![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
-Happy Easter. As is his tradition, Roomie chivvied me out of bed this morning for my in-home Easter egg hunt. This year, I searched for Cadbury mini-eggs. I've yet to eat any, however, because I'm still working my way through a four-pack of their larger forebearers. If I ever develop Type II diabetes, it will be because I cannot stop eating these chocolate and fondant sugar grenades.
-I bought Bolt, The Tale of Despereaux, and Scooby-Doo and the Samurai Sword recently. Bolt was your standard, formulaic Disney fare, with one scene between Bolt and Mittens lifted whole and breathing from Toy Story 2, but it was cute and fun. Rhino the fanboying hamster was a laugh riot, and I suspect it will be a comfort movie when I need a pick-me-up from the Life Sucks Blues.
I've yet to watch Scooby or Despereaux, but Scoob and Shag are nostalgic soul food, even if the formerly rapacious Shagster has been retconned into a proselytizing vegetarian to appease Casey Casem's butthurt. Hanna Barbara should've let him flounce. Some "celebrities" need to remember that the characters they portray aren't their personal avatars in a global Second Life. They're a job, and sometimes--often, really--they're different from you. Bad things happen when people forget that. We used to call people who couldn't distinguish fantasy from reality delusional nutjobs. Now we can comfortably call them actors and CSI:NY show runners. Look at Danny Goivinazzo, I mean, Carmine Mess-, I mean, Danny-oh, forget it. You get the idea.
Anyway, I miss the indiscriminately scarfing Shaggy.
-I bought a Combichrist CD from Hot Topic because I liked what I heard over the store loudspeaker. It's considered aggrotech, whatever that is, but to me, it's just more groovy dance metal to listen to while I'm ficcing.
-I want to like Bobby Flay because he looks dead handsome in a suit, but every time he opens his cakehole, my budding lust is supplanted by the urge to bludgeon him to death with the nearest rolling pin. He's so damn smug, and his constant smirk reminds me of the perverts who lurk around dubious amusement parks and boardwalk carousels and entice tween girls into rendezvous in seedy locales in exchange for a Pepsi and a Hoobastank CD. He's like a lecherous Percy Weasley.
-Paula Deen, on the other hand, is awesome. I watched Paula's Party last week, and without a trace of salacious irony, she told three strapping men that she wanted to watch them "really rub their meat." She was referring to three massive roasts, of course, but my mind immediately plunged into dirty, dirty places because it's governed by a horny underpants gnome with a terminal case of arrested development.
-I bought Bolt, The Tale of Despereaux, and Scooby-Doo and the Samurai Sword recently. Bolt was your standard, formulaic Disney fare, with one scene between Bolt and Mittens lifted whole and breathing from Toy Story 2, but it was cute and fun. Rhino the fanboying hamster was a laugh riot, and I suspect it will be a comfort movie when I need a pick-me-up from the Life Sucks Blues.
I've yet to watch Scooby or Despereaux, but Scoob and Shag are nostalgic soul food, even if the formerly rapacious Shagster has been retconned into a proselytizing vegetarian to appease Casey Casem's butthurt. Hanna Barbara should've let him flounce. Some "celebrities" need to remember that the characters they portray aren't their personal avatars in a global Second Life. They're a job, and sometimes--often, really--they're different from you. Bad things happen when people forget that. We used to call people who couldn't distinguish fantasy from reality delusional nutjobs. Now we can comfortably call them actors and CSI:NY show runners. Look at Danny Goivinazzo, I mean, Carmine Mess-, I mean, Danny-oh, forget it. You get the idea.
Anyway, I miss the indiscriminately scarfing Shaggy.
-I bought a Combichrist CD from Hot Topic because I liked what I heard over the store loudspeaker. It's considered aggrotech, whatever that is, but to me, it's just more groovy dance metal to listen to while I'm ficcing.
-I want to like Bobby Flay because he looks dead handsome in a suit, but every time he opens his cakehole, my budding lust is supplanted by the urge to bludgeon him to death with the nearest rolling pin. He's so damn smug, and his constant smirk reminds me of the perverts who lurk around dubious amusement parks and boardwalk carousels and entice tween girls into rendezvous in seedy locales in exchange for a Pepsi and a Hoobastank CD. He's like a lecherous Percy Weasley.
-Paula Deen, on the other hand, is awesome. I watched Paula's Party last week, and without a trace of salacious irony, she told three strapping men that she wanted to watch them "really rub their meat." She was referring to three massive roasts, of course, but my mind immediately plunged into dirty, dirty places because it's governed by a horny underpants gnome with a terminal case of arrested development.
Tags:
