June 22, 2019

regurgitated universe panties

A few thoughts and vignettes to take the place of straining to write something legit today ....

Bring me the head
of Virginia Foxx.
Beat Saber

I am hopelessly addicted to Beat Saber.  It's a VR game where you wield light sabers - rather good ones - and glowing cubes with arrows come flying at you and you have to strike them down just-so with wrist flicks and swings and lots and lots of aggression.  The blocks represent the motherfuckers I secretly want to slash across the face with a utility knife on a daily basis (mostly politicians ... well, okay, mostly Trump) and here I'm allowed to do it.  Sometimes a glowing wall comes drifting by and I have to hit the ground and duck.

Unfortunately, this qualifies the game as bona fide exercise, but I don't care because it offers a dimension aside from rampant light-saber murdering, and that is left-brain/right-brain combined kinetic and mental activity.  Intense stuff that is better than a punching bag for stress.  And it turns out I'm pretty damned good at the game.

I thought that having two VR headsets, one for PlayStation and one for PC, was spoiled-brat overkill for The Kid, but now I'm glad he has them because I can mandate that we share.  This is still a dictatorship.

I made myself play this morning, even though I didn't feel up to it, and I'm glad I did.  Motherfuckers always need slashing.  I think Jesus said motherfuckers will always be among us.  I might be mixing up his words, but that as good as makes me a Christian these days.



Suicide in the news

To summarize, there's a bridge in South Korea that people used to jump from on a regular basis to commit suicide.  Dismay ensued, the bridge was renamed the Life Bridge, and lots of beautiful statues and signs with upbeat, positive messages were placed along it.  Thanks to this and, more to the point, the fact that the bridge made the news and was advertised as a suicide bridge, the following year saw the jump rate increase sixfold.

If they'd hung Despair, Inc. posters everywhere, maybe people would have felt understood and validated and would have instead wandered off to find their jaded cohort.

The comments, though, were the problem for me, because someone pointed out that you can't use a shotgun but you can easily buy a nitrogen tank and it's both easy and effective.  I giggled at the comment.  The asshole guy in my brain did not.  He jotted it down and filed it away.  That is not cool.  I'm trying to deprive that asshole of oxygen, but ... you know what?  That sentence does not work.  Never mind.  And yes, I am safe.


Regurgitated universe panties

I picked up the scrap of cloth that was on top of my chest of drawers.  "Did you put these here?"

P.J. was sorting clothes.  "Yeah, they were mixed in with mine."

"But they're yours," I said, and tossed them back into her pile on the bed.

"Nope, look at them.  They're yours," she said.

I picked them back up and considered them.  "I've never seen these before in my life," I concluded.

For the first time during the conversation, P.J. stopped what she was doing and turned to look at me.  "Dear, they must be yours."

"I'm serious.  They're not.  They're yours."

"No, they're really, really not mine."

We regarded each other warily.  A pair of panties belonging to a third party had made its way into our clean laundry.  We haven't had guests.  The panties clearly weren't new.  The various other logical explanations loomed, but no, no one had been having an affair and accidentally picked up someone else's panties.  Extending the logic further, wouldn't someone miss them?  And The Kid has a gaming addiction, not a pubescent sex life.

What we had was a pair of panties that had washed up out of the space-time continuum and had been regurgitated into our bedroom by the Universe.

I'm kind of afraid of them.

Don't you ever try to tell me the Universe doesn't like to stir the shit.


UPDATE:  Thank you, Carol - this is SO MUCH BETTER!


8 comments:

  1. That's as bizarre as the time we woke up to find the front door wide open, yet nobody in the house had opened it and both the hubby and I had checked it the night before. The storm door was still closed and locked. It was just the big door!

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    1. That makes me uncomfortable. I'm staring at my front door right now, suspicious. Don't you even. Don't ... you ... even.

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  2. So I am missing a pair of...ahem, underpants. No way in hell they could of ended up at your place. Right? Still...perhaps you'd better describe these miracle panties you found. Just in case. Mona ��

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  3. LOL Sometimes I find socks that I'm like, "Where the hell did these come from?"

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    1. See? The ones that go missing from others' homes MUST end up somewhere!

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    2. A small elephant like creature with a broad flared trunk is the Sock Eater - Pratchett, Hogfather. It follows that there must be an Underwear Regurgitator, mostly 'cause that would cause the most trouble, it's just unfortunate that Sir Pratchett didn't get the opportunity to tell us it's name.


      *Google, come on!! you must know how to spell 'Hogfather'*

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  4. The inexplicable never happens to me. I think my logical Spock side keeps the ghosts at bay.
    Hey... maybe YOU have a stalker!!! Wouldn't that be some kind of irony? The kind who sneaks their underpants into your laundry.

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