You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Profile for Katanma:
Profile Info:

none

Recent front page messages:

I need this in my life so badly

(Wed 16th Jun 2010, 17:21, More)

Best answers to questions:

» Restaurants, Kitchens and Bars... Oh my!

The dishwasher in the restaurant I work in...
...is an old, creepy, Italian man. His name is Roberto. He creeps everyone out, and the only reason he doesn't get fired is because his brother owns the restaurant.

In the first couple of weeks I was working there, one of the other servers comes up to me.

Dave: Hey, Kat, you know Roberto?
Kat: Yeah.
Dave: You know how he's from Italy?
Kat: Yeah.
Dave: Has he ever told you what he did in Italy?
Kat: What?
Dave: He fucked a goat.
Kat: No, he didn't.
Dave: He totally did.
Kat: That's just something people made up because he's creepy and it almost seems believable and it's funny.
Dave: Ask him yourself.
Kat: I am not asking Roberto if he fucked a goat.
Dave: If you ask him, and he acts like he doesn't know what you're talking about, I will give you five dollars.
Kat: Seriously?
Dave: I promise.
Kat: Okay, fine... Hey, Roberto?
Roberto: Yes?
Kat: Have you ever... uh... fucked a goat?
Roberto: [very offended] Hey!
Kat: I'm sorry, it's just, Dave just said -
Roberto: There's nothing wrong with it! It was my own goat!
Kat: ...Oh dear God.
Dave: And I believe I'll be keeping my five dollars.

It is so much fun to watch people eat food off of plates that you know a goatfucker touched.
(Sat 22nd Jul 2006, 3:57, More)

» Family codes and rituals

Family dinners
I see my extended family a few times a year - most major holidays, Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas. Everyone shows up to my grandpa's house around mid-afternoon, we all talk and joke and pun while having a few beers. Over the years, the family dinners have grown, as we kids have gotten older, found significant others, had children, etc.

At dinner, we have more wine, which is when the pun contests really begin. My grandpa is the one to beat - he's one of the cleverest people I've ever met and can make a brilliant pun out of almost anything. Of course, now that I try to think of an example, my mind is blank. But to give you an idea of just how clever he is, here is a limerick he wrote for a contest where you had to write a limerick that ended with a famous person's name:

George W. Bush, with a scowl,
Called Saddam Hussein something foul.
When told to go easy,
He said, "You're too queasy,
"You should hear what I've been Colin Powell."

Did he win the contest? Of course he fucking did.

But I digress.

Around my grandpa's 80th birthday, his participation in family dinners began to wane. First he just began contributing fewer puns. Then no puns at all. Then he would come out of his room and sit with everyone for only a few minutes, then go back to his room until dinnertime, when, again, he would barely contribute one groaner, if at all. It got to the point where he would only come out for dinner, join in the initial "Cheers!" that began the meal, not offer another word and then go back to his room as soon as he finished dessert.

We were all worried about him. He was clearly getting on in years - had his mind gotten worse? Was his ability to pun gone? Was he isolating himself in order to save himself the embarrassment of failing to live up to his former glory?

My parents finally asked him about it, and he answered that, no, it wasn't that he didn't enjoy dinners and it wasn't that he couldn't come up with anything to say. But now that he was older, his hearing was getting worse, and while he had a hearing aid, our family dinners had grown so much that it was hard for him to really focus on what was being said. So, since he couldn't really hear the conversation, coming out to sit with the family only made him feel worse about not being able to join in as he once had. So he came out for dinner and then retired to his room to work on his logic puzzles.

At this, my dad sighed a huge breath of relief - my grandpa has always been wary of doctors and my dad had been worried that grandpa had been trying to hide a bigger problem.

"It's your hearing aid? That's not a problem!" my dad told grandpa. "They've come out with better ones now that are much better that your current one; they're much more focused, and will make it easier to hear what everyone's talking about. We'd be happy to get you one of those so you can really come participate in family dinners!"

My grandpa nodded and thought for a minute.

Finally, he said:

"But... I don't want to give up my excuse."
(Sat 22nd Nov 2008, 5:05, More)

» God

Conversations with God
Apologies in advance for length.

A few years ago, I had several nasty bouts with tonsillitis over two or three months. While doctors used to just take tonsils out at the first sign of infection, now they apparently don't like to do that so much, so even though I kept getting it, they were like, "Oh, no, you need to have had it more than six times before we'll operate." (Oh, and for the record, I always took any antibiotics as directed until they were all gone, so it definitely wasn't my fault I kept getting sick.)

So the FIFTH time I got tonsillitis, it was bad. Really bad. I couldn't eat; if I tried, I would cry from the pain. I could barely drink. It was nearly impossible to talk - my roommates said I sounded like a deaf person talking. Sleeping was impossible.

I went to three different doctors trying to find one who wasn't inept. The first one said, "Oh, well, if you've had tonsillitis three weeks ago, you must not have it now, so you probably just have mono and will have to stick it out. No medication." I was pretty sure this guy was an idiot (it was a walk-in clinic, after all), so I went to another doctor. She couldn't explain why I kept getting sick, either, but she gave me more antibiotics and some Tylenol 3s, but after a few days, the antibiotics still weren't working and the painkillers only served to put me in a painful, half-asleep stupor for about two hours at a time.

FINALLY, I went to a third doctor, a sweet older woman who took one look in my throat and cried, "Oh, you poor dear!" and informed me that my tonsils were actually TOUCHING EACH OTHER. Yeah. She also said that my current prescription of Tylenol 3s was so low that it was barely doing anything at all. Thanks, Quack Doctor #2!

She immediately sent me to a nearby ear, nose, and throat specialist, who figured out that yes, I had tonsillitis (yeah, it's not mono, so fuck you, Quack Doctor #1) and the antibiotics I'd been given just didn't work well with my body. She hooked me up to an IV filled with some super antibiotics and about two litres of saline solution to make up for all the water I hadn't had for several days. (When I told my best friend about this, she thought I was going to start peeing like crazy, but I had been so dehydrated to start out with, I didn't have to urinate for another two days or so.) After a few hours on the IV, she gave me a prescription for more of the antibiotics in pill form, plus a TON of codeine to combat current pain and to help out with any potential side effects of the super-strong antibiotics.

All this is just to make you aware of just how much codeine I drank when I got home.

Because as soon as I passed out, I dreamt I was talking to God.

We were in a mall of some sort, going shoe shopping. For God. Did I mention God was a young, sassy, black woman with hair extensions and platform boots? Oh, and a miniskirt. She needed new boots, I think.

Anyway, even weirder was that I was talking to God about my agnoticism - how I wanted to believe in a higher power but that anything in my life that would seem to indicate the existence of a God sounded really stupid when I mentioned it to someone else.

God said, "Well, sure, but that's because they're YOUR reasons for believing in me, not theirs."

I rolled my eyes at this, but she just laughed and kept looking at shoes.

I said, "Well, I mean, can't you just say something really God-like right now, so I'll know that you exist?"

God said no.

"Why not?"

God stared at me.

I said, "...It's because I'm dreaming right now, and the only things you can say are what my mind can come up with, and my mind can't think of anything God-like for you to say."

God said, "Bingo."

"But now when I wake up, I'll have no idea if I was really talking to you or if it was just the codeine!" I whined.

God said, "I know; it's pretty funny."

I scowled at God and told her she was mean. She just laughed again and asked the saleslady for something with a stiletto heel. And then I woke up.

It's been several years since that dream, and it's still completely clear in my mind. Despite (or perhaps because of) the inherent weirdness, I have since realized that as much as I would like to believe in God, all evidence and logic won't let me.

Still, sometimes when I'm feeling particularly despondent, I like to think that there is a God, and she loves to screw with people by giving them completely ambiguous visions of herself. I know that's what I'd do - but then again, that's probably why I dreamt her that way.
(Fri 20th Mar 2009, 4:04, More)

» Guilty Pleasures, part 2

This is a bit of a long answer to this question.
Lately, I think, when people talk about guilty pleasures, they’re often talking about television shows they’re ashamed to admit they watch. Beverly Hills 90210, Ghost Whisperer, Temptation Island – things like that.

The thing is, I have always watched those shows. And I have admitted it without shame –or, at least, with far less shame than regular people. I am a TV fiend. I know details about shows I’ve never even watched. For example, for Christmas 2006, I got a video iPod and a clear plastic protecting case for it.

“I’ve named my new iPod ‘Travolta,’” I told my best friend.
“Why?” he asked.
“The Boy in the Plastic Bubble!” I said.
“What?” my best friend said.
“John Travolta was in a TV movie called The Boy in the Plastic Bubble,” I said.
“Oh,” said my best friend, “No wonder I didn’t get it – I’ve never seen that movie.”
Pause.
“…Neither have I,” I admitted.

I watch a ridiculous amount of television. I love television. I revel in cheesy reality shows. I love soap operas. I love good television, too, but bad television is wonderful in a completely different way because it is something to make fun of. An easy target, maybe, but it’s always a good time.

I was very much an indoor kid as a child. My parents and sister would often tell me that I shouldn’t watch so much and that I should get outside and get some exercise, so, for a very long time, I felt bad about how much I watched TV. Normal, well-adjusted people don’t watch so much TV, so clearly there was something not quite right about me.

Now, even though my parents disapproved of my TV-watching habits, they were (and still are) very cool parents. They’ve always supported me in whatever I’ve wanted to do with my life and when I was wondering what to take in university, they encouraged me to learn something I liked rather than something I thought would make me a lot of money. My sister was an engineer in university, and she does make a ridiculous amount of money, but she admits that she hates her job.

I went to school for English, since even though I spend a lot of time in front of the TV, I spend an equal amount of time reading. I always enjoyed writing as well, and I thought, “I can get a degree for just reading novels and writing my thoughts about them? Score!” I also began working at my school newspaper, planning on becoming a journalist for the HARD NEWS! I’d be very, very serious and write Pulitzer-winning articles about… serious stuff. I didn’t know what. I planned on getting a master’s degree in journalism and being SUPER SERIOUS about writing.

But the thing is, I’m quite rubbish at writing serious stuff. I can do it, but it’s never my best work – I am at my best when I can just mock something. Even at my school newspapers, my best articles were things like comparing Beverly Hills, 90210 to The O.C. and making fun of both of them. It had just never occurred to me that there was a way to make money off of it, at least not right out of school.

But, lo and behold, luck was very kind to me. Searching for as summer job, I came across a posting for an internship for an entertainment news web site that prides itself on mocking celebrities and writing snarky articles about pop culture. Not only that, but literally everything they were looking for could be applied to me. Degree in English or journalism? Check. Interested in pop culture? Check. Grammar conscious? My friends call me the grammar Nazi. Sarcastic? Riiiiight, like I’m sarcastic.

I applied for the job, making sure to tell them just how perfect I was for the job. “When it comes to pop culture,” I wrote, “I can remember details without even trying. I can never find my keys, but I can remember the name of the evil car from Knight Rider. (That would be the Knight Automated Rover Robot, by the way.)"

My boss later told me that the Knight Rider comment was the entire reason why they brought me to be interviewed.

So I got the internship, and it was the best six weeks I’ve ever spent. Luck continued to favour me, as right near the end of my internship, one of the writers quit to concentrate on his music career. So I was hired for the rest of the summer and had way more fun at work than should be allowed. Last September, I left to start my postgraduate journalism degree, since I thought that having no formal journalism training might hurt me in the long run – and, even though I’d had a blast for the summer, I still had ideas of becoming a hard news writer.

But I soon realized that hard news was not for me. I couldn’t stop being cheeky. In my magazine class, I ended up writing an article about Brazilian waxes and included the line, “As soon as Sarah Jessica Parker got a Brazilian wax on Sex and the City, it was beef curtains for public hair.” I got in a little bit of trouble for that.

At the end of my first semester, I was doing well but I wasn’t enjoying it that much. Being a serious journalist was so stressful on my delicate sensibilities! When I found out that another one of the writers at my old job had left to work for the CBC, I told my old boss I was considering leaving school and would it be possible for me to go back to work for her?

“Hurray, you’re coming back!” was her reply. “I always thought it was a bit stupid that you went back to school. It was like you were going to school to get a job you already had.”

I couldn’t really argue with that point. I dropped out of my program and went back to work.

So now I have a full-time job as the TV editor for the web site. I get to write about television and interview TV people I admire – and even if I hate them, I am allowed to write about what idiots they are. Networks send me DVDs of shows that haven’t begun to air yet, and I’m allowed to watch them at my desk during work hours! I used to have to hide my TV-watching, and now I’m getting paid for it. My previously useless knowledge of obscure pop culture trivia now comes in handy every single day.

I’ll never be rich and I’ll never win a Pulitzer. But I have fun every single day at my job and I’m making enough to live on. I never dread the workweek ahead and I don’t have to worry about making too many puns. I may not be the best writer in the world, but I am having the time of my life.

TV might have started out as a guilty pleasure for me, but today I am proud that I never gave up on what I enjoyed. I’ll probably be a bit screwed if I ever have to get a job doing “normal” writing, but for now, I am very happy with my life.

Apologies for length, but I guarantee I’ve spent more time watching TV today than you just spent reading this.
(Mon 17th Mar 2008, 20:19, More)

» Grandparents

Pearost
I see my extended family a few times a year - most major holidays, Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas. Everyone shows up to my grandpa's house around mid-afternoon, we all talk and joke and pun while having a few beers. Over the years, the family dinners have grown, as we kids have gotten older, found significant others, had children, etc.

At dinner, we have more wine, which is when the pun contests really begin. My grandpa is the one to beat - he's one of the cleverest people I've ever met and can make a brilliant pun out of almost anything. Of course, now that I try to think of an example, my mind is blank. But to give you an idea of just how clever he is, here is a limerick he wrote for a contest where you had to write a limerick that ended with a famous person's name:

George W. Bush, with a scowl,
Called Saddam Hussein something foul.
When told to go easy,
He said, "You're too queasy,
"You should hear what I've been Colin Powell."

Did he win the contest? Of course he fucking did.

But I digress.

Around my grandpa's 80th birthday, his participation in family dinners began to wane. First he just began contributing fewer puns. Then no puns at all. Then he would come out of his room and sit with everyone for only a few minutes, then go back to his room until dinnertime, when, again, he would barely contribute one groaner, if at all. It got to the point where he would only come out for dinner, join in the initial "Cheers!" that began the meal, not offer another word and then go back to his room as soon as he finished dessert.

We were all worried about him. He was clearly getting on in years - had his mind gotten worse? Was his ability to pun gone? Was he isolating himself in order to save himself the embarrassment of failing to live up to his former glory?

My parents finally asked him about it, and he answered that, no, it wasn't that he didn't enjoy dinners and it wasn't that he couldn't come up with anything to say. But now that he was older, his hearing was getting worse, and while he had a hearing aid, our family dinners had grown so much that it was hard for him to really focus on what was being said. So, since he couldn't really hear the conversation, coming out to sit with the family only made him feel worse about not being able to join in as he once had. So he came out for dinner and then retired to his room to work on his logic puzzles.

At this, my dad sighed a huge breath of relief - my grandpa has always been wary of doctors and my dad had been worried that grandpa had been trying to hide a bigger problem.

"It's your hearing aid? That's not a problem!" my dad told grandpa. "They've come out with better ones now that are much better that your current one; they're much more focused, and will make it easier to hear what everyone's talking about. We'd be happy to get you one of those so you can really come participate in family dinners!"

My grandpa nodded and thought for a minute.

Finally, he said:

"But... I don't want to give up my excuse."
(Thu 2nd Jun 2011, 23:27, More)
[read all their answers]