Fond of rumpots, crackpots, and how are you, Mr. Wilson?

Anyone who knows me in person has encountered the Chipmunk Voice at some point or another. I don't really know how I make it work, but it's this squeaky, giggly cartoonish twitter, sounding not unlike a pink spun-sugar teddy bear on a tank of helium, which I use to say things either adorable, horrifying, perverted, or some combination of the three. People's reaction to hearing the Chipmunk Voice comes in two flavors: there are those who love it, and those who want to punch me. figmentj and belgatherial, luckily for me, both fall in the first category. (During the latter's July visit, I once dropped both women to the carpet in a diabetic coma when I put on my best Bambi eyes of contrition and said, "I don't mean to be naughty, but I stole your toesies.") shadesong, on the other hand, is decidedly anti-Chipmunk, going so far as to ban the voice from her home entirely, except for brief demonstrations for the benefit of the uninitiated.

Which meant the gods' eventual justice was ever so much sweeter. On New Years Day, shadesong was in the waning stages of recovering from a nasty cold, and even though she was feeling better, the illness was still playing Duck Duck Goose with her immune system. In particular, it was at the point where the last of the mucus had settled right in the ideal spot to affect her vocal chords. When that happens to me, it leads to the usual mandatory Elmer Fudd impression (and thus a day or two of singing "Kill the rabbit! Kill the rabbit!" at full volume). But she is female and more wee and higher pitched than I, so every time she opened her mouth? Chipmunk Voice. Dead-bang perfect every time. And she couldn't stop.

And it was adorable, people. She would try to be serious, but the effect was like Cindy Lou Who addressing Congress. Finally, after some teasing, she did the only thing one can do when saddled with such a voice: abuse the living snot out of it, first by using it to get her way ("But I'm sick!"), then by throwing her hands in the air and tiny-shouting random horrors to the room. "MISANDRYYYYY!" for instance, or later, "DOUBLE-HEADED DILDOOOO!" I am deeply sorry that no one got a recording of this—think of the ring tone potential—but for the few hours before the phlegmata settled further down all I could think was, "Welcome to my world, cupcake."

And then I did the voice again, and she glared as if wanting to punch me. C'est la guerre.

Hokay, mystery lovers, here's a little brainteaser for y'all.

The location: Kristi's new house, where I'm chasing the kids over the long weekend.

Exhibit A:

This is the oil burner's emergency on-off switch, located in the kitchen just inside the entrance, on an empty stretch of wall between said entrance and the door to the basement.

Exhibit B:

This is the kitchen light switch, located on the other side of the entrance behind the baker's rack and the coffee maker.

Question: Why did we have no hot water for showers this morning?

Oy.

There were two ketchup packets on the counter at the 7-Eleven.

Me: [scoots one of the packets along the countertop]
figmentj: [watches me curiously]
Me: See? Condimental drift.
figmentj: ...
Me: [scoots the other packet up behind it] Oh, look! The other one's trying to ketchup!
figmentj: ...
Me: ...I'm going to die young, aren't I?
figmentj: Yes.
Me: Ah.
figmentj: But you'll have a good story.
Me: Oh, good. If you have a good story of how you died, you come out ahead.
figmentj: And probably some other parts, too.
Me: ...
figmentj: THERE. WE'RE EVEN.
Me: Marry me.

This was on the way to see Contagion. The movie, you'll be pleased to know, was aggressively slightly-above-average. It's talking all my will to avoid screaming the names of everyone who dies before it's half over.

figmentj: [strokes Adam's earlobe]
Me: Mmmm. My earlobe likes you.
figmentj: Well, I like your earlobe.
Me: And if it could talk, it would say, "I lobe you."
figmentj: [pause] Get your hand off my leg.

In reference to this NSFW picture, as linked to by terri_osborne:

Me: Say, how does a naked Hugh Laurie grab you?
figmentj: I don't know. He's never tried.

1) spleen
2) coccyx
3) sacroiliac
4) islets of Langerhans
5) gizzard
6) thorax
7) basal ganglia
8) scapula
9) pharynx
10) vestibulocochlear nerve

Thank you. *bows*

As a pacifist, a man over 40 and a proud lifelong wuss, my likelihood of experiencing military service is close enough to nil that you couldn't slip a nickel between them (save for the odd on-the-hoof, "we're on the fifth floor and the zombies are on the fourth so figure out how to make that AK-47 go boom pronto, mister" sort of soirée). But should I ever feel the raging need to know what army life is like, I'll just toddle on over to the Registry of Motor Vehicles and apply for another Massachusetts driver's license. Fun-tastic!

Now, in all fairness, the parallels are limited, in that unlike some prior Kafka-with-a-double-order-of-Brazil DMV/RMV experiences, the folks at the Watertown RMV work their hindquarters off to make sure the process is as streamlined as possible. This is a good thing indeed, except that this means You, Mr. or Ms. Prospective Driver, are constantly running two lengths behind their expectations of where and when you should be, and they will curtly and regularly remind you of this fact because they are all really f*cking cranky.

"CAN I HELP YOU." This was the woman at the initial customer service desk, once I'd made my way to the front of the line. The period at the end is not a typo.

"Well, yes, I moved here from New York, and I need to get a Massachusetts driver's li—"

"DO YOU HAVE ALL THREE FORMS OF I.D."

"Um, yes: local mail, old license, and birth certi—"

"GO OVER THERE AND FILL THESE OUT." Papers emerged from gods know where. They smelled like bureaucracy and broken dreams. "AND TRY TO BE FAST; WE'RE MOVIN' PEOPLE THROUGH QUICK TODAY. NEXT!"

I flung a "thank you" at a pair of deaf ears and headed to the nearest desk/shelf amalgam to locate a working pen, clutching a take-a-number ticket that read, "G428." I took a moment to squint at what they were asking for, then started scribbling: name, address, are you currently licensed in another state, what's your old license n—

*PING!* A voice came over the loudspeaker like a movie scene set in a Yugoslavian train station, if Yugoslavia were a town in New Jersey. "ATTENTION G428: PLEASE HEAD TO DESK 14." I cussed under my breath, grabbed the unfinished form, sprinted to the desk and slapped it down. My new prom date of the moment peered at the paper dyspeptically as I started yanking the necessary identification items out of my bag, certain I'd be tasered from behind if I wasted even one moment of these people's shattered lives.

"You didn't finish filling this out," she barked, too disgusted to even look at me.

"I know," I stuttered as I fumbled through my personal effects. "You guys were so fast, I couldn't—"

"Don't put that stuff down." She had already attacked my form with a green highlighter like she was killing ants. "Go back and finish, and come back when you're done." I was dead to her.

I hurriedly checked the few boxes I hadn't gotten to and signed, and threw myself back at Desk 14, elbowing some other poor woman out of the way in the process. I wanted to staple the form to her mouse pad just so she couldn't give it back to me.

From there, she was like a white collar ninja: Swoop! Xerox! Whoosh! Type! Zing! Demand information! The photo actually went surprisingly well, even though I look like I should be selling distressed Pepsi bottles on Ventura Beach (which come to think means it's a pretty accurate photo). My attempt to replicate my signature with the electronic pen didn't fare so well, though, because I accepted it before she told me I could try again, which means my usual proto-Sanskrit scrawl is now a proto-Sanskrit scrawl as attempted by a drunken Verbal Kint on a moving toboggan. But screw it, I've got my $100 piece of paper, and I got it with a 5-minute turnaround, so go, Massachusetts RMV!

* * * * *

Tonight, though, is my weekly Date Night with figmentj, which we've decided to make a study date as she's got a Test of Bigness to prepare for; I'll be spending my time (once I'm done with this LJ post) working on The Noise of Endless Wars. Wish me luck, and a lack of writer-brain-cloginess!

Look, it's not that I have a problem with assisted living facilities wanting to seem homey and comfortable to prospective residents and residents' families. And it's not that I object to business owners using their own names to name their businesses. And I'm certainly okay with using clever pop cultural references whenever possible.

However. Naming your business "Sophie's Choice Adult Family Home"?

...I got nothin'.

As you will no doubt recall, the talking (talking, I say!) plush bacon toy has received the name Francis by popular decree.

As of Saturday? That's Sir Francis W. Bacon to you, cupcake.



The knighting above took place during Christmas morning festivities with fiddle_dragon, zeyr, mllelaurel and wired_lizard, the one doing the honors. Still trying to figure out what benefits accompany the honorary titles bestowed upon quasi-sentient breakfast meats. Not trying too hard.

In other bacon plush news, Francis is no longer allowed in public view in my apartment. Long story.