Today was– this is kind of hard to believe, but it’s true– one of my first moments where one of my friends was in town and we had to come up with activities to Entertain our Kids while they were here, because we’re all adults with kids now. She has a six-year-old who I haven’t seen in forever and a three-year-old who I met for the first time today, and luckily the three of them appear to have gelled together perfectly well.
An excellent suggestion for this sort of scenario: take the kids to the local House of Bounce, especially since it’s Friday afternoon and we are going to be the only ones there. Having a big room with four giant inflatables in it is really awesome; the kids can run about to their hearts’ content and exhaust themselves, which means that we get to spend the rest of the afternoon… uh, staring into devices and such. Like grown-ups.
For those of you who have read my books: who the hell knows when the next Benevolence Archives book is going to get done. It’s been languishing for, literally, months. I know what else I have to write, I just haven’t done it, because <insert excuse here.>
But the cover is done. It’s been done for a while.
Had to have a conversation with my kid’s teacher this morning about why he might possibly break into song at some point during the day about killing everyone’s friends and families. That is because we were listening to this in the car and he’s… well, fond of it: So, the ruling: Parenting win? Or parenting fail?
Because shit is too serious right now: you may or may not be aware that my wife’s mother passed away a couple of weeks ago after a long illness. I alluded to it here a couple of times but I don’t think I ever actually came out and said it. Do not bother expressing your well-wishes in the comments as I am about to spend this post making fun of my deceased mother-in-law and your sentiments will feel inappropriate.
My wife spent part of her day today helping her dad clean the house out, and in the process of throwing out a bunch of newspapers and magazines somehow came across this. I am seriously considering getting in touch with the President’s office over at Purdue on the off chance that the letter this is responding to is still in an archive somewhere, because oh my God how batshit crazy must the letter this is responding to be:
Kudos to President Beering, seriously; this is shade of the highest order and I am very impressed.
(NOTE: This was published, obviously, with my wife’s full knowledge and permission.)
So. ZIG & SHARKO. See if you can figure out the premise of the show from that top image there; it ain’t complicated. Getting a strong Wile E. Coyote vibe? Yeah, that’s not too far off.
There is a mermaid. Her name is Marina. There is a shark named Sharko. There is a… hell, I have no idea what Zig is supposed to be. Some sort of canine variant? A hyena? A Tasmanian devil? I dunno, but he lives on a volcanic island in the middle of nowhere, and the volcanic island is host to basically every animal that exists when the show calls for it, including– in the episode currently airing on my TV right now, a cheetah (or maybe a leopard?) which is an animal also not generally expected on volcanic islands.
Anyway, Zig wants to eat Marina. Sharko is Marina’s protector and doesn’t want him to. Marina is either extraordinarily bubbleheaded or actually special needs in some way and doesn’t generally notice the competition for her bloody death that takes place around her in every episode.
The hermit crab is named Bernie, and he is generally irrelevant.
The show is French, but that doesn’t really matter as there is never any actual speech, just lots of grunting and giggles and random noises. Much like the aforementioned Road Runner/Wile E. Coyote cartoons, here’s the plot of every episode: Zig wants to eat Marina. He concocts some complicated plan to do so. Sharko stops him, generally administering a vicious beating along the way. But it’s way more creepy than RR/WEC ever got, because Marina looks human— well, mostly– and plus she dresses like a mermaid, and is therefore half naked all the time, with bouncy girl parts and such, and… yeah, it makes it weird. Generally harmless, but definitely a bit weird.
Oh, and then there’s that one super racist episode. In one episode, shark hunters find Sharko. They’re Chinese. They wanna make shark fin soup out of him. When they see him, they look like this:
And this happens:
This show aired in 2011, and not, say, 1943.I had to take pictures of the TV screen, because I couldn’t find any screencaps online. How in the fuck? This is some 1870’s-level Yellow Peril shit right here, with a nice dose of “they all look the same” mixed in for good measure. The six fishermen in the red literally all move and act exactly the same for the entire episode, and the only noises they make are creepy giggling.
Maybe lose this episode, Netflix. I doubt anyone will notice.
The real bullshit about this picture is that 1) it in no way really captures the level of utter chaos my living room has descended into, while simultaneously capturing perfectly the horror that is my living room carpet; and 2) I cleaned the room when I got home yesterday. The boy turned 5 on Tuesday and spent all day Sunday acquiring new toys from various and sundry relatives and friends; last night, we took him to the local Toys-R-Us to spend a couple of gift cards and some birthday cash he got.
We, uh, probably should have parceled that shit out over a couple of months or something. Dude has so many new presents that he hasn’t even taken everything out of the packaging yet, and what with how kids’ toys are packaged nowadays our recycling bin is already overflowing with over a week left until they come pick it up again. Today is my day off and I’m hiding in the office rather than dealing with the mess; he probably ought to at least help and I just don’t have any Goddamn idea where to put any of the crap anyway.
tl;dr I am fortunate enough that my kid having too many people who love him and want to give him stuff is a problem.
Note that I am not unaware that every single book on a shelf behind all those toys is mine. He’s a kid; he’s gonna take as many toys as he can get people to give him. I have no excuse for the vast quantities of crap I’ve accumulated over the years. The difference is I have places to put my shit.
Oh and also I pay for the mortgage so shut up.
I have, in general, been mostly trying to avoid writing about the election here, which accounts for some, but not all, of the shorter posts lately– if my options are “write about the election” and “not write much” I’ve been choosing the latter far more often than the former, especially since I have Twitter to be militant on anyway. But this story is too insane to be believed– that Donald Trump’s political organization is so insanely incompetent that, with the rest of today and one business day until the deadline on Monday, Trump isn’t on the ballot in Minnesota yet.
Take a minute and think about how utterly shit you have to be at running things for that to happen. And people are going to vote for this hairsack. I mean, I know, I get it– he’s not actually interested in being president and the whole campaign is a grift. He has no campaign staff, no boots on the ground, no organization, no nothing. He’s not really running. I know. But shit, he’s not even trying to look like he’s taking this seriously.
Sarah & Duck has been on constantly at my house for… oh, ten years? Fifteen? A hundred and twelve? How old am I? What year is this? What century? Did we elect a plant President yet? A real long damn time.
Sarah & Duck’s theme song plays four times an episode, since each episode is broken into two little mini-episodes and we get the theme song played at the beginning and the end of each, meaning that in the middle you get to hear it two times in a row. Picture these words chanted in a charming middle-aged British accent over gentle guitar music:
Sarah and duck. (quack!)
Sarah and duck. (quack!)
Sarah and duck. (quack!)
Sarahandduck. (quack.)
Quack isn’t actually a word; that’d be Duck quacking. The only difference is the cadence; the fourth Sarah and duck is faster than the other three.
So, yeah. Sarah & Duck. Here they are. Try to guess which one is which:
The artwork might remind you of South Park. I doubt that’s intentional, as it would be impossible for any animated program to be farther from South Park in tone and execution as Sarah & Duck. Sarah is a girl. Duck is a duck. They’re both very, very, very British. There’s also a nameless, disembodied narrator, who not only narrates but talks to both of the characters. They talk back. He’s very British too, and says things like well done and have a go and Tuesday and Bobber-clobber, which is probably an ethnic slur, all the time.
Sarah appears to have no parents, but she lives in a nice house with Duck, who has his own bedroom. Adults are occasionally present as side characters, and then there’s the narrator, but he doesn’t have a body so he doesn’t really count. Other things talk, but not all of them. Duck only quacks. This is Plate Girl:
Picture Shows: Plate Girl squeaks her plate to speak to the lost plates.
I want it noted for the record that I didn’t know that picture had a caption until uploading it, and I’m keeping it there, because that’s the kind of show this is. Plate Girl has a plate with her all the time. The plate doesn’t talk. There was an episode where she lost it in the fog, and she was very sad, and eventually Sarah figured out that she accidentally set it on top of a giant tortoise who happened to be walking by when Plate Girl set her plate down so that she could open the gate into Sarah’s “garden,” which is British for “front yard.” I have not seen this “lost plates” episode yet, somehow.
This is Scarf Lady, who seems mis-named:
You will note that Scarf Lady’s handbag has a face, and talks, and generally seems to not actually like Scarf Lady very much, which I would think would be a more salient characteristic than her everpresent scarf. But no, she’s not Talking Handbag Lady. She’s also not Keeps a Cthulhoid Sentient Pile of Immobile Yarn Captive in Her Horrifying Knitting Abbatoir Lady, but she does that too:
Oh, and there are talking shallots in Sarah’s garden. By which I mean an American garden-garden, not a British lawn-garden. The shallots are the only thing growing in the garden, and the British pronunciation of “shallots” is different enough from American pronunciation that it took forever for me to figure out what he was saying. They talk too:
Anyway, Sarah has adventures, and they’re whimsical and British– did I mention this show was British?– and fun, and occasionally slightly entertaining, and the way she has to sound out long words can be really cute at times, and the show’s harmless and sweet and actually not very annoying at all.
Until the Pink Episode. Which starts off typically, but then goes off the rails completely for a moment, in a way that will have you questioning your own sanity and the show’s entire premise. Watch this to the 1:49 mark and then pause it:
You see what I mean here? The weird look on Duck’s face, the creepy bells, the sudden horrified silence of the narrator as the show implies that Sarah is about to carve her own heart out to make sure she’s as pink on the inside as she is on the outside? It’s the most WTF moment of any kids’ TV show I’ve ever seen.
The show is, uh, not normally like that. But that’s what got it reviewed. Because it ain’t a kids’ show until somebody’s threatening to disembowel themselves, right?
Woke up this morning to discover that Reddit had discovered the goddamn Snowpiercer post again, to the tune of 600 pageviews before I woke up and just shy of 2000 right now. Went to work and Sold Hot Furn, as the phrase goes– and that’s really a thing people have suggested we do around where I work, believe it or not– and then grabbed the boy and swung by my parents’ place. Mom had minor surgery yesterday and I wanted to check in on her. She’s fine. Dinner happened. All was good.
Oh, and I spent a hundred and seventy dollars on a pillow, which is a thing that is possible and which I did and there will be a review of this pillow in the near future.
So. Yeah. Post-dinner, the boy and I headed home, and then I was confronted, in rapid succession, with:
The Crisis of I Left My Snuggly at Grandma’s, Yes, I Need It Now, We Need to Go Back
The Crisis of Why is McDonald’s Taking So Damn Long, Daddy, and the Reminder that I Could have Eaten at Grandma’s Like You Did is Not Assuaging Me Any
The Crisis of Two Skinned Knees in the Driveway
The Crisis of Why Isn’t There Any Pie Left, Yes, I Know I Have McDonald’s, But Now I Want Pie Because My Knees are Skinned
The Crisis of These Appropriately Sized Band-Aids do not Feature Pictures of the Proper Cartoon Characters; I Want Four Smaller Ones Instead
The Crisis of What Does “Suck It Up, Buttercup” Mean, Daddy?
The Crisis of The Dog is Too Close to My Chicken Nuggets
The Crisis of Daddy’s iPad is Out of Battery Power
The Crisis of Why Isn’t Mommy Home to Deal With These Crises, Daddy, Your Relative Lack of Sympathy to Many of My Problems has been Noted.
Another eleven thousand steps today, by the way, and today was my half-day.
…this is what a chimpanzee can do to a small creature that it finds in its enclosure and doesn’t want there. I suspect there is not much weight difference between a toddler and a large raccoon. There is, however, an enormous difference between the strength level of a chimpanzee and a silverback gorilla:
I just figured, judging from the chatter I’ve seen on the internet today, that this might be a useful thing to think about.