froodle: (bitch)
mike: i thought i saw johnny heg today, but it turned out not to be him and i just waved at some random guy driving past.
me: yeah hes off the island this weekend
mike: he must have a lookalike in town, i swear it was his exact face.
me: you know, johnny does look kinda like joe flanigan...
mike: shit. i TOLD you bleeding on his face would summon him!
me: well i didnt bleed on him, dont blame me!
mike: great, now im getting murdered.
me: what about my brother?! hes gonna get blamed for all the killings over here!
froodle: (Default)
So last night my Dad ambushed me as I walked home with Mike and now we're having lunch with him next Tuesday.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

I mean, don't get me wrong, we've been going out for six months and practically living together for four of them, so it's not as if "Oh by the way, my Dad is a faffing hen and a full-on insaniac" hasn't come up in conversation already, but there's a difference between hearing anecdotes about his faffery and actually witnessing it.

It could be worse though - one of the stories I tell a lot is about how, when you're out with him, he's constantly looking around for other people and he will just bail in the middle of talking to you and glom onto these randoms, totally ignoring you, while expecting you to just kind of hang around and wait 'til these much more interesting people leave and he deigns to speak to you again. It's super-rude and annoying as fuck and he does it all the time, to whoever he's with and regardless of who the random might be.

And in the course of a ten minute stop-and-chat that he engineered in order to force my hand about introducing him to Mike, he did it to us twice.

So, you know. At least he's going into this with an idea of what he's getting.


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froodle: (Default)
Watching 50/50, laughing my ass off as Joseph Gordon Levitt battles some kind of marrow-rotting spinal tumour, phone bleeps and it's my dad telling me he has prostate cancer. Pretty much sucked the fun right out of that film.


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froodle: (Default)
What's a more appropriate wardrobe choice for visiting your smallest brother in prison - 1974 Stark Expo or sparkley Thor and Loki?


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froodle: (Default)
Hypothetically, if your brother is in jail and you send him a card in a bright pink envelope decorated with purple flowers and dancing moomins, to what extent are you responsible when he subsequently gets gang-raped in the showers?


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froodle: (Default)
Just before Christmas, I went to visit the Prawn and dropped off a load of books for him. I wasn't sure if they'd really be his cup of tea, since I'm all about fantasy and he's all about gritty realism, but I figured being in jail is probably real enough for him, and anyway, if he dies without reading Skullduggery Pleasant or Johannes Cabal then he might not get into heaven.

So I was half expecting to have them politely returned with a request to look out for drug lords' memoirs next time I'm in Oxfam, but today I come home and there's a postcard:

"Do you think Johannes Cabal lieks mupkips?"

On balance, I think Johannes Cabal would deny lieking mupkips even if he secretly did, so I guess we'll never know.

Horst definately lieks them, though.


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froodle: (Default)
My brother just ended an argument about whether Zac Efron could take Loki in a fight with the words, "Bottom line, if I walked into the room, they would both want to suck my cock, so I guess they're equal in having good taste in cock." There is literally NO APPROPRIATE RESPONSE to that statement. I guess ultimately everything boils down to whose cock you want to suck when you walk into a room. I hope this is the plot to Avengers 2.

ETA: I meant that Avengers 2 should be about sucking cock IN GENERAL, not my brothers' cock specifically. I have no desire to see Buzz Lighthair getting serviced by either Zac Efron or Loki. He could do way better than a grown-up Disney starlet and the Meg Griffin of Norse mythology. Just sayin'.
froodle: (Default)
So the Hen finally moved out on Friday. I thought I would be relieved when he left, because it would cut down on the constant fucking drama around here, but actually I felt pretty sick and guilty about the whole situation. Of course, moving out didn't stop him coming back the next night and henning and penning around for a few hours, so a) does't seem like much is going to change and b) I feel annoyed enough fo it to overwhelm any residual guilt or empathy I might have felt.

And today I went 'round to a friends' house after work, and it turned out the reason she hasn't been returning anyones' calls recently is because her dad just got fifteen months for possession of child pornography, so I pretty much take that as the universe telling me to get the fuck over myself, because let's face it, at least my dad's not in jail for kiddie porn. So... yay, I guess.
froodle: (Default)
My brother just convinced his girlfriend to read the other Johannes Cabal books by declaring that the fourth book will be called Johannes Cabal: Mighty Pope Cannibal and then acting out a scene where Cabal eats the Pope, complete with bad Italian-inflected screaming and a tea cosy to serve as a Popehat. To be honest, I think she might find the Fear Institute a bit of a let down in comparison.
froodle: (Default)
Oh, you have GOT to be fucking kidding me. Get home from work and the Hen has emptied the fucking fridge-freezer, there are melting stacks of food all over the kitchen and he's clucking and pecking and acting like this is anything other than a deliberately engineered disaster in which he ruins masses of food that he didn't pay for, pisses everyone off and renders the kitchen unusable. He's also just used half a bottle of MY shower-gel as a substitute fo Fairy Liquid, rather than just going to the fucking Co-Op.
froodle: (Default)
How fucking hard is it to understand that when I say "I can handle this, thanks," what I actually mean is "stop faffing around and get the fuck out of my way before your brain-damaged squawking annoys me to the point where I stab you to death and throw your corpse into the fucking sea"? Christ. Learn to fucking listen.
froodle: (Default)
How fucking hard is it to understand that when I say "I can handle this, thanks," what I actually mean is "stop faffing around and get the fuck out of my way before your brain-damaged squawking annoys me to the point where I stab you to death and throw your corpse into the fucking sea"? Christ. Learn to fucking listen.
froodle: (Default)
My brother is such a spacker. I'm in the kitchen trying to convince Hayley to read the other two Johannes Cabal books and he wanders in and asks "Isn't that Johnny Depp's bird in Sweeney Todd?" Before I can say "No, you 'tard, that was Johanna and she wasn't his bird, she was his daughter," he's off singing "I feel you, Johannes," off-key and at the top of his voice, and has been singing it on and off all evening.
froodle: (Default)
My brother is such a spacker. I'm in the kitchen trying to convince Hayley to read the other two Johannes Cabal books and he wanders in and asks "Isn't that Johnny Depp's bird in Sweeney Todd?" Before I can say "No, you 'tard, that was Johanna and she wasn't his bird, she was his daughter," he's off singing "I feel you, Johannes," off-key and at the top of his voice, and has been singing it on and off all evening.
froodle: (Default)
Jesus fucking Christ. I literally cannot walk through the fucking front door at the moment without having my mother spilling the drama of her failed marriage all over me. I understand that the Hen is a fucking retard, suffers from an excess of douchebaggery and is deficient in Vitamin Basic Humanity, but God, I do not need to hear about it every second of every fucking day. LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE. Stop barging into my room whenever you fucking feel like it. Stop cornering me when all I want to do is put the fucking groceries away. Stop following me around the house and laying in fucking wait so you can yap at me when I come out of the toilet or the laundry room. GO THE FUCK AWAY.

I should propbably try and be more sympathetic, but GOD, I just walked through the fucking door! Knock it off!
froodle: (Default)
Jesus fucking Christ. I literally cannot walk through the fucking front door at the moment without having my mother spilling the drama of her failed marriage all over me. I understand that the Hen is a fucking retard, suffers from an excess of douchebaggery and is deficient in Vitamin Basic Humanity, but God, I do not need to hear about it every second of every fucking day. LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE. Stop barging into my room whenever you fucking feel like it. Stop cornering me when all I want to do is put the fucking groceries away. Stop following me around the house and laying in fucking wait so you can yap at me when I come out of the toilet or the laundry room. GO THE FUCK AWAY.

I should propbably try and be more sympathetic, but GOD, I just walked through the fucking door! Knock it off!
froodle: (Default)
Faffing Hen came back on Friday night. He's trying to act as if nothing happened with me and Hayley and the boys, and sneering whenever he walks into the room when my mum is there. I've been limiting myself to one-word answers and walking off. The only complete sentences I want to share with him right now will start with the word "fuck" and end with the word "cunt", and how much profanity is inbetween will be entirely dependant on my energy levels at the time of delivery.

Johnny broke his hand a couple of weeks ago - it's a massive, plaster-and-gauze-wrapped claw that makes him look like the baddie on Inspector Gadget, not easy to miss - and of course the Hen has been going on about the lack of progress at Lincluden. Of course, he could have fucking gone down and fucking done some fucking work on it his fucking self, if he hadn't fucked off to Egypt for three weeks after dumping his wife of thirty-odd years in a FUCKING LETTER, the fucking twat, but no, obviously this situation is everyone's fault but his. Johnny being distracted and upset enough to close a fucking van door on his own fucking hand couldn't have anything to do with the fact that his father just fucking abandoned his family and left him personally holding the bag to the tune of a £350,000 property that's half-finished and worth fuck-all.

Ugh. I came upstairs last night and he was sitting in the office with the door wide open like a bloated, poisonous spider, just waiting for someone to walk past the landing, and he's like, "Is that you, Catherine? How was your day?"

How was my day?! HOW WAS MY FUCKING DAY?! My father is a FUCKING ASSHOLE, that's how my fucking day was! I was spawned by some worthless SHITSACK who writes a FUCKING LETTER telling my mum how we all ruined his fucking life, fucks off to another country for three weeks and then COMES BACK TO TORTURE US SOME MORE. I have to go through life knowing that fifty percent of my DNA is made up of FILTHY EVIL HEN GENES. How was YOUR day, you fucking cunt?! Oh wait, I don't give a shit.

If there's any justice in this world, he'll die alone, unloved, and in agony. And in the next world, he'll spent eternity in an icy fucking void with only himself for company. No audience to fucking hold forth at. Nobody to blame for whatever the fuck is wrong with his life. Just him. Forever. With himself.
froodle: (Default)
Faffing Hen came back on Friday night. He's trying to act as if nothing happened with me and Hayley and the boys, and sneering whenever he walks into the room when my mum is there. I've been limiting myself to one-word answers and walking off. The only complete sentences I want to share with him right now will start with the word "fuck" and end with the word "cunt", and how much profanity is inbetween will be entirely dependant on my energy levels at the time of delivery.

Johnny broke his hand a couple of weeks ago - it's a massive, plaster-and-gauze-wrapped claw that makes him look like the baddie on Inspector Gadget, not easy to miss - and of course the Hen has been going on about the lack of progress at Lincluden. Of course, he could have fucking gone down and fucking done some fucking work on it his fucking self, if he hadn't fucked off to Egypt for three weeks after dumping his wife of thirty-odd years in a FUCKING LETTER, the fucking twat, but no, obviously this situation is everyone's fault but his. Johnny being distracted and upset enough to close a fucking van door on his own fucking hand couldn't have anything to do with the fact that his father just fucking abandoned his family and left him personally holding the bag to the tune of a £350,000 property that's half-finished and worth fuck-all.

Ugh. I came upstairs last night and he was sitting in the office with the door wide open like a bloated, poisonous spider, just waiting for someone to walk past the landing, and he's like, "Is that you, Catherine? How was your day?"

How was my day?! HOW WAS MY FUCKING DAY?! My father is a FUCKING ASSHOLE, that's how my fucking day was! I was spawned by some worthless SHITSACK who writes a FUCKING LETTER telling my mum how we all ruined his fucking life, fucks off to another country for three weeks and then COMES BACK TO TORTURE US SOME MORE. I have to go through life knowing that fifty percent of my DNA is made up of FILTHY EVIL HEN GENES. How was YOUR day, you fucking cunt?! Oh wait, I don't give a shit.

If there's any justice in this world, he'll die alone, unloved, and in agony. And in the next world, he'll spent eternity in an icy fucking void with only himself for company. No audience to fucking hold forth at. Nobody to blame for whatever the fuck is wrong with his life. Just him. Forever. With himself.
froodle: (Default)
So I rang up this morning and I have my grave-digging job interview on Friday. Was talking to Johnny about the difficulty I'm having trying to decide what to wear - the usual interview dress/suit jacket/high heels, or something practical that says I can get down and dirty and dig holes to put bodies in with the best of them. His advice was "Whatever you do, don't wear that dress you've got with the zombies on." My response? "Which one?"

Yes, this will be the perfect job for me. Ten quid an hour and all the revenants I can raise.
froodle: (Default)
So I rang up this morning and I have my grave-digging job interview on Friday. Was talking to Johnny about the difficulty I'm having trying to decide what to wear - the usual interview dress/suit jacket/high heels, or something practical that says I can get down and dirty and dig holes to put bodies in with the best of them. His advice was "Whatever you do, don't wear that dress you've got with the zombies on." My response? "Which one?"

Yes, this will be the perfect job for me. Ten quid an hour and all the revenants I can raise.

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