Wolf Wears Wool

Aye, we’re segueing into a flashback.  I swear, there will be dialogue on the next page, so check back wi’ me on Monday as per le usual.

Also, the DSP page is up to date, now.  And I still need another suggestion!  I’m up to nine, need just one more, if someone might be so kind?  Anyone?

. . . Lordy-loo what a week I have had.  I have also learnt something very important, so I do hope you will allow me to wax Aesopian for just a moment.  This golden nugget of wisdom simply must be shared for the sake of posterity;

Never watch Hostel.

Now, I do realise that this sort of thing rather goes without saying, that it is more or less another cobblestone in the straight and narrow walkway of human common sense (right next to the ‘Don’t throw eggs’ stone, in fact).  Alas, I had to rebel against my default sensibilities and allow myself to be once bitten in order to be twice shy.  Or something.

Either way, I don’t mind telling you, I did not sleep well for nearly a week . . . And I enjoy a bit of bloody horror.  I own the first three Saw films (have seen five), I adored Pan’s Labyrinth and Black Swan, and yes, I will admit, I still enjoy looking at bits and bats of 300.  Not listening to it, mind, nor watching it from beginning to end or, God forbid, THINKING more than a centimetre into it, but there’s no denying they make blood really flippin’ pretty.

. . . Just don’t ask me to attach an actually quite interesting piece of true history to this fannyhammer of cheddar dialogue, frankly insulting messages and silly leather underpants and we’ll be champ. Now, go read ‘Gates Of Fire‘.

ANYHOO.  I like the Saw films for their complexity, dramatic irony and for how well-thought out they are (or at least the first film.  The first one will always be the most well put together and smartly executed, and therefore the best, in my opinion).  As for Pan’s Labyrinth, Black Swan and yes, even bits of 300, I like beauty that has a gritty, visceral quality to it.  ::shrug:: I dunno.  Maybe I really am a typical ‘dude’ in that sense.  Just my personal taste.

As for Hostel, well . . . It just strikes me as violence for the sake of violence and sick, twisted brutality for the sake of shock value, which does nothing for me.  It’s torture porn; No greater thought or purpose to carry it.  And such things simply do not impress me.  What makes me squeamish about it, however, is the simple fact of its senselessness; Jigsaw is methodical in choosing his victims;  They had to meet a certain criteria, therefore those who do not meet the criteria are ‘safe’ from him. With Hostel, anything goes.  It doesn’t matter who you are, what your circumstances happen to be or how much good or bad you’ve done in the world.  Anything goes.  There is no seperation between ‘us and them’.  And that’s what’s frankly scary.

. . . Good heavens, this blog just turned into a huge, analytical rant about Hostel.  Bottom line? I did not like it and it cost me several handfuls of sleep.  Boo, say I.

Whoo.

Gonna watch Yellow Submarine the noo, thanks.

P.S. My endless gratitude to lovely K. for listening to me whinge like a wean with a skinned knee, this week.  ::snif::  She makes all the monsters under the bed go bye-bye ^_^ ::hearts::

Well.  There you have it.  Here’s hoping she did actually want to be cremated . . . Ah, I could make a cheap joke about graves in reference to a certain favourite sitcom of mine, but I wo- Ah, sod it, yes I will.

WOMAN AT CEMETARY: “Do you dig graves?”

NEIL, THE HIPPIE: “Yeh . . . Yeh, they’re all right.”

There.  Thank you, The Young Ones, for tarnishing the concept of ‘respect for the dead’.

Waking up with my cat, Ru is like being in the warm, tender, enveloping hold of one of Morpheus’s hands, whilst the other hand goes at your face with a tiny sandblaster.  He (Ru, not Morpheus) likes to lie on my chest, all warmy-warm and fuzzy-fuzz and lick my face.  And I’m not just talking about a few laps in greeting.  I am talking full-out draaaaggging of a quite rough tongue hard over my entire face without stopping to rest or take a breath UNTIL THE FLIPPING COWS COME HOME . . . Or at least till I push him off because it feels like a good four layers of skin have been sanded off.

I really do not know why Ru has this . . . odd obsession with licking.  Anytime I pick him up, he throws his arms round my neck and licks my face.  Put a hand near him, he licks it.  Sit next to him in shorts and he’ll lick your knees.  It would not even be so bad, save that I’ve come to believe I could grate garlic on his tongue.  Or possibly sand the corners off a birdhouse.  Or polish brass.

THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS.

So, anyway, things have been going better, thanks . . . Except we’re still dealing with the aftershock at work of a woman dropping off eighteen bichon frises in one go.  EIGHTEEN . . . I didn’t know the half of it when I first saw her.  I was pulling a wagon full of supplies to the building where I was working, and a car pulls up.  It follows me rather slowly and eerily, the creep factor augmented by the fact of tinted windows.  Then, the horn blares, I nearly jump clean out of my trousers, and the window rolls down.

HER: “Where do I go to give up?”

ME: “Ah, the kennel building . . . It’s back there.  You park in that lot and follow the walkway-”

HER: “Is there a closer way?  I got these dogs and they can’t walk on a leash and they’re peeing and puking up all over my back seats and eachother.”

ME: “Er, there’s no closer way, but the kennel staff will be glad to assist you.”

. . .  Now, I heard ‘dogs’ and I thought to myself, ‘Right, okay, she’s got two or three smallish dogs in the back . . . Maybe they’re elderly and can’t walk very far . . . And maybe they’re sick, so it’s a euth case.’ (it is not uncommon for people to come to the shelter specifically for euthanasia).  Her car was not even that big, just a normal sedanish sort of thing.

Apparently, she pulled up and told the kennel staff she had six dogs.  As they are carrying these poor bichons out of her car (wearing gloves because the dogs are covered in piss, poo and puke), EVEN MORE OF THEM start crawling out from under her seats . . . All the while, she’s saying, ‘Oh yer, I guess there are more . . .’

Ah, forgive me, but there is NO EXCUSE for miscounting six dogs for EIGHTEEN. A blind bat in a bag knows the difference betwixt a number and a multiple of three . . .  And no, these dogs are not elderly.  They are all young to mid-life.  And none of them are housebroken . . . Apparently, they were all just living in her house . . . I can not imagine living in a house with eighteen non-housebroken bichons . . . Especially based upon the state in which they came in (i.e. caked in crap).

. . . People just . . . knock me for six sometimes.

But yes, things are looking up on this end, which is good.  Pallyrallying with Carlea today, possibly with Thai food in the works, tonight.  Mmm, curry.

Just what it says up there, my bunnyfeets . . . Want to see Ursula making pancakes or R. trying to drink Ulysses S. Grant under the table or Simon buried in kittens or Aurelia . . . doing something?  Because you lot don’t even know her yet?  Ha ha . . . Haaaa.

Get onto those comments and tell me so!  Like I said, I’ll be picking five from comments I get here, and five from comments I get at my DeviantArt account.  Foo wee!

Yep, uploading this page early because the page after is a splash.  Aye, tis another double-header.  Will upload the next page round midnight and consequently blog, then.  See ye!

OH . . . BLOODY BOLLOCKSING BASTARDING  . . . BUM.

I know I said I’d blog tonight, but eh, it has been a frustrating day and suffice it to say, my utter turdgoblin of a cat pulling my teapot off the ledge and drenching a huge pile of lineart and daily sketches in Duchess Grey did not salve my mood any.

So yer, have a new page.  I’ll blog tomorrow, when I am in a better, less felinely-wronged disposition ::glares at the alcove, where Ru and Zeke are angelically crunching their kibbles:: . . .  Gits. Utter gits, you are.  It’s astounding I haven’t baked your nubbin bums into a pie, yet.

EDIT: OKAY!  In a far betterer mood today, kids.  Spent a very pleasant half hour this morning watching Bill Bailey Orchestral videos on Youtube, went to work for Boss Number Three today, did paperwork and accounting till my eyes crossed so far that my pupils were snogging in my skull, drove home (eyes thankfully uncrossed for that), managed to not kill anyone (or even almost kill anyone), came home, talked with my K., informed Ru that his ears are too big and am now working on today’s Daily Sketch.  Ugh, this minicomic is getting ridiculous . . . I just came to the due conclusion that I tried to cram far too much text in the last page, so I ought to divide up the next verse . . . Ugh, so THREE PAGES LEFT.  As I said on DA, I may cut my ear off over this.

BUT NOW, PHOTOS;

A pressie from my K.! (actually two pressies, of sorts; I am greatly enjoying the mug, whilst Ru and Zeke had a lot of fun with the packaging it came in).  Thank you, my lovehinny!  You’re too kind, really!

. . . And last week, yet another rabbit gave birth at work.  These are 1-2 day old rabbit kits (or, as K. and I like to say, ‘Babby Rabbies’.

. . . In other news . . . Applying for many more jobs.  Please wish me luck?  Cheers, you lot!