On the Subject of Mushrooms

This post is an excerpt from my Real Life. Rumour is I have one!


Ah, the joys of the Internet.

Today I was blessed with an obscure email from an address I vaguely recognized but couldn't place on a particular face. It must have belonged to a fellow, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out which of my manly acquaintances would go by a moniker as limp as "ninety pound wuss". I had scratched and tapped my head a la Winnie-the-Pooh a full four times before I realized it was from my very first "sort-of-a-boyfriend-but-boys-have-cooties-so-we-mustn't-touch-yet-boyfriend-has-status-so-we'll-go-with-that"s. Unfortunately I am always slow to remember the identity of such creatures, so by the time I realize it I have usually read whatever greeting, insult, or creepy mouth-breatherish plea and am thoroughly tired of the contact, however brief.

This is wretched of me, I will happily admit, but I have no intention of being moved to more tender feelings than a maidenly shudder.

His message was far more creepy than expected, as the fellow in question tenderly recalled how close we were, (I only let him hold my hand once. He had sweaty palms.) how much I meant to him, (The only time I came to his house I sat in his sister's room the entire hour reading comic books.) that he had changed, (We had always referred to him by the Japanese word for mushroom in reference to his silence and dislike of any physical activity more demanding than hitting the Shift Key. By "change" I could only assume he had finally sent out spores.) and that my family and I were sure to be impressed by his new, shiny self. Oh, there was also a broken link to some sort of profile which I did not deign to investigate.


I'm wondering if he's recruiting for some kind of Pyramid Scheme or Cult, not that I care to find out. I look terrible in silly robes.

Your Bemused Correspondent,
Miss Impertinence

Tweet, Tweet, Time to Sleep

If a single Doctor Who fan misses that reference, I hereby disown you.


Well, Readers, I made the mistake inbetween reading Eragon of trying to traverse the perilous wasteland known as "Twitter". This is confuses me nearly as much as Paolini's---hem---"poetry".

-Your Suffering Informant,
Miss Impertinence

Trekking Through Eragon

Greetings, Patient Readers!

I am halfway through Eragon in between being a slacker and reading Foundling, Lamplighter, and Factotum by D.M. Cornish, which I highly recommend.

I am sorry to tell my readers that thus far Eragon is not winning me over, and that as things stand my next review will be as snarky as their predecessors. I am keeping an open mind, however, and if Paolini stops giving me obvious spoilers to a chapter's content in the title ("Doom of Innocence", "Dragon Tales", really?) I may forgive him. Until then, expect my poison'd pen to be up to its usual doings.

I remain,
Miss Impertinence

Future of Eragon Blogs

'Ello, oh devoted Readers!
It has come to my attention that there is already a very good blog that reviews Eragon on a chapter-by-chapter basis.
This being the case, another chapter-by-chapter review would be unbearably redundant, so my Eragon blogs will be in my previous format. This means the gaps between the books will be a bit longer, since I'll be slogging through---::ahem::---reading through the series in order to give the most ::coughs:: unbiased review possible.

Until my next blog, I shall be reading more Eragon.

... Heaven help me.

Dog Debacles

I’m still hiding from books I hate, so I thought that I’d stroll down Memory Lane and regale you with a tale from the annals of my youth. You know, back when I was young, carefree and ::coughs explosively:: innocent.


Dog Debacles (Or, “The Dog Channeled Linda Blair”)

First off, I should probably say that I love dogs. Adore them. As a matter of fact, I could live permanently single easier than I could live without a scruffy little misfit at my side.
I have a bit of a reputation among my friends as being rather vocal in my stance against animal cruelty, puppy mills, and carrying dogs around in handbags like accessories.

So why, God, why?!

For those of you who don't know, I grew up with three fuzzy dogs. At the time of this particular incident, Scooter (our female Golden Retriever) was 9, Belle and Angus (female and male Scotties) were 11 and 6, and I was somewhere between 10 and 200-years-old.
Belle had Cushing's Disease, which was treated with a medicine that suppressed the function of the adrenal gland to balance it out. The medicine was so powerful that if a healthy person touched it with bare skin it could damage their adrenal gland (keep this in mind when you read).

This particular morning my mum went to meet her best friend for coffee while I babysat the dogs. At the time, I was recovering from an illness that was the equivalent of having a stomach flu for several months. It was a big deal for her to go out, because for the last few weeks she had been home with me and the dogs in case I toppled over and cracked my pretty little skull. (This happened more often than you’d think.)
I insisted that I was quite well enough to be left alone and that there’d be no trouble at all. I promised I’d call her on her cell phone if anything happened that required assistance.

Mornings like this were fairly quiet, with the dogs snoozing in the sun while I worked on various easy chores or slept off the nausea from my meds. This time I thought I’d be all proactive and get a head-start on folding laundry. (This just smacks of impending doom, doesn’t it?)
In the middle of folding socks I heard a strange sound. At first I could have sworn it was a toilet plunger, but that made no sense. (My house was sadly lacking in brownies and house-elves.) I paused, cocked my head, and the sound continued.
I stuck my head out my bedroom door as Angus and Scooter came tearing down the hall as if they were being chased by a zombie trashcan. (Brave Readers, you probably see it coming, but at the time all I knew was that I only had 2 out of 3 dogs accounted for.)
Sensing disaster at hand I ran into the living room just in time to see Bell yakking up her breakfast.

Before I continue, where did she KEEP it all?! This dog barely ate anything; how is it that she had this endless supply of vomit? Great, this would be all kinds of fun. Nothing like cleaning up puke while recovering from stomach ailments. I had visions in my mind of losing my breakfast while cleaning up dog puke in a scene that would be too gruesome for tasteless comedy routines.

I ran all three of the dogs onto the back deck, with the intention of keeping them out of my hair while I cleaned up after Little Miss Upchuck. Good idea, right?

Operation 'This Will Not End Well' was a go.

While I was getting acquainted with my dog's stomach contents (Happy, happy, joy, joy!), I noticed little white pill fragments. Fantastic. The lysodren hadn‘t absorbed yet.
I thought it was a pain, but not the end of the world. At least it was nothing I'd have to interrupt my mum's morning for. (Poor noble me.)
Feeling extremely proud of my ability to suppress my gag reflex, I headed out on the deck and saw that not only did Belle barf again (::sobs::), but Angus had decided it was second breakfast and helped himself to it.

I repeat, the dog was gorging on lysodren-laced puke.

I blinked, mouth gaping. All that was left was a big damp spot and there was porky little Angus licking as fast as he could, knowing full well that all hell was about to break loose. Taking a deep breath, I called him in a happy, friendly voice.
Naturally, the little bugger ran for it.

Before you judge my actions, I must give you a disclaimer. I was all about calm assertive energy, and was an avid fan of the 'Dog Whisperer'. I had spent many months perfecting the Cesar Milan way, exuding strength, kindness, and balanced energy. Heck, I could even get a stranger's dog to behave better than their owners half the time.
Fat lot of a lot of good it did me in this instance.

"Dammit Angus! Get IN here!" (I think I had been watching McCoy in 'Star Trek' reruns too often. Stop judging, I‘m a blogger dammit, not a doctor!)

Of course it didn't work. Shouting at a dog never works. If I were Angus I would have run from me too. I probably looked quite deranged.

There was nothing for it, I’d have to call my mum for help. The last thing I wanted was for her to come home a scenario like this:

“Oh, hi Mum, welcome home! Slight issue, your dog is stone dead with his stubby legs in the air.”
...Yeah, that would go over brilliantly.

Thankfully she was leaving the café at the precise moment I called. When we got a hold of the vet he said we had to get Angus to vomit, and fast . (Happy day. Because obviously I hadn‘t enjoyed enough vomit-time that morning) She was still 20 minutes from home, so securing his survival was up to me. I was told to give the dog 1/4 cup hydrogen peroxide every 15 minutes until he threw up.
Goodie. I could hardly wait.

I wrangled the fuzzy little sinner and tried to pour it in his mouth, only getting maybe a swallow of the stuff in before his trap snapped shut. (Half of that bit went up the beggar's nose.) For those of you who don’t know, Scottish Terriers are small dogs with jaws that would better fit on a German Shepherd. They’re strong, and their teeth are HUGE. Many vets call them "land sharks".

So there I was, gentle Readers, sitting in a puddle of peroxide with a sulky dog, silently (and sometimes profanely) begging God to make him throw up fast even though I barely got anything in him.

I will be the first to say God answers prayer.

The next thing I knew, Angus was doing a bang-up job of reenacting 'The Exorcist', projectile vomiting across the kitchen while madly scuttling for the door.
Yelling, “thank yous”, and, "Good boy, Gus! Good Gusser!" I chased him across the kitchen and onto the back deck with paper towels and a bucket of water.
Poor Angus was entirely bewildered. There he was, enjoying a nice snack when his mum’s nut-job daughter decided to sit on him and semi-water board him with fizzy stuff. To make matters worse, the crazy broad was now chasing him with cleaning materials! He probably thought that I was a filthy hypocrite who wanted his puke for my own mid-morning treat.

In the end, the sticky, smelly mess was across the entire deck, on two rugs, the back door, the dog (more importantly, on ME), and even the trash can. A dozen buckets of water later (not to mention countless doggie wet-wipes) Angus was alive and snerfing around the floor in hopes of finding new and exciting treasures to inhale, and the kitchen and deck were spotlessly clean.

Needless to say he was intensely suspicious of anything I offered him as a consolation prize (Scotties are notorious among vets and owners for holding grudges) and was shooting me dirty looks from under his bushy little eyebrows.

What of the dog that started this whole mess? Belle seemed amused by the whole thing, to tell you the truth. Throughout the whole ordeal she was watching me slip, slide, and struggle with a distinctly smug look on her face.

Charming animals. Remind me again why I didn't get a goldfish?

Breaking Dawn Film Survival Guide

As stories filter into the news about the filming of Breaking Dawn Part 1, I realized that this means there will already be fangirls scheming to coerce their friends, family, and significant others into seeing the dreaded film with them. I've never had the misfortune of seeing a Twilight film on the big screen, though I have watched the first two on tellie with Rifftrax in hope of surviving with my mind intact. (I'm not sure that it worked, I think I've developed a tic because of the experience.)
Since I'm a benevolent philanthropist of the Internet, (and Supreme Dictator of my very own couch) it occurred to me that I should do something to help my fellow Antis. Fear not, valued Readers, for I have the keys to making it through Breaking Dawn while protecting your not inconsiderable mental faculties!

Miss Impertinence's Breaking Dawn Survival Guide:

1. Tinfoil Hat

I cannot stress enough the importance of blocking the radiation emanating from prolonged Twiner exposure. Since lead vests are hard to come by, focus on protecting your minds from excessive sparkling.

.

.

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2. Holy Water

I'm not even Catholic, but at this point we need all the help we can get. Thankfully, Lourdes seems to have it in the multi-gallon size. I recommend getting it into the theatre's sprinkler system and turning them on. Hopefully it will cleanse all of these poor fangirls... if not, at least you ruined their hairdos.

3. Air horn

I shouldn't even have to explain this. Just let 'er rip just as the long-awaited sex scene gets started. I would make sure I was in a theatre that I didn't want to return to, though.

One of the Antis I know suggested a kazoo if you're for subversive obnoxiousness. I must bow to her excessive brilliance.

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4. Valium.

Of course, consult your doctor before taking anything. I'm pretty sure that once you tell them that you're being dragged to Breaking Dawn they'll give you the go-ahead. They might make you sign a disclaimer saying that they warned you of the health risks associated with seeing the films. Side effects may include nausea, vomiting, dizziness, paranoia, deafness, blindness, bowel disease, and sudden violent urges.

5. Ear Plugs

Usually fangirls scream on a pitch that only bats can hear, but occasionally you'll have the misfortune to be in a theatre with a fangirl who has already exhausted most of her voice screaming in several showings in the same day. In those cases you will be able to hear it, and you may be temporarily deafened. In those cases, a little preparation is key.

6. Angry Squirrel

You might wonder why I include irritable rodents on my list, but I assure you that my reasoning is sound. Not everyone can make it through one of these films, and in the case that you get the overwhelming urge to escape, you need a proper distraction. You cannot count on your fellow movie-goer being sympathetic to your needs, and so you must take drastic measures. Releasing an angry rodent into a theatre is your only hope.

a) Quietly release rodent from purse or jacket. Choose a moment that will have the audience's full attention, such as one of the men being shirtless.

b) Kick the squirrel. I repeat, kick the squirrel, unless it is full of rodent rage to begin with. Punting small furry animals seems extreme, I'll admit, but aim it at someone who is drooling excessively and enjoy the results.

c) Scream like a banshee. I don't care what your gender or persuasion is, SCREAM. It's your only hope---if your Twiner friend sees you laughing the whole charade is over, and no doubt you'll be dragged to another screening asap.

If you follow my instructions, the theatre will be evacuated, and you will be free of this silver-screen drivel! Believe me, fearless Readers, you will thank me later.

I remain,

Miss Impertinence

Eragon Chapter 1 (In Which I Am Bashed Over the Head by Foreshadowing)

Noble Readers, I promise that I am giving Eragon a chance. I know that many of my Readers are fans of the books, and are reading this because they are rather fond of my cheerful snarking. (You saintly creatures!) If the book turns out to be original, exciting, and clever, I will happily bow down and eat my hat, so to speak.

Yeesh, maturity is more painful than I thought it was! See if I ever try that again!

On one thing I must be clear: I'm never going to say that plagiarism is justified, or acceptable. I happen to like Rowling's books (and have yet poked fun at them too, so she doesn't get off easier than any other author), but if she is found in court to have plagiarized another author's work I will turn my back on the franchise. Why? Because my enjoyment of the result of plagiarism doesn't make it okay. Theft is theft, even ideas can be stolen (Hence there being the term plagiarism and copyright laws to begin with.) and there's nothing "flattering" about it.

Now that I've explained myself, it's time to read some Eragon!


Eragon Chapter 1
Discovery

We first meet Aragorn--oops, sorry--Eragon (Paolini was ever-so-sneaky to change two letters in the name!) as he hunts a deer in the mountains. I don't get very far down the first page before I notice a wee contradiction. Let's see if you spot it too:

"The sky was clear and dark, and a slight breeze stirred the air. A silvery cloud drifted over the mountains that surrounded him, its edges glowing with the ruddy light cast from the harvest moon cradled between two peaks."

I'm going to give you another chance, take one more look above. I'm sure you see it too, but I'm going to point it out anyway. He just said that the sky was clear and dark, but in the next sentence he mentioned a cloud passing overhead. This might be nit-picking, but in my experience it seldom bodes well when an author can't keep track of the weather in his own story. Back to the book!
We learn that Eragon is fifteen, and that soon he'll be an adult in his culture. (I always find this idea frightening in fantasy stories. Teenagers with sharp, pointy objects...) He lives in Carvahall, near the Spine Mountains, which are major bad juju according to even the most experienced woodsmen. It will then come as no surprise that Eragon is in no way afraid of the mountains, and goes traipsing through them on a regular basis. (::coughs::GARY STU ALERT::coughs harder::) I guess he's just that manly, guys.
Eragon's hunting for some meat because Winter is on its way, and his family can't afford to buy meat in Carvahall.
I'll give Paolini some points for knowing that the poor in the medieval world couldn't afford meat, so this gives the story a little credibility. Let's see if he can keep it up.

"At the glen, he strung his bow with a sure touch, then drew three arrows and nocked one, holding the other two in his left hand."

Well, so much for credibility. Now we're expected to believe that this kid is Legolas. His ambush on the sleeping deer is ruined when a Big Mysterious Meteor comes down precisely where the deer were sleeping. Not that this BMM has anything to do with the Big Blue Stone that Isn't a Stone, of course. Sneaky-sneaky, Paolini!
Eragon then does what I would in that situation, which is poke it with a stick! Well, he pokes it with an arrow, and lookee here! Much to our amazement it's the BMM, and it is indeed the BBS.

"Nature had never polished a stone as smooth as this one. Its flawless surface was dark blue, except for thin veins of white that spider webbed across it. The stone was cool and frictionless under his fingers, like hardened silk. Oval and about a foot long, it weighed several pounds, though it felt lighter than it should have."

I might have a concussion from the heavy foreshadowing bashing me in the head. Could it be, I dunno, a DRAGON EGG? Noooo, too obvious, surely not.
Eragon then spends some time agonizing over whether or not the stone was meant to be there, was it formed by magic, and if it was meant for him. (Imma gonna guess that's a "yes", Eragon ol' pal.) He then decides to take it back to sell for some meat, (Big planner, this one.) and we end with our hero falling asleep.

Predictions:
1) We're going to be hearing an awful lot about Eragon's manly prowess in killing things. (Sort of like how Bella always moaned about being plain, and Edward called her preciousssss.)
2) I don't think that the foreshadowing will be very subtle in this book. It might be the lump on my head from the book hitting me, I dunno.
3) His descriptions will continue to be pretty, but will take up lots of unnecessary space.
4) I will go through my migraine medicine much faster than usual this month.