(no subject)

Yesterday I thought of a way to put MPREG in the TroNoWriMo. Okay, it's not like it's real MPREG, but it's fuckin' close enough. I've already done my MPREG time with "Feed Me to the Tabloid Monster", damn it. I've been paroled. They let me out of MPREG jail and gave me back my watch and some free underwear and said, "No more knocking up boys, you sick bastard!" So what do I do? Do I behave like a proper fic writer and go back to happy, normal female pregnancy? No, I pull a figurative Danny Ocean and say, "All right, you guy characters, we're going to knock over three casinos and every single one of you bastards is getting knocked up in the process!" Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand somewhere, a plotbunny delivers the world's largest litter.

And I can't even bring myself to get rid of the quasi-MPREG because a.) it makes sense and b.) I like it. Also, it means I can make someone bleed maple syrup. Don't ask me how. This story's fucked up like that.

Also, I've spent the last half hour looking through my memories, just because I got up and a few people said, "OMG, where the hell did my memories go?!" So I checked mine, and they're there, and I've been reading my Day After Tomorrow challenges. Dude, those were so fun. Somebody stop me before I decide to write more apoca-fic and nuke all of fanon, just because. (I think I like writing apoca-fic just for the opportunity to smite. I never get to smite in everyday life, damn it. I'm deprived like that.)

A note regarding my illustrious (albeit idiotic) co-workers.

Herein lies my dilemma. Today, I shall travel to the great and terrible land of Shipping Clerks to battle the Brotherhood of Evil Dumbasses. You'd think I wouldn't miss the previous dictator, a cruel, vicious beast who wailed and gnashed her fangs and stole all my Lorna Doones, but alas, these foul demons bring shame and stupidity to the forefront and leave tragedy and muttered German curses in their wake. Therefore, smiting today will be scheduled throughout the day. Please choose your inevitable horrific death carefully, as yours truly, while being a fair and just leader, is also a right lazy wanker when it comes to carpet cleaning.

The schedule for smiting is thus:

12:00 p.m: ODing on iron pills in an attempt to become Colossus.
12:30 p.m: Halle Berry. No elaboration needed.
1:00 p.m: Dipped in ketchup and fed to dragons.
1:30 p.m: Diced in lemon juice and eaten by squirrels.
2:00 p.m: A shot of Red Bull and tequila filled with broken glass.
2:30 p.m: Stepped on by Godzilla.
3:00 p.m: Burned to death with intermittent jabs by my hair straightener.
3:30 p.m: Viewing any ten minutes of House of 1000 Corpses.
4:00 p.m: Microwaved in a bowl of prune juice.
4:30 p.m: Poisonous frog juggling.
5:00 p.m: A rabid ferret down your pants.
5:30 p.m: Listening to me sing.
6:00 p.m: Two hours locked in a bathroom stall with Bobcat Goldthwait, circa 1987.
6:30 p.m: Drowned in a pool of Angel's angst.
7:00 p.m: Strangled by monkeys.
7:30 p.m: Catching a bowling ball with your teeth.
8:00 p.m: Making Pop-Tarts in the bathtub.
8:30 p.m: Standing outside in a thunderstorm and yelling, "Zeus is a fucking pussy!"
9:00 p.m: Licking every electrical outlet in my office.
9:30 p.m: Forced at gunpoint to sign up for a reality TV show.
10:00 p.m: Getting tonsillitus and attempting to swallow Excalibur.

Please sign up for your untimely demise with the Grand Attempts Department Poobah immediately upon notification of whatever lousy joke of a job you've done, as spots are limited, as is my access to small dangerous animals of questionable health.

...

Okay, how bad is it that I'm seriously thinking of posting this on my office door?

(no subject)

Did I mention that I have Bush vs. Kerry Boxing on my cell phone? When you play in campaign mode, you can beat up Bush, Bush Sr., Cheney, Ashcroft, and Rumsfeld. *evil cackle* Somewhere between that and Tetris, I may never get anything done ever again.

EDIT: Sports Night fic about the Olympics. Read it or be signed up against your will for the smiting list.

(no subject)

Matt Damon is getting a lap dance from Hugh Jackman. OhmyfuckingeverlovingallpowerfulslashadoringGOD.

This needs to be repeated. And I need to be there. Quite possibly in the middle, but I'll take what I can get.

EDIT: I printed the picture out and I'm putting it in my office above my computer. Hee. That'll keep me happy all day long. *eg*

HORNY FANGIRL OF EDIT: I also printed out the third picture down here, the one where clearly, Matt is enjoying himself immensely. ;)

(no subject)

God help me, but sometime today, my brain came up with the idea for an extremely intertwined multifandom apocalyptic fanfiction LJ community. Just one devastating global event affecting every single bloody fandom, and all of the stories twist together to make it like one big crossover fanfic, written by a bunch of authors who'd have to call dibs on different pieces of fandom and work together on the whole thing.

*sigh* Don't I have enough problems without wanting to start a new community?

(no subject)

Yeah, about that apoca-fic community ...

( I'm so totally doing it, it's not even funny. )

Eeek. This is going to be sooooooo cool. (And hopefully, everybody will do a whole lot of different fandoms 'cause that would just rock. Okay, so maybe I'm not all that articulate right now, but either I'm really excited or the Bawls is kicking in.)