Category Archives: minions

Does it mean if we happened to forget them, we should remember them, which is not possible because we already forgot ’em?

So here we are, kiddos and kidlettes. End of the year. And it’s been one crazy-ass year, right? I’m going to go out on a limb and say 2011 might be one of the most insanely awesome I’ve had, all-told.

In another life, I was a statistician, I’m pretty sure. So I was playing with some numbers tonight. Here’s what I came up with:

This year:

I read 107 books (this is actually a total disappointment, I really have to be better about this next year, possibly an all-time low for me)

I saw a lot of plays, but I didn’t keep track of it as well as I should. Let’s say between 2-4 a month? So approximately 24-48 plays this year. And worked crew on 5. And worked three jobs. What? I’m nuts? Yes. Do I ever sleep? I don’t know, explain what that is, to me, again, please?

I sent almost 7,850 tweets (and if you think this statistic isn’t directly correlated to the one above, well, you’re wrong, Slappy – also, this is how many I’ve sent as of this writing…I’m pretty sure this number will go up by the end of the night. I so have a bottle of wine I plan on drinking. Oh, damn, and it doesn’t include DMs. Well, let’s say I’ve sent 43 kabillion tweets in the past seven months, that sounds about right, right? RIGHT.)

I wrote, combining all three of the blogs I write for, 213 blog posts (that’s a lot of words, if you’re playing along at home! Do you think eventually I will use them all up and it will be a silent world like the “Hush” episode of Buffy? If Spike will be there, I’m all over that. Oh, also, this one has a lot to do with the “I’m not reading enough” one.)

So that’s my year in weird and kind of insane numbers that might get me checked into the looney bin at some point, which might be nice, because don’t you think that padded room looks the most restful? I do.

Also, listen, so on the last day of every year, I do a Tarot reading to kind of end the year and see what’s ahead? And last year’s was kickass. And totally kind of accurate. So should I be concerned that this year’s contained things like “your love is waning, you are feeling insecure, someone is gossiping about you, there will be sneaky behavior, there will be bad news about money, laziness, procrastination” – and, AND, my favorite, “ALL HOPES ARE DASHED.” Um. Thanks, Tarot, I am totally psyched to face the new year right now thank you. I think I might have better luck reading tea leaves or something. Wait, I hate tea. Sorry. That’s not going to happen. Then my house would smell like tea, and I’d have to vomit.

So anyway. 2011 has been really the best thing. There were new friends on top of new friends on top of new friends (EW NOT LIKE THAT. Seriously, Pervy Pete? Even today, with the filthy mind? You can’t take a holiday?), and there was blogging, and there were minions, and there was a lot of laughing, and there was time spent with family and friends.

Anyway, I kind of covered all this, to some extent, in my squishy Thanksgiving post, so I won’t bore you all with my totally graphic-novel-eque origin story all over again, or how much I love my internet people, or my book club, or Twitter, or my phone, or all of that. It’s only been a month. I don’t think your memories are all that short. But here, in case you want to refresh your goldfish-minds, here’s the Thanksgiving post.

Were there sad times? Sure. Sure there were. For all the wins, there were some losses: people and things, and minds and hearts, from time to time. You could do worse than listen to The Bloggess about this. The crocodiles are always there, and I count it a good year when you know they’re there, and can still laugh, you know?

This is the year I found my people, or my people found me. Either way, we’re found. It’s much more of a year of finding than losing, a year of not feeling alone anymore, even when I was. And to top that off: it’s the year of my barbaric yawp. It’s the year of not going quiet and not staying silent. It’s the year of saying “No, you know what? That’s not acceptable, because I deserve better than that” and having it be heard, for the first time since I was 13. It’s the year of douchecanoe and asshat and ALL-CAPS and open letters and book death-matches and Loser’s Tables and magic no-hangover Olive Garden wine and Android phones and geekery and book clubs and honey badgers and Tyrion Lannister and the Rubber Man and THE NEPHEW ZOMG (listen, every year will be the year of The Nephew, let’s be frank) and singing along with a crowd in the street to Company of Thieves and having someone introduce me to Marian Call and someone else introduce me to Robert Kirkman and more happiness, seriously, and without a shred of snark, than a person should probably legally be allowed to have in a twelve-month span.

2011, I loved you more than anyone could love a year. Sometimes I look around and I just grin with the delicious possibility of it all. And I kind of feel like my beloved honey badger: equally taking what I want, and not giving a shit.

2012: I expect more of the same. Screw the Tarot, I think probably the magic left them when Dumbcat decided to plop down on the spread and start licking his ass because he wasn’t getting enough attention.

I’ve got big plans for you, 2012. Don’t you dare let me down. You know how I get when I’m angry. You totally wouldn’t like Hulk when she’s angry.

And minions? You’re the cherry on my sundae; you’re the apple in my eye; you’re the top, you’re turkey dinner, you’re cellophane. Thank you for being here, thank you for making me laugh, thank you for reading and thank you for commenting and thank you for being the most awesome blog readers anyone’s ever had in the history of ever. You’re my happy New Year, you guys. But not that Rudolph’s Shiny New Year garbage, who needs that shit, anyway.

Happy New Year to you all. I won’t sing “Auld Lang Syne” to you, and you can’t make me, because do you WANT to go into 2012 with punctured eardrums? I thought not. I’m glad you’re here. Be careful tonight, and best of all things in 2012. Let’s do this together, what do you say? I’ll bring my caps-lock, it’ll be a blast. Sorry. IT’LL BE A BLAST.

My mom says I’m a catch; I’m popular

Happy Thursday! Listen, this grippe is the worst, I’m not going to lie. I’m pretty sure I’m on my way out. Also, I looked up what the symptoms of the grippe were, and were you all aware that the grippe is just the flu? Well, that’s disheartening. Doesn’t the grippe sound so much more romantic and like I’d be swooning on my fainting couch wearing a long white nightie? Yes. I want to be sick like in an old novel. If I have to be sick I want to be sick in a pleasing fashion. COME ON SICKNESS WORK WITH ME HERE. Ooh, also the flu used to be called “catarrh.” I LOVE THAT YO. I want to have the grippe AND catarrh. Well, no, let’s be frank, I don’t want to have either of them, I feel like a freezing cold pile of crap right now (no, seriously, I CAN’T GET WARM, and this is not assisted by the fact that my office does not seem to understand that it’s time to TURN OFF THE DAMN AIR CONDITIONING NOW.) But I am TOUGH. I am SOLDIERING ON. Or whatever, really I’m just sitting here making a weird noise whenever I breathe and coughing a lot and doing a lot of “why meeeeeee” and I’m hoping this will annoy them all enough to send me home. So far, no go, but hope springs eternal, you know?

So first, today, I was going to do a “my favorite blogs of 2011” post. But then I thought, listen, I can’t do that. Because it would end up like the one time I tried to do #FF on Twitter. If you’re not on Twitter, you don’t know about #FF. #FF is Follow Friday. You type in someone’s name you think your followers should follow, and hopefully they listen to you. But it becomes like a popularity contest, and people get their noses bent out of joint if they’re not #FF’d, or if others are #FF’d instead of them, and the one time I tried it I failed SO MISERABLY I have been hiding under my #FF rock ever since.

So if I did a best-of blogs post, you know I’d leave someone off, and that would hurt someone’s feelings, and then I’d feel like an asshole? And who likes that? No one. So here’s the scoop. See my blogroll? Those people rock. And are my favorites. So read them and follow them. And, in a week or two, there will be ADDITIONS to the blogroll, because I’ve been remiss about adding my new loves to the blogroll as I come across them. So keep an eye out, I’ll have new people for you to read very soon.

See? I could totally be a politician I’m so vague and non-committal. Also, apropos of nothing, this time of year makes me very excited. I love debates and shit. SO EXCITING YOU GUYS. In another lifetime I think I was a politician. Who probably got assassinated, hence my obsession with political assassins. This would explain a lot, right?

Anyway, then I was thinking about other things, like, how am I out of lunchmeat? I could have sworn I had lunchmeat, like, last week, when I left for the holidays. Did my cat eat my lunchmeat while I was gone? Did a burglar break in, steal only lunchmeat, and then leave? If so, I hope he’s enjoying it, because that’s the saddest robbery I’ve ever heard of. He could have also stolen some other food, if he really needed it. Like, I have a bag of frozen cauliflower I’ve had for like three years he would be totally welcome to, if he wanted it. It’s probably pretty freezerburned but you know, I’m a giver and I hate to think of someone just eating old turkey from Gladware, you know?

No, no, I really did think about other things. So you know how I’m obsessed with my stats, right? So I thought, let’s look and see what posts, since I started this crazy adventure, people have read the most. Wouldn’t that be fun? And then we can try to figure out, based on these, what the readers want. Because, as mentioned above, I’m totally a giver. Plus I love my readers. Like, so much. I’d totally promise you a rose garden, you guys. I mean, if I knew anything about gardening. Or flowers. Or owned any sort of property where a rose garden could be legally planted. Or wasn’t afraid of bees.

Also, when I researched it, I realized that stupid widget over there that tells you what my most popular posts are is completely wrong. I have to take that off. Dumb thing. I’m going to tell you a shocking thing right now: the Blogger widget for that was better. I KNOW RIGHT. Can you even imagine?

I’m single and there’s way, way too many options

The main idea of this post: dating advice for the modern age, provided by my minions

OK, good! I like this post. I like that you like this post, too. You are SMART READERS. Also, I put a happy video in it. You know, like they tell you to do. To make things more visually pleasing.  And it was kind of funny. But mostly that was because of the minions. They brought me the advice. I just added things in. Like “douchecanoe.” I mean, you can’t go wrong with douchecanoe.

What we learned that readers like from this post: humor, advice, and lists

Also, you’ll break an axle on the road less traveled by. YOU’RE WELCOME.

The main idea of this post: platitudes and proverbs make me totally stabby

I like this one, because whenever it comes up, that photo of the cat with a rainbow and a tie pops up, and I like to see it. Cats wearing clothing is a total win in my book. Want to see Dumbcat dressed up like a curious reindeer? Here.

See? TOTAL EFFING WIN, am I right? I know, I totally am.

Anyway, this post makes me happy because a., it was fun to write, b., you all seemed to enjoy it, and c., there are SO MANY STUPID PLATITUDES AND PROVERBS that I think I can probably make it a recurring segment here and would have enough material for a few more of them. I approve. You really all have excellent taste. Just saying.

What we learned the readers like from this post: humor, lists, and cats wearing clothing

Oh, Randy! You came! And you gave! Without taking!

The main idea of this post: I found my life partner, and his undercover blog name is Randy, and he hates me and my blog SO EFFING MUCH (but that’s just a front for how much he loves me, I think)

Listen, here’s some shocking news for those of you who read this post: Randy never contacted me again. I KNOW RIGHT. You’d think, after I proved he was totally in love with me and all, we’d be married by now, but apparently he’s playing hard to get. It’s really quite the saddest. I totally got his name tattooed across my face all Mike-Tyson style and everything, I’m worried that might have been a mistake now.

Also, I was kind of almost not going to even publish this because I thought it made me look crazy. Well, crazier than normal. Well, FINE, I guess I already look crazy, SO WHY AM I WORRED.

What we learned the readers like from this post: humor, me finding the love of my life, me being insane, me ripping some douchecanoe a new one for being an asshat

I’m pretty sure you’re not “loosing” your mind. I mean, you might be. But odds are good you’re not.

The main idea of this post: grammar is your friend, you troglodyte

The sheer fact that this is in the top ten most-viewed posts OF ALL TIME, over seven months of blogging, makes me so happy I can’t even function. GRAMMAR, you guys. GRAMMAR! A thing that is totally the most boring! Well, not to me, but to most people! Is one of my most viewed posts EVER! Also, a teacher (and a wonderful blogger in her own right) is going to use this post to teach her students grammar this semester at school. Are you even serious right now? I can’t even tell you how excited I was the day she asked me if I’d be ok with that. I seriously spun around in my office chair. More than once.

And I thought no one would READ it! And I thought you would all be BORED! I want to French kiss ALL OF YOU RIGHT NOW. No, not you, Pervy Pete. Pants back on. You’re only embarrassing yourself, you know.

What we learned the readers like from this post: humor, GRAMMAR (squee!), feeling superior to others who aren’t good with grammar, intelligence

WordPress, I would totally backseat makeout with you and steam up the windows.

The main idea of this post: WordPress is awesome; Blogger sucked a bag of dicks

Sometimes I wonder about you guys. I write things that I think no one will care about, and I think, eh, whatever, this jazzes me, so I’m going to post it, and no one will care but me and maybe like a handful of my more constant readers, but this is the sixth-most read of my posts EVER. I’m thinking it’s that I have “makeout” in th. title. So people click on it thinking it’s pervy. Right? Probably. Whatever, it gets the stats up. Anything for you, stats. BOOBS BOOBS BOOBS.

What we learned the readers like from this post: humor, comparisons of blogging platforms

In Girl World, Halloween is the one night a year when a girl can dress up like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it.

The main idea of this post: slutty Halloween costumes are hysterical. And not everything should be made slutty.

This happened before most of you came on board. Honestly, this post is one of my own favorites. I consider something a success iffor still makes ME laugh months later. Like, you are all aware I crack myself up daily, right? I totally do. When I’m driving around, for example? I have fake conversations with myself, and they are HYSTERICAL. I crack up all the TIME. I had a fake conversation wita myself in my head at the library a few weeks ago about a breastfeeding manual that made me cry silent tears of laughter. Yeah. I’m totally the funniest. Which is awesome? Because ifit’s can’t make yourself laugh, who’s going to make you laugh? No one.

Anyway, I love this post because it’s dirty, and funny. And because I’m inordinately proud of the line “Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? Who cares, let’s do it in the coat closet.”

What we learned the readers like from this post: humor, slutty Halloween costumes, dirty jokes

Also, we usually don’t live like we’re dying or serve beer to our horses. Sorry, Germany.

The main idea of this post: Country songs are misleading foreign nations as to what goes in on America.

I’m pretty sure I was a little toasted when I wrote this post. Thathe usually the case when a post was written on a Saturday night. I the home from work and I open the Olive Garden magic no-hangover wine and I think “THIS WOULD BE A FUNNY IDEA.” Sometimes it works, sometimes I tweet things that I think are funny but make peopl. think I’m suicidal. It’s a fine line, really.

Anyway, the reasons I’m very qualified to have written this: I’ve driven through Texas (TWICE!), I know some Texans (on the Interwebs! I don’t think I kthey’re in real life. So maybe they’re not real. My dad says no one on the interwebs is real. Also that they’re all liars. Listen, I was crazy head-over-heels in love with a Louisianian once. Does that count? That’s sort of not far from Texas. He was a ginger. And so tall. And one of the funniest men I’ve ever known. SIGH. Please let me wallow in a love that never came to fruition for a moment? Thanks. Moving on) and I’ve listened to enough country music in my lifetime that I could probably pthe an essay exam on it. I don’t know how this happened. At one point, my radio station got tuned to the country channel and I’m extremely lazy and I never changed it off because it told me the weather and I like to know the weather.

What we learned the readers like from this post: humor, lists, making fun of song lyrics and hicks, possibly Texans and/or Germans

Rockin’ Robin went Tweet, Tweet, Tweet? Birds Have Internet Connectivity? Distressing.

The main idea of this post: Tips on how to use Twitter correctly. Also, I have a hammer that I will throw at you if you don’t follow the rules.

I like to give tips, because I’m totally a cranky old woman and things annoy the shit out of me on a daily basis and I don’t understand why you don’t just listen to me and follow the damn rules already. This is probably my favorite tips post. Also? They’re all still totally true. I still believe in all of them. And I still hold my throwing hammer in reserve, in case you asshat it up.

What we learned the readers like from this post: humor, lists, rules, hammers, crankiness

Every Time You Speak to Me You Tell Me What to Do

The main idea of this post: I don’t like women who bully other women into thinking they’re not good enough, strong enough, smart enough, or womanly enough. So I ranted.

This post blew up my blog, back in August. It got linked to all over the place. One of the women who wrote one of the articles I called out in the post actually commented on it. I was, and remain, totally proud of this post. I reformatted it, just for YOU, in case you want to read it again (or for the first time, maybe.) I love that it’s still the second-most read post I’ve ever written.

I haven’t been ranty lately. Nothing’s really made me all that ranty, I guess. Do you want me to be ranty again? I could, I suppose. Find me something to get pissed about. Although, can we not do it this week? The grippe and catarrh are totally tiring me out.

What we learned the readers like from this post: when I get pissed off about something, apparently

“Why am I such a misfit? I am not just a nitwit.” Yes you ARE, Hermie. SHUT UP.

The main idea of this post: That Rankin-Bass Rudolph special is annoying, yo

How is this my most popular post of all time? That makes me laugh. I’m totally glad it amused you all so much. The Bumble thanks you for your support. So do the misfit toys. And Rudolph’s crazy eyes.

What we learned the readers like from this post: humor, mocking of our childhood traditions, the Bumble

So what have we learned from the stats today?

Apparently, minions, you like humor and lists the most. Which is good? Because that’s what I do most. And best. YAY. I’m so glad we cleared that up. Whew.

I’d make you a humorous list, but I’m totally exhausted and now my coworker gave me a huge project because she thinks I “look bored.” Really? No. It’s not boredom. IT’S THE GRIPPE. Get it right, sunshine.

Humorous list, because I love you:

Things That I Have Done Wrong at Work Since Contracting The Grippe, Also Known as Catarrh:

    • Answered the phone with “good afternoon” at 9:15am


    • Left the mailbox keys hanging in the mailbox key slot so ne’er-do-wells could totally steal our mail


    • Dropped my can of lemonade, then accidentally kicked it across the room when trying to retrieve it


    • Forgot to ask “may I ask who’s calling” so made up a name when transferring a call to a co-worker because I was too tired to click back to the caller and ask their name, so many BUTTONS, my WORD


    • Tried to write with the pen cap still on the pen


    • Asked someone to carry the mail bin for me, because SO HEAVY (it wasn’t heavy)


    • Said “what?” about 14 times in a three-minute conversation until the person I was conversing with wandered off (might continue this one in the future, I think that’s a keeper)


    • Forgot where I put my coffee, still don’t remember, it’s been 24 hours, WHERE COULD IT BE


All for you, Damien. ALL FOR YOU.

Ask For Me Tomorrow and I Shall Be a Grave (Wo)Man

Well, here we are. In 24 hours, I will either be home, or just about home. What, Amy? I can hear you thinking. (Yes, I can totally hear you thinking, I know, I might be psychic, I should find a way to make money from this, right? If I could find a way to make money from all of the awesome things I’m able to do I’d be the richest lady in Bedford Falls.) How will you already be almost home at 10am Friday morning since you’re writing this at 10am even though it probably won’t be posted until like noon or one or something because you know you’re probably going to write for two hours and also people in your office keep giving you work as if they don’t know you are a very famous blogger, let’s be frank? Well, reader whose thoughts I can totally read because I’m like the Miss Cleo of blogging, the answer is this: I am a chronic insomniac and the day before a trip, it gets oh so much worse, because my head is as stuffed full of thoughts as a Christmas turkey is stuffed full of – well, stuffing, I suppose, and, oh, I don’t know, giblets? Gross slimy things like that, anyway – so the odds I WON’T be up at 4am tomorrow ready to go are slim-to-none. I’m betting I’ll be on the road by 6. Which is nice, because no one’s on the road but me and exhausted long-haul truckers who meander out of their lanes because they’re sleeping behind the wheel. That’s not at all nervous-making.

Now it has come to my attention that at least two of you will miss me. I would have thought it would be more, but I guess when you’re going away for three and a half days, you learn who your REAL FRIENDS ARE. And mine are Ken and Andreas. So apparently only people in Europe love me enough to miss me when I’m away? Suck it, the rest of you who won’t miss me at all. (Oh, hush, I’m kidding, I’m kidding, I’m sure at least one other person will miss me, maybe two, it’s Christmas, after all, people are predisposed to be kinder.)

I’m going to attempt to blog while I’m home. Now, this is going to take some doing, because, as I mentioned, dialup. I think – I’m not sure, but I *think* – I can type up an entry in Word, dial into the internet, wait half an hour for it to connect, upload it to WordPress, wait another half an hour for it to post, and then kind of cross my fingers and toes and see what happens. So maybe you’ll see something from me tomorrow, Saturday, Sunday, or all three. If not, I’m back on Monday, minions and minionettes, and all will be well. And I’ll have STORIES. Oh, will I have stories. What will I get for Christmas? What shenanigans will my family get up to? What adorable things will The Nephew say or do? (Listen, I can answer that right now, the answer is ALL THE THINGS. Everything the kiddo DOES is adorable. Including punching me in the FACE. Also, when he does that, he gets timeout, and I asked my mom if I could sit with him in timeout, and she said I couldn’t, and I said, “What if I did something naughty, could I sit with him in timeout then? So I could spend more time with him?” and she said no, I’d have to sit in my own timeout in a different part of the house. This plan isn’t working out at all.) How brainless yet lovable will my brother’s dog be? THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS I TELL YOU.

Also, I have a whole plan for a thing I want to do? But my father says it’s morbid and when I told him I’m totally going to do it he said “I AM HANGING UP NOW YOU ARE A WEIRDO HERE TALK TO YOUR EQUALLY WEIRD MOTHER.”

Tomorrow I’m going to the cemetery to say hi to my grandparents? Because I love them and I miss them and it’s Christmas and I like to visit them sometimes and let them know I haven’t forgotten them, because even when people have a heart of coal they sometimes love people. Now, in that SAME CEMETERY, my parents have bought a plot for themselves. And they had a stone installed. With their names carved into it with their dates of birth and everything but blank for their date of death because they’re not dead yet like that guy in Monty Python. Do you find this overly morbid? I do. I know this is something people do, but I find it distressing. So there’s this plot and this stone with “AMY’S MOM DATE OF BIRTH – BLANK” and “AMY’S DAD DATE OF BIRTH – BLANK” just sitting there, waiting. So that’s worrisome. (Yes, yes, it says their real names. How funny and self-centered would it be if it really said Amy’s Mom and Amy’s Dad? Hee.)

But oh, it gets better.

So at the same time they bought those plots, there were plots available on either side of them. And my brother and I were, at the time, FOREVER ALONE. Now, my brother may or may not be when he dies, but let’s be honest, I’m going to be. So they were all, “Hey, Amy and Amy’s brother, do you want us to snap up these plots on either side of us so we can all sleep together in eternal slumber because plots are GOING FAST?” Like telemarketers or used-car-salesmen, my parents. And I don’t know what my brother said, probably “Grummphmrph” (he grunts a lot) but I was all “Sure, whatever, FOREVER ALONE” because who the hell cares and honestly, I kind of thought it was a hypothetical and so the next day my mother was all “So we got you a plot!”

Um, I didn’t really think this was going to happen.

Yes, I’m in my mid-thirties and now know where I’m going to spend all of time once I am a dead person. In a plot in upstate New York. Oh, sure, it’s very NICE, there are TREES and shit, one time I saw a SQUIRREL FROLICKING, whatever, but I find this off-putting.

I explained to my mother that under no circumstances was I to be buried there without being cremated first because that would mean at my wake people would look at my dead body and possibly touch me without my say-so and the idea of that creeps me out and also, what if I hated that person in life and would never, never have let them touch me? and she was all “whatever, I’ll be dead by then.” I’m totally serious, though. If I die and no one cremates me I’m going to be furious and come back and haunt whoever decided that letting people touch my dead body was a good idea. I hate that. I hate that we go to wakes and there’s a dead damn body sitting there. It makes me so nervous. No dead person would want that. You can’t tell me that the dead person would have wanted to look like a bad wax statuette of themselves and have people walk by them like they’re a display in a cut-rate museum. It is WEIRD. I want an URN. And just throw it in a HOLE. I’m DEAD. Who CARES. STOP TOUCHING MY DEAD BODY. Ugh.

So ANYWAY, when I go visit my grandparents tomorrow, I’m going to go check out my real estate. It’s the first land I’ve ever owned, I’m totally excited about it.

This conversation then happened with my father.

Me: So Dad, we’re going to the cemetery to see your mom and dad tomorrow.

Dad: That’s nice.

Me: Also my GRAVE.

Dad: You’re a weirdo.

Me: I want to lay on it.

Dad: What the hell is wrong with you.

Me: No, I mean, not like because I’m tired, that’d be stupid, who’d do that, that’s not even funny. Like I’m dead. With my eyes closed and my hands crossed on my chest. Like a dead person.

Dad: It is WINTER. There is SNOW on the ground. And it is COLD.

Me: Mom said the snow all melted so it’s just wet but she’ll bring a shower curtain for me to lie on.

Dad: Your mother is OK with this? You’re both insane.

Me: I think it would be HILARIOUS.

Dad: You’re going to put the photo on your blog, aren’t you?

Me: Why the hell else would I take it?

Dad: No one wants to see that.

Me: You don’t know my people. They would LOVE to see it.

Dad: They’ll find out where your grave is if you post that photo and then stalk you.

Me: I guess if they went to all that trouble that’s totally flattering. Also, I don’t live at my grave. So they wouldn’t find me there. I guess the joke would be on them, wouldn’t it?

Dad: I also think it’s illegal.

Me: It’s not illegal. You bought that grave. We OWN it. We could plant a damn GARDEN there if we wanted.

Dad: We’re not planting a garden in the cemetery.

Me: We could totally plant carrots there.

Dad: We’re not doing that.

Me: Probably also turnips. But I wouldn’t plant anything too tall, like sunflowers. That would be really obvious and point out we had planted a death garden. We really need to plant low-lying plants. And I was also thinking, since I own it, I kind of want to put a Monopoly hotel on it, so if anyone lands there they owe me money. We should make money from this property we own now.

Dad: You’ve lost your mind.

So yeah, tomorrow, I’m going to the cemetery, and first I’m going to be reverent and say hi to my people and tell them I miss them and some stories and maybe bring them some flowers, then I’m going to spread a shower curtain on my future resting place and make my mother take pictures of me pretending to be dead. You know. As you do on Christmas Eve Eve. Also, it’s not sacrilegious, because the side of the family that’s buried up there would find it HILARIOUS. They have the best senses of humor, those people. They would totally get it. They’d LOVE it. And also, you’ll get a photo of me pretending to be dead in a cemetery, which will be the funniest, right? RIGHT. It’s a win-win, really.

Alright, well that was fun! OK. Let’s see. I should probably wish you all the greetings, in case the computer at home is so slow I die of BOREDOM while using it, therefore necessitating a second, and much less humorous, trip to my shiny gravesite.

Merry Christmas, to those of you celebrating that holiday! May Santa and his elves and reindeer bring you all the goodies, may the newborn Christ bring you peace, may the little drummer boy not give you a headache with all that repetitive pounding, and may you happily veg out while watching Ralphie shoot his eye out on Christmas day on TNT, as all good people should!

Happy Hanukkah, to those of you currently celebrating THAT holiday! May your lamp oil last 8 crazy nights!

Happy Solstice, to those of you celebrating that holiday (which is TODAY, actually, so happy happy Solstice, which is the holiday nearest and dearest to my own heart!) and Happy Yule! May the reborn great horned hunter god bring you joyous tidings in the new year!

Happy Kwanzaa to those of you celebrating that week! May the seven principles live on in your heart throughout the year!

Happy Festivus to those of you celebrating that tomorrow! May your Airing of Grievances be soul-cleansing and may you triumph in your Feats of Strength!

There, have I covered everyone? Probably not. If I missed you, HAPPY WHATEVER YOU CELEBRATE! Unless you celebrate something like “hatred of all cultures day” or “punch companion animals in the face day.” I’m not wishing you joyous tidings on something like that. You’re on your own there, Slappy.

I will miss you all, minions! Have all the fun doing whatever it is you do over the holidays. Hopefully I’ll be here, but if not, I’LL BE BACK MONDAY. I promise. Well, unless I die of the grippe whilst laying on my gravesite. It could happen. Wish me luck.

Oh, Randy! You came! And you gave! Without taking!

Hi! Hi. How are things? Good? Your Monday going great? What? Mine? Yeah, it’s fantabulous. As Mondays are, you know. I mean, what isn’t exciting about a Monday, what with the working and the deadlines and the rushy-rushy nonsense? Nothing, is what. Mondays are JUST THE BEST.

Anyway! So let’s talk about blogs, okay? I know, I know, we talked about blogs YESTERDAY. And we’re doing it again! Today! Suck on it, haters, I got some THINGS that need SAYING, you feel me? Why am I talking like I’m from the street? I don’t know. I think I might have accidentally left the television on Law and Order: SVU last night while I was puttering around the living room or something.

So I do this blog thing. And listen, I just dig it the most, baby. It makes me irrationally happy. Like, I’d probably rather blog than do almost anything. Which is good, because otherwise, it’s a little confusing why I’m here at all. And I’m super-happy with this blog, and the work I do over at The Loser’s Table (which I have to do more of, speaking of – SORRY SORRY LOSERS I AM COMING RIGHT OVER SOON I PROMISE) and Insatiable Booksluts (again, I promise, new Death Match as soon as I can! Damn you holiday season full of busy-ness!) Do I know what I’m doing? Eh, I don’t know. Sort of? People read what I write. People seem to like it. I like the people who seem to like it an awful damn lot.

Here’s the question I get a lot. Is this me? I mean, is this how I really talk in real, real life?

Yes. And no.

If I love you and I send you an email from real live me, does it sound like this blog? Yes. Sometimes. I use my all-caps. I like parenthetical asides. I make words up all willy-nilly if the English language doesn’t have a word that quite suits what I want to say. Sure. Sure I do that. Because listen, if I’d created a completely different persona to write my blog with, I think it would have gotten old quickly, and I would have probably dropped it like I’ve done with the millions of other things in my life I’ve gotten bored with and moved on from. Like quilting, and beading, and sleeping 8 hours a night.

The people who know me best have said that reading this blog is like having a conversation with me daily. So yes. Yes, how I write here is very much how I write (and talk) in real life.

But also, I’m not always this hyper. Sometimes I’m a calm kitty. I know! Total shocker, yes? It’s called exaggeration. I do it for effect. It makes things over in these parts more EXCITING. But sometimes I write nice, calm posts. Like the John Lennon post last week. I’m totally bendy. I can do it ALL, baby.

Anyway, this is going off-topic so far that we’ve gotten to the bad part of town and we need to lock all the car doors in case someone tries to get in the car while distracting us by squeegeeing our windows with a dirty squeegee.

I don’t have any advice on HOW to write a blog. I just WRITE a blog. Is it good? Subjective. Maybe. Maybe it is. Maybe it’s just a hell of a lot of fun for me, and if you get that, cool, you can hop on my trolley, and if you don’t, great, another trolley’s coming right up, maybe you’ll like that conductor better, I don’t know.

So this weekend, a friend re-posted one of my posts (the one about “it is what it is”) on Facebook, and tagged a couple of his friends who he thought would enjoy it.

That resulted in this: the single most enjoyable blog critique I have ever received in my LIFE.

“I got to the second paragraph and realized I’d need to drink heavily before reading the rest. Where does one sentence stop and another begin? How do you justify entire and completely different thoughts parenthesized within a single, 6-line sentence? WHY DO THINGS NEED TO BE CAPITALIZED? I haven’t finished reading it yet, but I guess it is what it is”.

Now, before you, my loyal and loving minions, get all up-in-arms and “what the hell” and “what a douche” – please know I am not in the least bit offended by this. This has brought me more joy than you can even imagine. It is SO PERPLEXED. And it is SO INDIGNANT. Also, everything is spelled correctly (“parenthesized” made me shiver with delight) – and it’s a commenter on Facebook, where spelling and grammar are, as I’m sure you’re all aware, apparently optional. I’m pretty sure I’m in love with this person right now. AND, you KNOW he’s in love with me. Because, if we’ve learned anything from third grade, it’s that the boys that insult you the MOST also LOVE you the most, right? Yes yes yes.

I’m going to ignore the fact that later on in the conversation he told me that my usage of caps lock was “trite and over-done” because our burgeoning love is JUST THAT TRUE and JUST THAT RIGHT. Also, I hate conflict. I was telling @lahikmajoe about this this weekend. One time, when I worked at the video store, my big old mouth almost got me in a fight. Because there was this chick that worked there. And I was pretty sure she was an out lesbian. So someone said, in conversation, “you know, that girl who’s so mean to everyone” and I said, “Yeah, I know, the lesbian?” NOT DEROGATORILY I LIKE LESBIANS VERY MUCH. It was like saying, “the one with brown hair” or “the one with the nose ring.” I don’t give a shit what gender gets you off, for the love of Pete. Anyway, someone passing by heard that and told her “Amy called you a dyke” (I would NEVER EVER SAY DYKE) and so she showed up at the store one night when I wasn’t working and told my BFF to call me and get me there so she could kick my ass in the parking lot for calling her a dyke. (A., why’d you come on a night I wasn’t scheduled? B., I was like 23 at the time, that’s a little old for a parking-lot rumble, no?) So he called me and told me “Under no circumstances come here because she is scary. Also probably a lesbian so I’m not sure why she’s so mad.” And I kind of wanted to come there? Because I’ve never been in a fight, and maybe you should experience everything once. But he was all “NO NO AMY STAY HOME NO ONE LIKES FIGHTS” so I did. Then a year later she came into my new place of employment with a woman and they were holding hands and also kissing so I’m a little perplexed as to why she wanted to kick my ass for something that was true, but I guess that’s neither here nor there. I really didn’t say dyke. Who says dyke? Assholes, that’s who.

Dear Facebook Friend of a Friend Whose Name I Will Not Use Because I Think You Might Sue Me So I Will Call You Randy (aka Randy):

First, thank you. Thank you for one of the most enjoyable blog critiques I’ve ever had. No! I’m completely serious. I know it sounds like I’m being sarcastic? But I’m not. There was a skit once, on Kids in the Hall, where Dave Foley was sad because everything he said came out sarcastic, and he was so lonely because no one wanted to befriend the sarcastic man. I am the lonely sarcastic man in this scenario, Randy. I mean no sarcasm in this remark.

Let’s break this down, shall we?

First, thank you for reading a whole paragraph and part of a second. That’s further than a lot of people get! You’re the best. Are we in love? I think we might be. I like the direction this is going, Randy. I like it very much.

Second, as I told you on Facebook, yes. I always recommend that any of my readers drink heavily. Unless you’re in AA. Then probably don’t. I’d hate to hinder your recovery. That would be a total douche move on my part. And don’t tell me if you are in AA. The second A prohibits you telling me, I’m pretty sure. Listen, if you drink, I recommend Saturdays. We have Wine Saturdays on Twitter. Do you have a Twitter account, Randy? If you do, you should follow me. I’m a hoot over there. And as we’re totally in love now, I think you’d probably want to follow me. We could talk about cute stuff in our Twitter feed and people would know we were in love, and it would just be the best. In order for this long-distance relationship we’re in now to work, you really have to put some effort in.

As for where one sentence stops and the other begins, the rule of thumb is: follow the period. See? I just used one there. And another! Sometimes I end sentences with question marks; sometimes with exclamation points. Once in a while, I totally utilize an interrobang!? But you get the idea, Randy. End stop; new sentence, starting with a capital letter. Or sometimes with a new paragraph, I suppose. See how helpful I am? Just what you want in a mate, right? Thought so.

Justification of my parenthetical asides? Well, Randy, sad to say, I have none. Wait, no. That’s not wholly true. I have undiagnosed ADD, and sometimes I think of something SO EXCITING I can’t wait to share it. So I pop it in, parenthetically. I’m sorry if you think it didn’t flow. It probably didn’t. We’re still totally in love though, right? I’m a little worried you might not want me to meet your family now, and I’m pretty sure I’d rock at family-meeting.

Now, let’s discuss caps lock. That’s a dealbreaker, my adorable new sweetpea. I love my capslock. And my capslock loves me! I’m sure you totally spent your whole weekend reading all of my archives, and also my FAQ, where I explain my capslock usage, but in case you need a refresher: I actually KNOW that italicizing is classier and the way you’re SUPPOSED to do things. I don’t like doing things the way people tell me to, Randy. (Probably you’ll get that once we move in together. When’s that happening, by the way? Soon, right? I think you’ll like what I bring to the table. I have a red toaster. A RED TOASTER RANDY. I bet you have just a boring white toaster or something! Think of the joy you’ll get when making toast in my – I mean OUR – red toaster! The most joy, Randy. THE MOST JOY. Oh, wait, did I lose my train of thought? HOW UNLIKE ME RANDY.) So to answer your question: why? Why do things “need” to be capitalized? Well, they don’t NEED to be. But how boring would life be if we just did the bare minimum? You don’t seem like much of a go-getter, Randy, to tell you the truth. Like, I bet you don’t even like socks with wacky things on them. I would totally buy you wacky socks, Randy. AND WRITE YOU LOVE LETTERS ALL IN CAPS RANDY. Let’s do this.

Here’s what I like most about your comment, Randy. It ends on a note of hope. “I haven’t finished reading it YET.” (Capslock most definitely mine.) Yet? YET, Randy? So you’re going to, then. Don’t even tell me we’re not totally the most head-over-heels in love you’ve ever seen. I’m pretty sure this is that meet-cute they’re always talking about in romantic comedies, isn’t it. WON’T WE LAUGH AT OUR WEDDING RANDY. Whoo. Listen, though, I wrote a whole post about wedding rules, so you’re going to want to read that to brush up on my dos and don’ts. Like, if you face-cake-smush, we’re going to throw down.

Also, just to briefly address your comment of “trite” and “over-done” from last night: I’ll try harder, baby. I’ll work my way up to “hackneyed.” And – do I dare say it? – I’m going to strive for “jejune.” I’ll do that. I’ll do that for YOU. I’m totally into making this work. I’d do anything for love, Randy. NO I WON’T DO THAT RANDY.

So, in conclusion, Randy, I’m so glad we’re in love. And just so you know, I discussed it with my Twitter feed and when you propose (I’m really into platinum rings, just BTW, no, no, babe, nothing gaudy, I’m totally low-maintenance) I have to clear my acceptance with my minions, because if they’re not happy, NO ONE’S HAPPY RANDY. Don’t worry though, darling. I’m pretty sure they’ll love you. I mean, your impeccable grammar usage alone already has me all fluttery.

I eagerly await our lifetime of love together, Randy. I’m readying my capslock now.

LOVE, AMY. (SIDE NOTE: I don’t really have a side note. I just know you love them. IT’S ALL FOR YOU DAMIEN.)

I’m picking up a chant from the student body…they’re chanting for Rudy.

Apparently, when I blogged about Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer the other day and said I wasn’t going to be talking about Rudolph Nureyev, this upset some people, as they thought that a., they should have a SAY in what gets DISCUSSED around here, and b., they thought that I talk about more weighty matters than, say, crappy Christmas specials or hammering people over the head if they don’t follow the arbitrary rules of Twitter I set up while eating chicken fingers in the dark.

Well, THAT’S distressing. I mean, come on, it’s like you people want me to use my BRAIN or something. I know all about bad (and good, and, well, MOST ALL, actually) television. And about all kinds of random ephemera that doesn’t rate high enough on anyone else’s crap-o-meter to get noticed. Sure. Sure I do that. But historical figures with the first name Rudolph? I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT THESE PEOPLE.

I like history quite a bit, sure, but I’m not a SCHOLAR of people named RUDOLPH. I mean, who is? What an odd thing to be a scholar about. Also, ALSO! What’s up with you people thinking you get to VOTE on my blog topics, hmm? Is this suddenly a blog-ocrocy? It is NOT. It is a DICTATORSHIP and I am GRAND HIGH POOBAH. I have a HAT with a TASSEL and a LITTLE CAR with BULLETPROOF GLASS.

Shit, I totally don’t have any of those things and I’m pretty sure my minions will revolt if I don’t give them what they want once and a while, right? And I love my minions. They’re the best minions in the history of minioning.



(with additional notes from my brain)

Rudolph Giuliani

This smile screams "Have I got a lemon I MEAN A REALLY GOOD PRE-OWNED CAR FOR YOU!"

Famous for: being the mayor of New York City during 9/11

Rudy Giuliani was born in 1944. That makes him 67. Aren’t you totally impressed with the math skills I did on paper just now? I thought so. He was a lawyer and a businessman and a mayor and he smiles a lot.

He was the mayor of New York City from 1994-2001. This was during the 9/11 terrorist attacks. I wasn’t living on that coast at the time, so I don’t know what the local sentiment was, but from across the country, I thought he was doing a pretty decent job of holding it together. Also, he went on Saturday Night Live not long after the attacks and that was nice of him.

I think every once and a while he makes some noise about running for president but nothing really ever comes of it. I think the problem is, he kind of looks like a really desperate used-car salesman. Like, “OH MY GOD PICK ME PICK ME” and that’s not as much confidence-inspiring as it is sad. He actually reminds me of that guy from Glengarry Glen Ross who’s also on The Simpsons, you know, Old Gil? That guy? Who’s all desperate and “Come on, Old Gil needs a win, aw, this just isn’t Old Gil’s day!”

Apparently he’s had some marital issues. It’s that smile, seriously. It’s creeptastic. That’d be all coming at you in the dark, just imagine that. No thanks.

Oh, and he had a weird son who was all jumpy when he was being inaugurated for the first time and Chris Farley played him on Saturday Night Live. Aw. Chris Farley. I miss him so much.

Should I have blogged about him rather than Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer? NO. He’s totally boring compared to the Bumble. Come on, guys.

Rudolph Valentino

So effing dreamy. I can't even. I have a thing for Roman noses, bee tee dubs. Yowza.

Famous for: being a super-hot Italian silent film star; dying young

Rudolph Valentino was totally rawr-worthy, and apparently women in the 20s wanted to lick him while men in the 20s were all “ugh, whatever, he is GREASY” and thought their women should be wanting to bone Douglas Fairbanks. Listen, whatever, I would totally do either one of them. They are both DELICIOUS. Well, no, not NOW. They’re dead now. Sheesh.

Don't even tell me you wouldn't have wanted to be in a Valentino/Fairbanks sandwich.

But anyway, he was in a bunch of silent films, and all the ladies swooned, and all the men were filled with jealousy and called him effeminate (this is how people in the 20’s yelled “fag” out of car windows) and Valentino tried very hard to shake off these rumors by sleeping with all of the ladies and also boxing. Aw, poor sexy Valentino. Listen, Valentino. They were totally just JEALOUS. I mean, nowadays, all these years later, when someone’s a famous lover and totally hot, they call him a “Valentino.” They don’t call him a “Frank” or whatever those people’s names were. DON’T BE SAD MY ITALIAN STALLION.

Also, he wrote a book of poetry called Day Dreams. I kind of am having a day dream about Valentino right now. Also Fairbanks. Let’s be frank. I’m an equal-opportunity daydreamer.

So he was super-famous, and randomly married a lesbian, then another lady once that didn’t work out for him, and then when he was 31, died of complications of appendicitis. What the hell? That seems unfair. He was totally too pretty for that to happen. 100,000 people lined the streets of New York City for his funeral. I’m going to guess most of those people were of the female persuasion.

Should I have blogged about him rather than Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer? Maybe. He’s kind of a total fox.

Rudolf Nureyev

Who's a BAMF? Nureyev. I want to go on a crime spree with him.

Famous for: ballet and awesomeness

This is actually totally kind of sad and also awesome. So Rudolph Nureyev was the biggest Russian ballet dancer in all of the land, and went on tours, until Russia was all “nyet nyet” and made him stay in Russia. He was totally all subversive and a bad-ass, though, and one day, one of the other top dancers fell ill and he had to replace him on his European tour. He scandalized Mother Russia by fraternizing with PARISIANS ZOMG and then in a dashing bit of derring-do, he ESCAPED and defected and stayed in France. I’m kind of totally in love with Nureyev right now. Aw, and then while touring Denmark, he met and fell in love with another ballet dancer, Erik Bruhn. Squee, Nureyev! That was in 1961. He wasn’t allowed back into Russia until 1987, to visit his dying mother, because Russia was totally in a snit about him taking off like that. I would be, too. He’s totally the coolest. And apparently he appeared on The Muppet Show and danced “Swine Lake” with Miss Piggy. Heh.

This is a sentence I stole from Wikipedia (which is scaring me lately, WHY ARE THERE ALL THE THUGS AND WITCHES AT THE TOP OF THE PAGE LATELY WIKIPEDIA) that I love about Nureyev: “Nureyev was notoriously impulsive and did not have much patience with rules, limitations and hierarchical order.” Yep. ME TOO NUREYEV.

Erik Bruhn died in 1986 and Nureyev died in 1993. They both suffered from, and died from, complications from the AIDS virus. THIS IS SO DEPRESSING MINIONS I CAN’T EVEN.

Should I have blogged about him rather than Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer? Yeah, maybe. He’s really kind of interesting. But then I’d have to do all the serious research, and also maybe the KGB might put me on their “people to kill” list or something, and I don’t have time to run from the law right now. I’m very busy.

Maya Rudolph

I also totally dig her freckles. And I liked her Donatella Versace impression.

Famous for: being on “Saturday Night Live”

I know, this one’s cheating, right? TOO BAD. It’s STILL MY BLOG.

I love Maya Rudolph because she’s totally not afraid to make a complete and total dork out of herself. That makes me happy. Also, were you aware her mom was Minnie Riperton, who sang that “Loving You” song that goes so high near the end that only dogs can hear it? AND she’s in a relationship (and has three children) with Paul Thomas Anderson, who directed Magnolia. What’s my favorite movie in the whole, whole world, quick, anyone, QUICK I SAID? Yep. Magnolia. ‘Tis true.

One of my favorite things Maya Rudolph did on Saturday Night Live was Glenda Goodwin, Attorney at Law, who wanted to protect you from things like thunderwolves. I am heartily amused by the inane sketches that no one likes that are on very late at night.

Also, she’s in movies now, and also on that show Up All Night, doing her Oprah impression but pretending it’s something else, but I never much liked that impression to begin with so I don’t watch that show. Sorry, show.

Should I have blogged about her rather than Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer? Only if it was part of a Saturday Night Live themed post. Which I’m totally going to foist on you guys someday. I LOVE SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE SO SO SO MUCH IT’S REALLY EMBARRASSING TO THE PEOPLE WHO LOVE ME.

INTERLUDE – The internet tells me that Rudolph means “famous wolf” or “wolf fame.” That’s odd. And funny. In other news, Amy means “beloved.” I KNOW RIGHT. That couldn’t be MORE true.

Rudolph, Wisconsin

My hometown had like a gun on the sign or something, I think. I like the deer better. More welcoming.

Famous for: The NASCAR driver Dick Trickle lives here. THIS IS A REAL PERSON’S NAME. Also, there’s a place in town called “The Wonder Cave.” I wonder if Dick Trickle’s ever been in The Wonder Cave? EUPHEMISM? You decide.

Seriously IT IS HIS REAL NAME. I couldn't even BEGIN to make something like this up.

Rudolph, Wisconsin is a village with 423 people in it. One of them is named Dick Trickle, and there’s a place called The Wonder Cave. In The Wonder Cave, there are all kinds of God things, like statues and sayings and religious curios. That’s not so wonderful for those of us who would go down there expecting vampires, stalactites or Sleestaks. MISLEADING.

It *looks* wonderful, from the outside. Inside it's all Virgin Mary statues and praying stations. I KNOW.

People in Rudolph, Wisconsin, are almost all white and almost all rich, and they seem to like dairy a lot because they have a whole factory for dairy products, according to that scary woman on Wikipedia who wrote like a kabillion articles and looks like she has a gingerbread house in the woods.

Dick Trickle. WHY DID I NOT KNOW ABOUT THIS SOONER INTERNETS. (Side note: my father, who loves NASCAR, says that Dick Trickle is not a funny name at all. When I said it IS a funny name, and reminds me of that old “The Yellow Wallpaper by I.P. Freely” joke, he said “Stop making fun of poor Dick Trickle,” and then I laughed until my nose ran for like an hour.)

Should I have blogged about this rather than Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer? Um, yeah, probably. What are the odds that someone named Dick Trickle’s going to move to a town with less than 500 people in which there’s a place called The Wonder Cave? I mean, that’s comedy GOLD, people. You couldn’t make something like that up if you TRIED.

There are other Rudolphs and Rudolfs in the world – Rudolf Steiner was an Austrian philosopher who founded Anthroposophy, which I KNOW sounds made-up but it’s totally a thing; Rudolph Isley is one of the Isley Brothers; Wilma Rudolph won three gold medals in the 1960 Summer Olympics for being super-fast; Rudolph I of Germany was a king but I find kings and such totally confusing; and Rudolph Farnsworth is a villain on some show called Kim Possible, which is a really horrible pun, seriously. I’m sure there are others as well.

Are you HAPPY, minions? There. Now you know some THINGS about OTHER RUDOLPHS. With PICTURES. Don’t EVEN say I didn’t give you anything during this holiday season.

I still think Rudolph is a whine-ass and that the Bumble should have eaten him and his whole family. And PS, when I told my mother I blogged about Rudolph, she said, and I quote, “You talked about how much you loved The Bumble, didn’t you. We should have known there was something not quite right about you from the beginning.”

YES. THANK YOU, MOMMY. I love YOU, too. *smooooch*

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