Fightin' crime and filtering seawater...

Today during the course  of an increasingly random text conversation I think I may have created the next truly great superhero team-

The Narwhal! 

Goring crime with his mighty horn of power (which is actually made up of his only two teeth- Justice and Fury - which grow out of the top of his head.  Which doesn't really help the metaphor, but IS interesting to know.)

and his trusty sidekick...

Baleen Boy!

Filtering the citizens of the City to safety, Baleen Boy is always ready to go for the Krill*!

*I'm sorry about that joke.  I really am.

You may now begin submitting your artistic representation of them.  My favorite may even get a prize.

*Bonus points for representing them through interpretive dance.

I look forward to your submissions

Seriously? 'Unicorning' is a thing now?

So, today is Helpful Friend Becky's Birthday (she who helped to arrange the Catwoman Brackets - I don't think she can be considered legally culpable for what followed though...)

In the spirit of things I went to send her a picture of terrifying Unicorns, because that's kind of our thing ever since this post on the same topic.  (Caution - Spoiler Alert for Cabin in the Woods there.)

And so, being a thoroughly Modern Vizsla, I began by doing a websearch of the words 'Terrifying Unicorn'

This is what those words found...

That's right.

I cannot even bring myself to show it to you.

And I made you all look at the Bronies picture, so just take a moment with that.

What I saw...

<Shudder>

What I...

<Shudder>

OK.  Hold on... give me a second here.

It... it was...

<Steeling of Vizsla will...>

It was a person on a stage.  Not sure if it was a man or a woman.

Wearing a tan body stocking

<please... please God let that have been a tan body stocking.. please...  So cold... so cold...>

Supporting themselves in the upward position with crutches.

Wearing the head of a unicorn over their own head

With a sparkly horn.

<so cold.>

I actually had to look at this for several minuted because my brain simply refused to process the set of elements.  I literally could not interpret what I was seeing. 

Now...  I have nothing but respect for people on crutches.  Short term or long term, that ain't easy and they deserve all our respect.

I can even find it in myself to be spiritually all right with flesh-tone body stockings.  If I just squint at it sideways and don't picture anyone I actually know in them.

<Oh Shit, too late... I'm sorry, one of you.  Nothing will ever persuade me to say which of you it was, but I'm sorry.  So, So sorry.>

The wearing a unicorn head thing... I can even find a live-and-let-live place inside myself for that

<Seriously.  I am SO, so sorry...>

Why on Earth would you combine those elements in a performance space?

And then have photos of same easily searchable under the key words 'Terrifying Unicorn'?


I had to show Helpful Friend Becky the picture, since it was sort of her fault that I had to see it and she informed me that there is apparently a 'thing' about wearing Unicorn Heads.  It's called 'unicorning'. 

That's what you do.

You wear a Unicorn Head.

I tried to take the thought further as to what you might do from that point, but then my brain shut down again.

I guess what I'm saying is - When you do a random web search, it's not about judging - but it IS about time to have a sizeable glass of tequila and sit in a cool dark place.

Vizsla out

Vizsla Flashback - And that's why Mr. Roarke Drank

Today's Vizsla flashback revisits May 28th, 2013.  Enjoy.



I was thinking earlier today about Fantasy Island.

For those not in the know or not old enough to remember, Fantasy Island was a show in the late 70s where Ricardo Montelban played Mr. Roarke, who ran (possibly owned?  Must investigate...) the titular island.

(Easy, shriner. It means 'as referenced in the title'.  Although we're going to be coming back to what you were thinking about in just a moment, so hold that thought.)
 
So the upshot was that Mr. Roarke operated this island where he could make anyone's fantasies come ture.  Over the course of which they would of course learn and grow as people, possible learning some valuable life lesson.

(For example,I recall one episode where normal Shy Ken Berry had a fantasy of being more 'cool' and 'with it'.  So Mr. Roarke found that he of course had a double out there on the planet who was much more 'cool' and 'with it', switched their places, and Shy Ken Berry learned that Hip and Swingin' Ken Berry wasn't any better than he was.)

(Take a moment with the fact that you just read the phrase 'Hip and Swingin' Ken Berry...)

So.

Every week there would be two different storylines running concurrently, usually without interacting with one another.  At the start of the show, Mr. Roarke would welcome the two guests off of the airplane (Smiles everyone!  Smiles!), explain to the increasingly downtrodden and humiliated Herve Villichaize what their fantasies were (Mr. Jones wants to reunite with his estranged brother before his hideous painful death, Mr. Johnson wants to experience what life would be like without the undescended testicle,etc.) and then the stories proper would begin.

Smiles Everyone!  Smiles!

This is all well and good as a premise until you take a moment to think about the setup.  Say you put an add out there that you have a magic island that can make any fantasy come true (AND resolve all it's plot threads within the hour... Suck it, Lost)  I can pretty much guarantee you that the 'Want to reunite with my estranged brother' letters are NOT going to be the bulk of what you receive.

Here's how I imagine Mr. Roarke's normal mail day ran-

"Dear Mr. Roarke.  It has always been my fantasy to see my ex-wife have her uterus torn out and fed to her by demonic babies"

<deep sigh.>

"Dear Mr. Roarke,  I would love to be covered in Danish Lesbians...."

<Sound of soul dying>

Dear Mr. R.  You know how ... you know, not all the time... just every once in a while... you know how you might be a little.... curious... about getting it on with a dude but having him not remember anything about it afterwards...?

<Sound of expensive bottle of fantasy scotch being opened>

Dear Mr. Roarke.  I don't know if you know a lot about water sports, but...

<Shotgun blast>

Hip Swingin' Ken Berry's looking pretty good right about now, eh?

MY fantasy is that you all die.  

And that it is me that kills you.  

With rich Corinthian leather.

The Vampires of Iowa

 "I vant to eat corn and attend a High School football game!"

As I mentioned Yesterday, I am currently in Omaha, Nebraska visiting my Cousin Britney. 

I actually come to visit Cousin Britney on a fairly regular basis, which is cool and all except for one thing:

It involves having to repeatedly drive across Iowa.

Now, please don’t take offense – potential Iowa based reader.  Yours is a lovely State and I’m sure a fine place to live.  Plus you get shouts out in both Star Trek and Field of Dreams, which means your PR requirements are pretty much covered in Males* ages 12-35 and 40 and above.  Also with any women that were tricked into watching Field of Dreams on the mistaken premise that it was about J.D. Salinger as opposed to what it’s actually about (Baseball and Daddy Issues.)  

*A brief shout out to the large and thriving Female Sci-Fi Enthusiast community whom I have just completely alienated for the sake of a cheap shot about Star Trek fans.**  I can only hope that my repeated past declarations of fealty to Felicia Day will help to reassure you that I’m totally down with the sci-fi ladies.  It’s merely that when confronted with a choice between accuracy and cheap laughs I am pretty much always going to go with the latter.  To quote a great man – I’d far rather be happy than right, any day.

** I’ve been meaning, btw, to own up to the fact that I’ve never actually watched the original series of Star Trek.  I think the only episode that I’d ever seen before last week was ‘Spock’s Brain.’***  And so, in an effort to correct this enormous lapse, I have started watching the series from the beginning on Netflix.  Let me tell you – when you go in completely cold, nothing can really prepare you for the experience of watching ‘Charlie X’ for the first time…

*** Someone should probably go check and make sure that Ekim is all right after reading that.  Also I should probably mail him $12 in deference to a long standing agreement we’ve had regarding the purchasing of a VHS copy of that episode.****

****  I know longer have any idea what I was talking about… Star Trek… The Man Trap… Iowa…

Ah, right…

Vampires.

I don’t know if you’ve had occasion to drive the entire length of Iowa lately, but – much like History, The Universe, and deliberate misinformation on the Fox network – there’s kind of a lot of it.   If one is driving from Minneapolis, MN to Omaha, NE, the pattern pretty much is as follows: A little Minnesota, even less Nebraska, and an enormous chunk of Iowa lodged in between.

Which means that you have a good long while to sit in your car with little to think about except, ‘My.  I sure am in Iowa.’

To offset this, some time ago I started pretending that it was absolutely vital to get out of Iowa before darkness fell.  This gives your mind the happy task of constantly doing the math of Speed*Distance of Iowa remaining compared to time of Sunset.

I’m not saying it’s going to replace Facebook or Pleasuring Yourself as the nation’s favorite way to pass time, but it is at least something to while away the miles thinking about. 

Of course, eventually this leads to having to have some sort of reason WHY it’s vital to get out of Iowa before Sunset.  And the obvious answer to this is, of course, Vampires.

This does of course leave a couple of questions –

*Why can’t the Vampires cross over the border after Sunset?  Are they trying not to violate probation or something?

*What about all the people who live in Iowa?  Are they not good for eatin’?  Are the Vampires trying to actively damp down the tourism industry? (And if so – job well done there, Vampires)

*Wouldn’t it just be easier to get a book on CD or something?

The answers I usually fall back on are-

** Gypsy curse restrains them from crossing the Border.  Do. Not. Mess. With the Gypsies of Iowa.

** If they started eating the locals it would stir up anti-vamp sentiment and lead to trouble.

** Easier, but more expensive. 

So, happy traveling, gentle reader.  Tomorrow brings another Vizsla flashback and then I’m home again on Monday.  Until then, keep watching out for Corn-Fed vampires. 

And that's why I always pack an eyepatch

Just about to head out on a weekend trip to Omaha to party down with my Lab cousin Britney (and as I mentioned the other day - Labs are pretty awesome.  If you can't be a Vizsla, you should totally be a Lab.  Or a Green Lantern.  And now I'm imagining a Yellow Lab Green Lantern - would their power be ineffective against themselves?*  Must investigate...)

*I know Green Lantern lore if a bit different now, but in my day all Lantern Corp. Members were Green and their powers couldn't work on things that were Yellow.  It was a simpler time.

I was talking about travel with a friend over lunch just yesterday actually.  I was relating how whenever I go anywhere I feel obligated to return by exactly the same route that I left, on the off chance that I accidentally stumbled into a dimensional rift and was flipped into a parallel universe on the way.  That way I was sure to get back to my correct universe.*

*Yes, I know that this assumes all dimensional rifts to be both stable in their entrance and exit points as well as penetrable from both sides.  You know you were thinking it.

I went on to sadly add that it ultimately had been a waste of time, as I had never accidentally fallen into an alternate dimension on any of my jaunts.

To which she reasonably replied, 'How do you know?'

I know, right?  Vizsla.  Mind.  Blown.

Why would I assume that I would immediately be aware of having slipped into an alternate dimension?  It's not like they would post a 'Welcome to World Without Shrimp' at the entrance.

It might be worth taking a look at the individual types of parallel worlds to see what I mean here.

In a World, where...

...There is no such thing as shrimp.

Well, unless you happened to be on your way to buy some shrimp, or you yourself WERE a shrimp, it's not like that's going to immediately leap to your attention, now is it?

...Somebody who is nice in our world is Evil, as evidenced by eyepatch/goatee

Again, if you happened to bump into them on the trip, sure.  You might well notice 'Hey-  Bob's Evil.  What's with that?'  But if you only talk to Bob on the phone or via texting you're not going to see the eyepatch/goatee, now are you.  What, are you expecting Bob to start every text in this universe with 'Evil Bob here'?

And what if the evil person is Tom Johansson of Des Moines, Iowa?  You don't know Tom.  You've never met Tom.  Even IF you happened to be going to Des Moines, and IF you happened to run into Tom you'd probably just assume that Tom is always a big Douche. (Which might be a little unfair to our universes Tom Johansson, but what can you do?  Suck it up, non-evil Tom.)

...Everyone is Evil.

So you're on a trip and you wander into a town where everyone has eyepatches and goatees.  Sure, that might strike you as a little odd, but you're probably more likely to just assume that it's a town full of assholes with curious ideas about accessorizing.

...You. Never. Existed.

And look, the whole world is exactly the same.  Take this moment to revel in the confirmation that you're life doesn't matter and you've made no difference to anyone.  You're Welcome.

...Somebody who is a big loser in our world is Super Awesome

Also known as the 'Jonathan Paradigm'.  Most of the same argument made under the 'someone is Evil' heading apply here.  The world's kind of a big place.  Odds are that you're not going to bump into him.

...Hitler Won World War II

Because for some reason every parallel universe series in the history of the universe is required to do this story at least once.  I admit - You'd probably notice this one.  There, I said it.  Are you happy?

...Male and Female Gender Roles are reversed.

I'm going to take a brief moment here to give some advice to you burgeoning screenwriters out there.  Never, ever pitch this idea.  because this is the idea that EVERYONE pitches.  It's the sci-fi script equivalent of writing your first novel about a writer trying to write their first novel.  Or auditioning for the Renaissance Fair to be a lost Time Traveller who is stuck there by mistake.*  That said - in these enlightened times, I'm not really sure you'd notice this change immediately, unless you're the sort of person who opens other peoples paychecks to compare salary rates.

*Seriously.  Every year, 20-30 people think they're the first one to ever suggest this.

So, travel safely and remember to just kind of roll with things as they come.  That's really the message here.

Vizsla out

Every Band Has a Birthday Song

When you're a big successful rock band, one of the absolute necessities is that you have your own Birthday themed song.  It's just one of many way's in which big time rock bands are like Applebees.



Now, we're all familiar with the Beatles 'You Say it's Your Birthday' (or whatever the actual title of that song is) and The Smith's 'Unhappy Birthday' (oh, Morrissey- I see what you did there.)

But were you aware of these other Birthday themed hits?


'It's Your Birthday Purple Washing Machine James Buchanan' 
 - They Might Be Giants

'For Your Birthday I Urinated on a Hobo'
 - The Sex Pistols (R. Kelly does a nice cover of this)

'Don't Make me Cut You (It's Your Birthday')
 - Li'l Kim

'Happy Bir.. Oh Why Even Bother.' 
 - Nirvana

 'Girl, girl girlgirl go'n sex you up t'naight (Birthday Club Re-mix)
 - N Sync

'Ass'
- Anne Murray

'Happy Birthday, My Special Pookie Bear'
 - Marilyn Manson

You've got options, people.  That's all I'm saying.

Tough talk about toenails.

Before I get into the actual topic today, a brief addendum to my rant about the phrase 'Bucket List' from the other day -

In the St. Paul Skyways - covering a wall that blocks the entrance to what was once a bank and then for years existed as a sort of perpetual flea market - there is a large chalkboard.  Like - 40 feet wide and stretching from floor to ceiling.   And on this chalkboard wall is written the phrase 'Before I die, I want to _______' somewhere around a hundred times in nice neat rows.

The intention being that passers-by would pick up one of the pieces of chalk provided and fill in the blank with whatever burning ambition they have to check off before they allow themselves the sweet and merciful release of death.*

*Sorry... got a bit dark there...

 Every time I pass it I'm consumed with the urge to fill in the blank with  "Write on a chalkboard wal...oh crap..."

I haven't yet been bold enough to do it yet, but if you should see it written there it was probably me.

And speaking of chalkboards - let's talk about fingernails.

Or more accurately, claws (as we of the four legs call them)

So, I've got a friend named Stanley - he's a Black Lab.  Nice kid.  A little on the hyper side, but hey- he isn't even two years old yet so that's pretty much to be expected.  

And Labs are OK in my book.  If you can't be a Vizsla you could do a lot worse than being a Lab.  Nice coat, good nose, could reasonably expect to take out a duck if they had to do so.  Yeah, Labs are pretty cool.

So a couple weeks ago, Stanley was going outside to do his business one last time before bed, when he accidentally tripped over the little ridge track thing that the sliding glass door sits on and almost completely tore off one of his toenails.

Once you've finished going 'GGGYYAAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHH!!!', I should mention that he's doing fine - had to have the rest of the nail surgically removed and now he's wearing a very dapper looking sock until his new nail grows in, which means he is totally missing out on sandals weather, but what can you do, right?

The point I'm getting at here is this - Not enough people are sympathetic to how big a pain in the butt it is to have these claws and be totally reliant on someone else to trim and maintain them.  I mean, sure, you can run back and forth on concrete to try and wear them down, but eventually the two-legged food machine that you live with is going to have to intercede on your behalf and trim them.  And dewclaws - don't even get me started on dewclaws.  It's like somebody in dog history said 'Hey, you know what would be awesome?  If we had opposable thumbs like humans, but without that pesky 'being opposable' part, so they just kind of hang there and occasionally get snagged on things.'

And it's not like we're allowed to do anything cool with our claws in any case.  They're great for digging, but that just gets you yelled at, and as a certain Border Heeler at home finds out on a regular basis, jumping up and scratching the hell out of daddy's arms because you're excited he's home does not make you very popular.

Claws.  Can't live with em, can't live without em.  Am I right, people?

(Hang in there Stanley - and that is one sweet sock you've got on)