Deprifun

Posts Tagged ‘humour

I need sheep! Lots of sheep. An uncountable number of sheep.

Is there even such a thing as an uncountable number? The concept is too complicated for me to ponder upon after a sleepless night, but I would like to launch an appeal: would my readers kindly send me a few sheep? Now, I don’t have an uncountable number of readers, but I do have a few, and if each of them sent me one sheep, I think I would have more than enough.

You might wonder what I want to do with all the sheep, and the answer is, I want to count them of course, duh! With two chairs and a broom I have already built a little fence at the foot of my bed, that the helpful creatures can jump to their hearts delight.

They will be the fittest sheep ever, because I can’t sleep very well these days – make it weeks – actually, make it months; it seems like I can sleep soundly only on my bench, but that’s 20 km away from my flat, plus has been unreachable all winter long because of the snow and it’s currently underwater because of the floods, so I can’t really depend on that.

I have also tried all the natural remedies I could find, including no caffeine in the afternoon (hello zombie!) , long hot baths before bed (managed to faint but not to sleep), herbal pills (repeat as a mantra “this smells like ripe cheese, NOT like unwashed feet”), no arguing with my bed partner (Mr. Pillow was very understanding), but nothing. So I am going for the ultimate remedy: counting sheep!

The sheep need to be as non-descript as possible, so if my insomnia proves an especially hard nut to crack, I can put them on rotation and it will work better if I can’t tell one from the other. So just your basic, fluffy, white sheep, I hope you can spare one or two?

Also I would like them to be a cheerful bunch – err – flock, because, did you know? Sheep can get depression, too. It usually happens when they lose a lamb, the poor things – the Internet is full of sad stories of mothers grieving and not eating, and stinking (I guess it makes sense – depression stinks), and losing all their wool.

However, I know very well that depression can strike with no warning, and I’m not one to abandon a companion only because she’s not funny anymore, so I have done some pre-emptive research, and luckily I have discovered that if one of my previously cheerful sheep falls pray to depression there is a cure.

According to a forum I visited, the somewhat surprising remedy consists in clothing the mournfully bleating and now naked sheep in a green polo neck jumper. The reason why the colour must be green is pretty straightforward: green is the colour of mental health awareness. But the polo neck is a matter of some debate. You could argue that this is a nod to the Marco Polo sheep breed, a species that lives wild and in the mountains of central Asia and that boasts the longest horns of any breed of sheep, probably making its representatives an object of admiration among sheepfolk and thus a source of inspiration for the depressed sheep; or that it is a reminder of the peculiar Kyrgyz version of horse polo, kok-boru, which consists in using, instead of a ball, the headless body of a sheep.

Here I guess that the idea is reminding the depressed sheep that there are sheep who have it waaay worse than her. Don’t we all get that? How many helpful people come to those who have depression and argue: “How can you be sad? So-and-So has cancer!”

Euh… yes, thank you, Helpful Person, and that should make me ecstatic, I guess. I was never sure why I should rejoice at the misfortune of  others, probably something along the lines of “better her than me”???

But back to the sheep. Could you ship me a sheep (that’s terrible, I know – but have I mentioned that I was up all night?)? Pretty please? With sugar on top?

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Last night something momentous happened.  The BT was online in the dead of the night and I thought that maybe he was feeling lonely, too, or at any rate he would be very tired and unable to think too clearly, so I thought there might be a slight chance that he would reply to a goodnight star. Also because he knows that I send a goodnight star only right before logging off and going to bed, so there’s no risk of me jumping on the chance to – the horror!! – ask him how he is doing or even suggest coffee. He seems to have decided that my allowance is exactly one word a month, and replying to a goodnight is probably the safest option for him, so I thought I might tempt fate.

I gathered my nerves, which were lying haphazardly on the floor (a couple had rolled under the furniture and it was a drag to get them out, but in the process I found a bracelet I thought I had lost and also, surprisingly, a teapot), then tied them up nicely with a ribbon, conjured a little star in the chat window, took a deep breath, took another deep breath, took a third deep breath, told myself to stop taking first, and second, and third deep breaths or I would go into hyperventilation, and hit “send”.

For a split second, Time Stood Still. Then Time thought, “What am I doing here, standing still”? She blushed and with a little embarrassed smile she checked if anybody had seen her standing still so foolishly, and hurriedly sat down.

AND THE BT REPLIED!!!

He said… he said… “good night!”

* sighs contentedly *

And yet – darn. Good. Night. Two words!!! And since I’m only due one word a month… there goes my allowance for TWO WHOLE MONTHS! Now I’ll have to make do until the 28th of JULY!

Stupid Blasted Thing, it is GOODNIGHT! One. Word.

Grrrrrrr.

 

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“We are going to the cinema, care to come?” “We don’t know yet where we are going to spend the hols.” “Repairing the heating cost us a fortune”.

People talk about themselves in the plural form, and I always feel a pang of envy when they do. It means they have somebody they can count on, that they are a part of someone’s life.

With me, it is always “I”. “I could go to the cinema tomorrow. Or just stay home alone hoping some thief shows up for company or prank opportunities.” “I’m not going anywhere for the holidays: first, I have no money, plus, even if I had, travelling alone would just be depressing. I could perhaps bring the thieves with me, though.” “Repairing the heating cost me a fortune and frankly I only repaired it because it was a safety hazard. And while I thought the idea of just falling asleep and sleeping forever was rather appealing, the chimney sweeper found me out so I had to fix it.”

Just my luck, by the way. The only person in my life who is singular is the chimney sweeper, who’s clearly the only one in his trade who doesn’t have a magical nanny with whom to dance on the roof, so he can actually do his job which consists in getting me out of bed at an unholy hour just to tell me that I will need to starve myself in order to be able to save enough money to pay for the privilege of not suffocating.

So, only my chimney sweeper and I are singular, everybody else is plural. I wish I could be plural, too. All the while still wishing I was singular. Actually, I think I need a language where there’s no distinction between singular and plural. I have heard Japanese might do the trick?

It looks like I am developing a phobia for grammar; which by the way has a name (it’s called grammatophobia) and yet doesn’t seem to be a legitimate phobia, so I couldn’t research how this typically works and evolves. I might be the first person affected, ever.

Will this keep to singular and plurals, so I could really solve it by adopting a language with no distinction? Or will it extend to other, more or less random, grammatical elements? Perhaps an urge to punch in the face anybody who shows off with a particularly elaborate construction? And how to make the difference between a normal reaction (anybody would be slightly tense when faced with a past perfect subjunctive tense) and a pathological one (like crossing yourself every time you encounter a cardinal number)?

And will this stay limited to grammar, or will it invade other domains? I wouldn’t be surprised if I started being pissed off at even numbers – I’m always the odd one out, while everybody else comes in pairs. The number 1 is depressing in itself. So will I end up having to buy at least three of anything? Three shoes, three gloves, three watermelons? And what am I going to do with three watermelons anyway? I don’t even like melons, plus according to The Internet, they might be depressing. Or depressed. And shady. Definitely very shady. And possibly on drugs?

turn: terrible, do not eat watermelon, and depressed!!!!!!!

pigment powder with water saccharin tricks, melon conscience exposes insider traders –
Hot summer, eat a sweet red watermelon, both hot weather and thirst. When people of this natural fruit cooing when, who thought of commitment, these red and sweet watermelon, melon actually Meixin traders to earn money, injecting saccharin and coloring the water cooked out of it! Yesterday, a melon trafficking, told reporters this one blew the whistle on shady.
[actual internet wisdom – handbook case of terminal grammatophobia]

 

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People have an annoying habit of referring to me in the plural form.

I first noticed a few months ago: I happened in the area where someone I know had opened an Italian restaurant some time previously, and I decided to drop by and say hi. I found him much changed. Not only he had taken to making sushi: he had also grown distinctly Asian features.

I wrote him an e-mail to inquire about this puzzling turn of events, from my own e-mail address, signing with my name only, with such formulations as: “*I*happened at your restaurant…*I* wanted to say hi…*I* was surprised to see that…” and he replied soon afterwards: “Dear friends, you (plural) are always so kind, thank you (plural) for your (plural) concern. I leased the place to a Korean cook) [mystery solved!], but I will be sure to  tell you (plural) immediately when I open a new place”. Huh?

Once alerted to the peculiar phenomenon, I realised that this happens all the time. People inviting *us* to events. Asking me how *we* are doing, how *we* spent the holidays, what plans *we* have for the upcoming weekend.

I am puzzled. Have I developed multiple personalities without realising? Is my guardian angel suddenly visible? Is that a covert way to imply that I am fat? Do I look like the Pope? Or am I really the Pope? Could I be the first atheist Pope in the history of the Church? What were the good old Cardinals thinking?

I have a sneaking suspicion that by referring to me in the plural form they actually mean me and my FBFF. Because they also apparently tell her stuff and assume that I will be informed. “But how come you do not know?? I did tell your FBFF!”

Well, breaking news! I am not her! She’s not me! I am not we! She is not us! We are not you! You are not him! Him who??

When they go all plural on me, or ask me to do things like relaying a message or giving her something, I politely tell them that I have no idea of what’s going on with her, and that they should contact her directly.

She seems to have chosen a completely different approach: when people ask her about me, she simply makes things up. That brings about interesting situations, like something that happened last Sunday: I had an ice cream with a common acquaintance, and when I left to go home he observed that I was going in the same direction as always. He found that very surprising. I found his very surprise very surprising. Huh?? He explained that my FBFF had told him I had moved flats, and I should have told him, he would have been soooo happy to help. I evilly replied that I haven’t moved, but that I want to and I am very grateful for his kind offer and will make sure to contact him when the time comes. He turned slightly green at that. I wonder why, perhaps the ice cream had disagreed with him?

Anyway, I would like to use this opportunity to launch an appeal to all my friends and frenemies, none of which know about this blog, so my appeal will wander aimlessly through cyberspace like a message in a bottle, and will be retrieved in fifty years or so by a young  and rather cute journalist who was actually looking for something about depressed kittens, and he will come to the very old me for an interview, and I will brew him a steaming cup of tea with actual crushed dried leaves, and he will find this very quaint and will ask me where you can still buy the leaves and not the usual concentrate or a powder, and I will tell him that I had grown it in my garden, and he will love that and start planning in his mind a series of articles about the way you used to do things in the good old times, and he will ask me how did I manage to grow tea in this climate, and I will reply “Oh, but this is not actual tea, my dear”, and cackle evilly and later dispose of his body in the tools shed.

But I digress. So here is my appeal: Dear grammar debauchers, there is a reason why most languages have evolved a singular and a plural form, and it’s a perfectly good one! And no, it wasn’t to provide teachers with a further torture instrument – although that might indeed be the case for irregular plurals. So, use wisely and correctly this wonderful option given to us by the Gods of Grammar!

Thank you very much. We have spoken.

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I used to have this great fear. Because I saw it coming, and I saw that nothing I tried was working. I thought that if that one thing happened I would die.

Then it happened.

And I died.

And I must say, death is better than a miserable life. You don’t care much about things. You don’t need food anymore. You don’t need to worry about building for your future life, since there is no future life. The one thing you really feared losing is already lost, and that makes you effectively invulnerable.

So all in all this is a positive development, and I’m making the necessary adjustments.

This is the first time I die, so I am not sure how the whole thing is supposed to work. There’s precious little documentation on the subject, and what there is mostly belongs to the realm of fiction and there’s no first hand accounts. So I am quite on my own here, but wasn’t I before, too?

I haven’t started decomposing yet, and quite frankly, I hope I never do. That would be so inconvenient! Imagine you shake hands with someone and they rip your hand off? So embarrassing!

Luckily, the way things look like right now makes me think I might be slowly turning into either a mummy or a ghost. If it is a mummy, I should start hoarding wrappings, but I’m not sure about the colour. I think off white is so wrong, I am pale enough as it is and I would really like a pop of colour. I quite like the pantone colour of the year, emerald, but I wonder if it will get old after a few hundred years. I don’t think I can unwrap and rewrap myself without breaking off fingers and toes and stuff; I guess I could layer new bandages on top of the old ones, but that would make me look like the Michelin Man, so I should probably set on a colour and keep to it for all eternity. Once decided on the colour, I will have to get white wrappings and colour them myself in the washing machine – can you believe it, you can’t buy colourful mummy wrappings anywhere! Not even on Etsy! I will have to do it over and over again, since according to my research I need 372 square meters of linen. That’s A LOT! And I don’t have so much place to hang it and dry it. So, lots of work, but it’s not like there’s much hurry.

Also, every self-respecting mummy needs a curse. I am quite stumped on this, too. Perhaps I should take my inspiration from actual ones, combining two of them together, like All people who enter this tomb may the hippopotamus be against them in water, and Death shall come on swift wings to him who disturbs the peace of the King. My own curse could be something along the lines of To ye who disturb my rest the hippopotamus shall come on swift wings. Yes, I think this has potential.

There’s also the matter of my future abode. I am NOT going to live in a tomb. Perhaps a museum? I could offer myself to the British Museum and get to know Ginger. He’s the earliest Egyptian mummy, and they used to call him that because of his hair. Later though they realised that it wasn’t nice of them and they changed the name to something more respectful: 32751. Hm.

The idea of living in a museum has its romantic allure. I could terrorize small children during the day, and wander about at night. Better than ending up as fuel for locomotives, at any rate.

And yet, I’m a bit of a sissy as for surgical procedures, and I am not looking forward to the whole pulling my brain out through my nostrils thing, so I really hope I rather go the ghost way. Ghosts are so glamorous! I can haunt some old building and live like a princess. I will have all the advantages of being invisible, with additional perks: I could make myself visible if I chose to, for additional scaring opportunities and to look as stunning as the Grey Lady in Harry Potter, I won’t need to worry about food and comfort, and I will be able to fly and walk through walls and everything. So finger crossed on this one! By the way –  *checks fingers* – Good, all fingers still accounted for.

Well! Time will tell I guess. I will keep you posted, and in the meantime, greetings from the Afterlife!

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I have won an award! A Liebster Award! I was nominated by Supremely Funny Extraordinaire Barb Taub, so check out her blog!

This is my acceptance speech. Please picture me wearing an elegant updo with loose curls escaping here and there (but doing so in the most elegant way), a midnight blue lace dress with a long, full skirt, and tripping on it only three times on my way to the microphone, and only once swearing audibly.

First of all, the rules:

“The award is given to up and coming blogs with less than 200 followers; the person nominated needs to answer eleven questions and nominate eleven other bloggers, ask them eleven questions in turn and then comment on their blogs to let them know they’ve been nominated.”

And the nominees are…..

So these are my nominees. I am not sure how many followers they have, and some might already be quite successful, but awards, like compliments, are always nice, right?

Dear Nominees: I realise that accepting a Liebster Award is quite a lot of work. Plus it sort of messes up with posting schedules and blog consistency overall; personally I was happy to receive one, but rest assured: I won’t be deeply offended if you choose not to accept it 😉

1. Bullo!

2. Understanding Japanese

3. My 30 Day Challenge

4.Organized Musings of a Chaotic Mind

5. There’s no Place Like Home

6. Lost Gyrl Found

7. I Don’t Get It

8. Little Lobo

9. The Jiggly Bits

10. Jane Dougherty Writes

11. The War in My Brain


The eleven questions I have to answer:

(I am not ready! I should have studied instead of staying up all night watching anime. I swear if this goes well anyway next time I will study! On the other hand, that would kind of prove that you can just watch anime and then blunder through)

1. What was your first car?

I never had a car and I’m never going to have one! I’m totally against cars. I have my faithful bike though, and my first bicycle was a green folding one. I said “folding” and not “foldable” because it would in fact fold by its own initiative whenever it suited her, be it in the middle of a ride.

2. What was your last brush with the Law?

Jude? I guess it was when he came to shoot something in the city I live in, a few months ago. But I didn’t actually meet him, and even if I had, I think brushes would have been the last thing on my mind.

3.Star Wars or Star Trek?

Star Wars, if only for the music.

4.Dr. Who or Dr. Laura?

Who??

5.Worst movie ever?

Whatever my brother in his extreme arthouse movie phase force-fed me.

6.Who would you like to have a conversation with at a cocktail party?

A true friend – or a unicorn, whoever turns up first.

7. Best guilty pleasure ever?

Bread with butter and sugar

8. Who would play you in the movie?

Uggie from The Artist

9.What is something people don’t know about you?

It’s a secret, duh. Oh, whatever, I am going to tell you my darkest secret. Ha! Just joking.

10. What is the one thing you can’t live without?

A heart. Although lungs are pretty handy, too.

11. As a child (or now!), what did you want to be when you grew up?

I had nothing definite in mind. I selected my dream job later, upon entering university, and I was so lucky to actually land it.

And here the eleven questions I am asking:

1. Do you suffer from depression, or do you know someone who does?

2. My blog is about facing depression with humour. Do you think it is tasteless to make fun of depression?

3. Talking about tasteless, do you think depression tastes like chicken?

4. If yes, like nuggets or like roast chicken? And if no, what does it taste like, then?

5. Do you feel for the plight of Depressed Chickens?

6. Would you be prepared to wear a yolk-coloured ribbon for Chickens Depression Awareness?

7. What do you think Question Number 7 should be?

8. Do the people in your Real Life know about your blog?

9. Why did you choose to tell them, or not to?

10. Do you think there are too many bloggers to nominate, and too many questions to answer and to ask, in order to get a Liebster Award? Fun fact: the original version of the Award only had you nominate 3-5 bloggers.

11.How would you answer Question Number 7 if you were a depressed pink unicorn with glitter on its hooves?

* * *
So, that was it. Again, thank you soooooo much for this award! *bows* OMG, this is heavy and cumbersome. *bows again*. Ok, one hand to hold the award, one hand to manage the gown. Oh – steps. Oh – a banana peel. Oh – &%$§€@!!!

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Yesterday was an eventful day, since I ran into the Blasted Thing. I was sitting with a common friend in a café, and unbeknownst to me the BT texted him and suggested meeting, and our friend simply replied, “Sure, join me”.
So there he was. The man who claimed to never have time for a coffee, caught rather red-handed. I hope he doesn’t think I have orchestrated it! In fact, I would NEVER have done that, since my friends had just greeted me with the words “You look terrible, I am going to buy you a coffee”, which isn’t exactly flattering, and  when I meet the Blasted Thing I want to look my best.
Anyway. There he was.

The conversation naturally turned to his amazing disappearing act. I was really, really, really, indescribably hurt by that.  I was nice, never reproachful, didn’t try anything untoward and all in all I think I managed not to embarrass myself too much in my dealings with him. So I couldn’t understand why he would so steadfastly block me out: I had done NOTHING that could justify it. Why, why, why???
Was it me? Or was it me? Or was it me?

So I gathered my nerve and asked him. I was ready for the worst. Alright, I wasn’t really ready, but I knew that was a possibility. That he would look me in my eyes… with those chocolate eyes… those beautiful kyrgyz eyes of his… ahem, sorry, I digress. Anyway, that he would look at me and say “Look, this isn’t working, and it is better FOR YOU (for me, for me, of course) if we don’t hear from each other again”. I steeled myself. I ironed myself. I even bronzed myself, and waited for the bomb to drop.

And the bomb dropped… and…. it didn’t go off!!

He had a PERFECTLY GOOD REASON why he couldn’t keep in touch. And it had nothing to do with me! Imagine my relief! I could have laughed with joy! So he couldn’t contact me  because…

I don’t have WhatsApp!!!

So that’s it. There we were all this time, silly old me expecting him to reply to my texts, or to my IMs on Skype, or to call me, or to Facebook me, or to e-mail me, or to ring at the door, or to ask our common friends about me… and he all the while frantically waiting for me to add him on What’s App.

It’s like when you are supposed to meet someone at a coffee place, and you get there early and take a table and go to the toilet, and right then your friend arrives, doesn’t see you and gets another table at the other end of the place, and you end up both sitting there without knowing that the other one is around the corner, and thinking that since your friend didn’t call to say that she is late that must mean that she is almost there, but then she doesn’t come, and she doesn’t call, and you wonder if YOU should call, and resolve instead to give her another five minutes… and then one of the two finally calls, and hears the phone of the other ringing, and it’s all laughs and merriment.

OK, so it’s all good now! I just need to get What’s App! But this got me thinking. How many people find themselves in need to come up at short notice with an excuse for not keeping in touch? You never know when something goes horribly wrong and you find yourself face to face with some nice person who has done nothing to you and in fact thinks highly of you and is ready to buy anything you say, so how do you handle such a thorny situation? It is better to be always prepared, so I thought I would compile a helpful list of things to say:

– I know, I have disappeared, and I am so truly, appallingly sorry, but…

… I didn’t pay my internet/my phone bill/my electrical bill and can’t use my appliances

… I did light a signal fire/tried to send smoke signals, but the firemen were there in no time and hosed it all out

…I saw this great recipe and baked all four and twenty of my homing pigeons in a pie. Would you like to have a taste?

…I did buy a whiskey bottle to send a message in it, but you know, first you need to empty it, and whiskey gets better with age, so it would have been a shame to empty it so soon. I was going to contact you in fifty years or so, cross my heart it’s true

…I wrote you a message, and tied it to a balloon, and up and up it went, and then down and down it went, and then it landed in the river, and the water carried it to the sea, and a turtle mistook it for a jellyfish and swallowed it, and the poor thing choked on it, and it was Master Oogway from Kung Fu Panda, and I felt so guilty that I haven’t been the same panda, I mean, man, ever since

…I took a vow of silence. But since it is unpractical in daily life, I am doing it symbolically, towards only one person as a representative of the whole of Mankind. And I chose this person to be you. You should be flattered, really.

…my hovercraft is full of eels

…tlhIngan Hol Dajatlh’a’?

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