Weekly Shocks' Blog


Another Facebook Rant

Oh, Facebook, you conniving man-whore. Will you never cease shaming  me to tears? This is an abusive relationship, my love. I’d leave you, but we both know I’m not strong enough. So you’ll continue to use and abuse me with all your salty, bitchslapping bitterness and, God help me, I’ll continue to love every minute of it.

We all know Facebook, drunk on his ever-growing popularity and meteoric rise to world domination, fell in with a bad crowd about a year ago and started smoking crack and shooting heroin. In order to pay for his various addictions, he first allowed high school students to partake in his naughty goodies (oh, bad, Facebook, bad, bad) and then began adding hundreds and hundreds of hopelessly inane “Applications” to his daily menu, “Applications” he bought from disreputable foreign sources. These goddamned “Applications” make me want to peel my own skin off and eat it. 99.9% of them are so pathetically pointless, you can’t help but add them just to waste even more of the precious little time you have remaining before your dissertation is due. (Have I mentioned my dissertation before? It’s due Friday. It’s not done yet. I’m dead.)

Every once in a while, though, I summon every ounce of self-control I have left in my fragile, beaten body and I ignore a friend’s invitation to partake in some silly application. These rare and precious moments are major triumphs for me, testaments to my unfailing good sense and taste, or at least evidence of my basic apathy toward discovering which is more badass, a pirate or a ninja (bunnies could kick either of them to shreds, so it’s a moot point anyway), or giving a flying rat’s ass which of my Facebook friends supposedly has a crush on me (all of them do, obviously, if they have any sense at all). One friend, in a supreme moment of post-existential angst-y irony, sent me an invitation to partake in “The Most Useless Application of All” which does, as you might expect, absolutely nothing. This might have been modestly clever had I not already received an invitation, just moments earlier, from another friend to join a group enquiring, ever so politely of me, “Which Useless Facebook Application Are You?” It’s enough to make me sob, but that’s ok, because I’m sure Facebook probably has a “Shoulder to Cry On” application, too.

Regardless. I’m getting better at saying no to my Facebook friends and their incessant demands for me to try their hot new life-wasting addictions. Facebook is on to me, though, and every time I hit that glorious, self-actualizing, empowering IGNORE button, a little message pops up, damning me to hell:

“You have just ignored a request from one of your dearest, loveliest friends, a friend who was simply thinking of you fondly and wanted only to amuse and please you. You are a heartless bitch. God just murdered a kitten because of your selfishness. I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY.”

OK, it might not say exactly that, but it’s pretty damn close. I have thus been shamed by a faceless cooparate entity, a freaking website, fer cryin’ out loud. Bugger. I’ll have to add this to my ever-increasing list of reasons of Why I’m Going To Hell. I better start packing, for I hear sweet Satan’s dulcet tones. Bet he has tons of applications on Facebook.

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AWKWARD!

Last autumn, my sedate, gracious family (enormous numbers of pasty, raucous Irish Catholic hams) donned its Sunday best (jeans, white T-shirts, no beer stains, please), drove merrily along the highways and byways in our limousines and convertibles (minivans and pickup trucks, breaking many speed limits along the way), and assembled together at an elegant locale (a local nursing home, prompting a severe case of  “WTF?!” syndrome), and posed for a number of beautiful, graceful photos for our lovely matriarch (mugged mercilessly for a number of cheesy, goofy-grinning pictures for our lovely Nana).

Today, I found this site.

Am very tempted to submit.


Whatever! Whatever! I do what I want!

Enough bitching about my dissertation. Let’s bitch about something else, shall we?

Actually, to hell with that, too. Bitching stops being fun after a while, especially when I find myself so gosh darn amusing. Amusing and odd, actually, in a non-threatening, no-serial-killer-here  kind of way. Also, I smell good. Oh yeah. I rock. Big ups to me.

OK, my daily affirmations aside. I was looking over my Facebook page this morning because I hadn’t updated it in ages and when you’re as cool as I am, that’s just a sin. Surely something new and interesting could be said about my life, right? I trawled through my various lists. Favorite music: only the best, of course. My man, Van, leading the way. Simon and Garfunkel. The Beatles, natch. Some ole Blue Eyes. Beethoven, Mozart. A little REM for when I’m feeling saucy. Good choices, indeed. How about books? Jane Austen, she’s always a good choice. PG Wodehouse. Dickens. Orwell. Twain. OK, sensing a theme here…moving on. Movies? It’s a Wonderful Life, my all-time favorite. Casablanca is close on its heels, though. Oh, Bogart, you sneaky scamp. A healthy dose of Pixar flicks. To Kill a Mockingbird. Mr Smith Goes to Washington. You can never have too much Jimmy Stewart in your life, right? Right. Huh. Huh.

Crap.

I really have the most pedestrian taste on earth, don’t I? Gimme the classics, nothing but, screw the rest. If it was made after I was born and it’s not a witty cartoon, it’s probably rubbish. Wow. I mean, even the quirky stuff on my list is utterly safe and sane in clever, life-affirming ways (Mystery Science Theater 3000, The Puppini Sisters). I have good taste, sure, and I’m damn proud of it. But where’s the wild streak, the seedy underbelly, the embarrassing and crazy interests and desires, the gigantic and stupid tattoo you got when you were drunk in Cancun and decided to prove your devotions to the Smurfs by having a vision of the Almighty Papa engraved on your bottom? I seem to be missing this. (Actually, I do have a Smurf bum tattoo. Long story.) Given how bizarre my personality can occasionally be, you’d think I’d have a penchant for some seriously messed-up stuff, like anime tentacle porn, or a burning desire to have a threesome with Eminem and Marilyn Manson, or even just a fondness for Hello Kitty. Yet I don’t. And I don’t want to. Because that would be gross and soul-destroying. No, really: it would.

Is this a problem? I can’t quite figure that part out. On the one hand, when you know something is good, when it’s got the critical reviews and the years and years of durability and, infinitely more important, the artistry and the grace to take your breath away, why screw with the principle of it and entertain lesser art? On the other hand, I can’t help but think that my rather mainstream, safe, middle-of-the-road tastes are setting me up for the grandest midlife crisis of all. No one can be good all of the time. I just know I’ll wake up one day twenty years from now with a raging desire to shave my head, dye my eyebrows magenta, pierce my eyeballs, snort some lines off the toilet bowl, and rock out to some Limp Bizkit.  (No offense to the multitudes of Limp Bizkit devotees out there, but, to put it diplomatically, they suck deep-fried, urine-coated, rotting, steaming cheese curds.)

So what’s a girl to do? Trash my classical music collection, throw away my collected works of Shakespeare, burn my Monty Python DVDs and slowly gorge myself on an unrelenting diet of pop culture trash? Hell no. If I’m going to sell out, it had better be for a massive amounts of cash or a pony. Preferably a pony. But perhaps I may want to consider injecting some less conventional, more controversial substances into my artistic interests. Suggestions are always welcome, provided they aren’t completely disgusting. Let’s not get crazy here.


Arising Like a Phoenix From My Inbox:

From: (deleted to protect the insane)
Sent: 22 May 2009 14:47:30
To: Weekly Shocks (weeklyshocks@hotmail.com)

Yo Weekly Shocks or whatever your name really is,

You ever planning on updating your blog? Seriously, what the [naughty curse word deleted), man?
Hurry up.

An Insane Fan

I have a fan! Yay!

Blog will be updated soon-ish. I think. “Soon-ish” means whenever the hell I feel like it, i.e., when I’m not being smothered in the oozing puddle of dog poo that my dissertation has become.

A million apologies for disappointing you, Insane Fan. I love you. I will give birth to dozens of your babies as recompense. Call me.

Love,

Weekly Shocks (not a man, has uterus to prove it)


Another inspired “WTF?!?” moment, courtesy of Weekly Shocks’ blog stats.

For your pondering pleasure:

Search Engine Terms

These are terms people used to find your blog.

Today

Search Views
puggle 3
zoo weekly penis explode story 1

Wow.


That’s it, I’m switching to diapers.

A friend and I intermittently play a sick little game in which we try and freak each other out with the creepiest news story imaginable. I usually win, because, although he is lovely, he is basically a girl and has a soprano-like shriek to prove it. Yesterday, I sent him this, because, really, who doesn’t love a good story about toilet snakes? This morning, he countered with this, playing off (rather unfairly, I must say)  my vomit-inspiring fear of toilet rats. I think I’m correct in saying we’re both terrible people and we’re both going to hell for this. In the meantime, I’m utterly traumatized and am switching to Adult Pampers until I can circle my toilet at a radius of ten feet without sobbing and wretching, which, I imagine, is also the radius you’ll need to keep from me before my bodily stench causes you to do the same.


A Quick Question

WHY THE HELL DID I DECIDE TO GO TO GRADUATE SCHOOL??!!! ^&%^(%)*o&^)(*^&)*(^_(*^*(_*&)*&_*(^!!!

All for now, I’m afraid. My dissertation is continuously trying to smother me with a pillow while I sleep, that insidious, nasty bastard. Damn him. I’m going to have to start sleeping with one eye open and a knife under my pillow, it seems. Bugger. On the upside, I am starting to discover just how resilient an Oxford University graduate program can make a person. I feel ever-so-mighty, dangerously invigorated, almost tingly with power. Maybe I should move to New Zealand and castrate sheep for a living.


More Rubbish

Yes, yes, I am well aware of the fact that I’ve been a bit remiss on the substantive posts lately (and yes, I know that “substantive” is not a word one should ever use to accurately describe the contents of this blog).  However, I’ve been so gosh darn busy with my real life that I’m too exhausted to go back and fix the obvious and disgusting split infinitive in that last parenthetical phrase, let alone post something that isn’t complete crap. Oh, the weary life of a grad student with deadlines! Pity me.

OK, enough work-related caterwauling. Enjoy some random thoughts on recent rubbish. Hopefully it’ll hold you whiny bastards until King Dissertation is submitted (please don’t hit, only kidding, I love you all):

1) The last quasi-decent post I wrote vaguely referenced my return to the UK. Coming through EU immigration is always a treat for dirty foreigners like me. I always, always seem to end up in the queue filled with every petty criminal in the whole damn world along with their falsified passports, their forged visas, and their cocaine-filled anal balloons, and every single one of them is indignant and outraged when they’re denied entrance into the UK. It never fails. It’s either the Bellowing and Bellicose Criminal Queue or the March of the Idiots, in which every person is drunk/half-asleep/recovering from a lobotomy/huffing paint thinners. I generally don’t like policing people’s behavior too stridently, but seeing some of the idiocy that occurs while people are waiting in line for passport inspection kind of makes me wish the government would issue an IQ test before allowing passengers on planes. My favorite idiot in the sky story actually comes from a friend of mine who swears that, while at Heathrow patiently awaiting his criminal inspection and anal probe, a very annoyed, braincell-deficient young lady flounced into the queue and whined to her friend, “Oh my god. That other lady was such a bitch! Like, how was I supposed to know that the US isn’t in the EU?”

Oh, help.

2) I, of course, should not snicker too loudly at the moronic behavior of others, because yesterday, in a fit of rage and impatience (two emotions I generally don’t experience all that often, I must say, which I’m gonna go ahead and use as the sole excuse for the following mind-boggling inanity), I tore apart my room in a futile search for my keys before giving up, frustrated and sweaty, then slumped to the floor muttering a series of rather interesting and colorful curses I shan’t repeat here. A sharp pain in my bottom region reminded me that I had stored the keys in my back pocket fifteen minutes earlier. I deserved that pain-in-the-ass, quite frankly.

3) Speaking of pain-in-the-ass, King Dissertation is reaching his final stages. I’ve come up with all kinds of creative ways to avoid finishing him, mostly because he’s starting to send me into a series of nervous twitches every time I open up Microsoft Word and he stares up at me with his toothy, shit-eating grin. Bastard. Anyway, two days ago, I decided it would be a good time to rearrange my bedroom. Why not? I didn’t get very far, though, because my bed is heavier than a dead cow on a pogo stick, and I couldn’t move the damn thing more than two feet before my back decided to go on vacation and give out, leaving only a knife-like spasm in its stead. The spasm refused to help move the bed and he didn’t like the idea of going back to King Dissertation either, so we took a nap instead. I probably should have started out with that activity and avoided the whole mess to begin with. Oh well: live and learn.

Also, I only added that third little random item because I really, really like the phrase “heavier than a dead cow on a pogo stick.” And I think I actually made it up all by myself, too. Hooray! Wonder if I can somehow work that into King Dissertation. Hmmm….

And, finally, because I really do love you all, a present: chocolate-flavored puggle. Awww.

ChocPuggle


ALL YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US

Can’t talk at the moment, there’s a war on, damn it! (Forgive the questionable taste of this joke during an actual war: the photo was simply too good to pass up.)

our_base


Use some &;^%(^% manners on &;*%(&;% Facebook, will you?! &)*^!!

With sincere thanks to several of my friends for sharing this over the past couple of days: a brilliant combination of two of my greatest addictions – MST3K-style short, educational films and Facebook (aka, “the electric friendship generator”).


Sour Grapes and HUGE, DISEASE-RIDDEN RATS!!!

Pretty, but watch your toes for the nibblin' foes.

Pretty, but watch your toes for the nibblin' foes.

Boston.com is running a tragic little feature about what graduating college students are going to miss about the beloved city when they abandon it this summer. Now, I fully admit that I miss Boston like mental when I’m here in lovely Britain, but some of the answers on the website make me wonder if these kids ever once ventured off campus in the four years they’d been there. My favorite response is a glowing tribute to the Christian Science Center Reflecting Pool. Granted, it is a lovely place in photos, but anyone who has spent more than five minutes there knows it’s infested with more rats, mice, and mosquitoes (not to mention crazy homeless people) than your average medieval village. Why don’t we all just contract the plague while we’re at it along with a healthy dose of leprosy, get rid of the sewer system, and dump our poo into the streets? Add a few drunken chants of “Yankees suck!” and now we’re really in Boston!


I’m gonna staple this thing to my forehead.

This may surprise some of you, but I am not the most organized person in the world.

“But Kris,” you’d exclaim (Well, you’d exclaim that if you knew my name is Kris. Hi. My name’s Kris.), “your writing is so elegantly precise and so agreeably direct! It’s enough to make Strunk and White weep tears of joy! How could you not be a paragon of virtuous logic and care in your day-to-day living?! How could you not be a shining example of calm, meticulous order in an otherwise traumatically nebulous, careless world of intellectual anarchy and deliberate obfuscation! And when do I get paid for saying this on your cheesy blog?”

Well, thank you, imaginary reader (see my accountant, he’ll take care of your promotional fees), but the sad fact is that whatever precision I bring to my writing disappears altogether when it comes to the more pragmatic elements of my life. My room, for example, is an utter wreck at the moment, as it usually is. It was fairly orderly when I left it a couple of weeks ago, but I’ve been back for more than twelve hours, so, of course, it now looks as if the Royal Air Force has been using it as a weapons’ explosive training ground. In fact, the only time I ever really clean my room is when I’m procrastinating work on my dissertation, the first draft of which is due this weekend, so chances are good this place will be spotless by tomorrow.

Regardless. I’m usually pretty good at hiding my complete lack of sense and order because people tend to hear the words “Oxford graduate” and automatically assume I’m way smarter and more mature than I actually am. I used to feel somewhat uncomfortable and guilty about misleading people like this, but these folks also usually think Oxford is just a subsection of Hogwarts and we all carry wands with unicorn feathers in them and have classes in broom-riding and shape-shifting, then holler absurdities like “wingardium leviosa!” at each other during exams (that last part is only true if we’ve been drinking, people!). So I’ve just come to the conclusion that there are simply enormous numbers of sadly deranged lunatics on this earth, and I continue along my happy, messy way.

One of the side-effects, though, of being a mess is that you lose everything. Because I am a broke grad student and own almost nothing of value (except, of course, my Sigmund Freud action figure: yes, I really do have one and, yes, it is every bit as awesome as you’d expect it to be), this usually isn’t a problem. Last fall, however, I lost my passport. While I was in England. Two days before I was due home for Thanksgiving. I believe the phrase “Son of a bitch!” left my mouth with alarming frequency when I came across that charming little discovery.

If you’ve never lost your passport while in a foreign country, go ahead and down an entire bottle of Jack Daniels, get into a cab, tell the driver to drop you off at “the zoo” (No worries if there isn’t a zoo anywhere near you: just wave a sawbuck at the driver and that temptation combined with your intoxicated charm and projectile vomit will get you a punch in the face so sharp you’ll see exotic birds circling your head. See? The zoo.), then toss your wallet out the window while en route. That’s pretty much what losing your passport in a foreign country feels like.

The best part about losing your passport right before you’re due to travel is that you get to make the Journey of Shame to your local Embassy in order to get a new one. It’s so humiliating. The place in London looks like that armed compound the Branch Davidians had in Texas before Janet Reno blew it up. That’s always a comforting image to have in your head when you’re trying to replace your primary identification document several thousand miles away from home, isn’t it?! After you get frisked by the guards armed with Uzis and answer a hundred questions about why you’re there bothering them and whether you’ve had any contact with farm animals recently (seriously?), you’re herded into a holding cell that has all the charm of the DMV with none of its efficiency. For the next six hours you sit on a metal chair and occasionally get called up to have a conversation with a screaming, angry troll behind bullet-proof glass who demands every identifying piece of information you have ever collected over the course of your life in exchange for a TEMPORARY EMERGENCY PASSPORT. A TEMPORARY EMERGENCY PASSPORT is only valid for a year and possession of one automatically puts you at the top of the “Immediate Strip Search and Anal Probe Required” list at every airport in the whole damn world. Flying internationally, once a minor inconvenience, has become a bad episode of Cops with a touch of The Twilight Zone thrown in for extra disorientation and shame.

I still have my TEMPORARY EMERGENCY PASSPORT and I’m still grilled about it every time I fly in and out of the UK. “Where was this issued?” “Why are you flying on a temporary passport?” “When was the last time you were in the Middle East and TELL US THE WHEREABOUTS OF OSAMA BIN LADEN RIGHT NOW OR WE’LL KILL YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY!!!!” OK, I made up that last part a little, but it’s still a royal pain-in-the-ass. When I do get around to getting my permanent passport, I’m stapling the damn thing to my forehead and telling anyone who objects that I’m starting a new fashion trend and you’d better join me before becoming hopelessly passé and tacky. It’s all the rage, people. Hop on board before the anal probe gets you.