So I’ve been nominated for the Liebster Award. By friend and fellow blogger Kit Campbell, she of the light brown-haired alpaca poetry and devoid of hair marauding landsquid fame.
I don’t know if this nomination is a compliment, a pity nomination, or merely an attempt to prod me into updating this blog.
Given the chaos in my life lately, and the need for an ego boost, I will assume the first.
But deep down, whispers that dark voice in my head, you know it’s really the second.
My deep down dark voice can be such a jerk when not telling me, in an Austrian accent, to kill them all before it’s too late.
Yes, my deep down dark voice has an Austrian accent. And not the friendly, “Ah’ll be baaack” Arnie kinda accent.
Evidently there are rules to this Liebster thing, including the requirement I meme-spam ten other bloggers with nominations in order to stay in the running.
Well, I’m not gonna do that. I don’t care if it means I won’t win. Thing’s probably fixed anyway.
I’ve done some digging into the Liebster Award and the shadowy organization behind it. Turns out these people (if they’re even people) are into some pretty shady stuff.
Unspeakable, hateful stuff I can’t mention here without leaving you in a nightmare-fueled, fetal-positioned coma.
Baby albino panda cubs have one natural enemy: club-wielding baby seals.
The worst of the speakable stuff is their involvement in the albino panda rug trade.
It sickens me to think about all those baby albino pandas, selectively bred in albino panda cub mills (kept icy cold to increase the odds of albino births) and then clubbed to death when their fur is at its most sexually potent.
Oh, you’re supposed to *lie* on them! Dammit.
I don’t care how many people make up the collective wisdom of China, albino panda furs have absolutely no impact on sexual stamina or prowess.
I should know. I’ve eaten enough of the damn hides right before a date, and have yet to be declared a sex god.
Usually those sessions end with disappointed grunts or, more often, unfulfilled sighs.
You’d think the Missus would be resigned to it by now.
On a related note – albino panda hides, and probably other Ursidae hides, not only will spoil your appetite right before a dinner date, but also do not help with halitosis.
But I will, as I swirl the chocolate milk in my snifter, answer Kit’s deep and probing questions.
I’ve got to give the identity thieves something to go on, right?
What is your favorite ’50s-’70s era television?
Favorite? You mean I have to choose between Star Trek, Doctor Who, The Prisoner, The Dukes of Hazzard, Mork and Mindy, and Knight Rider?
Man, that’s a hard question. I’m going to go with Sanford and Son.
When did you decide to start a blog?
Shortly before my first book came out. Conventional wisdom was that in addition to having a hit song about your book on Spotify, you need to have an active blog, twitter feed, tumblr queue, and facebook account so people will magically be drawn to your books.
Didn’t work. First, I’m a terrible singer and the song never took off. Plus, due to some initial poor tagging decisions on my part, this blog only draws people seeking pictures of Blake Shelton naked.
It’s a little disturbing how many countries harbor mentally disturbed fetishists hankering for a hunk of Blake.
Is this your first blog?
Yes. And based on the warning letters I keep getting from the UN referencing Article 1 of the Convention against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment, it will likely be my last.
Unless I ever get the time to launch my Blake Shelton Naked Fan Art blog. But before that can happen, I need to learn not just how to draw, but how to draw the naked male figure.
In freaky deaky positions.
Oh, and how to draw Blake Shelton.
Shudder.
What’s the best book you’ve read in the last year?
Are we including the zillion Magic Tree House books I’ve read to my kiddos? Because that would make it tricky.
Let’s limit it to the last four days. In a fit of insanity, I’ve read four books in that period.
If you exclude the kiddos’ books.
I’m gonna go with Charles Stross’ The Fuller Memorandum, one of his Laundry Files novels. It’s British urban fantasy, sort of, like the Dreseden Files if Harry were an IT professional working for a spy agency that deals with Cthulhu.
They are awesome. I think one book won a Hugo.
Marvel or DC?
Huh? What does that mean? Did you mean do I marvel at the accomplishments of Thomas Edison and his amazing Direct Current?
Sorry, more of a Telsa fan.
Kirk or Picard?
Please. The answer is self-evident.
If a landsquid knocked on your door, would you give him a cookie?
Have you not read If You Give A Landsquid A Cookie? The consequences, they would be catastrophic. And not just for my home state.
Though I would understand if you haven’t read it. Apparently it went out of print…before the first edition even came out.
Sad.
How does it make you feel that it is already October?
Happy. I love October.
The cool, grey skies.
The evening chill.
The thrumming impact of rain on the roof of my car as I am consigned by the Missus, yet again, to sleep in it after the albino panda fur once more fails me.
And, if I’m lucky, thunder and lightning.
Would you rather be attacked by ceiling turtles or a pack of telekinetic squirrels?
That’s a toughie. Couldn’t I be attacked by both instead, and then draw each to the attention of the other? Telekinetic squirrels are famously intolerant of turtles, and the turtles would take one look and think, “Oooh, squirrels. Where are the bird feeders they like to hang around and burgle? Bird seed is my second most favorite food, right after raw squirrel meat!”
But remind me to Scotch-guard my clothes first, so the blood comes off more easily.
If you could have any animal in the world as a pet, what would it be?
A neo-steam pig. Domesticated, of course, and retired from the police force.
(They’re like greyhounds: once deemed unsuitable for their primary purpose – racing in the case of greyhounds, police brutality in the case of neo-steam pigs – they are euthanized if no one adopts them.
Which is just wrong. Unless the neo-steam pig is an IA rat. Then I say, bacon all around!
ian m dudley 