Category Archives: List

this is not the blog you’re looking for part 3: i still know what you searched last summer

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Yep. It’s time for another search term round-up here at the FIOD corral. So, straighten your Stetson and sharpen your spurs ’cause this filly’s a feisty one.  And, if any of you fellas are ridin’ bare-back under your chaps, you’re at the wrong rodeo.

However, whoever found me with these search terms ended up in the right place:
sarcastic Christmas lyrics
sarcastic remarks about Christmas
sarcastic Christmas
sarcastic Christmas list
sarcastic Christmas pictures

I have these Christmas-themed retro ads to thank for those searches.

Then someone had to go and ask:
can you use sarcastically in a sentence

Puh-leeze! I can sarcastically use sarcastically in a sentence.  I work in sarcasm the way other artists may work in oils or clay. (Bonus points if you know this movie reference. Yes, I’m being sarcastic. There are no “points.”)

Then, as is often the case, things take a turn for the weird.

man gets attacked by flying toast – Toast can smell fear, you know.

suck a cork and massage a grape at the same time – I think you may want to follow the ass-less chaps fellas out of here.

happy person with drill – That’s much better than sad person with a drill, let me tell ya.

mad baby seals -  But, they’re so cute when they’re angry! They get mad when you say that, by the way.  Which just makes them cuter!

I'm mad at you. Stop giggling! I'm serious! Grr!

whispy ambigram – Is this some sort of pretentious new age Enya cover band or something?  They can go on tour with Feathery Palindrome and Misty Spoonerism.  (I think I new a girl in high school named Misty Spoonerism.)

just add a kid – What is the best way to ruin your life, Alex? (Aw, stop it! I’m just joking. Geesh!)

grandpa’s soggy balls – I quadruple-dog-dare any of you to do a Google image search of this.  At work. On your boss’s computer.

kitten kills a retard – I . . . umm . . .uhh . . .  Okay, internet.  You win, man.  You win.
::holds up hands and backs slowly out of the room::

As with most sequels, you may want to start at the beginning:
This is Not the Blog You’re Looking For
This is Not the Blog You’re Looking For Part 2: The Wrath of Google

 

things that make me wonder if i belong on the internet

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  • I don’t own any action figures.
  • I don’t own anything owl-related.
  • I don’t know how to knit nor do I want to learn.
  • I still use two spaces after periods.
  • Do I have to watch the video? Can’t I just read an article?
  • I haven’t touched a video game since I was ten.
  • No. I don’t want to see your penis.
  • I don’t own any Legos.
  • Star Wars. I’m over it.
  • I only dress up in costumes on Halloween.
  • No. I’m not showing you my boobs.
  • When I see RPG I think “rocket-propelled grenade.”
  • I don’t know how to use PhotoShop.
  • Why is Batman every-f*cking-where?
  • Yes, it’s a Stormtrooper.  Yay.
  • There are movie-type trailers for video games?
  • Bacon is awesome.  I get it.
  • Seriously, what’s with all the boobs?
  • Have people forgotten how to be entertaining without the use of pictures or cartoons?
  • I don’t think I have ever even touched a comic book.
  • Must every pop culture reference be spliced with every other pop culture reference?
  • No. I don’t want to see a Vulcan Steampunk Female C-3PO riding a Unicorn to Mordor.

How I know that I probably belong on the internet more than I’d like to admit:

  • I have a blog.
  • I superimpose text over old pictures for a laugh.
  • I post said pictures on yet another blog.
  • Going more than an hour without checking twitter makes me anxious.
  • Seeing anything Firefly related makes me squee.
  • I use words like “squee.”
  • Getting sucked into a Wikipedia wormhole is a delightful way to spend an afternoon.
  • Lolcats still make me giggle.
  • I just spent an hour looking at funny pictures of cats.
  • Okay. I kinda want to see that Steampunk C-3PO Unicorn madness.

Six Word Stories

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Hemingway is credited with writing the following six word story -

“For sale: baby shoes, never worn. “ 

A beginning and an end all in six words.  We don’t have any characters, or know why the shoes are for sale (did the baby die, was it taken away?), but the story moves something in you anyway.  That’s the whole point of a story, isn’t it?  To move the reader, to make them feel some emotion.  It can take 100′s of pages to elicit that emotion, or it can take only six words.  Either way isn’t always easy. 

Humans evolved and then destroyed themselves. 

In the end, it all mattered.

I lived but I never learned.  

I trusted him, and I died.

Lost my arm.  Gained a friend.

I shouldn’t have buried him whole.

Their journey ended with a crash.  

Wisdom of Wombats

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Sleuth of bears, murder of crows and clutter of spiders (whole list of these on the San Diego Zoo website). I think it would be great if we had special terms for specific groups of people:

migraine of idiots
pucker of sycophants
facade of hypocrites
vacuum of socialites
bombast of politicians
redundancy of ex-wives
loophole of lawyers
mirror of models
inflammation of prostitutes

Crowning Glory.

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I have an appointment to get my hair cut on Friday. That gives me a day and a half to figure out what I want. No. Strike that. I know what I want, I need to figure out how to describe it to the hairdresser.

I want to keep it long, but don’t mind losing a little length.
Leave it long enough to pull back into a pony tail, but give me loose strands that will automatically fall to frame my face.
I want side-swept bangs that fall just below my right eyebrow, but never get in my eyes.
It should be conservative enough to go with my office attire, but edgy enough to go with the tattoos under my office attire.
I want the most desired style that is in all the fashion magazines, but I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.
Cut it so it looks just as good air dried as it does when I spend 20 minutes blow drying it.
It should shake wildly when I dance and sexily cover my face, but never get tangled or sweaty.
I want it to get me out of a ticket and into a private party.
When someone calls my name, I want it to sway in slow-motion when I turn my head to answer, and fall across my back and shoulders in a perfect wave.
I want it to make my eyes bigger, cheekbones higher, neck longer, teeth whiter.
I want it to make my clothes look more expensive.
I want it to never turn gray.

I want what most women want from a new haircut – for it to change my life for the better in every way possible. But, like most women, when I’m in that chair and she asks what I want done, I’ll answer: “Oh, just trim up my ends. Thanks.”