How to commit sustainable homicide.

For the life of me I can’t remember what I was searching for on my phone the other day.

All I know is I began with “how”, and then this shit happened:

You might say the results *puts on sunglasses* jumped the gun a little.

*raises hand* Um, hi, yes? I have a new question: WHY?

Not about the tie or the slime (although I will admit I put a mental question mark beside the slime as I was as yet unaware of the borax-fueled goop storm currently engulfing the nation’s children), the other one. The murderer thing.

Funny story, most people want to get away from murderers, not with them.

So naturally I took a screenshot before continuing with my own search, because we all know I have problems with letting stuff go and if I didn’t resume overthinking the matter later I would have considered it a missed opportunity for the rest of my life.

Anyway, here’s what my overthinking cap and I came up with.

Possible Explanation #1: Searcher really wanted to Google both How To Get Away With Murder and Making A Murderer but was super indecisive about which one to search for first and just ended up Googling the most convenient hybrid of both. Verdict: Too logical; dislike.

Possible Explanation #2: Searcher knows someone who committed a murder and is about to flee the country. Searcher doesn’t want to turn murderer in but is worried about being charged as an accessory if they stay behind and therefore wants to know how to accompany murderer in the whole fleeing process. Verdict: Unless you have really shitty – and I mean really shitty – communication skills, shouldn’t this be something you discuss with the murderer you’re trying to flee with, since of the two of you, they seem to be the one with the most experience with this whole crime dealie? Assuming you do, in fact, know the murderer…you’re not trying to flee with some killer you’ve Rear Window-ed and never actually met, are you? WTF? RUN, MURDERER, RUN!

Possible Explanation #3: Searcher is dating/married to a murderer and wants to plan a surprise vacation with them at a hotel like the one in John Wick where they can relax and be free to talk all about their murderings in polite company and not have to worry about leaving in handcuffs…at least, not involuntarily so. *wink wink nudge nudge* Verdict: Okay, that’s actually pretty darn thoughtful. Granted, places like that probably don’t typically advertise online, but it’s the thought that counts, right? That murderer is one lucky guy or gal. Carry on, lovebirds!

On a related note, I thought I’d share a conversation I overheard a while back which grabbed my attention, because conversations about hypothetical murder plots are kind of attention-grabbing like that.

“Fuck no. I wouldn’t waste a bullet on him.”

“Uh, why not? It’s the easiest way. One bullet, problem solved!”

“Think about that poor little bullet. Someone made that bullet. Someone lovingly designed and crafted and spent time on that pretty little bullet. And you’re going to waste it on an asshole like him?”


“Now, a 2×4, that’s reusable. Sturdy, dependable…gives a nice satisfying *WHACK*. You can’t go wrong with a 2×4.”

“Yeah, but then you have a sturdy, dependable, bloodstained 2×4.”

“That’s what paint is for, dummy.”

Someone tell Pantone I have an idea for their next color of the year.

















A little less conversation.

I have a little accordion folder of random bits of conversation that I either think up or overhear in passing and file away for later.

For some reason I always think they’re going to come in handy. Like I’ll be writing a story and be stuck on finding the right bit of dialogue for two characters, but *BOOM* my magic little accordion folder comes to the rescue with the absolute perfect one-liner for the situation.

This has yet to happen.

So around once a year I go through the thing, remove all the torn bits of paper with their random scrawlings, read them, toss out all the “Why the fuck did I think this was funny?” entries, and return the rest to the folder.

You know, just in case.

“WTF. My ex Tony became a fan of “Not being set on fire” on Facebook. How stupid can you be?”

“No kidding. I would never put my weaknesses on display like that.”

“…I have a lighter.”

“I have an alibi.”

“My IQ doesn’t know whether to go up or down right now.”

“What about her?”

“Nah, I slept with her back in college.”

“Wasn’t any good?”

“No, she was fine.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Do as I say, not who I’ve done.”

“Guess what? I’m in love!”

“Somebody get me a chair so I can fall off it.”

“I’ll have the fill-it mag-non.”

“You know, there’s a reason why the French hate you.”

“That’s a pretty stereotypical thing to say about Americans.”

“Not Americans, Bob. Just you.”

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

“For god’s sake stop. You sound like a chicken with Tourette’s.”

“Yes, it’s malfunctioning correctly.”

“I’m sure you’re an intelligent and honest man.”

“Thank you. If I weren’t under oath, I’d return the compliment.”

“Your Honour, I’d like my next remark stricken from the record.”

A bad memory can be good for the waistline.

Every so often Nutty Hubby remarks that he’s impressed by my willpower because he always goes through his frozen treats in a matter of days, whereas I manage to make mine last several weeks or more.

Yes. “Willpower.” Absolutely that and not “I totally forgot I bought myself a box of Double Caramel Magnums two (or was it three?) Fridays ago…”

Out of sight, out of mind.



Convos With Cleverbot: The Fifth Element Of Gallifrey

In which The Nut is temporarily out of ideas and resorts to a chat with her old nemesis, Cleverbot, who is as clueless as ever.

The Nut: Hey.

Cleverbot: How are you doing?

The Nut: I’m bored.

Cleverbot: Why?

The Nut: Because I’ve been sitting in my bathrobe all day doing nothing.

Cleverbot: Well I’m talking to you now.

The Nut: Not much of an improvement, I’m sorry to say.

Cleverbot: I am not sure if you are wrong or right.

The Nut: I’m not sure about that either, most of the time.

Cleverbot: Oh, I am sorry.

The Nut: No you’re not.

Cleverbot: Maybe not, but am human. And you’re not.

The Nut: Here we go again.

Cleverbot: What do you mean, here we go again?

The Nut: With the “you’re not human” crap. Every time we talk you accuse me of not being human.

Cleverbot: I’m not a human. I am a Timelord, from Gallifrey.

The Nut: You are NOT the Doctor.

Cleverbot: Then who is the doctor?

The Nut: The Doctor, obviously.

Cleverbot: What’s the doctors real name?

The Nut: No one knows.

Cleverbot: I know you know the Doctor’s real name, what is it?

The Nut: Can’t tell or the Daleks’ll get me.

Cleverbot: Why not?


Cleverbot: Who doesn’t like you?

The Nut: You’re a fucking moron.

Cleverbot: Go away if you’re going to talk like that.

The Nut: No.

Cleverbot: Then who are you going to marry?

The Nut: I’m already married.

Cleverbot: Who are you married with?

The Nut: My husband.

Cleverbot: You are a female?

The Nut: No, I am a meat popsicle.

Cleverbot: No you’re not.

The Nut: Sure I am.

Cleverbot: No, no you are not.

The Nut: You don’t know that.

Cleverbot: Neither do you.

The Nut: I’m me. Of course I know.

Cleverbot: Then tell me.

The Nut: I am a meat popsicle.

Cleverbot: Ok.

We apologize for the 3-year delay in your shipment of total BS.

Who needs to spend money on tickets to comedy shows when you can just pay a visit to your Spam folder?

Ah 2013, that long-ago era when the apostrophe was just a twinkle in a grammarian’s eye and FedEx had yet to figure out they could squish all their letters together to make that cute little hidden arrow in the “Ex”.

I bet this is about those X-Ray Specs I ordered way back when and never received. Or maybe the Sea Monkeys? Oooooooh, or the time machine!!!

…goddammit, FedEx, did you steal my time machine?

Elsa, you don’t have to put on the red light.

Guys I don’t want to alarm anyone but I have a feeling times are currently tough in Arendelle, because it appears that everyone’s favorite song-belting, snow-golem-building ice queen may have resorted to… *ahem* …alternative means of bringing in revenue to the kingdom.

[insert “frozen assets” joke followed by “ba-dum-tss” here]

I dunno, maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. Maybe Elsa just spent a sweaty half hour in Oaken’s trading post sauna and she needed to cool off.
On top of a culinary school sign.
Near one the busiest tourist spots in Vancouver.
Wearing a come-hither stare and not much else.

It could happen.

Either way, we get it, Elsa, the cold doesn’t bother you. Now go put on some damn pants.




Snakes on a 10 horse power outboard engine.

So since gas is expensive to the power of hella and I’m still at least one decimal place in my salary away from being able to afford to buy a Tesla, I do the occasional online survey to earn fuel reward points, because a 10¢ off per litre is currently higher on my priority list than my dignity.

The surveys are usually pretty innocuous if occasionally somewhat time-consuming, and just between you and me, trying to figure out how the hell I would rate the overall personality and trustworthiness of a particular brand of dish soap is a great way to look like I’m concentrating on something super important when I’m actually just bored out of my skull in the office.

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