Saturday, 26 November 2011

Otter In A Strange Land

It's that most dreaded time of the year in Scotland - winter. I can already hear the jokes "isn't that every day for you people, ha ha" and so forth - well, in short, yes. Please refrain from mocking our climate between November - February, it only makes me feel worse about the impending Snow of Doom. This will inevitably arrive in the next few weeks and barricade us into our homes. I've stocked up on the essentials already; rum, cheese, crackers (although the rum source seems to be depleting at an alarming rate. Personally I blame mice. Pirate mice. Damn them all), new DVDs, extra blankets, etc. In a way, it's a lot like preparing for a zombie apocalypse, just minus the artillery, so I'm well versed in what to do.

The Fleetch has gone to London this week, on a whim. As yet nothing in the flat has unexpectedly broken, nothing requires a manly presence to hammer/screw/replace, so I'm okay. If it does, you'll be the first to know. I can see it now - "While writing this blog post, everything caught fire and exploded! Otterminions! Check out the utter lolz! Now look at these pictures of kittens wearing clothes! Aaaaaand publish. Hmm. The acrid smoke and flying debris has injured me somewhat. I should exit the building, but then I'll lose my WiFi signal.... I'll flip a coin."

I have actually recently tried to make important life decisions while flipping a coin. This invariably fails to work, because I can't accept either answer and insist on doing it repeatedly until I eventually wail and rend my garments in despair at my own horrible indecisiveness. I have to say, I'm not naturally indecisive by nature. I'll admit I am cautious, certainly, but once I've made up my mind about something I hurtle in with all the speed of a cheetah and the grace of a drunken badger. It's just that 2011 has been such a bitchass year. I am older and wiser and more battle-scarred for it, and of course that is otterly sexy, but I'm looking forward to 2012 with all the delightful anticipation of a first date with someone who has no immediate flaws that you can see. This is a dangerous trap which I know well, because no matter how many dates I go on, and how many times I am disappointed, I still traipse off to the next one thinking "perhaps this will be different".

Me: Why do women act like this?

Fleetch: Do you really want to know why?

Me: Um...

Fleetch: (speaking to me as if I am a small child) Because they have vaginas, fleetch.

Me: You are ...wise beyond your years.

Fleetch: (smugly) I know.

I shall leave you with a ripoff from a Gary Larson joke adapted to my own purposes. Don't say I don't give credit where it is due.

Mustelidophobia - the fear that somewhere, somehow, an otter is watching you.

This is happening. Right now.

Monday, 21 November 2011

All I Want For Christmas Is Yo Momma

I mentioned Fake Christmas a couple of weeks ago and yesterday we held this amazing annual event in my flat. In honour of this occasion, my friend Wetsoks wrote a festive poem that will in all likelihood make no sense unless you've been following this blog religiously (memo to self: found Church of Otter and write the Holy Book of Fish Tales shortly after):

'Twas 2 weeks before Fake Christmas and all through Fairytale Land,
Nothing was stirring (except yo mamma's hand),
Fleetches were planning with not even a care,
Soon all the lesbian friends would be there!

An Otter was nestled all snug in her bed,
While Fleetch was there watching, playfully stroking her head.
As Wetsoks and Tanya kit took care of the 'kittens',

Sarahnator was putting on some cosy new mittens.
When out in the kitchen there arose such a clatter,
Otter sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
She flew to the kitchen quick as a flash,
Where D$ha was drinking just a dash.

"Hey gurl! you ready for turducken?"
Otter looked for some buckets to do some fuckin...
With a buzz at the door and a suggestion of strippers,
The lesbians appear in star pants and slippers.

Food cooking in the kitchen, the smell is amazing
Food all through the day, get ready for grazing
"Fake Christmas is here!" Wetsoks cried out with joy
"Peaches and BOOBS and all sorts of new toys!"

I shed a tear of happiness when I read this for the first time. It so delightfully encapsulates everything about this particular group of friends that I love. (Also, it mentions boobs)

Anyway, back to the story. Yesterday afternoon we exchanged gifts. I bought Wetsoks the Harry Potter Cluedo game but of course the Fleetch and I spent hours bastardizing it appropriately and turning it into the mother of all drinking (board) games, complete with an extra card set that we titled The Questions of Doom (which featured both regular questions and special cards we subtitled 'Veritaserum or False' - clearly the Fleetch and I are the coolest people you know) and extra rules for the DA (Dumbledore's Alcoholics) which were specially constructed to get every player drunk in a short amount of time. My favourite rule was "every time any player makes a Yo Momma joke, all players must sip their drink".

Good lord, the carnage.

Fleetch: Okay. Was it...Bellatrix Lestrange... in the Shrieking Shack... with the Jinxed Broomstick?

Wetsoks: Yo momma jinxed my broomstick last night.


Sarahnator: I feel sick.

Tanyakit: That's what yo momma said.


Sarahnator: Oh god.

Fleetch: Can you prove or disprove my theory?

Tanyakit: My cards are all useless.

Me: Just like yo momma!

Wetsoks: DRINK!

Me: (sniggering) I'm sorry. That wasn't fair. Your mother tries really hard. In bed.

Sarahnator: I need to stop.

Fleetch: Buckle up, it's not over yet.

There was a heartbreakingly lovely moment when the Fleetch turned to me and I could see the sweet yearning in her eyes, the beautiful desperation that signals that you have only moments before the Yo Momma joke erupts out of you. It is a tide of hilarity that cannot be contained by a single human form. We shared a silent, gleeful look, before turning back to the group. Everyone else exchanged a glance and raised their glasses wearily without a word.

God bless us. Every one. But especially yo momma.

Friday, 18 November 2011

Year Of The Apottercalypse

I do love the people I work with and their blessed, beloved, utterly inspirational lunacy. On any given day I can be sure to overhear some amazing comments, such as "Wonderful. I'm overcome with emulsion" or "Where are you calling from? You sound like you're in a tin bath or something... Oh, you are?" (Both of these are 100% true, by the way. I don't think I could have made that up if I'd tried)

Therefore when my colleague from Finance leaned over our dividing desk partition and conducted the following conversation, I was already mentally prepared.

Him: Hey.

Me: What?

Him: Did you ever listen to the band 'Busted'?

Me: (suspiciously) I heard them around, but I never really sought after their music. It was a bit too happy for me. Why?

Him: They have this song called "Year 3000". It came on while I was driving to the Borders, and I actually listened to the lyrics for the first time. They're appalling!

Me: I'm not sure that Busted's appeal was their emotive mastery of the English language, but sure, go on.

Him: Okay - the chorus goes "I've been to the year 3000, not much has changed but they live underwater". Um. That's quite a big change, actually. Humans have been living on land for hundreds of thousands of years according to fossil records, so moving to an entirely submerged way of life actually takes some doing. Do we have gills in the year 3000? Are we living in special oxygenated pods under the sea?

Me: I see what you mean. And if that was indeed the case - that we had somehow physiologically adapted to suit our new underwater environment - how did the evolution occur in only 1000 years?

Him: Exactly:

Me: It was probably the government tampering with our DNA. This is a sci-fi film waiting to happen.

Him: It gets worse. The next line is "and your great great great granddaughter is pretty fine." So either science has managed to increase the longevity of human life to such an extent that people have an average lifespan of about 300 years, or the great great great granddaughter in question is about 800 years old herself and has just happened to somehow magically survive all this time passing.

Me: (digesting this with a grave expression) Hmm.

There was a brief pause.

Him: Also, that makes her a G-G-G-GILF. Or GILF 3X, if you will.

Me: GILF 3X sounds much more futuristic. And sexy.

Sunday, 13 November 2011

Harry Potter and the Draught Of Intoxication

The Fleetch and I were cooking casserole earlier. I do so enjoy cooking with her, partly because it's fun and partly because she insists we drink while we cook. I opened the alcohol cupboard and peered inside.

Me: So what do you want?

Fleetch: Gin. Give me gin.

Me: With what?

Fleetch: Whatever we have. GIVE. ME. GIN.

I poured the Fleetch a cocktail of gin, apple juice and some random pink mixers, hoping that the outcome would not be a horrific blend of flavour. I added extra gin just to be on the safe side.

Me: Taste this.

She tasted it cautiously.

Me: Is it... ginny enough?

Fleetch: It's perfectly Ginny! Ginny Weasley!

Me: Ha! That's awesome!

Fleetch: Makes me wish I could have a Ginny and Tonkic.

Me: Maybe I'll have Peach Snapes.

Fleetch: We have just found my new favourite game.

Me: Fancy a Vodka Krum?

Fleetch: Perhaps a Longbottom Iced Tea? Or a Harvey Wallgranger?

Me: Where will the Sorting Hat put you? Griffinschlager!

Fleetch: Bitch please. You know I'd be a Slytherin.

Me: Ugh, dude. Ravenclaw is clearly the superior house.

Fleetch: Shut your beautiful mouth.

And I did. But mainly because it was full of Peach Snapes. I shall leave you with that imagery.


Thursday, 10 November 2011

The Half Life Of Sarcasm

I was working steadily through my pile of tasks at work, when I got an email from one of my friends. It escalated, as these things often do, into an entire conversation built on surrealism and in-jokes. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed living it.

Tanyakit: JAEGERBOMB. Want. Need.

Me: Like Jesus turned water into wine, I shall turn Red Bull and Jaegermeister into a JAEGERBOMB! Admittedly it requires less effort but it will get you properly smashed. What brought this on? Before noon? On a Tuesday?

Tanyakit: Just telling a colleague about the last time we had good Jaegerbomb times.

Me: Is there such a thing as a bad Jaegerbomb time? It's my new Goldschlager. It's preferable because it hasn't led me into mischief. Yet.

Tanyakit: It hasn't led you into mischief as I came attached with it.

Me: That's a good point. Usually the Fleetch is present whenever I do something stupid, or the Sarahnator - admittedly she is often an unwilling participant of my chaos - but not you. Hmm.

Tanyakit: I think therefore I am (anti-mischief).

Me: I drink therefore I am (an idiot).

Tanyakit: So, when are we on for Glee this week?

Me: I'm busy Friday, but Saturday works. Let's invite Lord Tubbington round, but only if he's stopped smoking.

Tanyakit: You know what doesn't have an expiration date? Jaegerbombs!

Me: Speaking of expiration dates, you left some of your rage in the fridge last time you were here. Um. It's kind of lumpy now. Do you want me to keep it, or what?

Tanyakit: It's gestating into something more impressive, leave it be. By the way, I heard that people who read the spoilers for this week's episode are pissed.

Me: Why?

Tanyakit: I don't know, I caught something about Kurt wearing a tshirt, while Blaine gets to wear a tank.


Tanyakit: I know. I really don't want to see either of them in a tank. Plus, Kurt isn't really a tank kind of guy.

Me: I'm hoping that's a vehicle rather than a vest - like it's a scene where Blaine drives an actual tank through the side of the Hummels' house and starts shouting odd military euphemisms about his love for Kurt, before the Warblers pop out dressed in khakis and camouflage paint, singing something apt like "Love Is A Battlefield". Oh, Glee, why won't you do the things I wish you would? You make kitty sad.

Tanyakit: I'm almost surprised that the writers haven't thought of that.

Me: We can but hope, cublet. We can but hope.

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

I'm Dreaming Of A Fake Christmas

I was talking to my friend Wetsoks yesterday about various different things, but mostly about how excited I am that this will be the first year I am involved in Fake Christmas.

Don't get me wrong, I am also looking forward to real Christmas, but since the Fleetch leaves midway through December, I am afraid I may descend into an unyielding despair and spend the remainder of the year padding about the flat wearing only my polar bear onesie and an expression of grief. Anyway, our group of friends has a get-together every year that they have entitled Fake Christmas - given that some of them visit parents/relatives in different countries and often different continents for Real Christmas, it's not always easy to ensure that everyone is together at least once. Fake Christmas apparently has all the trappings of Real Christmas - presents, crappy Christmas films (including an atrocity called 'Peach' starring Lucy Lawless, which I am simultaneously dreading and looking forward to) and plenty of delicious festive food, delivered over one single joyous day.

Wetsoks: We exchange gifts and all the usual stuff. But the best part is the food.

Me: I love Christmas food.

Wetsoks: There are important details that must not be left out. After all, it's not Fake Christmas without pigs in blankets.

Me: Naturally.

Wetsoks: Or Brussel Sprouts.

Me: I'm not quite as keen on those, but sure. Who am I to alter any detail of Fake Christmas?

Wetsoks: One year, we had 'toducken'.

Me: You had....what now?

Wetsoks: 'Toducken'.

Me: ....Um.

Wetsoks: It was a chicken inside a duck inside a turkey.

Me: (gaping) I think my brain just exploded in happiness. OH MY GOD. Seriously? So much meat!

Wetsoks: You know the best part?

Me: (drooling) What?

Wetsoks: We wrapped it in bacon.

Me: (twitching) Stop. Stop. You're killing me. I've never wanted anything so badly before, unless you count that Lionel Richie teapot which says "Is It Tea You're Looking For?"

Wetsoks: And...

Me: There's more?!

Wetsoks: (whispering) Last year we also had.... sausage stuffing.

Me: (squealing like a toddler full of Smarties) This isn't just any Christmas! This is M&S Fake Christmas! This is like if Carlsberg did Fake Christmas! I don't even know what I'm saying anymore!

Wetsoks: Maybe I've overexcited you. You should take off your shirt.

Me: You almost had me. Nice try. Also, we're on the phone. How would that even benefit you?

Wetsoks: You'll do it sooner or later. I just need to wear you down.

Me: Well, this sounds like every relationship I've ever had. What are your thoughts on moving in after the Fleetch leaves?

Wetsoks: I like it but I'm afraid of commitment.

Me: Again, this conversation is familiar. "I fancy you but I don't like making decisions. Take off your shirt."

Wetsoks: Ha! Love is harder than crime. When's your next blog post?

Me: It might just be a crudely-drawn picture of a 'toducken', with hearts around it.

Wetsoks:.... I could live with that.

Me: Sweet.

Saturday, 5 November 2011

Otter Upon A Time

My friends and I were watching a new TV show last night, called Once Upon A Time. The gist of the plot is that fairytale characters were once real, and people in the modern day world don't remember being in their respective roles (the teacher was actually Snow White, the little boy was Pinocchio, the therapist was, slightly oddly, Jiminy Cricket). As we watched, mostly yelling criticisms of different things at the screen (the plot, the fashion, the abominable haircuts) something occurred to me.

Me: (slowly, thinking it over) Has anyone ever realised how odd it was that Gippetto was so excited about Pinocchio becoming a real boy?

Fleetch: (considering) Huh. Actually, you may have a point there.

Me: I mean, it's kind know. Dodgy.

Wetsoks: Dude! He made a son. He wanted a SON.

Me: Well, sure, that's what he told people. I'm just saying, if he wanted company he could have built a wooden lady puppet. Something about the whole thing just seems off.

Wetsoks: You wouldn't be saying that it if Gippetto had been a woman who wanted a child.

Fleetch: We can discuss the double standard of child rearing biological impulses in our society later. Stay on topic, bro.

Me: (narrowing my eyes) I don't trust puppet-makers or puppets. It's unnatural.

Tanyakit: So, what's happening now?

We all looked at the screen, aware that every time we had one of these conversations we missed massive chunks of dialogue and middling acting.

Sarahnator: How ironic - in the modern world, Prince Charming is the one in a coma.

Tanyakit: He's not that charming. He threw a sword at a woman.

Fleeetch: To be fair, she was the Wicked Queen who had just threatened to curse them and ruin the happiness of everyone in the land. I'd probably throw a sword at her.

There was a brief silence.

Tanyakit: (thoughtfully) What was their last name?

Sarahnator: Whose?

Tanyakit: Snow White and Prince Charming. Their kid is called Emma Swan. So their last name was Swan? How did that happen?

Wetsoks: She grew up in foster care.

Me: (not listening) Does that mean Snow White was Snow Swan after they got married? Or Snow White Swan?

Tanyakit: Prince Swan sounds odd.

Me: Presumably he has a first name. Like, 'Jeremy' or something.

Tanyakit: (cracking up) Jeremy Swan!

Fleetch: This show is confusing. Wait, what's happening now?

Wetsoks: (sighing) You know, if you paid attention you'd know what was happening.

Me: Where's the fun in that? Ooh, who's he?

In summary, I still don't have much idea what happened during the two episodes we watched, but I do know that I had a great time. And really, that's all the fairytale ending I need.

Thursday, 3 November 2011

Do It Like An Otterdude

Before I begin my madcap ramblings for the day, I want to say thanks to all my awesome friends on Twitter, who really took the Yo Momma thing yesterday and ran with it over the Inappropriate Horizon. I especially enjoyed the science-related Yo Momma jokes, because I am a massive nerd, and find particle physics hilarious. Humour is an individual thing, so I'm told. Anyway, let us saunter boldly into the sunset of Fleetchdom, while I relay the most recent conversation between me and my flatmate.

Me: Hey, Fleetch, check out  my horoscope for today. It's so amazing, I might actually pay attention to it for once.

Fleetch: Why, what does it say?

Me: "Rather than setting yourself up for disappointment, consider declaring the day a personal holiday instead. Anything you can do to stir up excitement is a good idea. Remember, you can always fulfill your responsibilities tomorrow." 

Fleetch: Did you write that yourself?

Me: Huzzah! The universe has spoken! Let the otter chaos commence!

Fleetch: That is pretty awesome.

Me: That's what yo momma said. Last night.

Fleetch: Uh huh.

Me:  In bed.

Fleetch: ...Uh huh.

Me: While I was touching her.

Fleetch: ... Yep.

Me: In a sexual manner.

Fleetch: .....Um.

Me: Do you see where I'm going with this?

Fleetch: I do, yes.

Me: Good.

There was a brief silence.

Me: (exiting the room) By the way, she says hello.

Fleetch: Mmm. Wait... what?!

Tuesday, 1 November 2011

By The (Will)Power Of Greyskull

Before the Fleetch left to visit her family in the States for a week, we'd spent some time discussing a particular issue of mine. I won't go into detail now, except to say that it is terribly exciting, juicy and the most interesting thing ever. I'm kidding. It really wasn't that juicy. Anyway, at the end of the conversation I got up and started to pile our dinner plates into a wobbling, dangerous column so I could carry them to the kitchen.

Fleetch: I think I'm going to go to bed soon, dude, I'm up early tomorrow.

Me: Yeah me too.

I looked at the Fleetch. She was already focused on doing something pointless with her new iPad.

Me: So. Any wise words of advice before you leave?

She looked up from her iPad and gave me a slow, considering once-over.

Fleetch: Don't be a dick.

I opened my mouth to respond, closed it, opened it again, thought better of it and settled for just standing there, amazed that the exact advice I needed to hear was expressed in merely four words.

Me: ..... Huh. Thanks.

Fleetch: Anytime.

When the Fleetch returned after a hard week of partying with her family (including an amazing Harry Potter themed Halloween party that her sister threw, which honestly looks like the actual film set - at one point when she was showing me the photos, I asked how they managed to get the door to look like the entrance door to the Great Hall at Hogwarts, and she replied that that was already part of the house. It just happens to be a kickass massive wooden double door. You could have hidden a family of four behind it comfortably) I realised that I still hadn't paid her for my half of the Malta trip. I messaged the Fleetch.

Me: Brah. I still haven't paid you for Malta, so remember to give me your bank details later tonight.


Me: Is it also Sparta?

Fleetch: Yes. Now imagine me facekicking people in the office.

Me: Um... I'm trying...

Fleetch: Feel free to read that as either me kicking people in the face, or kicking people with my face.

Me: I prefer the idea of you using your face to kick people.

Fleetch: Yeah, it's more my style.

Me: I can just imagine your appraisal - "Fleetch, while we value your skills and believe that you make a great addition to the team, we're not sure that it is...appropriate for you to facekick your colleagues every time you experience extreme emotion."

Fleetch: Goddamn Health and Safety.

Me: Tch. I know, right?