A Christmas Clean-Up

raincoaster reporting for Christmas Cleanup duty

raincoaster reporting for Christmas Cleanup duty

Note: Bloggers may be larger than they appear in amusing holiday-themed kitchenwear.

There’s a certain element of bloodthirstiness to many of the holiday celebrations, isn’t there?

Yes, there is. Shut up.

Think about it; who’d be celebrating Christmas now if Jesus hadn’t died young? If he’d quietly expired at the age of 70 or so, surrounded by children, grand-children, and great-grand-children? Nobody, that’s who. You can’t be a martyr without the sticky ending; just ask James Dean. And where there’s bloodshed, sooner or later, there is gonna be an underpaid member of a visible minority with a mop and a pail cleaning up that shit.

This post is about that. Where there’s Christmas Bloodshed, eventually there will be Christmas Cleaning Crews. As I am spending this pre-Christmas day cleaning up the place I’ve been house and pet sitting for the imminent return of The Owners, who clearly have higher house standards than I’m used to (a warming drawer for plates? Does even Goopy Paltrow have one of those?) I thought I would procrastinate by blogging about the process.

I guess digging under sinks to find cleaning products and figuring out what they are each supposed to do has an element of present-opening about it. Or at least it’s akin to digging through the bowl of assorted candies to find the green jellybeans and the licorice allsorts. Only if you get it wrong, you don’t just spit it into your napkin; you get to replace the hardwood floor. So, SUSPENSE! BLOODSHED! Back to the topic…

Remember that old seasonal classic The Night Santa Went Crazy, by Weird Al? Sure you do. In case you forget, here’s a claymation video to remind you.

Sure, sure, who doesn’t love a picturesque serial killer with a mysterious backstory, eh? But did you ever think about the poor clean-up elves who had to go in afterwards and sanitize the crime scene so it could be properly staged by the bored housewife the real estate agent hired to make it look saleable? Didja? Well, you’re about to.

There’s a game.

Seriously. It used to be simple: if you could imagine it, there was porn of it. Now we must be all wanked out, because if you can think of it nowadays, there’s a game of it.

Behold Viscera Cleanup Detail: Santa’s Rampage edition.

Tragedy! Santa; the toy giving folk-hero, and purveyor of fine Christmas goods, has had enough. Endless requests from greedy children wanting more and more every year, tax increases, pressure from elf unions, bills, reindeer!
It is your duty, as an employee of Polar Sanitation Inc, to clean up the grizzly aftermath of Santa’s bloody rampage. Elves, reindeer and ruined masonry from Santa’s brief breakdown are all strewn across his famous workshop.
So don your cap, grab your mop, and get this place sorted out so the company can get a replacement in here ASAP, and restore Christmas for another generation!

Can’t imagine what that would look like? Thanks to YouTuber PewDiePie you don’t have to. He’s got a game run-through that would make Freddy Krueger proud.

Laura WAS decorating the Christmas tree...in a sense

Laura WAS decorating the Christmas tree…in a sense

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Shrooms

Gilligan's Island zombies by Once upon a Geek

Gilligan’s Island zombies by Once upon a Geek

Anyone who’s read this blog or my food/booze blog for long knows I’m a big fan of the shrooms. Just the regular ones: I’m already so strange I need white noise apps to fall asleep, otherwise the sound of the Earth breathing keeps me awake. My friends who’ve dealt acid warn me against it: me taking LSD would be too dangerous, like if The Doctor settled down with Jadis, the White Witch, read Ken Kesey, and had a baby named Damian.

Could go either way, knowmasayin’?

So today I’d like to talk about the mushroom meme in zombie literature.

The wha?

Shut up and watch this:

That is a mashup of Richard Cheese’s cover of “Down with the Sickness” and the schlocky Japanese horror movie Matango, known in North America as “Attack of the Mushroom People.” This genius piece of celluloid was the basis for the very-much-dumbed-down-yet-still-enjoyable Gilligan’s Island. And now? “Chernobyl Fungus Feeds on Radiation,” which is a horror movie waiting to happen if ever I heard one.

And it was based on something earlier, and creepier, still: William Hope Hodgson‘s eerie short story The Voice in the Night.

And this is what it said:

“You need not be afraid,” answered the queer voice, having
probably noticed some trace of confusion in my tone. “I am only
an old man.”

The pause sounded oddly; but it was only afterwards that it
came back to me with any significance.

“Why don’t you come alongside, then?” I queried somewhat
snappishly; for I liked not his hinting at my having been a
trifle shaken.

“I — I — can’t. It wouldn’t be safe. I ——” The voice broke
off, and there was silence.

And for goddam good reason, too. Read the rest of it if you prefer not to sleep tonight. So interesting to see the (de)volution: the Edwardian skin-crawler, the Fifties drug allegory, the Sixties bowdlerized Eden fable. Pick your favorite now that you have all of the options. If you want to stay neutral, at least tuck this (very) esoteric erudition away to haul out whenever someone mentions either a) Gilligan’s Island b) the infectious zombie trope (as opposed to the supernatural zombie, which is a whole other dichotomy post).

The Hilarious House of Frightenstein!

The Hilarious House of Frightenstein is not exactly the Brady Bunch

The Hilarious House of Frightenstein is not exactly the Brady Bunch

The only horrible thing about this show is that it eventually got cancelled.

The Hilarious House of Frightenstein was a kid’s show started back in 1971, and done out of the rust belt town of Hamilton, Ontario. The rubber-faced Billy Van was the star and pretty much the whole cast, and a damn fine cast it was, too. Apparently special guest star Vincent Price shot all his work for the entire series in four days. The show also boasted production values that would have embarrassed Doctor Who; imagine trying to bring to life an acid trip using a wardrobe you peeled off a drunken Hamiltonian Goth, some old macrame planters, a fright wig, and some coloured light gels. And doing it for kids. While dressed as a vampire who is exiled to Canada until he can somehow gather the strength of character to actually frighten someone OR reanimate a corpse-monster, and so earn his way back into Transylvania.

This show, people? This show is my Rosebud.

This is how I learned Grammar, for example.

And you wonder why I’m a little fucked up.

Attention: we’re all fucked

Uh-oh.

Orca Flight

Orca Flight

Yep, we’re all fucked, ladies and gentlemen. This image (stolen from Facebook) clearly shows that British Columbian killer whales have learned how to fly. And oh, you smug land-going krill? You’re not safe either, as this footage of a flying humpback demonstrates. Being heavier, it’s harder for them to achieve and maintain the airborne state, but once they master this, no life-form is safe.

THEY ARE COMING

Sunday Songlist

Worship Cthulhu

Worship Cthulhu

Welcome to Sunday. Sunday is, quite obviously, the most important day of the week.

It is the day the restaurants close.

In an age of over-adequate labour supplies and chefs, sous chefs, and assistant-sub-sous chefs, there can, of course, be only one reason for EVERY FUCKING RESTAURANT I WANT TO GO TO being closed on a Sunday. TWICE IN A ROW.

Everyone on staff has gone off to worship.

Cthulhu worship

Cthulhu worship

For those of you picturing neat rows of Episcopalian pews filled with shiny, freshly-scrubbed food and beverage staffer faces, allow me to shatter your dreams now. Think back to the last time you were at a good restaurant. The bartender, the waitstaff, the chef, the buspersons…did they look familiar from church? Did they even look like the type of person who goes to your church? I think not. I very much think not.

Yet, Sunday closures. Therefore, they must be Cthulhu worshipppers. It’s the only logical conclusion. When everything impossible has been eliminated whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth, and you KNOW those people  don’t show up at your church, now do they? So does it really matter what flavour of damnation they choose, whether it’s Lutheranism or SisterWifeism or Whateverism? No. But restaurant staffers, if they’re clever, know exactly how to play the angles. They know how to pick a winner and glom on to him like there’s no tomorrow, which is why Gordon Ramsay’s busboy is the same as he was twenty years ago, only with more scars.

Hence, Cthulhuism.

Cthulhu Worship for doubters

Cthulhu Worship for doubters

Now there’s a religion that pays out for your investment. The stars are going to align almost any day now and when they do, acolytes of the Cult of Cthulhu such as myself and all non-fast-food restaurant staffers are going to be on the top of the world, along with loathesome, towering monstrosities of which you’ve never dreamed in your worst nightmares. If you really, truly doubt that Cthulhuism has infiltrated, influenced, and irrevocably changed mainstream culture, listen up: has there not been a VAST increase in the number of women insisting on being eaten first?

I rest my case.

Now, let us sing, Cthulhian-hipster style.

The Fishy Song

Hey There Cthulhu