gyzym: (Doggy headphones)
DUDES. FELLOW DEADHEADS ON MY FLIST. MY FATHER SHOWED UP JUST NOW, FRESH FROM GOING TO FLORIDA TO SEE THE LAST TWO SHOWS IN FURTHUR'S SPRING TOUR (I know I know I'm bitterly jealous too, I can't even talk about it), UNABLE TO WAIT FOR BREAKFAST TOMORROW BECAUSE HE WAS SO EXCITED ABOUT THIS THING HE GOT ME, AND HE GAVE ME THE COOLEST SWEATSHIRT IN THE HISTORY OF EVER.

Cut because those of you who don't know the Grateful Dead will not understand the SHEER UNENDING AWESOME OF THIS PRESENT. )

For those of you who are don't care about the Grateful Dead (and THAT IS SAD FOR YOU, BY THE WAY, I SHED A TEAR FOR THE LOSS OF AWESOME IN YOUR LIFE, THEY ARE AMAZING), here is a picture of my dog...whose name is Jerry Garcia...so we're still totally on topic, really.



He says, I WAS SLEEPING, WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT PHONE, I AM NOT IMPRESSED WITH YOU OR YOUR BEHAVIOR AT ALL. To be fair, though, he learned that expression from me last night when he tried (again) to catch a skunk, and disaster was only narrowly averted.

I'M JUST GONNA GO BE THE HAPPIEST DEADHEAD EVER NOW, KTHNXBYE
gyzym: (JUST THIS ONCE)
Saturday brunch did not happen this weekend due to [various and assorted nonsense], so we did pizza dinner tonight instead. Why I always let myself believe they'll be less ridiculous later in the day, I just don't know.

Me: Ugh, this tomato sauce is killing me, I bit the inside of my cheek this morning.
My Mother: DON'T LOOK AT IT.
Me: What?
My Mother: The place you bit, don't look at it, or if you do look at it, don't be surprised if--
Me: Why would I look at it?
My Father: Who looks at that kind of thing? Do you look at it when you bite the inside of your mouth?
My Mother: Well, yeah, I mean, I can feel it, I can't help myself.
My Father: Never look inside your mouth. What are you, crazy?
Me: Okay, well, sometimes I think there's probably a good reason to--
My Father: No, no there's not, there is never a good reason to look inside your own mouth. It's like sushi--just go with it, do not look at what's inside. Unless you're you, I guess, because you're a freak and you like octopus--
Me: Octopus is delicious!
My Father: There are suckers on it.
My Mother: She can eat octopus if she wants.
My Father: We can't go by you, you look inside your own mouth! Only dentists should go there.
Me: Your intensity about this is kind of freaking me out, just so you know.
My Father: You should listen to your father, I know what I'm talking about, and--
Burrito: *BURP*
My Father: Don't burp at the dinner table, you know better than that.
Burrito: Seriously? You guys are talking about the insides of your mouths.
My Father: ....
Me: ....
My Mother: He's kind of got us there, guys.


And then, of course, there was the continuation of the Angry Bird madness after Burrito left the table:

My Mother: So, should I download it?
Me, referring to the conversation she interrupted: ...what, turkey tacos? How would you--
My Father: No, she means the birds.
Me: Oh my god, are we still on Angry Birds?
My Mother: It's all he's been talking about all day.
My Father: I got to the second part! In only a couple of days, that's good, right?
Me: I don't know, I stopped play it when I realized how much of my time it was eating.
My Father: The yellow ones explode when you hit them!
Me: You recognize that you sound like a four year old right now.
My Father: Fuck you, it took me like an hour to figure that out.
My Mother: So, should I download it?
My Father: YES
Me: NO
My Father: DON'T LISTEN TO HER IT'S AWESOME
Me: IT'S TOO LATE FOR HIM, SAVE YOURSELF
Burrito, from the other room: YOU GUYS, STOP YELLING, I'M TRYING TO WATCH A SHOW.


In conclusion, the 11 year old is the only mature adult out of all of us, and it's not even much of a surprise. The end!
gyzym: (Facepalm (Steve))
A few days ago, my father got himself one of those iPads that aren't. Tablets, I think they're called? I could google it, but why. In any case, he made me come to his office and help him set it up, and we had the following conversation (obviously, I have subbed out Burro's real name for...er...Burro, as my father does not actually call us by the names I use in this journal):

My Father: Oh, and download that thing with the birds.
Me: What, Angry Birds?
My Father: Yeah, Burro's obsessed with it.
Me: You don't want me to download Angry Birds. It will eat your soul.
My Father: What is it? Isn't it like, a stupid game with birds?
Me: That's exactly what it is.
My Father: I'm not going to be sucked in by a bird game. I am a grown man.
Me: You don't understand what you're dealing with here. Also, I don't think people that fight with their eleven year old children about Oreo cookies get to call themselves grown--
My Father: DOWNLOAD THE BIRDS.
Me: Fine, but it's your funeral.


That was days ago. I mostly forgot about it. TONIGHT, AT 11 PM, WHILE I AM DRIVING HOME, HE CALLS ME.

Me: Hello?
My Father: THESE FUCKING BIRDS.
Me: Wha--oh my god, are you playing Angry Birds?
My Father: I don't want to talk about it.
Me: You called me.
My Father: Well, yeah, I need you to tell me how to beat 1-15.
Me: I...you...what? I'm driving, I don't remember which level that is off the top of my head--
My Father: It's the one with the birds and the wood and the glass!
Me: THEY ALL HAVE BIRDS AND WOOD AND GLASS, THAT IS THE WHOLE GAME.
My Father: I can't sleep until I win!!!
Me: I told you this would happen.
My Father: Fuck you!
Me: Fuck you!
My Father: OH, YES, YES, I GOT IT, NEVERMIND, GOODBYE.
Phone: *Disconnects*


gyzym: (John Stewart facepalm)
NB: Jeopardy clue/Alex Trebek paraphrased from memory and possibly quite wrong, because I forget to write these things down in the wake of my fam being ridic. This was the basic gist of it, though.

PROOF THAT THIS MACRO, FOUND WHILE TUMBLIN', IS AN ACCURATE REPRESENTATION OF MY FAMILY:



Jeopardy Clue: In certain circumstance, squirrels have been known to eat animals that fall into the family Leporidae, also known as these.
Burrito: Bears!
My Mother: Deer!
My Father: OTHER, SMALLER SQUIRRELS!
Me: ...rabbits.
Alex Trebek: Time's up. The correct answer was rabbits.
Me: Other, smaller squirrels? Really, Dad?
My Father: It is the great regret of my life that we didn't name you Matilda.
gyzym: (Sunset girl)
Life lessons for Burrito at weekly family brunch this morning (Burro is leaving town again tomorrow, we are having a lot of Together Time to prepare, god help me):

1.
Burrito: Any friend of mine is my best friend.
Burro: That's not really how it works, little dude.
My Father: That's like saying "Any dog I see is my dog!"
Me: No, it's--okay, well, it's possible to have more than one best friend--
Burro: Or 'bro,' I call them my bros--
Me: But if all your friends were your best friends, the words wouldn't mean anything, you know?
My Father: All trees eat beans! See? Nonsense.
Me: ...Don't really think you're clearing it up for him there, Dad.

2.
My Father: *Asshole comment I've forgotten*
My Mother: Wow, persnippity much?
Burrito: Don't call Dad snippity!
Burro: Ahahaha, no, man, persnippity.
My Father: Which I absolutely am.
Me: There's no denying it.
Burrito: Hmm, okay. What does persnippity mean?
My Mother: Well--
Burro: How do you--
Me: It's sort of like--
My Father: Dickish.
Everyone: !!!!!
My Father: What? He asked!

THESE PEOPLE, WHAT EVEN.

In other news, I am off to a movie this afternoon, but round two of the Inspiration Meme has ALREADY EXCEEDED MY WILDEST EXPECTATIONS, OH MY GOD. You guys gotta go check it out, and post post post those things you want to add. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS TOO MUCH AWESOME ♥ ♥ ♥!!!
gyzym: (John Stewart facepalm)
Waiter: And our special tonight is a cut of wild boar, served with--
My Father: Wait, boar, like--what's his name, hangs out with the meerkat, tusks, with the song--
Me: You're thinking of Pumba.
Burro: What?
Burrito: Pumba, from the Lion King!
Burro: I thought he was an elephant.
My Mother: No, he was--an elephant? He was a boar, he was definitely a boar.
My Father: Right, so, are you serving Pumba? Is that what you're telling me?
Waiter: Uh, I don't think...it's specifically...Pumba...
My Father: Well, obviously, he is a cartoon character, don't be ridiculous.
Waiter ...
My Mother: I'm sorry about him.
Me: I think we're all sorry about him, really.
My Father: No, wait, you didn't answer my question, it's boar like Pumba, right?
Waiter: Uh. Yes?
My Father: Well, I can't eat that now that you've humanized it for me. I'd feel guilty. Do you have anything on the menu more Hakuna Matata friendly?
Waiter: I...recommend the trout?
Me: Seriously, we're really sorry, he's just like this.
My Father: Hey, but I bet I'm the first person to ask that question tonight, right?
Waiter: The first ever, sir. Rest assured.

ETA, via phonecall after [livejournal.com profile] false_alexis's comment:

Me: Dude, Pumba's a warthog.
My Father: SHIT, I WOULD HAVE ORDERED THE BOAR
gyzym: (John Stewart facepalm)
Burro and my father on the topic of going down to the Q and watching March Madness basketball live and in person for twelve solid hours:

My Father: Too much basketball. Tooooo muchhhhh basketballllll.
Burro: All of my senses are tingling with basketball.
My Father: Touch, sight, taste--
Burro: Smell. I can smell the basketball.
My Father: All the other senses.
Me: You named them all except for hearing, guys.
Burro: Look, I have sixth and seventh senses I don't even know about, okay, and all of them are overwhelmed by basketball. My basketball sense had too much basketball.
My Father: I feel like I'm never going to say anything but basketball ever again.
Me: You seriously felt it necessary to spend your drive home telling me this? Right now? We're having breakfast together in like eight hours.
Burro: That is less time than we spent with the basketball. That's four hours less. Than basketball time.
Me: I told you guys it was crazy to spend the whole day down there.
My Father: Nobody knows the trouble we've seen.
Burro: Nobody knows the chicken wings we've eaten.
My Father: He meant our sorrow. Our chicken wing sorrow. Even the chicken wings tasted like basketball, oh god.
Burro: Hey, turn the radio up, I want to check the score on the Georgetown game.

ldfhsdjkfhsd;lflkfdfajslfjsdfj
gyzym: (Matches)
No, really, he does. True story.

Also, oh my god, you guys, I'm sorry, I am sorry, I am so sorry, I know I'm spamming you today, but I just. I cannot believe this just happened, I cannot even believe this is my family, I swear to god I'll go a couple hours without posting anything after this, dsfhsdkjfd.

Right, okay, so before I tell this story, I have to explain something, lest you all think I am a terrible person: in my life, an extremely intimate family gathering is 20 people. Thanksgiving, when it's on the small side, usually hovers somewhere between 40 and 65, and that's just one branch of the, like, ridiculous empire that is my various and sundry relations. Once you get further out than like first cousins, things get complicated; people are ranked by a complex and deeply inexplicable system based on shit that happened 30 years ago and family politics and who isn't speaking to whom this week. I have third cousins I call uncle and aunts I've never met--there's a large category of folks to whom my only technical connection is "well, they're also Jewish and their grandmother was once friends with my grandmother," but who are more important to me than any number of actual blood relations. And the thing is that when you've got a network of people this big to contend with, everyone just falls under the umbrella of "well, they're family," which translates loosely to, "we are allowed to say bad shit about them, but no one else is, EVER."

This leads to interactions like this one between me and my father before Passover last year (I have changed the name herein; I do not actually have even one cousin Ricky, let alone two...er, as far as I know):

Me: I'm going to order the brisket for Pesach.
My Father: Okay, but you gotta go to a different guy this year, we can't go to our guy anymore.
Me: What? Why?
My Father: Well, you know cousin Ricky?
Me: The one who works downtown?
My Father: No, the other one.
Me: There's another cousin Ricky?
My Father: Yeah, you've maybe never met him, he's--doesn't matter, look, the point is, his son and the brisket guy's son, they were supposed to start a business together, and this kid screwed Ricky's kid out of the deal, so we can't buy from his father anymore.
Me: ...
My Father: Don't look at me like that. It's family.

THE POINT OF THIS ENTIRE LONG WINDED TALE IS: IT'S NOT MY FAULT THAT SOMETIMES I RUN INTO PEOPLE WHO ARE RELATED TO ME AND DON'T RECOGNIZE THEM. "Family" is a really broad term for me, okay? JUDGE ME NOT.

Anyway, I told you that story to tell you this story: Cut for ridiculous nonsense about my family take 37438942 )

DEAR EVERYONE: IF MY LIFE IS ACTUALLY A LARRY DAVID PRODUCED VERSION OF THE TRUMAN SHOW, PLEASE JUST TELL ME NOW. IT WOULD BE THE KIND THING TO DO, REALLY.

ETA: Okay, I have to go to dinner now, but somehow this turned into a giant thread about Arthur and Eames and Arthur's family, which you guys should TOTALLY ADD TO WHILE I'M GONE :D
gyzym: (Default)
Pupdate: I have been chilling with the stray in my garage, staying low to the ground and chatting at her. She has gotten closer to me, but not all the way there yet. Baby steps, etc. She's adorable, you guys, thank you so much for your help, I'll keep you posted as things develop.

In other news: tomorrow I'm going to post a story that I'll have to come up with a better title for than "The one where it took me 7,000 motherfucking words to get to the scene I intended to write in the first place." It's done and everything! More or less, anyway. I just have to, you know, stuff and things at it. Polish, as it were. Make postability happen, what have you.

Until then, you get the story of that time my father thought the possum was a raccoon, and further scenes from Steve and Danny's house, this time with title! Because everything is words and nothing hurts, or something. I don't know, guys, it's two in the morning, thoughts are hard.

That Time My Father Thought The Possum Was A Raccoon:

My Father: There's a dead raccoon hanging by its tail in the garage!!!
Fourteen Year Old Me: Um. That seems unlikely.
My Father: Go see for yourself!
Fourteen Year Old Me: *sees for herself*
My Father: I told you.
Fourteen Year Old Me: Dad. What...do you think raccoons look like?
My Father: ...is it not a raccoon?
Fourteen Year Old Me: No, it's not a raccoon. It is an opossum. And it's not dead. It's playing possum.

He also labored for years under the belief that pigeons were, in fact, "grey city seagulls." I can't necessarily fault him for that, though, because they do kind of act alike.

Danny/Steve Nonsense:

dodging your fit fueled artillery )
gyzym: (Polar bear oh my god)
So, there's a stray dog living in my garage.

I found her this afternoon, though I'm pretty sure she was in there yesterday--I heard noises like something was moving around when I left for work, but assumed it was a raccoon or something. No idea what breed she is, although she looks like she's at least part Weimaraner, and just, augh. I don't think she's more than a few months old, no collar, obviously terrified, and I don't have any idea what to do. I'd like to bring her inside and give her a bath, but I have no way of knowing if she's been given shots or dewormed or anything, and I don't want to get Jerry sick. I'd love to take her to the vet and check for a microchip, get her checked to make sure she's safe to bring in the house, but if I get too close to her she spooks and runs. I've been bringing out food and water for her, left a blanket out there, and she trusts me more now than she did this morning--lets me get closer than she did when I first found her--but I don't want to push her and frighten her more, or push her and end up getting bitten out of fear. I called the Humane Society, but they aren't going to be able to send anyone out today and aren't sure about tomorrow, and anyway the thought of her in a pound makes me feel sick to my stomach. It's not that cold here, for once, and there's plenty of warmth and shelter in the garage, so her, you know, freezing to death overnight isn't a concern. I'm gonna keep checking on her and bringing her food, and I guess we'll see what happens.

If anyone on my flist has any experience with strays and rescue dogs, and can offer any tips, suggestions, pointers, anything, please for the love of god sing out. I'm flying blind here, and I'd hugely appreciate the help.

(Of course, then there's my father, who can always be counted upon to up the ridiculousness quotient of any situation:

My Father: Are you sure it's not a fox?
Me: Am I sure it's not a...yes, I'm sure she's not a fox, why would she be a fox?
My Father: You said she has pointy ears.
Me: Lots of dogs have pointy ears!
My Father: Well, so do foxes.
Me: ...
My Father: I'm just saying!
Me: ...
My Father: This is like that time when I thought the possum was a raccoon, isn't it.

This man is my flesh and blood, folks. No, I don't know either.)
gyzym: (Umbrella girl!)
So, I was writing this whole other post, and then I was like, wait, this isn't what I want to be doing. What dooooo I want to be doing? OH, I KNOW: laughing hysterically at stupid shit on the internet!

And then I thought maybe I wasn't alone in that goal, so here is: a conversation had with my father during a round of penalty Jeopardy, a link to me making a fool of myself, and approximately a million macros. MY WIT, YOU GUYS, IT IS SO DEEPLY, DEEPLY WITTY.

Jeopardy Clue: [Blah blah blah I don't remember blah] comes in pulmonary and cardiac varieties--
Me: Edema!
My Father: Ahahahahhaha.
Me: What are you laughing about? Edemas aren't funny.
My Father: No, I know, I just...
Me: You just what?
My father: Funky col edema!

IN OTHER NEWS:



This is more macros than anyone needs. )
gyzym: (Turtle puppy!)
I've switched my layout and my default icon again--even though the icon on this post isn't the default one, gdi--because ~I'm so changeable~ or whatever. But I'm pretty damn sure I'll be sticking with this layout for awhile; I've coveted it forever, but have been looking for the right background image to tweak it with. I've got some more tweaks to do (like figuring out how to make that bar at the bottom green instead of black, and actually how to get rid of a lot of the black because it's too harsh with the lighter background, ffffff), but, yes. New layout! Hooray.

You guys should really all just probably expect that my journal's going to look different every time you come back to the main page, but I swear to god I'm going to try to commit to this one, ugh.

The icon thing is because I discovered that [livejournal.com profile] tulabula exists, and actually bought myself an icon package in my sudden crazy need to have them all. And also because, as much as I loved those shoes, there's only so long you can look at the same pair of shoes before it starts to drive you mad, you know? Especially if they're a pair of shoes that you made into your icon because you DESPERATELY WANT THEM and then you looked everywhere and couldn't find a pair that was close enough and looking at the icon was just a bitter bitter reminder of the shoes you could not have...*cough* I mean, I'm not crazy. Um.

Moving on, I am actually here now to tell you the bijillipede story I mentioned the other day, which I don't think I've told y'all yet, because I'm taking a break from writing before my brain oozes out my ears it is amusing.

SO: my family makes up names for things that:

a) no one else on the planet need a name for
b) other people do need a name for, but somehow are without one anyway, or
c) already have names attached to them, but INFERIOR NAMES THAT DO NOT DO SAID THING JUSTICE.


The bijillipede thing falls into category C; a bijillipede is, in actual fact, a bug. And, to be honest with you, I don't know the real name of the bug--people around here call them silverfish, but the internet is showing me photos of an insect I don't mean when I google that, so I'm not sure. I tried to search for a picture to identify it, and then made terrible horrified faces at my computer at the results and had to stop, because "grey wall climbing bug legs" does not actually yield you very pretty results.

Suffice to say: a bijillipede is a long skinny silver-grey bug that scuttles along walls. It is so named because it has a bajillion legs.

I HATE THESE LITTLE FUCKERS, YOU GUYS. I HATE THEM MORE THAN BEES, I HATE THEM MORE THAN SPIDERS, I HATE THEM MORE THAN ANYTHING. Nothing should have that many legs, nothing, it is terrible, it is wrong, it fills me with a deep and arcane terror, and the way they move...their little bodies just...oh god, I can't even think about it, aughhhhh.

I hate them, and I also didn't know they weren't...actually called bijillipedes...until I was, I swear to god, sixteen years old and at a house party with my friends. Here's how that went (names of characters are in relation to what these folks were to me at the time, not what they are now):

Bijillipede: *Scuttles along wall*
Me: *Shrieks* (look, okay, I am normally tough, I am, I really am, BUT THESE LITTLE BASTARDS FREAK ME OUT)
Boyfriend: What? What is it? Are you okay?
Me: It's a BIJILLIPEDE!!
Entire Party: ...Sorry, what?
Me: That, right there! Don't you see it! The bijillipede.
Best Friend: Oh, we see it, alright.
Boyfriend: What did you call it?
Me: A bijillipede! That's what they're called!
Best Friend: Noooo, no it's not.
Me: Come on, yes it is. You know, because they've got...a bajillion...legs...oh god, bijillipede isn't a real word, is it.
Boyfriend: *Helpless laughter*
Best Friend: *Helpless laughter*
Entire Party: *Laughter that probably could have been helped*
Bijillipede: *Exits stage left*


My parents maintain that this incident is my fault; Burro and I (he went through the same experience shortly thereafter) maintain that it is theirs. "You knew bijillipede wasn't a real thing!" my father said, when I told him. "....didn't you?"

No, no, I didn't. So teach your children well, you guys, lest they embarrass themselves at parties.
gyzym: (Journals)
Or, The Family von Jizz Sounds Off On:

Making Crab Cakes!

Me: It's kind of like making latkes.
My Mother: It's exactly like making latkes!
My Father: Except for how it's shellfish.
Me: ...
My Mother: ...
Me: We're the worst Jews ever, aren't we.
Burrito: *ignores us all as he eats pepperoni*


Fraternity Shenanigans/Culinary Experiments!

Burro: I ate cake with hot sauce on it last night.
Me: What? You did what? Oh my god, why?
Burro: Well, we were having chicken for dinner, and there was hot sauce on the table, and I said I'd eat hot sauce on pretty much anything--
Me: And then, what, you decided to prove your point?
Burro: Could you let me tell a story?
Me: You lead with "I ate hot sauce on cake last night," and you expect me to be calm about this?
Burro: You know, I'd kind of let myself forget how you are about food.
Me: You wound me, but fine, continue.
Burro: As I was saying, one of my bros was like, "Would you eat it on ice cream?" and I was like, "Prooobably not," and then someone else was like, "Would you eat it on cake?" and I was like, "Yeah, I'd eat it on cake," and then someone was like, "I have cake," so.
Me: So you ate it?
Burro: I said I would! So yeah, I totally did. I think they're gonna put it on Youtube. It wasn't actually that bad.
Me: Seriously.
Burro: Not that bad!
Me: There is something wrong with you.
Burro: Maybe, but no one can say I'm not a man of my word.


The Shitstorm of Anti-Semitism in the News This Week!

My Father: For fuck's sake, is Mel Gibson out recruiting these assholes now?


This has been today's episode of Fuck I Love These Crazy Assholes. Tune in next week for further nonsense!
gyzym: (Ariadne is a BAMF.)
DEAR EVERYONE:

I know there are several of you in need of a good laugh lately, and you are in luck, because after the afternoon I've had, I feel compelled to tell the tale of Possibly The Most Ridiculously Hilarious Thing My Family Has Ever Done. And it has some pretty steep competition--there was The Time We Convinced A Hapless Floridian Waiter We Were Drew Carey's Next Door Neighbors, and who could forget The Time My Father Paid Me Twenty Dollars To Take A Bite of a Raw Turnip In The Middle of The Grocery Store And Then Insist To Random Strangers That It Was The Best Apple I'd Ever Had, and then of course The Time My Then-Six-Year-Old Brother Introduced Himself To His New Camp Counselor As Kipper Millennium Von Trapp. But I honestly...I think this one takes the cake.

However, none of it will make any sense of you have not seen the "More Cowbell" SNL sketch. Also, if you have not seen the "More Cowbell" SNL sketch, YOU ARE MISSING OUT ON ONE OF LIFE'S GREATEST JOYS. Thus:


I'VE GOT A FEVER, YOU GUYS, LET US DISCUSS THE CURE )

In conclusion, my family is crazy, awesome, and crazy awesome, and now I am off to take my very happy baby brother (who knows not of the cowbell sketch and is just thrilled to add to his drum set) to a delicious dinner :D

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