and I thought MY family was dysfunctional

Yeah. You don’t know my family, but they give these guys a run for their money; only thing is, I’d be playing the mother in this scenario.

You see, once, long ago, I was little. And my little sister was littler. And we lived in Winnipeg.

(when writing about Winnipeg it is mandatory to use a macho, I-can-handle-the-weather, Hemingwayesque writing style, otherwise the Wendigo thinks you’re getting cocky)

And we lived in a little house, my little sister and I, and our mother and father, both of whom were rather diminutive, come to think of it, which I didn’t, then. And our little house had a little basement (the story of which I will tell you another time, as it is noncongruent with this one, so that’s why).

And we were in the basement, my sister and I.

I was riding my tricycle around and around the pillars in a figure eight, as one is wont to do when one is four and one is stuck in the basement with one’s little sister.

My little sister was holding onto the bannister on the landing and swinging back and forth, and suddenly, for no particular reason that she can recall, she let go and decided to fly.

Turns out she wasn’t very good at that.

Some time later, my mother entered the room, to find me now making a figure §. around the pillar, the other pillar, and the unconscious body of my little sister.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” my mother screamed.

“But Mom,” I answered, “She was being quiet.”

Now here’s a family that actually surpasses that remarkable benchmark of it’s not my problem-ism. from SmallHandsIck via Gawker:

My mother called me on the phone Monday, “Rachael you were right the play starts at 7pm so we’ll have to meet earlier– an hour earlier than I said.”
“OK.” I responded, and then continued, “Oh, yeah I just remembered I have to call Dad.”
“Well, he’s in the emergency room, so I don’t know if he’s going to pick up.”
“What?”
“Maybe, he’ll pick up. I just talked to him.”
“What happened to him?”
“Hmm? Oh. Um. I don’t know. He’s in some sort of excrutiating pain. You know your father.”
“Were you going to tell me my father was in the hospital.”
“I did tell you.”
“Only because I brought up that I had to call him.”
Rachael, your father was never coming to the theatre with us anyway.”

pic o’ the day: bagel goatse

That's hot!

That’s hot!

This came from Flickr via BoingBoing via Gawker, upon which we are keeping a beady, but encouraged eye since Jessica left (speaking of which, must surf over to VF and see if she’s posted any kittens or bitchy stories about Graydon Carter. Or Kurt Anderson; that post might actually be allowed to live). We’ll leave it to them to set the context, geographical and otherwise:

If you don’t instantly recognize this image, then you’re obviously not familiar with the goatse phenomenon, for which you should be extremely grateful. If you’ve already been corrupted, however, you’ll be grimly pleased to note its appearance in Park Slope, land of gaping assholes.

101 most influential imaginary friends

my imaginary friend can beat up your imaginary friend. No, really he can.Having read this USA Today list (which I came to via Fark) I must say it’s pretty solid, even though they leave off, through an entirely understandable wish not to be firebombed, the names of a lot of imaginary religious characters. One correction, however, seems absolutely neccessary:

Big Brother is no longer imaginary.

1. The Marlboro ManBush doublespeak

2. Big Brother

3. King Arthur

4. Santa Claus (St. Nick)

5. Hamlet

6. Dr. Frankenstein’s Monster

7. Siegfried

8. Sherlock Holmes

9. Romeo and Juliet

10. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Read the rest of the list here. But know that they will be watching you…

Big Brother

my new anthem: Bowie and Reznor: I’m afraid of Americans

 

pushed tin pushes back

you call that control?

Fabulous cast, horrible movie, fabulous anecdotes.

Airtraffic controllers versus pilots, via Fark. A sample:

Allegedly the German air controllers at
Frankfurt Airport are renowned as a short-
tempered lot. They, it is alleged, not only
expect one to know one’s gate parking location,
but how to get there without any assistance
from them. So it was with some amusement
that we (a Pan Am 747) listened to the following
exchange between Frankfurt ground control
and a British Airways 747, call sign Speedbird
206
.
Speedbird 206: “Frankfurt, Speedbird 206
clear of active runway.”
Ground: “Speedbird 206. Taxi to gate Alpha
One-Seven.”
The BA 747 pulled onto the main taxiway
and slowed to a stop.
Ground: “Speedbird, do you not know where
you are going?”
Speedbird 206: “Stand by, Ground, I’m looking
up our gate location now.”
Ground (with quite arrogant impatience):
“Speedbird 206, have you not been to
Frankfurt before?”
Speedbird 206 (coolly): “Yes, twice in 1944,
but it was dark,…… and I didn’t land.”