But…em dash or en dash? WHAT IS THE ANSWER????
You Are a Dash |
You have a ton of interests. While some of them are a bit offbeat, they all tie together well. You friends rely on you to bring novelty and excitement to their lives. (And while you’re the most interesting person they know, they can’t help feeling like they don’t know you well.) You excel in: Anything to do with money You get along best with: the Exclamation Point |
I thought I’d better explain something. In case you’re wondering why I don’t read/comment on your blog anymore, there’s probably a very simple reason. Continue reading
In-demand international businessman Abdul Nyarlathotep and his charming wife Shub Niggurath had never seen a challenge like the old Gloaming homestead, but, having once seen it, they knew they had to have it. Putting to good use all their famed persuasiveness, the duo finally convinced the eccentric recluse to let them take possession.
“Yes,” chuckles the dryly avuncular Nyarlathotep, “you could say we made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
The couple have previously given our readers tantalizing glimpses of the gardens and furnishings, but are now ready to reveal their elegant and eldritch abode to our eager cameras. As I liveblog this, my tummy is rumbling, for there is to be a buffet dinner party later, doubtless some marvelously exotic recipes they’ve picked up in their travels, and Mrs. Nyarlathotep has promised that, as her highly esteemed guests from Unspeakable Homes and Gardens, we will be eating first.
Stylist Walter Gilman describes the remarkable chapeau for us:
I sometimes compare the hat to prisms, labyrinths, clusters of cubes and planes, and Cyclopean buildings; and the organic things strike me variously as groups of bubbles, octopi, centipedes, living Hindoo idols, and intricate arabesques roused into a kind of ophidian animation. Also, I believe you can see a congeries of globes in there somewhere.
Quite so.
Mrs. Nyarlathotep, or Shub as she prefers to be called (“You can’t use the N-word, my dears, not in this country,” she explains, laughingly. “It’s considered unspeakable. I’ve always been unspeakable, really!”) leads us to the mansion’s ornate entrance. There will be a special service in the family chapel later, one to which we’ve wrangled a very exclusive invite.
“The ceremony is something very special, something we introduce to only a select few. You have been extremely helpful to us. Your articles have brought us many curious and innocent seekers after forbidden knowledge. You will be eating first,” Nyarlathotep reminds us, with just a hint of … is it a Texan accent we detect in the last sentence?
And now for some more photos:
The lovely exterior of the palatial Nyarlathotep residence. They’ve booked a choir to entertain their star-struck guests, most of whom shuffle forward in silence, jostling for position in the velvety darkness of the tropical night. It must be remarked that, from the flabby softness of the crushing bodies, this crowd can hardly be said to be fashionably fit. They are, however, wearing what appear to be carefully distressed and oddly bunched robes of earthy colours, perhaps Vivienne Westwood, John Galliano, or late Helmut Lang.
Well, wasn’t that…remarkable. If one were to hazard a guess, one would suggest that the distinctively dissonant melody had been composed by Diamanda Galas.
The interior of the house is beautifully accessorised, with throw rugs of amusingly faux alien hides and a wall of similarly ironic stuffed trophy heads, among them a very lifelike effigy of Andy Warhol.
“He was close to us, and we like to keep him there,” says Shub, reading over my shoulder. “‘Ironic.’ My dear, you have no idea. But you’ll see later…” she teases.
Got to go. It’s time for the service and then, the feast!
But before I get into that, let me tell you about raincoaster.
Not this one.
This one:
Username: raincoaster19 Jan 2008
Gender: Man Income: Please ask me Age: 55 Located in: Abbotsford, NA, Canada Title:
New register member of nudistfriends.com. – http://www.NudistFriends.com/
Just for the record and so there is no confusion, that is not me. Nor is the one in the Tiffany Pollard sex tape.
No, for realz.
Now, where was I? Ah, yes, pontificating about having found my dream job. Longtime raincoaster fans (at least, fans of THIS raincoaster, not those ones) will know that the liquor cabinet (okay, safe) at global HQ is not quite as full as it could be, owning to a tragic lack of prosperitousness; indeed, it could well be said that, most remarkable among my many in-and-of-themselves-remarkable talents is the ability to avoid so much as the very appearance of capitalizing on any of the other skills and abilities, let alone the actuality of theredoing.
Even my marvelous tits.
Consequently, I have pursued many strange and increasingly bizarre job opportunities. There was the time the Russian Mafia wanted to hire me to write high school essays to be sold online; it took quite a bit of doing, including the doing of threatening an EI officer with arrest, which is, frankly, something I do not generally restrain myself from when it is good and warranted, and, indeed, enjoy, to get the dadgum gummint to admit that I couldn’t be thrown off EI for refusing to accept an illegal job with the kneecappers from Moscow. There was Occupational Pursuit, the magazine for job hunters, which commissioned several months’s columns in advance of publication and then went belly-up before opening its doors. There was the Spiderwick resume, of which I am still justly proud and convinced that thing wouldn’t be DOA if they’d hired me. There was the pitch for an online Daily Prophet, complete with really-quite-amusing-and-pitch-perfect-if-I-do-say-so-myself columns from Snape and Hagrid which I note I have failed to post on this blog, an omission which shall soon be rectified for lo, they are very funny.
There was this.
But, at last, there was The Manolo. And he said unto me, go forth and post! Save the little chillens from the scourge of Crocs! And he saideth also unto moi, ayyyy, I tire of sifting through Britney’s crotch shots and we all know what your standards are like, so would you manifest thy superfantasticness and take this spiritual burden off my hands? and so it came to pass.
But it was not enough.
Soon, very soon, I shall be babysitting a blogging lab on behalf of the Fearless City project, although what I shall do if it happens to fall on the 21st of February I do not know, for verily it is completely unthinkable that I shall miss a tiki party, particularly one with a buffet. But it’s money, blog money, which is better than blood money if a few orders of magnitude less lucrative.
But, alas, today my very favoritest kind of client, the kind who is nice and friendly and dutiful and who thinks I am a genius and who always pays in cash, immediately, bailed fifteen minutes before the meeting. So there goes the budget for this week.
So, today I find a dream job posted. Really, truly: a dream job. God knows, I’m agnostic when it comes to riches, so they don’t factor into the equation here. But it’s an incredibly high-profile, paid, full-time blogging gig at a place where I’m already somewhat known (Denton was my first follower, although whether that’s good or bad is anyone’s guess) where I know about the management and staff, and it is a site that I adore. That’s the good news.
The bad news is, anyone taking this position is essentially stepping over the still-twitching corpse of Mark Lisanti, perhaps the best writer in the blogosphere. Maybe it was murder; maybe it was suicide. Maybe he’s following his dream and the Sanjaya tour bus to strip malls across the continent. Who knows?
But the net effect is, rather than slavering over my keyboard as I frantically surf through the blogs for writing samples of the very cleverest link roundup in the history of gossip blogs as I have done for so many other Gawker Media openings, I find myself wishing for a monstrously large bottle of Jack Daniels to drink down and then crawl inside and sob.
So, fuck that with a chainsaw.
I’m going for this job instead.
Job specs: work vampire hours, take no shit, bust balls, wear fabulous clothes, attack people inferior to me, then tie them up and ignore them and get paid $185 per hour plus tips. And since it looks like one of their staff will be away on hiatus for 5-15, it’s got a solid future.
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
:: 
First of all, when people tag me to do memes, even cool ones, I ignore them. Sometimes I apologize, but mostly I just say “you think I’m doing a meme?” This is a continuation of my elementary school habit of refusing to write stories on any of the four subjects suggested and coming up with my own idea.
I think it’s fairly safe to say that “How to Capture a Unicorn” is a more compelling essay topic, particularly for a teacher who’s spent several hours wading through identical papers.
In any case, I don’t do memes when tagged. I do, on occasion, steal memes, though, and it is the result of one such theft which has made inevitable my eventual, and eternal, damnation.
It was a simple book meme; Grab the nearest book, turn to page 123, look up the fifth sentence, and type out the next three sentences. Innocuous enough, right? Like the pebble which starts the avalanche, it displayed no hint of the terrible chain of events it was about to set in motion. First, max posted it. Then I read it. And then, I’m ashamed to say, the urge to pocket it became irresistible and I gave in and grabbed that fucker like it was a chocolate-coated, bacon-wrapped, Viggo-topped ingot of solid gold.
And I ran with it.
Oh, man. This is so sad. The nearest book is The Last Battle, by CS Lewis. Great, I get the book that has the end of the world in it. Swell.
Tirian had no need to ask which was the High King, for he remembered his face (though here it was far nobler) from his dream. He stepped forward, sank on one knee and kissed Peter’s hand.
“High King,” he said. “You are welcome to me.”
Oh, great. And now I’ve put gay innuendo into a meeting of the High King and the Last King of Narnia.
I’m going to hell.
Well, I am!
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::
raincoaster 