...way out on the corner of fucked up and evil...

*grumble*

My Highlander DVDs are still not here. Where are you, Highlander DVDs?! I need my Duncan fix. Also, I thoroughly plan on lending them to Alan, thus indirectly forcing Jessica to watch them and getting revenge for the time she made me watch an hour-long special of Emmerdale. As Robespierre would say, "Mwaha."

On the other hand, do have shiny Firefly and Shooters to edutain myself with in the meantime. Jess immediately zeroed in on Shooters:

Jessica: Isn't this that film with Gerry Butler in nothing but a towel?
Froodle: *shamefaced* Yes...
Jessica: You are so sad.
Froodle: ...wait a minute, how did You know about the towel? I never mentioned it to you.
Jessica: Err...
Froodle: *triumphant "A-ha!" pose of denouncementification* Ha! You've watched it too!
Jessica: It's your fault! You're a bad influence!
Froodle: Hey, I actually like British gangster films. That makes you waaaay more sad than me. Also you're totally cheating on Colin Firth.
Jessica: *snooty sniff* It was a moment of weakness. It means nothing!
Froodle: Colin Firth hates you now.
Jessica: Are you going to put it on or not?
Froodle: Ooh, I don't think I should encourage you to go down this slippery path.
Alan: Yeah, she might turn into you.
Froodle: Well, I never!

In the end we watched the first few episodes of Firefly instead. Reactions can be summerized thusly:

( Read more... )

James still getting on my nerves. At lunch today, we were talking about where we see ourselves in five or ten years time. Jess was lying in the sun in a villa in Spain while Alan chased a toddler in waterwings around their garden. James was living in an apartment building with a doorman in London. I was about to describe my house with it's huge library, squishy sofas of Doom and three kitties, when James says, in the most obnoxious "hoho, look at me embarrass and discomfort you" voice known to man, "And Catherine of course will be playing with her vibrator".

Okay, asshole. I realise that you are bitter because I have steadfastly rejected your sickening advances since some time in October. I realise that you "need" a relationship in order to justify your pathetic existance. I realise that a lot of this comes from your control freak of a mother, whom you lack the testicular fortitude to stand up to on even the most basic of issues. I even acknowledge that the collective jokes about you being gay probably didn't help, although, to paraphrase Alan, "it was alright when you were just a ponce, but I don't like you now you've turned into a pervy hetro", and also, I realise that I can't stop you having these revolting thoughts about me any more than you can stop me entertaining vivid fantasies about knocking your teeth so far down your throat that you'd be shitting molars until graduation.

But I'll thank you to shut the fuck up and stop going out of your way to make me uncomfortable or angry in public. I tolerate you at the moment because we have the same friends, but I am very, very close to losing my temper with your inappropriate touching and even more inappropriate comments.

Of course, his fucktardery did lead to inadvertant hilarity when I announced that I planned on owning a whole harem of vibrators, and that I would give them all names:

Froodle: And every time I got a new obsession with a character or an actor or something, I'd buy a new one and name it after them.
Jessica: Would you have an Erik one?
Froodle: Of course. Fifteen inches of black latex, with an ickle white half-mask over the head.
Jessica: Heehee, oooh, he could have a little soundchip in him so that when you're using him, he goes "Sing, my Angel of Music!" in Gerard Butler's voice.
Froodle: Oh man, that would rock So Hard.
Jessica: You'd have to buy him a Christine one, though. So he wouldn't get lonely.
Froodle: Aww, that would be so cute! They could go on little dates to the underwear drawer!
Jessica: I wonder what a Christine vibrator would look like... probably those pink and sparkly jelly ones.
Froodle: Ewww no, those remind me of Orlaris*. I don't want an Orlaris vibrator. Blue and sparkly would be okay, though. Or purple.
Jessica: What would you call them?
Froodle: I dunno, I'd have to get to know them first, so I can pick out a name that really suits them. I totally want an Erik vibrator now, though.
Jessica: Him and Christine could have little baby vibrators.
Froodle: Oooh, like those ones that are about three inches long and you can put them in your bag and carry them around with you?
Jessica: If you get one that's three inches long, I insist you call it Raoul.

And at that point, we laughed so hard that the thread of the conversation was lost and we went back to discussing Foucaultian constructs. Poor Raoul.

*Orlaris: Orlando Bloom as Paris. See also Bradchilles, Alexarrell and Jarphaestion, among others.

Such a very sleepy Froodle am I.

Last night was the Law Ball. It was... meh. Totally not worth £47. The hotel rooms were shitty and there were blankets on the bed. When I rule the world, I'm outlawing blankets. Duvets for all! The food wasn't great and, as usual, the Law Society took it upon themselves to bore us all with tales of their drunken exploits under the guise of "Most Memorable Law Student Moments of 2004/5". Because, you know, there's nothing so amusing to a room full of 400 people than an anecdote involving someone known to maybe ten people in the whole room.

On the plus side, there were balloons filled with helium, so we amused ourselves by inhaling said helium while waiting for the Law Soc to shut the fuck up and let us have our damn dessert. Alan wrote all our email addresses on a piece of paper, tied it to a balloon string and let the balloon go outside. There were also these weird little gift boxes on our tables - gold present-shaped ones with love hearts in them for girls, and tuxedos with chocolate footballs for guys. In the face of such blatent retardery, I was forced to rebel by setting fire to my love hearts and stealing a bunch of chocolate footballs instead.

Also there were these really fancy star-shaped balloons which Verity spent all night trying to steal, but all her attempts kept being foiled. Eventually we managed to liberate one from the clutches of the evil Balloon Bitch from Planet Drunkenslutonia, which we named V'jjacs (Verity, James, Jessica, Alan, Catherine and Steve) in honour of our collaberative effort.

While queuing for our pictures (which took about a thousand years, thanks retards), there was one guy in front of us who, while posing for his picture, decided to answer his mobile phone and yakk to his shitty, insignificant friends, holding the rest of us up even more. Was quite funny as Jessica started yelling abuse at him, telling him he was banned from having his photo taken and that he should shut the fuck up and get out of the Goddamn way instead of holding the rest of us up with his insignificant conversations.

But even after the Samsung Spackwit was vanquished, our quest to claim the "free" professional photos which the Law Soc so deftly negotiated for us was impeded by our old enemy, the Balloon Bitch. She and a group of her shitty, shrieking friends (hailing from both Planet Drunkenslutonia and it's close neighbour, Smashedfucktard) took about twenty minutes to get in position to have their picture taken, during which time we could hear Balloon Bitch shrieking "Boys in back, boys in back!" over and over again, which of course sparked another torrent of abuse from us.

James was really annoying me all evening - there was this chubby girl sitting on a table near us, and she was wearing a pink dress, and every time she walked past us, he had to make some comment about how "people that fat shouldn't wear pink because it makes them look like pigs." I was like, first of all, pigs don't usually come in pastel shades, so that's fucking retarded, and secondly, since you don't know her and she's done nothing annoying (and believe me, I'm the first to get annoyed with people I don't know, usually for being loud or smelling bad), how about you Shut The Fuck Up and stop acting like such a small-minded, petty moron? Also he kept making comments about the reletive merits of the breasts of all the girls at the table, and making these oh-so-hilarious innuendos about Verity and I sharing a room. Eventually I snapped and was like "You're not funny, James. You're fat," and while he was still gaping like a landed fish, Verity comes out with "Oh Catherine, don't be mean! He's not fat. *pause* Anymore." To which I laughed loudly and with youthful abandon while James spluttered indignantly in the background.

On the plus side, there was giant Connect Four and Jenga, and Alan brought his X-Box, so the evening wasn't a total loss. As long as you don't think too hard about the fact that we could have done that sort of thing at home and without being forced to mingle with filthy law students.

So, today in lectures we were talking about consent and the situations where it could and could not be a defence. We get on to consent obtained by deception, and AH starts telling us about a singing instructor who convinced his student that shagging her rotten was the key to improving her voice. At which point, Jess leans over and whispers "That's so Erik" in my ear.

I nearly swallowed my pen lid.

There will be no Stick Figure Erik today. Why, you ask me? Because of this mind-breakingly hilarious POTO/Little Mermaid crossover, and Hex's deliciously demented accompanying illustration. ( Read more... )

Of course, I still maintain that his bra is upside down, but I don't have access to clamshells and ribbon to test that theory right now.

And now, memes:( Read more... )

In other news, have discovered that nothing creeps Jessica out quicker than the phrase "Mister Sexypants Phantom". Have therefore resolved to use said phrase at every opportunity.

Holy shit, Tower of Fang actually has some members! Thanks to komikron for these wonderful icons:



Eventually I might get around to making a community banner or something... maybe.

I went to see Alexander with Anne Marie on Sunday night - it's actually the second time I've seen it. I totally blame Granamry and her hilarious 6-part MPREG parody, Daddy's Little Conqueror, for my almost swallowing my icecream spade during that opening line about Hephaestion's thighs.

Spoiler-laden Alexander-related thoughts... ( Read more... )

In other news, Jessica's latest money-making scheme involves a business that makes designer clothes/boots/carrying handbags for dogs. Yeah. Seriously. We were talking about what she should call it during lunch today:

Jess: What about "Doggy Desire"?
Alan: Animal porn.
Jess: "Doggy Style"?
Me: Gay porn. Better, but still misleading.
Jess: Yeah, I could have one of those "How Did You Hear About This Site?" things on the checkout.
Me: "Google", "Lycos", "From a friend", "seeking ass-sex".
People at tables around us: *stare*

And finally, more Stick Figure Erik: ( Read more... )

I'm still listening to the 2004 soundtrack. Keep telling myself, it's not that Gerrard Butler can't sing, it's that his Phantom has a lot more Raw Emotion. Eventually I may even believe it. Yay for self-delusion!

Soo... I got back from seeing Phantom for the third time today. Obsessed? Me? Nooo. Jess wanted to. All her fault. Yes. Bad Jessica. Alan and James were there too, but they don't count because they had nothing to add to the conversation and James was sulking because we compared him to Raoul. Afterwards we were discussing the Age Old Question of whether we'd pick Erik or Raoul at the end of the film:

Jess: Well, it's not like choosing between a fop and a psychopath is much of a choice... but probably Raoul. You?
Me: Oh, Erik, definatly. I mean, Raoul shoots kitties.
Jess: Erik's a murderer.
Me: But he doesn't shoot kitties! Plus, Raoul's about as interesting as dry toast. At least with Erik, I wouldn't be bored.
Jess: Only because you'd constantly be looking out for his Stranglin' Rope(TM)! Plus, I bet life with Erik would get boring eventually. I mean, every time you had a fight, he'd say it was because of his face and start screeching.
Me: HAH! Yeah, I can just imagine that: I'd be all, 'Erik, can you take those dead bodies out of the torture chamber, please?' And he'd be like, 'BITCH! I'm writing my opera!' and I'd be all, 'OMG No Sexing for you tonight!' and he's be like "WAAAAHHHH OMG you hate me because of my face!" and start crying and then I'd feel guilty.
Jess: And you'd have to get rid of the corpses AND give him guilt-sexin'.
Me: Nah, I'd totally tell him to fuck off and play with his monkey.
Jess: He'll just screech about his face until you give in. He's totally a manipulator. And I bet he'd never take you anywhere.
Me: Urgh, yeah. Anniversaries... at the opera. Birthdays... at the opera.
Jess: Christmas... at the opera.
Me: Only his mask would have ickle Reindeer horns, so that would be quite fun.
Jess: Nah, he'd probably think it was a hint that you'd cuckolded him or something. Whiny prick.
Me: Oh God, he's like the male equivilent of those girls who are always going on about how fat they are and demanding reassurance from their boyfriends.
Jess: Yeah, only at least guys can say "You're not fat" because they're generally not, but it's not like you can say "Oh Erik, there's totally nothing wrong with your face, I mean, it's not like you're hideously scarred and have to wear a mask or anythi- Oops."
Me: *sigh* No Phantom sexin' for me tonight.
Jess: Hah, see? Raoul never denies me sexin'.
Me: Yeah, but Eriksexin' is better. He's a genius.
Jess: He's a psychopath.
Me: Raoul shoots kitties.

And so it went on.

Went shopping for Christmas tack today with Alan and Jess. Living room now illuminated by wire mesh snowflakes, blue icicles and a translucent fibre-optic tree who I like to call Muraki. When you switch everything on, it's almost as bright as having the lamp on.

Also bought set of very tacky pink angel lights, which we spent the evening painting with Warhammer paint. Jessica made Maleficent and Aurora from Sleeping Beauty, Alan made a robot, an alien and a priest, and I made Crowley, Aziraphale and Legato. Much fun was had by all.

Afterwards we ate takeout and watched Troy, which Alan bought this afternoon, prompting many comments from Jess and I about his love for Brad Pitt in a skirt. Have decided Troy is much better when viewed with accompanying friends commentary, which included:

( Cut for possible spoilers and general silliness )

Heeheehee.

Hee.

Heehee.

Alan, Jess and James came 'round for the postponed post-birthday celebration tonight. Jess brought Cluedo, but this was no mere Cluedo. Oh no. This was the uber-special, one of a kind Us Cluedo.

Jess, Verity, Alan, James, Steve and I had all taken the place of the regular characters. A vibrator, whip, ballgag, pair of handcuffs, Jordan's breasts and Colin Firth were our weapons of choice. The locations became, among others, a sheep-shed, a dungeon, a confessional and an airplane.

I don't think I've laughed that hard in a long time. Alan in the sheepshed with Colin Firth (the lucky bastard); Steve in the phonebox with the vibrator; James and Jordan's breasts in the copy room; and Verity in the graveyard with the whip were our final results. I never did get to visit the confessional with Colin Firth, and once again I lost every game (it's a lot harder to cheat at Cluedo than it is to cheat at Monopoly) but it was still genius. I want a copy.

Parental units finally left, though not before threatening, I mean, promising to return for a week in December so that Mother and I can bond over facials, makeovers, manicures and the like. *headdesk* I wonder if James will take her out to play if I give him £50...

Jess, James and Alan are supposed to be coming 'round tonight, but am absolutely exhausted after enduring parental inability to listen to anything I say for 48 hours, cumulating in Dad attempting to hoover up while I'm in the middle of changing Thlayli's cage, despite repeated explainations about why that is a Really Dumb Idea, ie, I haven't finished with the hay or the sawdust or the litter or the food yet, all of which have a tendancy to scatter, and Mother's aforementioned "girly activities" stupidness.

Shall curl up in bed with hot chocolate and listen to Paul McGann tell of the daring adventures of Sean Bean instead.