Saturday Night Video: Interview with the Guinea Pig

Wait, is that racist?

 

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Scene Change

…aaaaand now for something completely different! Here is my latest discovery, Gin Wigmore, fresh out of Kiwilandia and sounding like a hairball coughed up by the raddled lungs of Janis Joplin on a helium binge.

No, wait. It sounds a LOT better than it reads, trust me. You will like this, and if you don’t, I want to know what’s wrong with you.

I got lots of jealous lovers that all wish they had me back
Got a pistol for a mouth, my old mama gave me that
Making my own road out of gravel and some wine
And if I have to fall then it won’t be in your line

[Pre-Chorus:]
Everybody’s doing it so why the hell should I
Everybody’s doing it so why the hell should I

[Chorus:]
I’m a bad woman to keep
Make me mad, I’m not here to please
Paint me in a corner but my colour comes back
Once you go black, you never go back
I’m a black sheep
I’m a black sheep

[Verse 2:]
I wasn’t born a beauty queen but I’m okay with that
Maybe radio won’t mind if I sing a little flat
I wear my boots to bed, hang a cross up on the wall
To save me from a shallow grave that wants to take us all

[Pre-Chorus:]
Everybody’s doing it so why the hell should I
Everybody’s doing it so why the hell should I

[Chorus:]
I’m a bad woman to keep
Make me mad, I’m not here to please
Paint me in a corner but my colour comes back
Once you go black, you never go back
I’m a black sheep
I’m a black sheep
I’m a black sheep
I’m a black sheep

[Repeat Verse 1:]
I got lots of jealous lovers that all wish they had me back
Got a pistol for a mouth, my old mama gave me that
Making my own road out of gravel and some wine
And if I have to fall then it won’t be in your line

[Chorus:]
I’m a bad woman to keep
Make me mad, I’m not here to please
Paint me in a corner but my colour comes back
Once you go black, you never go back

[Outro:]
Once you go black, you never go back
Once you go black, you never go back
Once you go black, you never go back
Once you go black, you never go back

The Jamaican Bobsled Team: 30th in the Olympics, 1st in our hearts

Jamaican Bobsled Team shoots the moon

Jamaican Bobsled Team shoots the moon

Some people only aim as high as the podium. Some tawdry, conventional people.

The members of the Jamaican Bobsleigh Team are not such people.

As we have written elsewhere, they are living their Olympic dreams in part because of the backing of a satirical cryptocurrency named after a faddish pet meme. Now they have released the best song and music video of the 2014 Sochi Olympic Games (unless the fabulous Johnny Weir wants to record something, of course). With a score to date of almost three quarter of a million plays in five days, this is definitely a winning performance.

Is it just me, or do those hands look like…not-hands, if you know what I mean?

 

Merry Christmas, love (?) Sherlock

Merry Christmas from John Watson and Sherlock Holmes

Merry Christmas from John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Are you ready to unwrap the packages?

Sherlock fans (and Johnlock fans) have waited TOO DAMN LONG! Sure, sure, you think waiting 365 days for Christmas is hard? How about waiting almost two full fucking years for a new episode of the iconic BBC series? 15 January 2012 was the last day we had an original Sherlock; since then, some of us have tried sustaining ourselves on a diet of fan fiction, but my diabeetus flared up again and there are only so many “John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at John. Manly man-on-man longing was in every manly glance…” passages you can read before you dissolve into giggles.

Well, our long wait is OVAH!

The BBC has just released a seven minute mini-episode featuring teaser after teaser (although honestly anyone could have spotted that bitch in the saffron, I mean come on!) And it is damn good.

It better be damn good. This will have to sustain us until New Year’s Day.

As for that package-unwrapping referred to in the caption at the top? Well, here it is.

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Did I tell you the one about my Gramma, John Kerry, and Jack Daniels?

John Kerry only WISHES he had my Gramma's swag

John Kerry only WISHES he had my Gramma’s swag

That is not, contrary to appearances, a picture of my grandmother (known to all as “Gramma” and god help you if you didn’t call her that but tried something more formal, ooooh she wouldn’t be having any of that, now. But it certainly does appear to be a picture of Gramma, for verily it looks very much like her down to the too-short haircut, and I’m pretty sure she had that shirt as well. But that’s actually a picture of ‘Murrican mucky-muck John Kerry trying and failing to blend in at a dance ceremony in Bali.

That is most definitely NOT what my Gramma would have done.

At her eightieth birthday my Gramma got up on the table and danced to Patricia the Stripper, and if she’d been at this shindig with Kerry she’d have gotten those temple dancers to do the Dougie before you can say “Gramma, you’ll break a hip!”

Speaking of hips, my Gramma was pretty. Hip. Follow along!

I was over on Facebook the other day, having taken too many flu meds to do any decent work, and my friend Cassandra was in need of distraction (what is it with the #DramaSec these days? People deleting accounts left and right. Assange taking a family quarrel to Twitter in front of two million followers. Takedown notices, bogus and not, flying all over the digisphere. Enough already, the new moon is over!) so I told her the following story, for distraction purposes only. Do not operate heavy machinery under the influence of this story. Do not read if pregnant (because you have better things to do with your few remaining hours of freedom) or breastfeeding (because it’s really, really hard to handle a baby and a laptop at the same time and what if puke gets in the keyboard, eh? You’ll wish you’d listened to me then!).

Where was I?

Oh yes, on Facebook, telling Cassandra a story about Tennessee. You see, it’s considered quite exotic in Ottawa, where my Gramma lived. And here is the story about my Gramma‘s travels to exotic Tennessee just as I told it to Cassandra, for lo, I am very lazy and I just copy-pasted it.

Now, Gramma did not drink. In my family, this alone makes her somewhat legendary. But Gramma was not above knowing the value of an alcoholic comestible, or of taking advantage of that knowledge by running what amounted to an arbitrage on the celebratory beverage in question, by the simple means of purchasing it in one physical location and transporting it to another, where its selling price was higher. The ungenerous would call this “bootlegging,” and it has been the start of more than one great Canadian fortune.

Gramma would take bus tours of what she called “my old people”, ie they were like five years older than her, but not as lively, down to Tennessee and Missouri to do whatever it is old people do there. Tours. Watch the Osmonds. That sort of thing. And coming back she would get them all to smuggle bottles of Jack Daniels anywhere she could find a space. Under lumbago cushions. In big granny purses. In wig cases. Everywhere. Once, she struck gold because a guy had been in a cast from his waist down to his toes for a couple of months and his leg wasted away and she could fit four bottles in the space between his leg and the cast. When they got to the border, she would just yell at the border guard, “THESE ARE SENIORS, YOUNG LAD! THEY NEED TO GO HOME AND REST!” and never once were they searched. She gave the bottles as wedding and Christmas presents, and would supplement the punch at family parties with it, among other things.

I find, upon leafing through the ol’ raincoaster archives, that there is indeed an actual picture of my Gramma. At my cousin’s house. Legally blind. Shooting at a turkey from the deck, beside a stack of beer cases, with a tank of propane between the muzzle of the gun and the target.

You go, Gramma!

Bang Bang, my Gramma shot you down!

Bang Bang, my Gramma shot you down!