Posts Tagged ‘silliness’

Twitter spam accounts with unusual names

Wednesday, August 17th, 2011
Umphenour

Yeah, she totally looks like an Umphenour

I swear these are all real names (well, real names of fake people, anyway) of spam Twitter accounts who’ve @ replied me recently. They’re all so whimsically named I almost felt bad blocking and reporting them for spam! But not really.

Umphenour Carter

Illuminada Husk

Noriko Defrates

Grindeland Face

Guitreau Phipps

Maltas Lawless

Vandyk Sherwood

Bookard Dickerson

Wayson Inge

Vuono Zacher

Neelon Kendall

Rolfsen Oxford

Weinmann Drew

Flom Wessex

What delightful nomenclature! And, because Twitter’s spambots have chosen this week to launch their invasion, I guess, here’s several more:

Tremper Xent

Renfrew Ace

Yuhasz (huh?) Blaire

Pizzuto Chance

Diluca Scottman

Goldware Jackman

Baldridge Windsor

Copes Wheatley

Starnes Carew

Three great songs about cats

Saturday, July 30th, 2011

Is weird that several of a real actual adult’s favourite songs are internet ditties about cats? (Er, I’m talking about some other guy, not about me.)

Previously: Cat Friends

Upside-down, the Apple logo looks like a pompous frog wearing a cravat

Sunday, June 12th, 2011

Presented without comment.

Cat Friends

Tuesday, May 31st, 2011

At work I idly suggested to a colleague, “What if the cast of Friends were all cats? It would be called Cat Friends.” (Yes, this is the kind of ridiculous train of thought that I experience all the time.) (No, I am not on drugs.) I posted my astounding suggestion to Facebook, where it got a couple of comments became a phenomenon. Naturally, I had to apply some Photoshop magic to the results. I had to.

Thus I present to you the cast of next season’s hot new sitcom: Cat Friends.

Jennipurr Aniston

Jennipurr Aniston as Rachel Cream.

Fleasa Kudrow

Fleasa Kudrow as Fleebe Buffay.

David Sphynxer

David Sphynxer as Puss Gellar.

Catthew Purry

Catthew Perry as Cat-handler Bing.

Catteney Cox

Catteney Cox as Monicat Gellar.

Catt Le Blanc

Catt le Blanc as Joey Kibbleani.

Thanks to Cam, Bink, Rachael and Jono for several of the purrific cat puns!

Is Homer Simpson just faking stupid?

Tuesday, November 2nd, 2010

Pictured: Homer struggles to comprehend the theory explained in this post

In ‘Lisa’s Substitute’ Ms Hoover tells the class her lyme disease is psychosomatic. “Does that mean you’re crazy?” wonders Ralph. Another student responds: “No, that means she was faking it.”

“Actually,” Ms Hoover replies wearily, “it was a little of both.” Wiktionary concurs, more or less, telling us “psychosomatic” pertains “to physical diseases, symptoms etc. which have mental causes”.

So is Homer Simpson’s infamous stupidity psychosomatic? That is, is Homer only stupid because he wants, on some deep subconscious level, to be stupid? Could he really just be faking it?

The evidence Homer’s faking stupid lies in the episode ‘HOMR’ – maybe better known as ‘The One Where Homer Learns He’s Had a Crayon Lodged in His Brain the Whole Time’. Helpful scienticians believe the crayon is impairing Homer’s intelligence. When they remove it, Homer becomes smart, which apparently validates their theory.

But what if it’s not the process of removing the crayon which makes Homer smart, but the process of removing the mental block which prevents him from believing he is smart?

To put it another way: we know from what happens later in the episode that Homer does not want to be smart. Homer wants to fit in (well, what Homer actually wants, I think, is to live life as effortlessly as possible, and fitting in requires less effort than standing out). Smart Homer is alienated from all the other cretins in Springfield, The Simpsons’ microcosm of society; only Dumb Homer is able to fit in. Homer’s subconscious desire to be dumb manifests itself literally at the climax of the episode, when he has a qualified surgeon reinsert the crayon into his brain – much to Lisa’s dismay.

But it’s not the crayon that makes Homer stupid. The crayon is just a symbol, an excuse for Homer to believe he’s stupid. The “real” Homer Simpson is a man of average intelligence – he merely chooses to behave like a dunderhead of sub-average intelligence (though generally he’s not consciously aware of making this choice). In other words: he’s faking stupid.

We see more evidence of the Homer’s-faking-stupid theory in ‘$pringfield’. When Homer dons Henry Kissinger’s lost glasses, his subconscious desire to be dumb lifts long enough for him to quote Pythagoras’s theorem (well, he mucks it up by confusing right-angled triangles with isosceles triangles, but I did only say he’s a man of average intelligence).

“Ah ha!” you cry, attempting to poke holes in my outlandish theory. “What about the episode ‘Lisa the Simpson’?” That’s the one where Lisa discovers the existence of the so-called “Simpson gene”, which transforms Simpson men into dolts around the onset of puberty. “Doesn’t that episode prove that Homer’s stupidity is genetic, not psychosomatic?” you ask.

Well, no, because the events of ‘HOMR’ show that the Simpson gene is bunk – if Homer were genetically determined to be stupid, he would not be capable of demonstrating the intelligence he does in ‘HOMR’. (As for Bart and Grandpa: Bart isn’t stupid either – he merely suffers from ADHD, and becomes ruthlessly smart when he takes medication to treat it. And Grandpa… well, Grandpa probably is just plain stupid, for reasons unrelated to the Simpson gene. He did cancel Star Trek, after all.)

Short story: Dear J…

Friday, January 8th, 2010

Cthulhu
Dear J,

So I have no idea what my parents are doing in the basement but they are making so much noise down there. I am trying to study but all I hear all night are bangs and crashes.

Don’t you dare even suggest they’re “making love” or something, because that’s gross. Besides, it doesn’t sound like… that. Not that I know what “that” sounds like, har har. But you know what I mean.

And last week I heard a scream coming from down there. It didn’t sound like Mum or Dad. Remember that time we went camping by Arkham Lake with your mum and step-dad, and when we tried to go to sleep the wind howling through the trees was so loud we thought it must’ve been two huge cats having a fight or something? It sounded like that.

So anyway I rushed down to the basement to see if they were okay but they wouldn’t let me in. Mum came out and told me I didn’t need to worry, but she was really pale and didn’t stop shaking till I made her a cup of tea. Then she made me go to bed without even telling me what’d happened. And the next morning Dad apparently left for some interstate anthropology convention before I even woke up, and he hasn’t come back yet and he’s too busy to even bother calling, so I haven’t had the chance to ask him about it either.

A few nights later Mum fell asleep in the living room (with all the lights on! And she’s always on at me about wasting power) so I snuck into the basement to see what’s going on. The door was deadlocked but everyone in the world knows where they “hide” the key in their study. And you know what I found down there?

Nothing. Not even any of the usual dusty relics they’re always bringing home from the university.

The basement was so dark, because for some reason the only light on down there seemed to be one of those weird ultraviolet ones, like they had at that lame dance we went to last winter, though I couldn’t see where it was coming from. The whole basement was all purpley-black and hurt my eyes. And it reeked of fish like you wouldn’t believe. Like they’d bought every single thing at the fishmarket and just let it rot for a month.

So I poked around for a bit but pretty much the only thing down there was this enormous book propped open on the desk. I guess it must’ve been valuable or something because it was chained down. I couldn’t really make out the writing but it was all Latin anyway.

Last night Mum was back in the basement again for hours, I guess messing around with the power because it made my alarm cut out and I was late to school. But the worst part? When I got home this afternoon, Mum had dyed her hair totally white. WHITE. She looks like a grandma. I asked why on earth she would embarrass me by doing that, but she refused to tell me and slammed the basement door in my face.

I’m really worried! This girl at school said her mum got an extreme makeover right before her parents divorced. Except her mum apparently got a boob job instead of wrecking her hair. I hope my parents aren’t getting a divorce! Then when I asked Mum when Dad’s getting back from his so-called “business trip”, she started crying and locked herself in the basement again.

So I hope it all works out okay.

Anyway. How are you? Did you win your netball final?

Love, S

*

Click here to read more of my short stories.

Author’s note: I wrote this for a short-story contest held by Nathan Bransford, in which the criteria was to “Write the most compelling (fictional) teen diary entry [or] unsent letter” in a teen’s voice. SHOCKINGLY, I didn’t win. Possibly because none of the other entries were written by anyone who’s been overdosing on Lovecraft-inspired fiction lately…?

Creative Commons Licence
Dear J by Sam Downing is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Suuuuupeeeeerteeeeed… SPRTD!

Friday, November 20th, 2009

SuperTed
Rhiannon Hart has posted about the amazingness of The Trap Door and Count Duckula and T-bag (hee, “T-bag”), three serials I inhaled as a child. Remember how Trap Door‘s Bert had the unseen master known only as “The Thing Upstairs”? In one episode there was a teensy tiny glimpse of the Thing – which revealed him to be a sort of Lovecraftian horror – and my childhood self thought that was the raddest thing ever.

As a kid I was also partial to SuperTed, though even back then I knew it was kinda lame. So SuperTed is a defective teddy bear, who is brought to life by a spotty alien man (how Spotty achieved this was never, to my recollection, explained), then taken to a magic cloud, where Mother Nature gives him special powers? Huh? How does that make even a lick of sense? Talk about your convoluted backstories.

My mum had a theory that SuperTed’s magic word was, in fact, “magic word”. I reckon she was on to something.