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Tag Archives: Blake Shelton

Natural selection: Survival of the rudest

Humans may be the most evil animals on Earth, but raccoons surely are a close second.

Certainly they are the most inconsiderate animals on Earth.

Right bastards, they are, raccoons.

Whoa, Ian, what’s with the raccoon hate? What, you ask, have these cute, cuddly-looking little bandits ever done to you?

Plenty. They’ve had it in for me from day one, and you’re a naive fool to see them as anything but the thieving, conniving bastards that they are. To wit:

  • As a small child, a raccoon mauled our beloved family pet, a soft, cuddly, and thoroughly un-maul-worthy bunny rabbit.
  • Frequently while camping, raccoons have raided my campsite, stealing the heavy food I packed in. And, surprisingly, all the beer. Though I haven’t ruled out my campmates on that.
  • On one camping trip, the raccoons broke into my car and stole all the Blake Shelton CDs that somehow found themselves, against all odds, in my car. They left all the classical music CDs untouched.
  • A few months ago, a domestic dispute between two raccoons unfolded on my roof. Loudly. At two in the morning.
  • Regularly while driving at twilight, I see raccoons skulking about the street corner storm drains, a shifty glint in their eyes. Clearly up to no good.

As I said, the most inconsiderate animals on Earth.

Which brings to me last weekend, when they went from inconsiderate to just f*cking with me.

About six months ago, my beloved kiddos, playing in the backyard, decided that throwing toys on the roof and then asking big, gullible ol’ Daddy to get them was the bestest, funnest game in the world.

Teenage Mutant Smug Turtle, more like

This crime fighter doesn’t inspire confidence.

It took me about three rounds of this sport to catch on, at which point I flatly refused to go back up and fetch their latest volley, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle doll, a plush stuffed animal that shouted TMNT catchphrases when flung against hard surfaces.

Such as the ground and roofs with slate shingles.

So up it stayed on the roof, through sun and rain and wind. My refusal to recover it instantly converted this into their favorite toy. The kiddos still cry themselves to sleep at night, mourning the loss of that toy and cursing not just my name, but the date of my birth.

Which I find ironic, given if their curses against my birth had any weight or power, there would be no them to curse me.

Time travel has its paradoxes, and so too, it turns out, does black magic.

I’ve attempted to explain to them the dangerous lack of logic in such a curse, in case it turns out they do have magical powers, but apparently six-year olds aren’t that good at understanding where babies come from or how their Daddy’s genetics contributed greatly to who they are.

And as they are still six, I have no enthusiasm for the birds and the bees conversation yet because I know, when I make the Missus give it to them, I will bear the brunt of her irritation at making her do it.

So the kiddos, not understanding, just wail anew and spit at me.

Numbskulls.

(I will say, the spitting is an improvement over their pre-potty training days, when they found less pleasant things close at hand to fling at me when expressing their disdain.)

But speaking of bastards, back to the raccoons.

Last Sunday, I retired to bed early. I’d recently been tasked to hire an engineer at work, and the lovely recruiter scheduled an 8am phone screen with the latest candidate.

I am not a morning person. I have never been a morning person. If the sun wasn’t essential for all life on Earth, I would have it snuffed out just to sleep in an extra five minutes. This is how I feel about getting up early, let alone being well-rested when I rise.

So I not only had to be at work at the normal start time, but I had to be sharp and pleasant and ready to talk to potential talent.

Where_in_the_world_is_Agent_Carter

Greatest (British) American hero

Hence the retiring early, despite the Missus’ entreaties to finish watching Agent Carter with her on the DVR. I’d sat through the first hour, quite enjoying the episode, but it was one of those ‘two hour events’ networks often put on to generate excitement about a program, and I simply could not stay up another hour.

I left my poor Missus, wailing and gnashing her teeth at my absence from her side as she watched the second hour without me, and went to bed.

Except shortly after closing my eyes, I heard something in the crawlspace above my bed.

Well, possibly in the crawlspace. Or possibly on the roof.

It’s surprisingly hard to tell, when lying half-asleep in the dark, whether the thump thumps you hear above you are on the roof, in the crawlspace, or maybe the result of some Lovecraftian beast walking upside down on the ceiling directly above you.

I am not a morning person because the night terrors that arise from my twisted, dark imagination keep me up at night.

I am a morning person out of necessity.

I struggled awake. I threw on the lights. I reached for the cricket bat next to my bed.

Nothing on the ceiling, thank the Old Ones.

Still some thump thumps, though.

I went outside, still clutching that cricket bat, and checked the roof as best I could in my PJs, bare feet, and with no ladder.

Nothing, which told me a truly shifty bastard was at work.

Naturally, my thoughts went immediately to raccoons.

I went back to bed, light left on, and tried to doze off. All was silent and right with the world.

At first.

But then the thump thump again. Only this time, something new:

The Thing On The Roof (henceforth known as TTOTR): Thump Thump “Cowabunga!” Thump thump
Me: WFT?
TTOTR: Thump thump “Totally awesome, dudes!” Thump thump
Me: OMFG! The neighborhood teenage hooligans are playing on my roof, and they brought a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle doll with them! I mean action figure, I added, knowing they’d correct me as such had they heard my thoughts. Such are the teenage hooligans in my neighborhood – smug.
TTOTR: Thump thump “Cowabunga” thump thump I taunt you with my spooky ambiguity thump thump

I abandoned raccoons for teenage hooligans because come on, what raccoon plays with toys on a stranger’s roof in the middle of the night? It defies all logic.

I rose again from bed, blearly-eyed and more than a little put out. This time I went to the backyard, where a ladder leans against one wall of the house, left over from that game, many months ago, of Daddy Fetch From the Roof.

I climbed the ladder, and because I was tired and I couldn’t find a proper flashlight, used my cell phone for illumination.

Let me just say, when attempting to see something in the dark from far enough away that you have time to successfully climb down a ladder and flee in case said thing decides to charge you, a cell phone light is not sufficient.

This thought is the very one that went through my head as I alighted that ladder. It was not a comforting thought.

Made all the moreso by the fact that I couldn’t climb the ladder, hold my cell phone, and hold a cricket bat at the same time.

I felt naked.

Yes, my PJs are slight and flimsy (and mostly see-through), but I’ve never felt naked in them before.

Of course, I had forgotten all about the kiddos’ little game and the toy left up there as I ascended that ladder. I just knew that something very wrong was happening on my roof, and while I really, really had no desire to see what exactly that wrong was, the only way to get some sleep was to investigate.

I don’t do my best thinking when I’m tired.

Fortunately, in moving the ladder into position, I’d made a lot of grunting, groaning, and “Ow!”ing sounds. This, apparently, alerted the bastard raccoon on the roof that I was coming.

I was back to raccoons at this point because once my head cleared the eave and saw no living creature there, I knew only a raccoon could have slipped off so stealthily.

Almost like a ninja.

Teenage hooligans tend to make a lot more noise disembarking my roof in a hurry.

I speak from experience on that count…

The only thing to greet me, as I tottered on the top rung of my ladder, surveying my roof, was the now silent and dismembered TMNT doll.

This battle goes to you, raccoon, but the war goes on.

As is natural in these situations, I paused for a moment in order to tweet about it. I then scraped the remains off the roof, carried them into the kiddos’ room, and with a scream fit to reanimate a thoroughly dead-due-to-mauling toy, woke them so they might see the logical conclusion of fun had at Daddy’s expense.

I explained, as my father once explained to me while I lay sick in bed one morning, that a raccoon had mauled their precious, beloved companion.

There was much crying and wailing after this. Mostly from the Missus, who was not happy that I had awakened the kiddos in the middle of the night and distressed them so.

But they were out of school for the whole week and didn’t need to get up early like I did.

Why should I be the only one to suffer?

I am living proof that humans are the most evil animals on the planet. At least when they’re really, really tired.

No doubt the kiddos will carry on that tradition when, years from now and despite my protests to the contrary, they decide it’s time to unplug Daddy from life support.

Holy Disemboweled Ninja Turtles, Batman, the shingles on this roof look, well, OK, actually!

In case you thought I made this whole horrifying story up…


Yes, I’ve been away from this blog for a long time. It hasn’t just been raccoons depriving me of sleep and leaving me too stressed out and exhausted to post.
I had pretty much given up on life, and by extension, this blog, but then the raccoons came, and their outrageous disregard for common decency fired me up again. Gave me the will to live. Endowed within me a newfound zest for life (or at least revenge…).

 

 

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Hello Sir. I Am Recently Ousted Nigerian Minister of Memes with Cash Moneys For You

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.

Please don't turn me into a carpet - I want to grow up and live on a mysterious tropical island that inspires a great TV show that has a suck-ass finale.

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.

Seeing someone lie on it does even less for me than eating the hair-ball inducing mess.

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!

 

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The REAL Blake Shelton reads, while naked AND nude: Alpaca poetry gone wild

Recently a friend of mine posted about the tags in her blog that generated the most hits.

While I’ve ranted about my most popular tag here already, I thought it was time to a) look at the cold hard statistics, and b) reveal the little experiment I’ve been running.

When asked if I want the good news or the bad news first, I always like to reserve the good news to serve as a balm to help me heal after being kicked in the googlies by the bad news. So here’s the good news:

I’ve been running an experiment, inserting specific, unrelated tags into my blog posts to see which ones generated hits. Here are the tags I used:

  • Blake Shelton naked
  • Wil Wheaton naked
  • Rush Limbaugh naked
  • Benedict Cumberbatch naked

This is good news because science, and its use, is always good news.

Now for the bad news:

I weep for the human race.

‘Rush Limbaugh naked’ only lost to ‘Wil Wheaton naked’ by three percentage points. THREE PERCENTAGE POINTS! RUSH LIMBAUGH? How is that even possible?? Lovecraft couldn’t have imagined a horror that terrifying (or more non-Euclidean in its geometry)! Click on image to see the horror in full-sized clarity.

Clearly there is no hope for Humanity.

The only thing more disturbing than the huge landslide win achieved by ‘Blake Shelton naked’ is all the various misspelled and I-don’t-know-what versions of that phrase dumped into search engines that landed these sick freaks at my blog.

To spare my gentle readers (i.e., those not here to gawk at Blake Shelton), I aggregated them all into the Blake + Shelton + [some form of ‘undressed’] category. Here are some of the more family-friendlyish variations on this nudie Blake concept:

  • the naked blake shelton (not to be confused with all those naked Blake Shelton impersonators)
  • blake shelton gets naked
  • blake shelton nake
  • blake shelton nude fakes (oh wait, there are impersonators out there!)
  • blake shelton completely naked (look, either you’re naked or you’re not naked – none of this I-can’t-decide nonsense in your internet-posted pictures, please. If the focus is so bad I can’t tell whether or not you’re completely naked, don’t bother posting it (though in the case of Blake Shelton, I thank you for the poor focus))
  • black shelten nacked
  • blake shelton nakt

Blake shelton nakt? Is there no end to your depravity, internet?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to rinse my eyes out in bleach, then drill some holes into my skull to destroy two parts of my brain, the section that make mental pictures out of words that I read and the section that remembers those pictures.

And now, a word from our sponsor: me! My books are available!
 

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So bad it won a Voidy for the next THREE consecutive years (would have been FOUR, but 2012 was a leap year)

 

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Why I hate Blake Shelton

I’m depressed.

It could be because of the crippling lack of sleep I’ve been suffering due to that most perfect form of birth control, toddlers.

I didn’t mention this in my previous post on the evil of toddlers, but they also tend to scream a lot at random intervals between the hours 8pm and 8am.

And once awake, I am restless and can take as long as an hour to fall back asleep.

Or it could be my rapidly fading faith that Humanity has a future.

I’ve been mini van shopping, and how can you have hope for a species when you have a comparison site lauding the 15 cup holders in Brand X’s 8-seat vehicle over shameful Brand Y’s mere 10 cup holders in their 7-seat vehicle?

How many freakin’ drinks do 7 or 8 people need to lug around with them on trips?

“Oh, I can’t drink the beverage in this cup holder – it’s for holding my northbound cup, and we’re currently traveling north by northwest. Hand me the Tab in my NW holder, please. Ah, thank you.”

Yeah, the conclusion we are completely and utterly screwed (but most likely fully slaked when it comes to thirst) is inescapable.

It could be my complete and total inability to put on a believable fake Scottish accent.

You’d be surprised how desirable, if not downright important, that skill is in certain situations.

Look at that smug, evil, fully dressed bastard!

Look at this smug, evil, fully dressed bastard!

But I’ve narrowed it down to Blake Shelton. Which is why I hate him.

Oh, it’s not poor Blake Shelton’s fault. Don’t know him, his music (or his TV shows, or his art, or whatever it is he’s famous for).

It’s his fans.

In particular, the ones hell-bent on seeing him naked.

Or nekkid, nekked, and nude.

Which would seemingly lead right back to the whole “no faith in Humanity” jag, but that’s not where I’m going.

It leads right back to me.

Someone I follow on twitter mentioned adding a “Blake Shelton naked” tag to her blog. As a joke. And getting a huge spike in search hits.

So as a joke, I added this tag to a blog post that had nothing to do with Blakes, Sheltons, nakeds, nudes, nekkids, or nekkeds.

I thought it would be funny. All these Blake Shelton fans, hot and bothered about the nudie pics they were about to see, landing on my blog instead and becoming crushingly disappointed.

<insert evil laugh here>

And then, not long after that, I discovered the Site Stats feature on WordPress.

Now I don’t get a huge number of hits every day. Or a lot. Or even very many. Or, possibly, by some people’s standards, not even a few. And that’s pretty depressing in and of itself.

The hits I do get? Steadily, day after day, more than half who reach my site are using some combination of the following search terms:

Blake/Blak/Bake + Sheldon/Shelton + naked/nude/nekkid/nekked/huge throbbing/well-oiled/priest collar/vintage

And that’s depressing.

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1 Comment

Posted by on 28 March 2012 in Life

 

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