LOLCats are, and always have been, super cool. However, I've always just found them in passing somewhere on the internet and been slightly amused... but now?
NOW I'M ADDICTED!
This is why you haven't heard from me for several days - Iz bean makin' teh lolz. God help me! Think of my last post, my utter rant on typos, and consider that I have spent days sitting on my ass formulating witty and entirely misspelled quips on pictures of cats. (Truth be told, I'm into LOLDogs more... I'm a dog-mom of 4, what did you expect?!) I am the biggest hypocrite. Woot.
Argus, my faithful greyhound, features in many of these. I know he's not big on the idea, but I am sharing one with you all now. Excited much?
http://mine.icanhascheezburger.com/view.aspx?ciid=2568111
Yup... that's m'boy. This is a more correctly spelled one... but yeah. COMMENT ON IT, DAMN YOU!
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Saturday, November 8, 2008
There are typos, you'll live.
When the creative muse is upon you, who gives a flying foot about typos? You type like a whirlwind, fingers moving like a machine, barely able to keep up with your wonder-spewing mind. Oh yes, you are magnificent...
...and you have no time for typos.
Typos. Even the name points to their being a mistake, an accident brought on by hitting a wrong key or whatnot. Typos don't render your creation any less magnificent - they are the flaws by which your character is revealed. If anything, the reader of your masterpiece should embrace your typos, celebrate them! Let the plebeians revel in the fact that even those bewitched by muses have flaws enough to make error in their work. This train of thought would never survive in the corporate world, I know, but among those who are artists, let typos roam free!
However... that is only in the creation. Come the moment of completion, there begins the stage of editing and my opinions on typos go through a transformation. I become a typo-Nazi. I suddenly forget that typos come about in those hazy moments of creativity wherein nothing but your thoughts matter. I judge the creator based on how many flaws have been made. I mock usage of the wrong "there," I scoff at "effect" and "affect" errors, I scowl every time I see a "d" where an "s" should be, and I crow out about my superiority in grammatical matters. I am a destructive goddess with a red pen, laying all before me to critical waste.
"Atrocity!" I cry out, "Blaspheme!" How can he who pens such butchered work possibly be worth his spit? How dare he write when it is so clear he has no mastery of the language? Who writes "know" when they mean "no?!" It takes more effort to make the mistake! What nonsense! What rubbish! What a calamity!
Imagine my surprise when I take pause to remember it is my own work I am editing.
Ah well, I am a hypocrite, or so it seems. What is to become of me? Allow me to offer you the following link. This is a simple story I wrote around Christmastime last year. Nothing special... BUT it hasn't been edited yet. I grant you permission to mock. Mock, red-pen, edit and scoff...
...as a hypocrite, I bloody well deserve it.
The Story of Barry Blimpkin
...and you have no time for typos.
Typos. Even the name points to their being a mistake, an accident brought on by hitting a wrong key or whatnot. Typos don't render your creation any less magnificent - they are the flaws by which your character is revealed. If anything, the reader of your masterpiece should embrace your typos, celebrate them! Let the plebeians revel in the fact that even those bewitched by muses have flaws enough to make error in their work. This train of thought would never survive in the corporate world, I know, but among those who are artists, let typos roam free!
However... that is only in the creation. Come the moment of completion, there begins the stage of editing and my opinions on typos go through a transformation. I become a typo-Nazi. I suddenly forget that typos come about in those hazy moments of creativity wherein nothing but your thoughts matter. I judge the creator based on how many flaws have been made. I mock usage of the wrong "there," I scoff at "effect" and "affect" errors, I scowl every time I see a "d" where an "s" should be, and I crow out about my superiority in grammatical matters. I am a destructive goddess with a red pen, laying all before me to critical waste.
"Atrocity!" I cry out, "Blaspheme!" How can he who pens such butchered work possibly be worth his spit? How dare he write when it is so clear he has no mastery of the language? Who writes "know" when they mean "no?!" It takes more effort to make the mistake! What nonsense! What rubbish! What a calamity!
Imagine my surprise when I take pause to remember it is my own work I am editing.
Ah well, I am a hypocrite, or so it seems. What is to become of me? Allow me to offer you the following link. This is a simple story I wrote around Christmastime last year. Nothing special... BUT it hasn't been edited yet. I grant you permission to mock. Mock, red-pen, edit and scoff...
...as a hypocrite, I bloody well deserve it.
The Story of Barry Blimpkin
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Day two of blogging...
I feel sorry for my second blog. I mean, what recognition will it ever get? All we ever care about is the firsts of everything. First in flight, first to the moon, first bank, first >enter denomination< church, first place, first try, first, first, first, first, first... ..."first" has suddenly lost all meaning to me. What a funny sound it is. Say it slowly, each letter:
FFFFFFFF-IIIIRRRR-SSSSSSSSS-T!!!
Ahem, so enough of my dithering (what am I saying? Dithering is what this blog is!) and on to something more weighty. I consider this a question of the ages. Brace yourself, as the brutal reality of this topic might be enough to send you off the deep end.
Why is it that on nights when you surrender to the exhaustion of your body early, you cannot succumb to the joys of sleep until six or seven hours later? I have noticed this as a downright regular trend in my bedtime behavior. If I decide I need to hit the hay early because of a headache or sore muscles or any other form of weariness, it won't happen. Take last night for example.
I got off work, headed out with a dear friend for a very small bite to eat, and upon my return to the house found myself unable to really stand without feeling an overwhelming need so slump down on something comfy. Conveniently, it was already dark shortly past 7:00, so I decided to just go to bed and get some sleep. Ha. I laid there and I shut my eyes and simply could not relax enough to drift off. Not at all. Not a chance.
So I turned on the telly and sat and wondered. I lost track of the number of times I yawned and snuggled up to my pillow to no avail. Dear Argus, my massive greyhound, came and curled up as best as his gangly, muscular legs would allow, but alas, did not provide me enough comfort as to push me off to the land of dreams. No, it was no use.
You reach a point, in all this, where you simply say "forget it!" To hell with sleep! Weariness be damned! If I can't nod off then I'm just going to stay awake! And then begins what I like to refer to as the "Stupid Stage."
My father was the first (argh! What does it mean?) man I studied going through the Stupid Stage, and it was tragic to watch one of my own suffer so. He came stumbling out of his bedroom, in a right temper about his inability to sleep, and set to work in the kitchen. He was like a mad-man, possessed by some deep need to gratify his body with something. The very mentality of the Stupid Stage victim radiating from his bagged eyes, "if it's not to be sleep, then it is to be food!"
Soon there was a bowl of sour cream and Tabasco sauce settled upon a tray, just begging for corn chips to join. Then tortillas emerged from the refrigerator, eager to envelope seasoned ground beef and toppings. Within a manner of minutes, a full meal of bountiful proportions was laid out upon a tray and carrying it with a crooked smile of anticipation was my father, the Stupid Stage victim.
I find it particularly interesting that certain Stupid Stage victims are more prone to certain foods than others. Any time my father cannot sleep, it seems his Stupid Stage kicks in with a certain South of the Border flair. Tacos, nachos, anything really that is comprised of ground beef, beans, tortillas, cheese and veggies and tastes good when loaded with hot sauce. Meanwhile, a certain waif of a man, I am sorry to say I once knew very well, by the name of "Wayne" coveted cereal when locked in his Stupid Stage. He generally leaned towards the sugary sort, and when the live-action film version of The Cat in the Hat came out, there was a particular promotional cereal he found particularly delightful. He bought umpteen boxes at one point, simply to prepare for the Stupid Stages, which he arrived at quite regularly in those days.
Even more intriguing than an individual's Stupid Stage preferences, are those of a group of people under one roof. I am afraid I intend to use my own household to explain, and I have no doubt this will shock and surprise all who are about to read it.
I live in a home with three people, Amanda, Lee and myself, and while we are all very health conscious, for the most part, we have a major weakness come the Stupid Stage. It is bad enough that the Stupid Stage encourages its victims to eat when the body is least interested in digesting food, but to actually be persuaded, as we are, to drive out into the night and locate a McDonald's drive-thru that's open... it's an abomination. Singularly, none of us, particularly myself as I cannot drive, would do such a thing. However, for some wretched reason, when the three of us are combined... well we throw away our wrappers at 3:00am with guilty satisfaction.
But what's to be done? When in the bonds of the Stupid Stage, the mass consumption of food that tastes good is just singularly vital. So there I was last night, at 1:00am, slowly enjoying mouthful after mouthful of fries, even though they were a somewhat stale batch.
What misery come the morning! To wake up after only a few hours of sleep with a feeling of greasy punishment in my stomach. *Sigh* Oh calamity. Oh curses. Oh damn. But I know I am not alone! Right?
Anyway, thus my second blog post is concluded. Perhaps not as sought after as the first, oh accursed first, and perhaps not as enjoyable because of it...
...but nonetheless, it stands to be read, undaunted by it's popularity...
...or lack thereof.
FFFFFFFF-IIIIRRRR-SSSSSSSSS-T!!!
Ahem, so enough of my dithering (what am I saying? Dithering is what this blog is!) and on to something more weighty. I consider this a question of the ages. Brace yourself, as the brutal reality of this topic might be enough to send you off the deep end.
Why is it that on nights when you surrender to the exhaustion of your body early, you cannot succumb to the joys of sleep until six or seven hours later? I have noticed this as a downright regular trend in my bedtime behavior. If I decide I need to hit the hay early because of a headache or sore muscles or any other form of weariness, it won't happen. Take last night for example.
I got off work, headed out with a dear friend for a very small bite to eat, and upon my return to the house found myself unable to really stand without feeling an overwhelming need so slump down on something comfy. Conveniently, it was already dark shortly past 7:00, so I decided to just go to bed and get some sleep. Ha. I laid there and I shut my eyes and simply could not relax enough to drift off. Not at all. Not a chance.
So I turned on the telly and sat and wondered. I lost track of the number of times I yawned and snuggled up to my pillow to no avail. Dear Argus, my massive greyhound, came and curled up as best as his gangly, muscular legs would allow, but alas, did not provide me enough comfort as to push me off to the land of dreams. No, it was no use.
You reach a point, in all this, where you simply say "forget it!" To hell with sleep! Weariness be damned! If I can't nod off then I'm just going to stay awake! And then begins what I like to refer to as the "Stupid Stage."
My father was the first (argh! What does it mean?) man I studied going through the Stupid Stage, and it was tragic to watch one of my own suffer so. He came stumbling out of his bedroom, in a right temper about his inability to sleep, and set to work in the kitchen. He was like a mad-man, possessed by some deep need to gratify his body with something. The very mentality of the Stupid Stage victim radiating from his bagged eyes, "if it's not to be sleep, then it is to be food!"
Soon there was a bowl of sour cream and Tabasco sauce settled upon a tray, just begging for corn chips to join. Then tortillas emerged from the refrigerator, eager to envelope seasoned ground beef and toppings. Within a manner of minutes, a full meal of bountiful proportions was laid out upon a tray and carrying it with a crooked smile of anticipation was my father, the Stupid Stage victim.
I find it particularly interesting that certain Stupid Stage victims are more prone to certain foods than others. Any time my father cannot sleep, it seems his Stupid Stage kicks in with a certain South of the Border flair. Tacos, nachos, anything really that is comprised of ground beef, beans, tortillas, cheese and veggies and tastes good when loaded with hot sauce. Meanwhile, a certain waif of a man, I am sorry to say I once knew very well, by the name of "Wayne" coveted cereal when locked in his Stupid Stage. He generally leaned towards the sugary sort, and when the live-action film version of The Cat in the Hat came out, there was a particular promotional cereal he found particularly delightful. He bought umpteen boxes at one point, simply to prepare for the Stupid Stages, which he arrived at quite regularly in those days.
Even more intriguing than an individual's Stupid Stage preferences, are those of a group of people under one roof. I am afraid I intend to use my own household to explain, and I have no doubt this will shock and surprise all who are about to read it.
I live in a home with three people, Amanda, Lee and myself, and while we are all very health conscious, for the most part, we have a major weakness come the Stupid Stage. It is bad enough that the Stupid Stage encourages its victims to eat when the body is least interested in digesting food, but to actually be persuaded, as we are, to drive out into the night and locate a McDonald's drive-thru that's open... it's an abomination. Singularly, none of us, particularly myself as I cannot drive, would do such a thing. However, for some wretched reason, when the three of us are combined... well we throw away our wrappers at 3:00am with guilty satisfaction.
But what's to be done? When in the bonds of the Stupid Stage, the mass consumption of food that tastes good is just singularly vital. So there I was last night, at 1:00am, slowly enjoying mouthful after mouthful of fries, even though they were a somewhat stale batch.
What misery come the morning! To wake up after only a few hours of sleep with a feeling of greasy punishment in my stomach. *Sigh* Oh calamity. Oh curses. Oh damn. But I know I am not alone! Right?
Anyway, thus my second blog post is concluded. Perhaps not as sought after as the first, oh accursed first, and perhaps not as enjoyable because of it...
...but nonetheless, it stands to be read, undaunted by it's popularity...
...or lack thereof.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Jenny Jet is Speaking?
Hello, all. I am Jenny Jet. In truth, I cannot stand to be called "Jenny" by anyone and I have no affiliation with jets of any kind, but long ago somebody coined the term "Jenny Jet" and as a pen name and loathed familiar term of endearment it has stuck. Consider this blog my surrender of protest to the longevity of this accursed title and my declaration of acceptance...
...I am Jenny Jet.
With that established, what, in heaven's name, have I to speak about? That's a very good question, really, because I am a person of little to no consequence to the world and besides that I hardly think my opinion matters much. Still, I do have things to say about those points that are of some consequence and even more about those with less import than myself. So what I'm writing about may very well never matter to you, not once, which begs the question "why bother reading about what I have to say?"
To this, my answer can only be that I shall always try to write about my nothingness in a manner which you will find pleasing to that funny bone which resides in your heart. Yes, I want my words to jump from your screen, infiltrate your eyes with their potency and then send shock waves down through your body to your heart's funny bone (not always labeled clearly on anatomy charts, your heart's funny bone is located within the cockles.) whence you shall be filled with delight... or something close to it.
So read on, my dear strangers, and see if, perhaps, any of what is to follow will make you laugh, snicker, or even just grunt with a hint of merriment. If it doesn't... well I suggest you get to a doctor quick as you please and have the cockles of your heart inspected immediately.
Thank you, and goodbye.
...I am Jenny Jet.
With that established, what, in heaven's name, have I to speak about? That's a very good question, really, because I am a person of little to no consequence to the world and besides that I hardly think my opinion matters much. Still, I do have things to say about those points that are of some consequence and even more about those with less import than myself. So what I'm writing about may very well never matter to you, not once, which begs the question "why bother reading about what I have to say?"
To this, my answer can only be that I shall always try to write about my nothingness in a manner which you will find pleasing to that funny bone which resides in your heart. Yes, I want my words to jump from your screen, infiltrate your eyes with their potency and then send shock waves down through your body to your heart's funny bone (not always labeled clearly on anatomy charts, your heart's funny bone is located within the cockles.) whence you shall be filled with delight... or something close to it.
So read on, my dear strangers, and see if, perhaps, any of what is to follow will make you laugh, snicker, or even just grunt with a hint of merriment. If it doesn't... well I suggest you get to a doctor quick as you please and have the cockles of your heart inspected immediately.
Thank you, and goodbye.
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