hit by aeroplanes - at which point all the work that's gone into establishing the freaky consensus reality that comic books usually operate in gets discarded and something works because that's the way it happens in the real world.
There's also the problem that something routine like dropping a building on them, or throwing them into the heart of a star, or stranding them at the end of the universe, is just going to raise the expectation that they'll be back next month. Something like cancer is far enough from the usual run of events in comicdom, and familiar to people on a gut-level as a death sentence that it gets used when a new alien death-plague would be decried as cheating.
If you prefer, you can always imagine that it's the Scarlet Death or a carefully targeted smart agent targeted against Vic Sage because he was too close to getting the wrong answers, or something else that just looks a lot like cancer. Besides, with how much of a people person The Question was, do you think he spent much time checking out heroic options for a cure?
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