marvinstwin: (Default)
And, no, that does not mean what you think it means.

Last night, some stupid cunt-faced teenagers threw a rock through my rear windshield. The bloody thing went through the back, ricocheted off the dashboard (which crumbled), and cracked the front windshield before landing neat as you please on my passenger seat. After surveying the damage and reciting every bit of profanity I knew, my first coherent thought was "Wow, right now I really wish I spoke Yiddish. The Jews have more words for 'idiot' than the Eskimos do for 'snow'." There were a few other cars on the street with similar--though not nearly as extensive-- damage and we filed a police report. The apathetic officer who came to investigate didn't do jack shit. He just wrote my registration information on the form, looked at the damage, repeated what I told him about the trajectory of the rock as if he figured it out on his own, and didn't even bag up the rock as evidence. This is my fucking car we're talking about here! Bubbles is family! I wanted to see some fingerprinting action! I wanted to see the geeks bust out their latex gloves!

Grrrrrrr. I'm seriously tempted to do some lab teching of my own. Either that or I'm bagging the rock up and sending it to my own personal Greg Sanders for testing. Think you can do that, Greg? After all the money we've put into my machine just since I've gotten back, I want these asshats turned inside out and fined within an inch of their unprepossessing lives.

Top all this off with a horrible nightmare about an episode of original Star Trek filmed ala Merchant-Ivory with their characteristic methods of dealing with homosexual subtext (DO NOT WANT!) but set in modern times on some planet remarkably similar to earth. Spock was, for some reason, wearing a bicycling outfit despite being on a boat and after that my brain tried to self-destruct in pain.

Also, I was nearly decapitated by the trebuchet today because the good members of the Company of Saint Barbara forgot to tell me that they fixed Scorpion's Kiss and gave her a hair trigger. When I did this last year, you had to really yank on the cord to get her to fire. Imagine my surprise when I just picked it up and the arm went swinging before I could yell "LOOSE!!!!" and get clear. It's a bloody good thing I have decent reflexes. Jesus Christ!

Today has, you will imagine, been utterly surreal. I think I'm going to go re-read some Holmes and laugh about the obvious and most welcome Holmes/Watson subtext. All I can say is that "The Red-headed League" is so much funnier, but equally as gay, when you let Jeremy Brett and David Burke have their wicked way with it. Between Mr. Wilson's recitation of the highlights of the first volume of the Encyclopedia Brittanica, Holmes' attack of the giggles, all the references to violin-land, and the cigarette-lighting at the end I could barely contain my glee!

Oh look, that was rather fannish, wasn't it? Thank God for that.


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May 2009

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