Tonight’s horror saga is THE WITCH. Most of what I know is that Black Phillip the goat was apparently a raging asshole and busted his co-star’s ribs.
(I read that they picked him because he had the best horns in the roster of available goats.)
Gosh, being a Puritan sucked.
ME: This was all your people.
KEVIN: Hey! We weren’t Puritans.
ME: Protestants! The Catholics had indulgences for this shit.
KEVIN: …look, the Puritans took it to extremes.
Okay, I actually generally dislike goats, but Black Phillip is one magnificent caprine motherfucker.
Goddamn, Puritan Dad is super ripped and, for some reason, chopping wood in a towel.
Whew, okay, the dog does not fare well in this one.
I know that witches appearing as hares is mythologically accurate, but also this rabbit is kicking everybody’s ass harder than a Monty Python sketch.
Kid, that is a creepy house in the woods with a suspiciously clean Goth chick in it. You gonna die.
Puberty is hard.
ME: Aaaand the brother showed up naked in the cow pen.
KEVIN: Yeah…
ME: You say that like showing up naked in the cow pen is just something that happens.
KEVIN: Testosterone and puberty is a helluva drug.
Dead because you wanted an apple. This reminds me of an anthropology class where I pointed out that the supposed witches always thought small. “I cursed the cow! I lamed the horse!” Bitch, if I’m selling my soul, I want control of the Eastern Seaboard.
The instructor was a lovely grad student who had no idea what to do with that. I think of her fondly.
I have no idea what is going on now in this movie except that shit is fucked.
Oh, Black Philip just gutted Dad and the improperly stacked firewood fell on him. Probably there’s a moral lesson here.
And now we’re just gonna sell our soul to Satan, I see.
Well, at that point, what’ve you really got to lose? Everybody’s dead, you’re outcast from society, might as well sign it over o the smooth-talking goat.
I’m still skeptical about all the nudity in the woods, though. We have poison ivy, people.
Welp, that was sure a thing I watched.
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Time for my routine mammogram! Let’s see how the tech handles the Wombat Experience.
My first question is always “Is there an emergency release on this thing?”
Got a very chatty tech, the best kind!
ME: Before you squish me, is there an emergency release on this thing in case of a fire?
TECH: Oh yes! It’s not like the old days. I knew a woman who got stuck in one.
ME: TELL ME MORE
TECH: Well, I didn’t see it, but the power went out and the compression is supported to release, but it did not! So she was stuck in compression.
ME: My god! I hope it wasn’t a long power outage!
TECH: I don’t think it was. I hope.
*awkward pause*
TECH: So, left breast first…
It’s D&D night and the bugbears have come to negotiate to ask the party to either kill or kidnap the hedgehog archaeologist that they came to rescue.
DIPLOMAT: Prince says take stupid hedgepig and go!
PARTY: We want to do this.
DIPLOMAT: Prince gives you a thousand gold if you kill hedgepig.
PARTY: Why?
DIPLOMAT: Horrible lying hedgepig!
BARD: I’m going to roll insight to see if he’s telling the truth.
PARTY: *proceeds to roll the worst collection of botches and low rolls imaginable*
GM: As far as you’re concerned, this hedgehog is worse than Hitler.
I read a gawker article about the origin of teddy-bears, which had no new information, but did include a link to the greatest newspaper clipping I have seen in ages.
It is from 1907 and the headline is “TEDDY-BEARS DESTROY GIRLS MATERNAL INTEREST SAYS CATHOLIC PRIEST.” He goes on to say that girls playing with teddy bears instead of dolls will destroy the race.
It would be, quote, “one of the most powerful factors in the race suicide danger.”
Also, most Pokémon games are super cheery and life-affirming and random strangers tell you that life is about learning to live in harmony with people and nature and Pokémon.
In this game, you are informed repeatedly that if you don’t work, you don’t eat.
(I personally find this contrast hilarious, but I’m me.)
Preach. 35 is a lot of chickens. Making a garden produce enough food to feed a family is a JOB. And that doesn’t even get into the issues of storage, distribution, etc. And I say this as someone who loves to garden and who has space!
Their next stage is “if that family also kept two hogs.”
Friends, there is no power on earth that could entice me to keep hogs. If you put a gun to my head and pointed at a pair of shoats, I would commend my soul to the saints and tell you to pull the trigger.
Wait, I misread. TEN hogs?!
I’d load the gun for you. Hogs are not hobby livestock.
That horrible moment when you realize that you should have worked out a timeline for the fantasy series ages ago, and are now grimly trying to work out, based on the mention of people’s ages, what year X must have happened.
(I am trying to figure out what year the Saint of Steel died and it’s turned into a complex algebra equation with a lot of “Stephen is 37 in X+3 and Galen is 20 in Year 0 (the Clocktaur War) so solve for X…” while I dig through manuscripts trying to find people’s ages.)