Standing up for the geek girls

As ever, I'm a little behind the times with a viral Internet campaign. Still, not too late, and I've done my bit by tweeting the story I found and adding my comment on the follow-up article. Seems little Katie Goldman is quite the Star Wars fan, and like any good geek girl in this day and age, she chose accessories to show her love of the series. Katie, who's only six, mind, has a Star Wars water bottle that she loves. Turns out - and who ever would have guessed? - that kids are little snotrags when they're in a group - kind of like the mob mentality of their parents when lynchin' time rolls round.

The boys in her class ganged up on her and made fun of her for her Star Wars water bottle. Now, in light of all the backlash against women for the Her Universe line of clothing for Star Wars geek girls, I have to say, I'm not really surprised. Most behaviour's learned, after all, and as one commenter [Ed - it was actually her mom] pointed out, it's likely that they're picking on her in a group because that way, no one's picking on them.

Still, it made Katie cry. That made her mom, Carrie, mad. So, after talking to Katie about the value of being different, and encouraging her daughter not to be intimidated, she took her concern to her blog. And that's where the Internet stepped up to the plate.

Katie's story has been blogged and tweeted by Jen at Epbot (who also runs CakeWrecks and is a HUGE Star Wars geek girl); the cool kids at Geeking Out About; the Star Wars blog, run by none other than uber-Star Wars geek @bonniegrrl; the amazing Action Flick Chick; and many more. Check out the Twitter tag #MayTheForceBeWithKatie to see how this has gone viral.

In fact, peeps? The 501st Legion is considering an honour guard to walk Katie into school. Do you even understand how frakking awesome that would be? I can't believe I'm getting so excited about a little girl whom I don't even know.

Actually, yes I do. I guess I was bullied at primary school; I must admit I don't really know because, to be honest, my first defence is always offence - as you should know by now if you've been reading me for a while. And bullies don't like being beaten up by a girl. I do know that I have always done my best to stand up for the bullied kids; but I also remember years of loneliness because I just couldn't be bothered to hang with "the cool kids". I'd rather be off reading. And MadCat was bullied for most of his life, until he met Iaculus.

So, yeah. I'm in this little geek girl's corner. And one day, when I get to adopt my Ripley, you can be damned sure I'm going to do my best to teach her that it's not only okay to be different - it's better, way better, to either stand out from the crowd, or to simply go one's own way and damn the consequences. As long as you stand up for the little guy. Don't let the sheeple bring you down, Katie. You rock just the way you are.

* Edited to fix a link
* Here are some more posts on the issue:
- Geekosystem
- The Wrath of Mom
- Suicide Bots
- ThinkGeek got in on the action too! (FB link)
- And get this, NASA retweeted Bonnie Burton's Star Wars blog post, too. Yes, space is NOT just for boys!
- One more: Forcenet, the Star Wars fan blog, has a comprehensive overview of both posts and the aftermath (like all the cool things that have come of this). Definitely worth checking out!

Gah

It is not "wah-lah", it is "voila". The word is French, you numbskulls!

GAH!

Vajajays to the left

Oh, holy fuckeroni. You have got to be kidding me.

Vagina necklaces? Definitely one for Regretsy!

Click through only if the thought of miniature vajajays in all their pink glory doesn't make you shudder. You have been warned.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to bleach my eyes.

Bite me, if you can

Really, Kristen Stewart? Really? You honestly think that (to paraphrase Alex Dobuzinskis) being dumped by (your) vampire man, sinking into depression and later flying to pursue him, is setting a good example to girls? 

Tonight - New Moon star Kristen Stewart says "be extreme" 

Let me tell you what I think: You're full of shit. And the fact that you're trying to make it seem like your lovelorn, pathetic, angst-ridden, whiny character Bella, is a rebel pursuing what she most wants in life, is a disservice to those strong women in history, literature and movies who were rebels and who actually did pursue their goals and dreams (Amelia Earhart? Mary Shelley? Hermione Granger or Ginny Weasley, both of whom would kick Bella's arse so hard her butt would come out of her nose?). Here's a hint: attainment, in those cases, didn't revolve around desperately seeking the love of a manipulative, passive-aggressive, stalker of a 'vampire' (and I use that term loosely) who's so pathetic he can't even nut up and use his fangs!

Oh wait, I forgot: he doesn't have fangs!

In fact, I take your bullshit downright personally! Because I would rather crawl on my belly through broken glass tipped with industrial-strength acid, than be associated with the idea that being a passive ninny like Bella, is what true love is all about. Oh yes, true love is about sacrifices. But it's also about knowing when someone's playing you, about knowing when someone loves you enough not to fuck with your head, and about knowing when it's time to walk away. Then again, I tend not to live in an old-style Mills & Boon romance.

Ooh, and you know what, you know what, Bella must be a real rebel because - *gasp* - she's in love with two guys! Hell, even Anita Blake is more of a rebel, and she's not only in love with vampires, werewolves, wereleopards and the like too, she's actually screwing them! (Often at the same time.) Of course, let's instantly dump the werewolf who's always loved you (and later develops an unhealthy, paedophilic attachment to your newborn daughter, by the way) for Sparkleboy and fly to his rescue! 

But, I am preaching to either the choir - as I know there are thousands who agree with me - or to the deaf, dumb, blind and stubborn. After all, say Twihards, "(Shakespeare) was a ripoff artist who knew how to market", and Stephen King's just jealous because he'll never attain success like Stephenie Meyer (newsflash: oh wait, do I actually need to give a newsflash about one of the most successful writers in modern history?). I'm not even shitting you about the Shakespeare quote.

I don't know what riles me more; the blatant stupidity rampant in these Twitards and their overwhelming love of the sparkleverse, to the exclusion of all other viewpoints ("You're just jeaaaallllllous! You don't understaaaaaaand! It's a masterpiece, better than than idiot Harry Potter! Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh, stop being mean to my Eddiekins!") or the sheer stupidity displayed in their arguments. I mean, and I'm sorry I can't let this go, but DID THAT TWITARD ACTUALLY CALL SHAKESPEARE DERIVATIVE COMPARED TO STEPHENIE FUCKING MEYER? (Don't miss the other part of her comment about Mary Shelley's Frankenstein: "A teenager wrote it with the help of two accomplished authors. Give Meyer a break, and some credit."

The mind actually boggles. A red mist rises before my eyes, and I cannot even think coherently to muster some form of rational argument. Which, I suppose, may well render me nothing more than an over-emotional anti-Twitard.

And that, my friends, is why I would rather rip out and chew on my own liver, than read more than the chapter of Twilight I slogged through, or subject myself to more than the New Moon trailer - which I can't avoid these days anyway.

Not to mention that ripping out my own liver and eating it? Would make me more of a man than Sparkly-bum the pretty boy. 

But don't let me spew all the venom by myself. Masswyrm has already said it all so eloquently: 

"Bella Swan is one of the most detestable, obnoxious, mentally unstable characters in modern American literature. She is a character so over the top that she borders on satire; and were she some sort of Holden Caulfield-like, deliberately unlikable character written with the intent to openly mock the ideals of modern romantic literature, she would be acceptable, if not perfect for the part. But Stephanie Meyer isn’t that self-aware. Instead, she has woven together a cloyingly insufferable romantic saga – a junkfood and cheesecake epic, if you will – centering around a woman who revels in, nay celebrates, how damaged she is. I dated a girl like Bella once. Thank god they make medication for girls like that now."

Go, read. Then read his earlier column, about the sheer creepiness of a 90-year-old man lusting after a 17-year-old girl. Or is Eddie 109? After all those centuries, the years blur together, I suppose, and school kind of starts looking the same. 

Or, you know, don't bother, if you're a Twi-fan. Either way, I'll just continue my un-dazzled existence over here, wasting my time on romances.That Romeo and Juliet. So derivative!

Straight-talking

Let's go straight into my issues with bad writing: I know, I know; it's perfectly natural for the language to evolve. I just expected that it would take place over a longer period and that it wouldn't become almost a point of pride for people to write - and speak - badly.

The fact is, English is so widely spread that it's no wonder there are hundreds - perhaps even thousands - of different versions spoken around the world. However, the use of dialects and patois is different, in my not so humble opinion, from plain bad grammar, spelling and misuse of words.

So while txtspk and possibly even l33t-speak fulfill a certain need, the use of incorrect terminology and grammar really gets my goat. And, may I ask, what's the point of dumbing down classic works such as Shakespeare or Milton or Austen because it's "too difficult" for today's crop of students to understand? It's the lazy, easy way out, instead of teaching the basics properly.

I'm afraid the dumbing-down of language - the English language, at least - has already gone beyond control. The Bible in text-speak? I may not be religious, but I can appreciate the beauty of the language used in the King James version. Ebonics and l33t-speak make me shudder. And the news that students in the UK (or was it US?) would be allowed to answer test papers in text-speak made me want to cry.

Even worse is the perception from some - including one guy who wrote to me on IOL - that my particularity for good writing is a form of snobbery and elitism. Unfortunately, I find it hard to argue my point because all the carefully thought-out arguments I have mustered while alone and undistracted fly out of my head in the rush of sheer rage that engulfs me at such blatant stupidity.

I'm not saying that everyone has to speak in olde English or never change the language; what bothers me is that the "rules" of the language, the proper use of grammar and spelling that makes English recognisable - and understandable - across the world, are being disregarded so blatantly. Even journalists are falling into the trap, and here I'm not even pointing the finger at those who write in colloquial fashion, since that's merely a style of writing - I'm talking about those who can't grasp the difference between its and it's, or lose and loose. I expect journalists, at the very least, to know the rules, since writing is their very livelihood.

As for the classics, there's a reason they're called classics. Modernising the writing would detract from the message; Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer and Agatha Christie, for instance, were such mistresses of subtlety that they could convey a world of meaning with a few well-turned phrases; the beauty and pace of the language lies in its crispness and attention to detail. As for Shakespeare, his message translated perfectly to the screen in Baz Luhrman's version, a modernised rock setting in which the archaic language simply ... fitted.

People may not speak that way in real life - and why should they? - but within the confines of the tale being told, there is no reason to discard the language of the day. Updating the classics for the screen or theatre has been done, and done well; rewriting them simply because people "can't understand" (or are too damn lazy to read them properly) is completely different.

So it's not a matter of communicating in an older fashion, but a matter of dumbing down so that people can understand. And I'm appalled that there is even consideration given to dumbing down of literature; are people so stupid that they can't comprehend proper, if olde, English? Too much attention is given to making life easier so that people don't have to think, as opposed to actually stretching their minds.

And you call yourselves professionals?

Un-freaking-believable.

How is it that a so-called global organisation such as the IAAF or a nationally-responsible committee such as ASA cannot keep their shit together?

How THE FUCK could results like this be leaked when Caster Semenya herself is only due to receive them in November - by the IAAF's own admission?

Why was she not prepared, taken into private, counselled?

This entire farce has been bungled from the start, with the ASA acting like milling schoolkids instead of the apparently professional organisation it's supposed to be, well-versed in the politics and back-stabbing of the sporting world, trained to deal with media attention, able to properly guide the athletes who are its responsibility. Instead an 18-year-old has been left to deal with politicking about her achievement and coarse curiosity about her gender. Still no word on counselling or preparation in case the tests return exactly the results that have (allegedly) been revealed.

It's a fucking disgrace that Caster and her family have had no support from ASA except for the grandstanding moves that would gain the officials greater glory. Caster Semenya didn't need promises about a house; she needed someone to ensure that she could handle any possible outcome of these tests and the intense media scrutiny.

You bastards, you are responsible for screwing up this child's life with your fucking politicking.

You should be ashamed.

As if I needed another reason to hate PETA

Oh really, PETA?

Please take this opportunity to kiss my big, pasty ass. The big, pasty ass that has my MadCat panting with lust, especially when I deliberately sashay along in front of him in the mall, tight jeans and all. Ah, wallowing around like a whale after eating a nice big pork roast (oh no, Fatty McFatterson! Eat the pig, BECOME the pig, no?).

Thanks for pointing out the stupidity, Mo Pie. I may not be a particularly eloquent blogger but I can appreciate the talent in others!

Just don't

Wittier people than I have written about the hell that is Facebook, its neediness, the stupidity of friending all and sundry, the banality.

All I want to know is: why do my friends - my real-life friends - have to mention me to EVERY DAMN FORMER ACQUAINTANCE? Now I have an ex (whom I've been avoiding) and a former ... he wasn't even an acquaintance! I drove him home once when he was drunk! ... wanting to be my friend.

Why don't people just FUCK OFF?

Another fine mess

Oh, Amazon, how you disappoint me. Did you really think people would just roll over and say nothing? Even the authors whose books you are physically affecting?

Amazon rank. A new phrase for fuck-uppery.

Hmm, so far I've only seen it (and read about it) on Amazon.com. I wonder if it affects .co.uk and the other world-wide sites?

Attenborough reveals creationist hate mail for not crediting God | World news | The Guardian

Attenborough reveals creationist hate mail for not crediting God | World news | The Guardian

Attenborough went further in his opposition to creationism, saying it was "terrible" when it was taught alongside evolution as an alternative perspective. "It's like saying that two and two equals four, but if you wish to believe it, it could also be five ... Evolution is not a theory; it is a fact, every bit as much as the historical fact that William the Conqueror landed in 1066."

Oh, Sir David Attenborough, how I do love you.

And how I do love the virulent hate displayed by creationists who feel their opinion is being ignored. So much milk of human kindness, so much brotherly love, so much behaving as Jesus would!

"They tell me to burn in hell and good riddance."

Says it all about our so-tolerant brethren, doesn't it?

Battle for little girl, 3, rages on

News - Front Page: Battle for little girl, 3, rages on

Justice bosses have been left embarrassed about their costly bungling of an American man's child abduction claims against his South African wife.

But the justice department is unrepentant about its failure to take the American's three-year-old daughter away from her mother, whom the little girl has lived with in South Africa for more than two years, and send her to an uncertain future in America.

This really gets my goat. Isn't the Family Advocate supposed to be looking after the child's best interests? How could they be prepared to send her off to parts unknown, to someone who hasn't seen her more than twice in two years, without even bothering to check how she'll be travelling there?

In addition to ordering that the Family Advocate pay a hefty legal costs bill for its urgent bid to take "Jenny" away from her mother, Van Oosten criticised Family Advocate Renay Kathawaroo for ...

Giving little or no attention to how "Jenny" would be transported back to the US, should the Family Advocate succeed in its application.

Unbelievable! Not only should the judge be applauded for his attack on their incompetence, this "Advocate" should be charged with child abuse for his attempts to ruin this child's life in a bid to exercise his power incorrectly!

Does gingerism remain the last acceptable prejudice? | Life and style | The Guardian

Does gingerism remain the last acceptable prejudice? | Life and style | The Guardian

Why do so many seemingly decent people - the type who would hate to be considered prejudiced - think gingism is perfectly acceptable?

Why indeed? I don't understand such nonsense - as a child, I was always envious of those lucky children with flaming red hair, freckles or not. And why is it that, in a world of gingism, so many people dye their hair bright red?

There are few as beautiful as Moosquared or Dylan, and I fondly remember the days when my own hair had more than a hint of red in the sun. A pity it darkened as I aged.

Redheads rule! People are just damn jealous.

The making of a legend

Picture the scene: MadCat has taken Pod and Ferret out for drinks with his friend Iaculus, so they can all listen to Iaculus's favourite live band, White Rabbit (a very good cover band, by the way). They're dressed über-casually, and end up in a rather spiffy restaurant (Voodoo Lounge in Linksfield, perfect for supper club, ahem). To ease their nerves at being woefully under-dressed, the ladies drink a couple of glasses of wine over a rather lovely dinner. Later, they all move into the pub where Pod orders several tequilas for herself and Ferret - after all, it's a Mexican night, and MadCat is driving, yay! I mention the amount of alcohol consumed as some sort of (lame) explanation for the events to follow

They get down on the dance floor, listen to some pretty good covers (and I don't mean simply 70s or 80s here, either). Some Good Charlotte, a bit of Green Day, Violent Femmes and apparently they even do Offspring and System of a Down (although not that night). Great stuff. Suddenly, hark: what is this they hear? A jalapeño-eating competition for the guys, prize a R300 bar bill. Well! Pod and Ferret are incapable of passing up jalapeños at the best of times, never mind when there's a decent prize at the end. Scoffing at the notion that this competition is only for guys, the two step up onto the stage and prepare for a feast - after all, Ferret used to eat these out of the bottle with a fork, and Pod can put away a goodly amount in one sitting. Should be a breeze!

The MC steps up, bowl in hand, filled with deep-fried, crunchy-looking chillies.

It's at this point that I, MadCat, being of sound mind and judgement (yeah, right!), must add my point of view. I had been energetically called to the stage by Pod and Ferret, and found a decent spot from which to note the (doomed) proceedings. When the bowl was passed to Pod and Ferret and they'd both removed a chilli each, time seemed to slow down for me, as my brain, having zeroed in on the "jalapeños", immediately set to work figuring out why those "jalapeños" didn't look like jalapeños. "MadCat," it said, "that's not a jalapeño. Jalapeños are long and thin, and green.". "Ah," I remarked, "Pod and Ferret eat these things all the time; they know what a jalapeño looks like; I'm sure you're mistaken." "No," my brain retorted, as my mind was filled with images of jalapeños vs. habaneros, "do I have to draw a bloody picture for you?" Immediately, my thoughts turned to me running up onto stage and slapping the offending chillis out of the hands of the two hapless babes (all in slow-motion, of course), while frantically nodding my head sideways and shouting "Nooooooooooooo!". By the time all this had registered, Pod had already inhaled two of the bastards, and Ferret was already reaching for a third. It was at that point that Pod gave the cutoff signal and vacated the stage with vigour. Ferret stayed, but only for a few moments longer, before she too succumbed to the habaneros' overwhelming firepower. "I told you so," said my brain, smugly. Ferret then also exited the stage with the vertiable determination of a crusading knight. Well, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it. I shall now let you continue reading the rest of this sorry saga.

A vague notion crosses Pod's mind that these are rather small and fat jalapeños, but the countdown begins and there's no more time to think. Pod, Ferret and the three male contestants each pop a pepper into their mouths, chew rapidly and swallow. Down the hatch, and time for a second. As Pod pops it into her mouth, and bites down, her mouth suddenly sends a warning - this is NOT a jalapeño! Her throat starts closing, unwilling to accept this fake jalapeño and even trying to bring it back up, but she fights the urge and swallows what's in her mouth - after all there's nowhere to spit it and she's not throwing up in front of all these people! She turns to Ferret and slashes her hand across her throat, signal for defeat. Ferret, who is reaching for a third chili, looks surprised for a second - and that's when the bite hits her. She gags and follows Pod off stage, both trying desperately not to cough, heading straight for their table and the lovely beers standing there.

In less than a minute, Pod has downed a Hunters and has picked up Iaculus's beer without asking. Tears are streaming down her face and she can barely hear over the roaring in her ears - the roaring of blood sent into a frenzy by an accelerated heartbeat as her body tries to outrun the pain. Drinking is not helping; it's simply washing the pain further down her throat. To her right, Ferret is red-faced and wheezing, eyes streaming, an expression on her face that is normally only achieved by being tied to a chair and hooked up to an electrical torture device. They grab for the lemons in the glasses and chew on these; Pod spots a tot of passion fruit for the now-forgotten Suitcase delivered but a wee while ago, and holds the contents in her mouth, hoping the thicker liquid will help - but it's no good. Iaculus comes round the table and tries to tell them something about licking the lemon, not eating it. This is unintelligible gibberish. Pod grabs Iaculus by the shirt and snarls at him: "Screw the lemon, get us MILK!" Without a word, he turns and hurries off through the crowd - no wonder, having been confronted by a wild-eyed harridan who just breathed paint-stripping chili fumes into his face.

The two are searching frantically for something, anything, to put into their mouths, something that will prevent them from biting out their tongues and stamping on them to put out the flames, when Iaculus arrives, milk in hand. They seize the cool liquid and gulp, holding it in their mouths to wash away the chili oil that's hooked into their tongues. Finally, some actual relief. At least the roaring has subsided somewhat, although Pod would still like to take a scourer to her mouth and throat. Worse, every time she burps, she can taste fresh, raw chili. This must be what hell is like, unable to just make the pain go away. Iaculus steps up and offers to hypnotise her. At this stage, anything is welcome, so she closes her eyes and listens to what sounds like nonsense - concentrate on what the soles of your feet are feeling, can you hear what Ferret's saying (she's arguing with the waiter about what type of chillies those were), bet you can't hear what the people at the next table are talking about (us), are the soles of your feet hot or cold? Surprisingly, it's working; the pain exists, but it's no longer threatening to cause acute respiratory failure. There is a line of fire stretching from her lips to her stomach, which is roiling around in protest, but it's no longer hot lava. Iaculus is a life-saver.

Iaculus heads off to order more milk, returns to the table and reports that the three guys who were on stage are in the bathroom, crying and wailing, sucking up as much water as possible from the washbasins, splashing their faces, stamping their feet. This makes the ladies feel better. Only one person managed three, so they're not complete failures.

She phones Ffeog. What should they do? What did they eat? "Was it shaped like a bell pepper?" he asks. That sounds about right, confirms the side of Pod's brain that was actually paying attention and trying to warn her before she began this ordeal. "That was a habanero," says Ffeog. "You ate two? Maybe you should have your stomachs pumped." Great. This from someone who eats hot chillies for kicks and giggles.

The waiter comes over and refuses to believe that they ate habaneros. No, he says, the chef knows what he's doing, and he says they were jalapeños. The chef battered them and popped them in the deep-fryer until the batter browned. Basically, the contestants were eating raw chillies, seeds, ribs and all. The two insist that those were like no jalapeños they have ever eaten - not in shape or in taste. The waiter goes off to confer with the chef and returns, adamant that they are wrong. He's lucky not to be breathed on. The ladies are not impressed.

The fun is over; the time is coming to leave. Ferret goes to the bathroom and throws up, but Pod's not too keen on having all that chili come back up - a decision she will regret later. For some reason, the two start dancing again. Madness, I tell you! Finally, they drag themselves away and go and find the guys. Got to go home. The endorphins have kicked in and Pod is about dead on her feet.

Ah - bed. Asleep as soon as she hits the mattress, Pod is awakened several hours later by the urge to worship the porcelain god. This is a bad idea, she thinks. She doesn't want that chili revisiting her oesophagus. Nothing happens. Two hours later, however, a series of cramps so severe they have left her crying for her mommy, like a baby, have convinced her that the pain to come must be endured, if only to rid herself of the vile poison in her system. The chili hurts almost as much coming back up as it did going down. There's chili in her nose! Maybe snorting milk will help. The already tender spots at the back of her throat are now on fire.

This time it's MadCat who steps up to the plate. He offers her a Schedule 5 painkiller. A morphine derivative. Half an hour later, not only is Pod pain-free, she's floating. This is great. This is wonderful. Ferret awakes, and they go online to see just what the hell it is that they ingested. There's the jalapeño - sort of banana shaped, rather large - about the size of a middle finger. And there's what they ate - bell pepper-shaped, smallish - as long and wide as the two first joints of a pinkie finger. As Ffeog suspected - they ate habaneros. Two habaneros each. To put this in perspective, the jalapeño is 5,000-8,000 on the Scoville heat scale. The habanero is 150,000-200,000. This is not a fun chili. This is not something to use in a competition, unless you are a demon sent from hell. This is something that sends people to hospital.

It's several hours after the fact, but at least one thing is clear: Pod and Ferret can barely walk down the hallway. Their cojones of titanium are getting in the way. It might have been unwittingly, but they ate two habaneros each, and survived. The only thing left now is revenge.

Ferret interjects: So from my side the story goes like this: I have more balls than brains. Logically I knew what I was putting into my mouth was NOT a jalepeno, but pride is a dangerous play mate and I went ahead anyway. I knew something was wrong when I felt my ears begin to burn. Curious, one eats with one's mouth not with one's ears, how could my ears be burning? It was the first thing that registered because my mouth and throat had been singed completely and therefore had no immediate sensation. When I did regain oral sensation, I honestly believed I was going to die. My heart developed a murmur and my lungs clamped shut. They say you get a rush of Seratonin when eating hot foods but I don't believe a word of it - all I wanted to do was die!!! I did not cry and of this I am extremely proud, but I believe my face was set in a rictus grin of near death.

I could not hold the offensive chillies for long, and as Pod has mentioned, I deposited them in the nearest porcelain recepticle at the earliest possible moment. This was almost as painful as eating them, but I still believe it was the right thing to do. I can write all day about this BUT I won't. What I will suggest is that you try the same thing. Not because I wish to encourage you to expand your horizons, but purley for the selfish reason of wanting someone else to suffer along with me. Thank God, Pod joined me on that stage because if she hadn't she would have laughed her arse off at me, thereby making things considerably worse. Thank you, oh Loyal Friend. Stupidest thing I have ever done followed closely by rap-jumping off a 70-storey building.

The Fried Ferret.

Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out

Goodbye, lawyer lady. I am sad that our association has to come to an end, if only because it would have been nice to get my divorce finalised sooner rather than later. But really, after six weeks of trying to contact you to find out what the hell is going on and where the documents are (never mind the wills), I've had enough. Don't bother sending me an account; you haven't sent me anything that would justify your charging me. I know I said I wasn't too fazed about the divorce taking a while, but then I assumed I would actually hear from you once in a while and maybe, just maybe, have a few documents to sign. I'm off to greener pastures, and maybe I'll be divorced before Armageddon.

Who really cares?

I don't understand why the opinion of others is so important. No, I lie, of course I do.

But I just don't get the big deal about getting all het up when someone makes an obviously incorrect assumption about me and then tries to force it down my throat.

If they're that stupid that they could make an asinine assumption about me, and then try to force me to admit that it's true so they can go off and gloat about it, then why the hell should I care about them? They're not someone with whom I want to spend a lot of time; I see them intermittently and I know what's coming.

So why care? Why kick up a fuss? Just smile blandly, shrug and keep quiet. They soon go away if you don't rise to their taunts.

But take the bait, and you will be stuck with them, as they follow you around, trying to push you to "admit" to more and more assumptions they have made about you, based purely on your looks, your intellect, your job, your salary.

Really? It's a big deal to you? Why?

Idiots and insecure people will draw incorrect conclusions. I smile at them and walk away, knowing the truth, and go off to spend time with someone who knows me and who makes me feel good.

Life is for living; why waste it on those who don't know any better?

WTF?

Who knew soya was the root of all evil? It's turning people into homosexuals, y'all!

Just kill me now, before the crazies get me.