Shubbadah?

Okay, first off. Yes. There are pictures that don't work from yesterday's post. I am aware of this, and I intend to fix it. However, I'm also el tired, and I'm going to try to get through this as quickly as possible so that I can close my eyes and think of England, or better yet, something that's a bit less creepy than Victoria's marital advice.

Saucy minx.

Second off, I finally looked at another person's blog, and boy howdy is mine spartan. Spartan? I don't know if it's a proper adjective anymore. I blame the Athenians. "Derp tiddles, phemales are slaphes, and so are those beaten bu us." I mean, seriously. History's written by the winners and all, and the Spartans certainly weren't the greatest folks ever, but they're far from the backwards soldier boys we tend to think they are. They had to learn how to give awesome retorts! That was part of their training! Who gets to do that anymore?

London calling.

But anyway, having looked at this other blog, I clearly need to add some sparkles to this thing. Well, not literally, because I'm not a vaguely creepy almost 40-something's fantasy. Nor am I MySpace (although it's always a hoot to check out what's still going on over there) or a webdesigner from the 1990s. However, despite this clear need for bedazzlement and glitz and glamour (because apparently it's Brit Time at the Blogpollo), we'll just have to see what happens. I have received suggestions (some involving soup for some as yet unascertained reason that most likely will provide the key to the end of the world in a mere 30 days, so get cracking on those Bucket Lists) that might get put into play once I figure out how I would do such a thing. And also if such a thing is even possible.

Why, I say, old chap, I do believe that it is. Quite right.

Until then, you'll have to content yourself with whatever oddness happens to come out of my little sausagey fingers (not that I have psoriasis or anything along those lines. At least, I hope not.), and just wait for the change to happen. And that's what brings us to the things I already wrote before I decided to move this whole bit into an earlier section of the blog. What will it be, you ask? Well, I really wasn't sure. I didn't have too much in terms of ideas, but we'll see where I ended up. Well, I already know, what with already having written it, but I'm sure that you're just DYING to know what lies beneath whateevr hopefully clever picture -- that hyphen was due to a sneeze but it just works so perfectly well that I'll go back and add a second to make it a full dash before returning to the present and closing this not-actually-a-parenthetical with another dash, thereby closing the circle and restoring balance to the blog-- whatever hopefully clever picture I happen to find on the Bing images to serve my potentially unsavory purposes. Mwaha.

It's Ian McKellen talking about acting. It's pretend, you see. And now, off to the future while you read the past!

Some ideas for tonight have been suggested. One of them was, "Well, gee, Rob, because you're such a great cook and a wonderful person (to say nothing of your innumerable other dashing qualities), what did you do to celebrate Thanksgiving in France two years ago? Surely that was hard for you, being on your own in a new country, but I bet you came up with just the greatest little feast ever, possibly with a young lady named Babette!"

Come on, Rob. Nobody understands that.

Well, let me tell you a tale. What a tale it is! I don't think you can even comprehend the degree to which this is a tale that is about to be told, or rather written, in a manner hardly befitting of such a tale, given its immense complexity and deep characterizations. Truly, it is a tour de force of literature, drama, cinema, and sculpture, ALL AT THE SAME TIME. Description defies the events that transpired on that cold November evening in the dead of night (well, the dead of very dark outside, because it's the north of North Dakota, and we all now how crazy people get in Fargo), but on this one occasion, all will be revealed. You will have the privilege of knowing what transpired that fateful evening, and through knowledge, you may understand the madness that emerged.


This can't possibly be a huge, huge letdown.

I ate some spaghetti. Well, don't go away yet. See, there's more to it than just that.

I ate more spaghetti than I normally would have. I probably also tried to listen to my iPod to tune out Bev's questions and/or (which really should be the logical or, because dude, logical operators or whatever the proper term for those things are I'M TIRED) Bev and Elmo's yelling. And I mean, of COURSE there was more to my day than just eating spaghetti. The very idea of it just being spaghetti is absurd. I mean, I had to work that morning! I don't really remember what work consisted of, but I'm sure it involved saying "Red cat. A red cat. No, not, 'A cat red.' A red cat," and possibly telling the story of The Gingerbread Man about 30 times. It was always funny to watch French kids puzzle over the meaning of "gobble" and try to say "fox." It... well, it tended to sound like something else that would be rather awkward to explain were they ever to travel to the United Kingdom or the United States (and yes, those are blatant attempts to pad this word count. You should get this by now.).

Yes, it was quite a man's life in the Programme des Assistants de Langues Vivantes. Oh, what's this? I'm getting a cease and desist order from the British army from the 1970s. Well, I'll just have to ignore that. I mean, what could possibly go wrong in angering the Brits?

Oh, DO give it a try. Cheerio.

Oh, you finally caught up. I was wondering when you might do that. I hope you enjoyed the references to the Falklands, an obscure and old episode of Monty Python, and the delightful letdown that ensued. Plus, Margaret Thatcher. Mmm. Almost as saucy as Queen Victoria. ALMOST. I mean, it's really a Betty or Veronica sort of thing, except British. And yes, I just checked- it doesn't seem as if there is a British version of Archie out there, but if there were, you can bet that it would be written by Alan Moore and would fully deconstruct the entire love triangle by making Archie into a sociopathic ladykiller who is just waiting to see which one of them provides him with a better incentive. Meanwhile, Betty is obsessed with Archie because she has Munchausen by proxy and compulsively HAS to be a caregiver to fulfill her twisted desires, and Veronica is trying to date Archie in order to get her distant father's attention. Ultimately, the relationship between the three deteriorates and is destroyed. And by whom?



He's been in love with Archie the whole time. Also, he has 2 weeks to live due to the severe atherosclerosis from eating all those cheeseburgers. He... he did the right thing in the end, didn't he?

Well, now I want to see that comic. I would ask Mr. Moore, but he's rather scary himself. Somehow, Neil Gaiman manages to handle that, but I'm not unconvinced that they're a real world Aziraphale and Crowley (except, you know, more competent and effective). Besides, have you seen him? HE'S TERRIFYING. He could crawl into your mind and haunt your dreams, night after night. Just a little bit at first- maybe he's the random fellow who's standing in a doorway in the corner of your eye. Slowly, though, he starts moving from the periphery, encroaching on your hopes and fears and twisting them to his own sinister desires (and also there may be some angry trousers involved).



Whatever holds the image of an Alan Moore ITSELF BECOMES AN ALAN MOORE.

At some point tonight, we entered a very dark place, but we kept calm and carried on.

Oh no. No. That's not supposed to be how it goes. I thought I was in control of the British stuffiness (the aforementioned Brit Time at the Blogpollo). I thought I could handle it. I was wrong. I need an infusion of red, white, and blue, STAT.



GAH!

No, not that. Not that. Um.... beer! What could be more American than- ooooh, no, you're not tricking me like that, Brits. No, no. You'd have to get up pretty early to pull one over Young Master Camer-

Son of a BITCH.

No, this can be done. Okay, American. Not British. Um... Golf? No, that won't work. Scottish is better, but I need American. Mel Gibson? Shit- Australian, so he's like Diet Brit.

KEANU! Keanu freaking Reeves. Physical actor extraordinaire, but master of the dull surprise. I just need to find some Keanu, and it'll be fine. I mean, he was Ted. How much more American can you get than Theodore Logan? Not much, I'll tell you that. He plays guitar, meddles in history, and wins basically through cheating, only to come out as one of the saviors of the world. He was Neo! He was Jack whatshisface in Speed (apparently it's Traven. A good American name if ever I saw one).  If there's any way I can get out of this, it's with a good dose of Keanu. He had his Own Private Idaho! Only an American could get a state to themselves! Well, I suppose it's not HARD with Idaho. I mean, nobody there but those potatoes (well, and some harpies I'm sure). Nothing could go wrong there. Nothing at all. Okay, just need to find some Keanu and

FUUUUUUUU-

God save the Queen.