Two Slotters Are Better Than One

On the recently published list of "8 animal hybrids that could break the internet", the top picture featured was a Sloth + Otter combination aptly, if somewhat worryingly, called a Slotter, and would look like this:

This led to a rather disturbing conversation between myself and my vegetarian girlfriend.

Me: Slotters! Our babies will be so cute and perfect and will apparently break the internet!

Sloth: That IS adorable.

Me: But what would they eat?

Sloth: Seaweed.

Me: (glazing over) I imagine that the Slotters would hunt in large packs. Hundreds of them hunting a single whale, hugging it to death while it sinks into the abyss because of the extra weight, and then they'd nibble on its delicious blubbery carcass, feasting for days and singing of their triumphs.

Sloth: Eww, no. They'll eat seaweed.

Me: But-

Sloth. (sternly) Seaweed!

Me: (whining) But honey, they want to drown whales!

Sloth: (stern look)

Me: Fine, fine. Seaweed. What about a nice diet of seaweeds and crabs?

Sloth: No crabs.

Me: Why the hell not? Crabs are tasty.

Sloth: Because they have eyes... and plans for the future.

Me: (gaping in horror) Oh. Oh god. I never thought of it like that. Fuuuuuuuuuuuck....why would you phrase it like that?

There was a brief pause.

Sloth: (innocently)  So, seaweed?

Me: (broken) Seaweed. *sniff*

The Mass(ive) Effect On Me

Greetings, sweet otterlings! I realise it has been a very long time since I posted anything - please accept whiskery internet kisses as consolation for my absence. I was in Poland during the latter half of September with my Sloth, which managed to be both a fantastic holiday and a truly exhilarating ride through the magical world of  Conversations With Your Partner's Non English Speaking Parents. As previously noted in this blog, I had learned some of the most important words beforehand (such as 'yes', 'no', 'please', 'thank you', 'beef', 'kitten', 'now', 'is possible', 'is not possible', 'small potato') so I believe I did manage to get by without incident. Sloth's parents appeared to approve of me, so I achieved my goal, and will ignore that this was in all likelihood due to the fact that they couldn't understand 98% of what I said. Challenge accomplished.

Lately I've been rather busy with other things - I have a new story appearing in an anthology by Dreamscape Press (link coming shortly) which is available on Amazon US, and of course, playing Mass Effect 3 for the first time.

This has not been an easy journey. Mass Effect 3 has sucked me in, masticated me like a piece of week-old pork and spat me out on the floor, a shell of the person I once was. Okay, perhaps that's a slight exaggeration, but I'm not kidding when I say I've become rather involved. Sloth has become quite involved as well, but then since she's been reading/browsing the internets beside me while I play, and has had to listen to a constant stream of  my rants, my giggles and my detailed explanations of what's going on, I can't really see how she could have avoided it (short of going all David Blaine In A Box). A typical conversation follows:

(Me: (button mashing furiously) Come on. Come on!

Sloth: (peering at TV with interest) Why is that guy just standing there?

Me: (still mashing) Because he's a dick. Seriously, James, we're in the middle of a gunfight. Start shooting people in the head. Please.

Sloth: What's happening now?

Me: Um, well I'm pissed because I needed an Asari artefact to complete my Prothean device, because otherwise I couldn't defeat the Reapers, so I went to this planet to get it but this assassin guy just stole it from me. Which is kind of annoying. As I'm sure you understand.

Sloth: I'm really glad I paid attention previously, because otherwise I wouldn't have followed a word of that.

Me: Well, that's the kind of horrible but beautiful thing love does to you. I SWEAR TO GOD, JAMES, IF YOU DON'T SHOOT SOMEBODY IN THE NEXT TEN SECONDS I'M NOT BRINGING YOU ON THE NEXT MISSION. 

Sloth: You should have brought Garrus. I'm just saying.

Me: Yeah, I know... I'm going to go look at my fish now. My fish don't judge me and they don't get stuck in corners when I'm being fired on by Marauders. (crooning) Fiiiiiiiish. I love you, fish.

Needs A Little Polish

It's a good day when I come into work and the first thing Wetsoks says to me is not "have you seen this dead guy" or "click this link, it's safe for work, honestly" or "look at what happens when you get eaten by piranhas in this series of increasingly graphic photos", all before I've had breakfast, so in comparison this morning's conversation made me very happy.

Me: Good morning buddy.

Wetsoks: Cào nǐ zǔzōng shíbā dài. Ask me what it means!

Me: Oh good grief. Okay, what does it mean?

Wetsoks: Fuck your ancestors to the 18th generation!

Me: I'm not sure whether to be impressed or affronted.

Wetsoks: I learned it from a fic. It's Chinese Mandarin. I love the Chinese.

Me: What's not to love - their food, their insults... It's all good.

Wetsoks: DONG. It means giggles.

Me: Stop making me dong at my desk  *wink*

Wetsoks: Heh.

Me: Okay, in return let me teach you a word of Polish. Say "vol o vina", spelled 'wolowina'. With a funny little stroke on the L.

Wetsoks: Okay. What's that?

Me: Beef.

Wetsoks: Lol. The important words come first, obviously.

Me: Yep. I also learned the word for 'now'. To impress Sloth's parents when we go over there next month.

Wetsoks: You're going to impress your girlfriend's parents by bellowing "BEEF NOW" at them in the language of their people?

Me: Pretty much. I mean, wouldn't that work on you?

Wetsoks: I guess it would.

Me: I rest my case.

Caesar 3 Wasn't Built In A Day

My Sloth girlfriend and I were hanging out last night after watching Battle Royale. The conversation began with her favourite new phone game, but tailed off when she tried to explain the rules to me.

Me: (suspiciously) It looks like... Farm Tetris.

Sloth: It's really good.

Me: Uh huh. Hey, you know what you should play? Caesar 3. Remember I lent you the disc because it's for Windows and I, poor soul, only have a Mac?

Sloth: I do really want to try that.

Me: I have no ulterior motive for getting you to install it.

Sloth: (unconvinced stare)

Me: You know what? I bet I could find it for Mac somewhere on the internet!

I quickly Googled this and discovered to my absolute joy that I could purchase the game which made my formative years pass so quickly (well, that and Final Fantasy VIII) for a mere $5.99. The fact that the price was in dollars only quickened my little typing paws, because dollars, especially dollars on my credit card, are mentally sifted into the Fictional Monopoly Money section of my brain, and quickly deleted from the trashcan memory.

Me: I'm downloading! It's alive! ALIVE!

Sloth: (wistfully but pointedly) Remember when I used to have a girlfriend?

Me: Installing...installing...

Sloth: Remember those days? She was lovely. We spent a lot of time together.

Me: (absentmindedly) That's nice, sweetheart.

Sloth: (sighing and picking up her phone)  Okay, I'm fine. I have a new Sims demo. Later.

Me: (clicking frantically) Just get whatever you want, babe.

We ended up playing our separate games in unified joy. It would have been a beautiful scene, except anyone present would have heard us both shouting at our games, which made for some quite bizarre conversations.

Sloth: Right, I'm going fishing.

Me: Could you possibly not collapse every two seconds, you stupid bastard farm? You're surrounded by engineers.

Sloth: I don't want tuna, I want salmon!

Me: Oh, your house can't evolve because you have no pottery? Well fuck you. I decide what your market gets. I AM YOUR POTTERY GOD. BOW TO ME.

Sloth: Get out of my way, Jake! Fine, if you won't get out of my house I'm going to flirt with her again. Oh, is she your girlfriend? Tough. If you'd let me go fishing this wouldn't have happened.

Me: ...What?

Sloth: What?

Me: Nothing. You're awesome.

Army of Duckness

My Sloth is a wonderful person (she'd have to be, to put up with me) but even her patience and tolerance for my incessant oddness can occasionally wane. Therefore it was with some trepidation that I sent her the following text, some days ago:

Me: Darling. Very important question. Which would you prefer - a dead kestrel sewn onto a stuffed pine marten, or an army of taxidermied ducklings? Hint: there is no wrong answer.

Sloth: Uh. None.

Me: I said which.

Sloth; You SAID there was no wrong answer.

There was a brief pause.

Sloth: Okay, I'm swaying towards the ducklings.

Me: SWEET. I can line them up for you, with post-it notes on their little chests! They'll be waiting for you to leave the bathroom or trip over them in the hall during the night and did I mention I love you?

Sloth: Sigh. I love you too.

The only thing is that the eBay listing claimed that the ducklings died of natural causes. This struck me as, well, slightly suspicious, given that there were 20 of them. I found myself unable to conceive of a situation where 20 ducklings simply (and usefully, given the nature of this seller's business) keeled over. Then I realised that for the past 15 mins I had been sitting at my desk, pondering how one might best murder baby ducks without leaving any marks, which should have worried me but didn't because DUCKLINGS YEAH.

Now, I know my Sloth, and I believe I know how to target/market to that audience with just the right amount of wheedling, convincing, persuasive non-logic and baffling tangents. Therefore I decided it was wise to leave this topic for a few days, to allow it to marinade in her subconscious. Yesterday after my Sloth finished work, I picked her up with some beer so we could casually hang out in the garden square like the cool kids do.

Me: So, darling. Ducklings.

Sloth: On a related topic, I'd like to point out that your last blog post contained some inaccuracies. I don't nose pinch, I facepalm. Which I believe is an appropriate response to this and many other discussions we've had.

Me: Well excuse me. It's hard to tell exactly what you're doing when your head is in your hands like that.

Sloth: Do you not wonder why?

Me: Mmm, not really. Darling? Ducklings. Focus.

Sloth: (clawing at her face with her hands) AHHHH. Seriously?

Me: Yep. And look, I've had time to think about this, and just imagine the fun we could have!

Sloth: (heaving a sigh) Uh huh.

Me: We could recreate scenes from famous films.

Sloth: Titanic?

Me: YES. And say, the Godfather. And Harry Potter. These ducklings will pay for themselves.

Sloth: I fail to see how, exactly... but... we could do a Lord of the Rings battle scene.

There was a moment of joy while we both pictured this, before her face fell in horror.

Sloth: ...What are you doing to me?

Me: Okay. Just hear me out. What about... A DUCKLING CHESSBOARD?

Sloth: Um...

Me: We could make little hats for them, to signify the appropriate pieces.

Sloth: I suppose. We could paint half of them black.

Me: The only problem with that is the listing was for only 20 ducklings and a chessboard would require 32. I suppose I could buy two cases, but that just seems silly. Or-

Sloth: I am not going to let you supplement my chessboard with stuffed rats. Don't even think about it.

Me: How do you feel about voles?

Sloth: I'm... not totally sure. I kind of want to facepalm again.

Me: What about polecats?

Sloth: I'm not having a polecat on my chessboard. It'll never fit. And please, please disregard the fact that I've now referred to it as "my" chessboard twice.

Me: Even if you don't want to admit it, some part of you has already committed to making our dream come true.

Sloth: (muffled groans of what I can only assume was unbridled joy)

Hip Hop Hooray

Apologies, my dearest otterlings, for my long absence. It's been a busy few months AND I recently celebrated my birthday (despite several 'hilarious' comments by friends, no I have not just become legally able to drink, I have merely become legally able to verbally kick your elderly asses. Oh wait, don't I do that already? Let's soldier on)

More exciting news - I've got a story coming out over at Linguistic Erosions on 19th July, which I will pimp unashamedly as per usual when I get the link. Now on to the catch up, which I'm sure you're simply dying to read.

My Sloth girlfriend came in from work the other night, and started a conversation as follows:

Sloth: Did you see the Metro today?

Me: I did not.

Sloth: There was an article, about hygiene statistics-

Me: NO.

Sloth: ...What?

Me: Don't tell me.

Sloth: But I-

Me: Please don't. I'm bad enough already without sciencefacts backing it up. I barely touch door handles at work as it is. People are filthy, snotty creatures and should be basically sealed in a decontamination chamber for several torturous minutes before being allowed inside the building.

Sloth: Fine, fine. Just thought I'd share.

I had largely managed to forget about this conversation, when a couple of days later I was brushing my teeth, examining my whiskers, and doing all those private bathroom things with the door slightly ajar for entertainment's sake. My Sloth was pottering about in the kitchen, within talking distance.

Sloth: Remember I was trying to tell you the other day about that hygiene article?

Me:  I have erased the memory as much as I am able to do so.

Sloth. Riiiight. Well I read something else, where apparently "scientists" have stated that you should wash your hands thoroughly-

Me: Who doesn't already do that? Gross!

Sloth: For a specific period of time. Like, the amount it takes you to sing Happy Birthday-

Me: That's not so bad.

Sloth: Twice.

Me: What?!

Sloth: I know, right? Ain't nobody got time for that.

Me: (starting to giggle) You know, this could be fun.

Sloth: What?

Me: I could start doing this in public bathrooms. Imagine sitting in a stall, quietly minding your own business, and then all of a sudden, you hear a tap begin to drip in the sink, and a little voice piping up... (singing in the creepiest way possible while rubbing paws together in manner of axe-murderer about to make a kill) Happy Birthday to me... Happy Birthday to me...

Sloth: (slow realisation dawning that she has created a monster) Wait. No. I didn't-

Me: YES! And it's my birthday in mere days! What better opportunity to test it! Happy Birthday dear Otter... Happy... Birthday... to.... me...

Sloth: Could you not?

Me: No. I must. For Science.

Sloth:  (squinting suspiciously) You do an awful lot of things in the name of science.

Me: I'm a firm believer in progress. Thank you for this gift of knowledge.

Sloth: (sighing and pinching nose) You're... welcome.

She Sells Sea Shells

A few months ago, when I first started seeing my girlfriend (who will be referred to from this point onwards as Sloth, for reasons that I will probably go into at some critical point for maximum embarrassment) I had stayed over at her flat for the first time. I had been slightly intoxicated the previous night. I believe we had taken a taxi there; add to this my general inability to process geographical locations even in Edinburgh (a city I've lived in for over a decade) which culminated in a slight confusion and hangover as I stood at the bus stop the next morning and unwisely decided to ring my parents for a quick catch up.

Mum: (far too brightly for that time of day) Good morning!

Me: (trying not to make noises like a bison being sick) Good morning.

Mum: Oh.

Me: What?

Mum: Where are you?

Me: I don't know.

Mum: What?!

Now, I realise that I should have taken a moment to think about this, because no parent ever wants to hear that answer from their child, but the previously mentioned slight geographical confusion and hangover had cruelly robbed me of my fragile mental filter and common sense.

Me: (flustered) I mean... I know where I am! But not exactly! I mean!

There was a brief and awkward pause.

Me: (muttering) Goddammit.

Mum: I just wondered. Because the traffic sounds different. That's how I knew you weren't near your flat.

Far from this being a horrendous and inexplicable statement unto itself, I would also like to query that surely given the nature of the beast, traffic always sounds different. No? Fine. Let's move on. Last weekend I visited my parents, and the topic of new Sloth girlfriend came up again.

Mum: And where does she live?

Me: At the shore.

Mum: (uncomprehendingly) The...?

Me: The shore.

Mum: (continuing blank face)

Me: The shore. The shore. Where the sea lives. Um. I can't really make that much clearer. The sea? You know what the sea is, right?

Mum: (hesitantly) I've heard of Ocean Terminal?

For those of you who don't know, Ocean Terminal is a shopping complex in Edinburgh, situated... you guessed it. Near the sea. JESUS CHRIST THEY DIDN'T BUILD IT ON A MOUNTAIN AND THEN CALL IT OCEAN TERMINAL.

Me: (gaping and speechless) Uhhh?

Mum: Is that in the sea?

Me: IN the sea? No. No, it isn't IN the sea. How... I can't...

Mum: Well, I don't know. (giggling) I know there's sea there, I just didn't know where.

Me: I give up. You know we live on an island, right?

Mum: What?

Me: (pinching nose) Nothing. Forget it. I'll put the kettle on. Tea?

Mum: Sea?

Me: NO.