Iron-effin-chefin’, that’s what
Where have I been today? You mean, besides helping Bare Rump with her Smart Bitches Day post? (She uses way too many semicolons. I get on her about that all the time. Unfortunately, I have to allow her a few semicolons, or else she’ll flick her butt hairs in my face.) And besides writing up next Thursday’s Thirteen (bwaahahahahaha)?
I’ve been playing Iron Chef today, that’s what I’ve been doing.
You remember this guy:
Don’t run the other way. It won’t bite. Today, I made two different kinds of ravioli with two different sauces because, ya know, if you’re gonna do one, it ain’t that tough to do two.
Kate and I have done it. What’s the matter with the rest of you?
We’ve signed on to the Online Blogintegrity Statement of Principles, which includes:
NO CUSSIN’. Fuck that cursing shit. I mean, like, fuck it. FUCK.
Hey, I don’t understand half of those other Principles, but I get that one. I’m sold.
So . . . what are you waiting for? Do it!
The one-nippled* Starship Captain commands you!
D.
*I’m deadly serious. I’ve magnified it 400% in Paint Shop Pro and the dude has no left nipple.Â
I don’t know how you single-topic bloggers do it.
Four days of Snape-bloggery, and I’ve had enough. I hate to be tied to a single topic. That’s the real reason why I had to kick him and Mrs. Snape out yesterday.
That, and my fear that the REAL authors who read my blog will worry that their character will be next! If Hoffman will do Rowling fanfic, no one’s safe. Griffin Calverson might show up to render his version of How to Handle a Woman. Dr. Cherijo Veil could be forced to lecture us on the barbarous medical practices of the 21st Century, and Dubric would feel obliged to investigate that dead body we swept under the rug last week.
Justin Delgado might have to come ’round to pop a cap in my ass, but Lili, with access to so many psychics, you already knew that. On a brighter note, all you erotica writers might each donate one of your characters, and we could have quite the orgy, yessirree. That chick at the top of Selah’s blog can sit on my desk. I don’t care if she’s 96 by now — she’s hot. Sam, if you would send over Darla’s Valentine, I’d be much obliged.
I’d pimp my own characters, except y’all tend to run the other way whenever Bare Rump has a guest spot.
Anyway . . . I’m back.
D.
Newsflash to Professor Snape
Professor:
Explain to our cats why their tails burst into flame every time they race across the Punishment Veil. I don’t think Melantha will ever come out of the attic.
Explain to our fish why your fireball spell missed Mrs. Snape and hit their aquarium instead. Oh! That’s right! You can’t explain it to them. They’re dead.
Explain to my son why, when Mrs. Snape belted you with our cast iron pan, you had to use his every last Bagel Bite to treat your black eyes. NO, they are NOT “still good.”
But, best of all, the feather that broke the hippogriff’s back:
. . . polyamory potion induces in its user a lust for the first person he or she sees. With proper planning, and with access to a squadron of college cheerleaders, one milliliter of polyamory potion could give a wizard a night of unsurpassed bliss. Desite Walnut’s blusterings, polyamory potion is the reason I know he will help me in my designs on that Font of Fecundity, Michelle Duggar.
Explain to my wife, WHO READS MY BLOG, why you were going to bribe me with polyamory potion. You a$$hole.
That does it. Pack your bags. You’re on your own trying to win the heart of She Who Must Conceive.
D.
Thirteen of my favorite potions
The conversation, as best I can recall, went like this:
Walnut: Remember, it’s Thursday.
Me: Indeed. It generally follows Wednesday.
Walnut: I mean, you agreed to write the Thursday Thirteen.
Me (scribbling on parchment) — 13.
Walnut: You’ll have to do better than that.
Me: Thirteen . . . thirteen what? Thirteen numbers, perhaps? I could do that.
Walnut: Look, if you won’t act in good faith, I’m not going to talk to Mrs. Snape for you, and I am not going to help you with Michelle Duggar tomorrow. Do — oh, I don’t know. Do thirteen happy memories.
Me (arctic stare).
Walnut: Okay, don’t do thirteen happy memories. You know what they say — write what you know.
And that, my dear muggles, explains the subject matter of our Thursday Thirteen: my favorite potions.
Responsa
I wanted to post an image of myself seated behind my escritoire, fresh-nibbed pen in hand, thoughtfully considering the answers to your questions, but Mrs. Snape won’t let me retrieve our camera from the luggage. She won’t let me step foot on her side of the house, as a matter of fact, and she has erected a most effective Punishment Veil to ensure her privacy. Vindictive witch.
Note to self:
No more magical houseguests. No. Uh-uh.
— Walnut.
Sadly, you will have to imagine me sitting behind my escritoire, thoughtfully penning my replies. Without further ado . . . (more…)
Q&A
Knock knock knock.
Me: Go away.
Walnut: You’re being ridiculous. You know that, don’t you?
Me: I am never ridiculous.
Walnut: I see . . .
Me: If I remember correctly, you received a D in Defense Against the Dark Arts — and that was a gift.
Walnut: Your point?
Me: Given your shortcomings, I would be careful to whom you direct your sarcasm.
Walnut: Oh. Great. Now you’re threatening me. You’re a guest in my house, and you’re threatening me —
Me: Cautioning you.
Walnut: . . . and you’ve grabbed the laptop and locked yourself in the bathroom. REAL mature, Professor. One little blow-up with Mrs. Snape, and you’re taking it out on the rest of us.
Me: Hardly a little blow-up —
Walnut: Want some advice? If Mrs. Snape is still screaming at you? Not a good time to ask for make-up sex.
Magical hogwash
“Walnut” (and what is it about you muggles and your nicknames? I am reminded of Regina Whitworth, a fellow Slytherin whom I dated during my fourth year at Hogwarts. She insisted on calling me Sevvy, but I put an end to that. Afflicted her with a lengua paralyticus potion; every “Sevvy” produced an array of painful and unseemly spasms. But in the end, Regina had her revenge. No matter how much I wash my hair, it looks like this) finished Jonathan Stroud’s Bartimaeus trilogy today and saw fit to regale me with a tiresome series of quotes and anecdotes.
After an aeon, he noticed my angoisse de vivre and queried, “Did I say something wrong, Professor?”
“No, not at all. I was simply having a painful flashback. Earlier this year, I caught Parvati and Padma Patil giggling over a passage in Ptolemy’s Gate. I made them recount the whole nonsensical mess to me, right then and there.”
“I . . . I don’t think I understand your hostility,” said my host.
“No? Well, let me tell you.”
First, let it not be said that I am immune to the charms of popular culture. Often I listen to Claude Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune on my phonograph whilst sipping espresso and reading Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence. I’m not a “total square,” you see. I do, however, object to our young magicians heads’ being filled with this claptrap Mr. Stroud calls entertainment.
I pinned Walnut with my most penetrating stare, the one that makes my Gryffindor students soil their robes.
“It’s stuff and nonsense,” said I. “The magicians in this trilogy are petty, cruel, cowardly, egotistical megalomaniacs. Name me one Hogwarts-trained magician who fits that description.”
“Um, well, there’s He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”
“Not cowardly enough. Try again.”
“Lucius Malfoy?”
“He only plays at cruelty. If Lucius spent more time practicing his Unforgivable Curses and less time preening before the mirror, he might meet the description.”
Walnut squirmed. “Concede the point,” I said. “Without magic, your muggle world would be tawdry. And without magicians, there would be no magic.”
“True enough,” said Walnut. “I rather like Penn and Teller.”
“Grrrrrrr.”
“You still haven’t fully explained your enmity towards the Bartimaeus Trilogy.”
“Imps.”
“Imps?”
“Imps.” I gave a sniff and a dismissive wave. “House elves, by any other name –”
“That’s not true! Stroud’s imps are far more powerful than your house elves.”
“House elves with attitude, I’ll grant them that. And Stroud’s writing –”
“Oh!” said Walnut. “You can’t seriously criticize Stroud’s writing, not if you’re going to compare him to Rowling. Stroud’s a far better writer.”
I growled again and slunk away.
“I know,” said I. “And it galls me mightily.”
I told Dumbledore to audition other candidates for Chief Chronicler, but the fool was quite taken with the woman, heaven only knows why. Perhaps it was her plump, delectable scones.
S.
Professor Snape holds forth on love and romance
An Introductory Note from Walnut
This week, Balls and Walnuts is delighted to have Professor Severus Snape as our guest blogger. Since he is here “in the Colonies” to oversee the final stages of his plan to wed Michelle Duggar, he graciously agreed to take on some of my customary duties. This morning, I told him he would need to write a post on Smart Bitches Day.
Grudgingly, he agreed (when he realized that my assistance in the Duggar affair would not necessarily include me cooking for him all week long and laundering his magical robes) but griped about the name.
“I cringe at the word smart,” he said. “I am sagacious, and reliable, and courageous. Smart does not capture the full scope of my essence. And I am no one’s bitch.”
Without further ado, I give you Professor Snape, who explains why Romance is a repulsive genre.
Has Colbert eclipsed Stewart?
Stephen Colbert’s stock is soaring thanks to his comedic shishkebabery of George Bush at Saturday Night’s Washington Correspondent Dinner. No, really, his stock is soaring. Over at Colbert Nation, every last tee shirt and coffee cup are out of stock.
Oh — and tonight, Morley Safer profiled Colbert on 60 Minutes. Not bad for a weekend’s work.
Colbert didn’t pull any punches at the Washington Correspondent Dinner. You Tube has the video, and Kos has the full transcript. Read the whole thing, please, but for now let me give you a great appetizer:
“Sir, pay no attention to the people who say the glass is half empty, because 32% means it’s 2/3 empty. There’s still some liquid in that glass is my point, but I wouldn’t drink it. The last third is usually backwash.”
Yum!
Colbert gets enormous mileage from a twisty form of humor that has a lot in common with reverse psychology. Say one thing, mean the opposite, like when your Mom told you to eat all the chocolate chip cookies before dinner “because I want you to ruin your appetite.” And you did, too, and it was good, wasn’t it? Here’s Stephen in action, giving the President his cookies:
I stand by this man. I stand by this man because he stands for things. Not only for things, he stands on things. Things like aircraft carriers and rubble and recently flooded city squares. And that sends a strong message, that no matter what happens to America, she will always rebound — with the most powerfully staged photo ops in the world.
How did Bush take it? Not well, according to Editor & Publisher:
As Colbert walked from the podium, when it was over, the president and First Lady gave him quick nods, unsmiling. The president shook his hand and tapped his elbow, and left immediately.
Those seated near Bush told E&P’s Joe Strupp, who was elsewhere in the room, that Bush had quickly turned from an amused guest to an obviously offended target as Colbert’s comments brought up his low approval ratings and problems in Iraq.
Back to the question of the hour. Has Colbert surpassed Jon Stewart? I think so. Routinely, Colbert torments his right wing guests by playing into their beliefs. He often gets them to agree to even more extreme positions than the ones they publicly espouse. In contrast, Jon Stewart seems to fawn over his powerful guests.
Remember Stewart’s interview with that former Iraqi general, the one who insists Saddam had WMDs and has written a book to prove it? Stewart gushed like the guy was his long lost grampa. And I’m getting tired of the way Stewart kisses John McCain’s ass.
If you look back at the transcript of Stewart’s famous appearance on Crossfire, it seems like he doesn’t think it’s his job to ask the tough questions. His job is to be funny; he wants the Carlsons and Begalas of the world to do their job and ask the tough questions.
Stephen Colbert knows it’s possible to reveal the painful truths (truthinesses?) and be funny. He proved it Saturday night, and he proves it regularly on his show. It’s not that Stewart fails altogether — the Daily Show nails its asshatted targets with fair regularity — but that he misses too many excellent opportunities to do more.
Perhaps Stewart should pay closer attention to Colbert.
D.