News of My Death Has Not Been Greatly Exaggerated

No, I am not typing from beyond the grave. (Although I’m almost positive that Dragon Naturally Speaking would work flawlessly in paradise, auto-correct be damned.) No, there has been no news of my demise because there has been just that: no news Nada. Nil.

So, I say this with the utmost sincerity.

What the hell is wrong with you people? Not even one throwaway inquiry of to the whereabouts of that second-rate blogging banshee?? Oh, it  must be so freaking nice to live in the Wonderful World of Self-Absorbed Denial, smack dab on the corner of Me and Me Again Boulevard.  A world so filled with fairy princesses, pretty butterflies (aka “flying roaches”), cotton candy dreams, and other delusions utilized to stave off the horrors of  reality that no one even bothered to notice that someone has disappeared for the better part of a year, and is  now reduced to committing half-assed plagiarism with a misquote of a misquote. (Look it up, all you lazy ignoramuses.  Ignorami. Whatever.) The hell?

Yes, I did just use the term “smack dab.” I had old parents, okay? I also developed, through osmosis, a taste for “Tin Pan Alley”  tunes. But that’s a story for a future column. Oh, you be your pantaloons  it is.

Oh, and I hope you all had a nice holiday season.

Except for you wiccans.

No, you  guy don’t  merit a capital. Everyone with two brains cells to rub together can reason  that you only chose to  follow this stupidest excuse for a religion on the face of “Mother Earth” to piss off your Catholic  parents. You know, those people who lived (or present tense for you poli sci majors) in your house, and fed you, and wiped your ass  you grew up. And who are still there on Christmas handing you wrapped crap because rejecting everything that your family had tried to instill in you, in order to claim your independence and free thought, doesn’t necessarily preclude the goodies from  Santa, now does it? Because Santa is love.

And Santa loves everyone in need of new Bandolino Carlotta Tall Riding Boots and over-priced Apple crap. Even pissy little hypocrites.

So, anyway, I am still here, and will continue to darken world for at least a few more years, despite the best efforts  of God/Fate/Whatever. And yes, I am a <em>Quantum Leap</em> fan, for anyone catching the ref.

Speaking of, what in the name of GFW happened to Scott Bakula? I remember when I was in college, wanting to do some gravity-improbable maneuvers with him. It’s like after the turn of the millennium, he did something to piss off  Medusa, what with his face now  turning into  one of those statues on Easter Island. Damn, instead of reaching for KY, I want to grab the Old English. Or maybe we could just get down to business and frack.)

That show, that guy, I blame unequivocally for transforming me from a carefree, lovely, wide-eyed lass, into a fat, cynical  scifi/fantasy geek, chasing down autographs at conventions in the hopes of reselling later on eBay when B lister someday drops dead. (Thank you, Patrick Swayze. I for signing my Playbill while acting as “greaser number 3” in the 70’s) while in reality having no intention of ever giving up the signature of the guy in the Godzilla suit. Yes, THE GUY IN THE GODZILLA SUIT!  Yes!

And Worf signing an unopened edition of “Gabriel Knight.” Yeah, I know his real name is Michael Dorn, but we all know no one really gives a crap.

And thank you, my sweet, dear Al Lewis, for holding on just long enough for the professor and me to pull that autograph from  your almost dead, cold hand.

Anyway, I digress.

So, despite recent efforts by the Universe© to kill me in various ways, I’m still here. I’m like Highlander, only without the penis, or the annoying Scottish accent.

Precisely the reason  the movie Brave bombed so badly.

It’s true. We all know it.  That, and the fact  that the main  conflict in the plot was “teenage girl doesn’t want to commit and would rather run around being a nuisance,” otherwise known as real life.

Now, I like Disney. (Yeah, I’m the one.) But they/it really, really underestimated the depth with which Americans hate Scottish accents. (Even  Sheena Easton trained to lose hers in a desperate and futile attempt at career resurrection. Remember Sheena Easton? No? See?)

Oh God, we hate Scottish accents with a red-hot loathing seconded ony by our distaste  for Canadian accents. But at least that’s a fun revulsion. All any Canadian ever has to do is say, “aboot,” and we disregard anything else they  have to say after that, even if it’s,

“Run! There’s a lumberjack with an axe aboot to cut off your genitalia and decapitate your children!”

Oh, such good-natured teasing  toward our friends up north.

Unless they’re  Michael Buble, then we just mock him and his kind for being fake French. Ah, good times.”