Captain Ameridog (link)

My dog, Theodore Roosevelt Dog (aka Teddy) apparently has a secret wish.

http://someofthismaybetrue.blogspot.com/2011/10/captain-ameridog.html
Come over and read about it.



[Steven here: This is a picture of Kate's actual dog. All basset hounds look just like this.]

Cheeky Monkey, Glorious Limited Reserve Japanese Ninja-Picked Yagyu Matcha

Yagyu-family ninjas pick the best tea.  

Hey, tea people. For a limited time only, you my purchase a bit of Cheeky Monkey's newest offering: Glorious Limited Reserve Japanese Ninja-Picked Yagyu Matcha.

Purchases may be made via The 39 Steeps, of course.*

*(Offer while supplies last. Void where prohibited--which is pretty much everywhere. Confidentiality ensured, or else.)

Steeeeve

When my brother and I were kids, we spent far too much time just hanging around together.  Boredom drove us to do many things, including repeat each others' names until they lost all meaning.

Steve.  Steeeeve.  Steeeeeeeve. Stevvvvvvve.  Steeeeeeevvve.
Over and over and over.  And sometimes I still call him "Steeeeeeve" in memory of that game. 

Oh, It's Been DAYS Since I Last Posted! (Annotated) [Annotated AGAIN] {With annotation appended} {No, rilli! Moose bites can be verri nasti!} [with one final word from the afterlife]

The short one seems at a disadvantage, no?

Day?  Oh well.

Here are a few Haiku in honor of my brother, Steeeve.

Kate's witticisms,

Were they bottled and then sold:

Incalculable.
[without an electron microscope]

Steve has a big butt.
(*Not really, but don't tell him.)
And a big nose too.*

If beauty and wit

Were assigned equal measure,

The people would say,

"Well, that Kate: Ain't she clever?"

Mornings, he looks dead.
Rumpled, gray, crusty, surly.
He makes good tea, though.

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

Kate is a big doofus.

Kate is a big doofus who?

Kate is a big doofus 

who never quite knows when to quit
and wouldn't know a good cup of tea
if it ran over her with a sommelier.
Or something.

He sings harmony:
Reasonable baritone
He longs to sing bass.

Kate makes harmony

Even when she plays her flute

All by her lonesome.

Animates stuffies;
Danny Kaye impressions: fab!
Poetry: wretched.

(FYI: Stuffies are stuffed animals)

If five-seven-five

Makes a wonderful haiku,

Kate is the winner.

That is all.

QED.

THAT IS NOT IT.  I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS!

Knock, knock. Who's there? "Woo!"

Woo who? Steve resorted to

"QED." I win!

She wrote a knock-knock 

in the form of haiku.

Oh, what; I say, 

What is a brother to do?

Unable to stand

before such Haiku-fu,

I bow, and I bow

and do Dr. Seuss, too.

[Kate here: Told ya.]

Well, I just mean.

The Tale of the Fairy Great-Grand-Godmother

nce upon a time, two children were lost in the greenwood.  Well, not so much "lost" as, "told to stay outside and stop watching so much TV already."

They grew up. Or so they said. But the adventure did not end quite yet.

One day, while sitting at their "computers," using Google chat, they accidentally invoked a supernatural being of mischievous mien and unfathomable intent, which has been interfering with the two children in subtle and not-so-subtle ways ever since. And here is how it went.

Now, as we all know, names have power. In olden times, when people were wiser even though they didn't have Google, a man would never allow anyone to know his true name. Nicknames like "Butch" or "You, With the Head" were commonplace, but a true name was kept secret. With knowledge of a name, a witch or elven changeling might gain power over a man (or woman, or mythical woodland creature, whatever). Thus, in their primitive, yet-to-be-beGoogled world, our predecessors had some understanding of the power of words-- knowledge melodramatically and with great foreshadowing aforethought, lost.

But the two "children," who ought to have known better, thought words were cheap. They could blog for free! And don't get me started on Facebook. They could force near-strangers into their obsessions with such frivolities as tea, and stupid pictures of LOLcats, and overly descriptive recipes, and obscure references to childhood memories, and gleeful crowing over one another's infrequent but amusing grammar mistakes.

But the true trouble began when the two, who ought to have known better, as I think I mentioned earlier, began to use Google Chat. Yes, this diabolical device allowed two people with near-preternatural typing skillz to share their thoughts nearly as fast as they could think them. (And thank you, Anne Rice, for adding that ridiculous word, preternatural, to our vocabulary.) Without their conscious knowledge, the siblings' minds were being inexorably forced closer together, being shaped by a shadowy being whose influence was only just beginning to be felt.

As the children (whom we shall call Butch and You, With the Head) were trading parts of their brains while they complained about their children, or their students, or laughed about people with such unlikely yet well-earned names as "Doofenschmertz," the fateful moment neared. Back and forth the neurons flowed, riding on 0s and 1s and electrons. Faster and faster they typed their bemusement, without a thought of the dreadful consequence about to befall them for their hubris. "Oh," they thought, "there is no harm in these nonsensical meanderings. Ha, ha! That wicked princess totally deserved to marry in2 the Dukedom of Doofenschmertz. Don't u think?! What a bee-yotch."

And then, as the consequence for their treatment of language as a mere plaything, their minds reached a parallax, and they simultaneously typed the same highly unlikely, never-heard-before, nigh-unto-statistically impossible phrase, "our Fairy Great-Grand-Godmother."

Watch out for the shifty old lady.

Halt. Full stop. Caesura. Selah. Knock it off already. Did Butch and YWtH really both type that at the same time? That impossible phrase? And, to put a finer point on it, that same name?


From that moment, with increasingly disturbing regularity, they found that they were typing, and hitting "SEND" at the same time, ever more unlikely thoughts in kreepi tandem. Neologisms were popping up on Google Chat at the same time. Odd in-jokes, such as, "Cushions embroidered with purple spiders." "STOP IT." "Zimbabwe." "NOW I'M GETTING SCARED." Annoying things about Peter Rabbit. Etymology of Yiddish swear words. Explications of why the word, kumquat, is funny. Over, and over, and over.

Butch and You, With the Head surmised that the unintentional but potent invocation must have traveled through the æther, the magical space-between-spaces we call the Internet (where is the Internet, anyway?), and a little-known but mischievous spirit was loosed upon the world. Their Fairy Great-Grand-Godmother had arrived with unlikely coincidences in her wake.

They should have known better.

And so now, with great trepidation, the two ought-to-finally-grow-up idiot brother and sister repeatedly approached Google Chat, knowing that some unlikely turn of phrase never before uttered would arise in both minds at once, and then they'd hit that deadly "SEND" button to further weave the incantation of power their Fairy Great-Grand-Godmother was, um, incanting. Was she merely playing a game with her cantankerous Great-Grand-Godchildren? Or was this some wicked plot to finally enable them to do what they do every night: to Try to Take Over the World?

I'd go with the latter, but I'm still hoping for radically unlikely happenstance.

Or is it? Bwa-ha-ha-ha. [shudder]

[Kate here:  ACK! You've released this on the unwitting public?  Are you MAD?  Unpossible!]

Kate here again.  Please read the following G-Chat conversation starting with discussion of the above post:

thehappykate: ja

just responded to yoru response.

slknoerr: NOT CORRECT. Because minutes can be subdivided, they can be LESS.

thehappykate: your

NO.

nonono

slknoerr: o yes, indeed

thehappykate: minutes can be COUNTED

therefore, fewer

slknoerr: anything can be counted, but not everything can be subdivided

without a chainsaw

thehappykate: But I have a chainsaw.

slknoerr: Well, then everything should be "less" for you.

thehappykate: But I have a chainsaw, therefore I will simply defend myself and my choice with it.

slknoerr: "I want less people to be here. Specifically, I want less of you."

Too bad you don't have an extension cord.

thehappykate: Hm. You may be right.

I DO. It's 50 feet

slknoerr: How many feet do I live away from you, again?

thehappykate: I could keep unplugging it and advancing.

slknoerr: I'm like Foghorn Leghorn, being attacked by the dog on the leash. Untouchable.

thehappykate: Until someone drops a piano.

slknoerr: So you'd just keep plugging in at gas stations on the way? Like if you were driving a Leaf?

thehappykate: Yes.

slknoerr: Very scary idea. You could make a horror movie.

thehappykate: But not a Prius. Because they don't stop.

slknoerr: Ever

They run on damned souls.

That's how they get such great mileage.

thehappykate: Whoa.

slknoerr: (by the way, did you get the accent on the second syllable of damned? very post-postmodern literateur of me, I thought)

thehappykate: Priuses are the Official Pacecar of Hell

YES!

slknoerr: They are in the second ring of hell, which is the race course.

It's been certified.

It's where urban hipsters go when they die, condemned to eternal NASCAR races

and Budweiser 

thehappykate: bwahahaa

slknoerr: it's where the monster trucks are REAL monsters.

Did you just unplug your chainsaw and get 50 feet closer to me? I sense a disturbance in the Force

thehappykate: that was just gas

slknoerr: I hate it when you have gas, and it disturbs the Force

maybe you should try less exotic recipes

thehappykate: fewer

slknoerr: YOU'RE STILL WRONG

People:  You are witnessing our kreepi LIVE.  It happened again.  I ... can barely type this.  If you scroll down a few posts, you will see that Steve POSTED THE SAME EXACT CONVERSATION at the SAME EXACT TIME.  
We did not PLAN this.  I... am nearly hyperventilating with weirdness.  CALL A PRIEST!  CALL A SHAMAN!  CALL HELOISE!  Somebody please!  HELP! 




Steven here. I hereby append more of the conversation. Now you know the uncanny force of which we speak. READ ON AT YOUR OWN PERIL.

me: There are plenty of people who have better grammar than I have. You're just not one of them. Ptthtttptttpbbb.

thehappykate: Ptthhhhbob.

me: bob?

thehappykate: that's what I thought you had written

me: I have nothing against Bob, and I do not include his name in my raspberries.

thehappykate: racist

OH. Go read your fairytale

Sent at 11:33 AM on Tuesday

me: and you may wish to look at your correction of my grammar

thehappykate: um. ok?

me: YAAAAAAAAAH!

IT'S HAPPENING AGAIN

thehappykate: yaah?

WHAT?

where?

me: LOOK AT THE BLOG. SCROLL DOWN.

QUELLE HORREUR

thehappykate: I posted that. what are you talking about?

me: I just posted the same exact thing at exactly the same time, just on a different post in the blog

thehappykate: O. NO

me: In other words, I just cut-and-pasted this conversation, as you were doing the same thing.

thehappykate: HAHAHHAAAA

that is hilarious

me: FAIRY GREAT-GRAND-GODMOTHER IS ON THE CASE AGAIN

thehappykate: and ....

ok. please write a NEW post explaining this

me: kreepi x100

I'll let you append this. It'll be more postmodern that way.

Just add to the bottom of the cut-and-paste job you did earlier.

thehappykate: ok. one sec.

me: that is just so over the top, I hardly know what to think.

Sent at 11:39 AM on Tuesday

me: Honestly, if I had been born in an earlier century, I'd burn us both as witches, or I'd call in a priest to exorcise our medieval computers.

Sent at 11:40 AM on Tuesday

thehappykate: done

Sent at 11:41 AM on Tuesday

me: and... my comment above is almost the same comment you wrote on the blog.

thehappykate: ACK.

I feel compelled by the forces of good and/or evil to end this Gmail chat session.

Due to the extreme likelihood of one of us being flung into an alternate reality.

OH! That MUST be why you're so weird.

AND? You have a goatee.

PROOF!

me: QED. And it's time for me to put baby to bed so I can get some work done and stop getting the willies. The evil willies.

thehappykate: Go shave your goatee.

xo








[STEVE HERE: AND ONE FINAL UPDATE ON THE WEIRDNESS. ONCE I PUT BABY DOWN FOR A NAP, I CALLED OUR MOM TO TELL HER OF THIS FAIRLY HILARIOUS BIT OF UNINTENTIONAL WEIRDNESS. AND SHE SAID, "YES, I JUST SPOKE TO KATE, AND SHE TOLD ME ALL ABOUT IT. I DIDN'T KNOW I HAD TWINS THREE YEARS APART."]

Seven Things About Steve

1.  He likes to be called "Steven."  I, therefore, call him Steve.  Sometimes "Schteff," and occasionally, "Esteban."

2.  He used to be able to lay (lie? lay? recline?) on his belly on his bed to read.  Up on his elbows, on the red, ribbed bedspread.  It would give him deep indentations on his elbows and forearms. I simply do NOT get how that was comfortable.

3.  When he would play the piano, he would unconsciously make the most atrocious faces.  Like a zombie.  I always worried he'd drool.

4.  He really hates to rake leaves.

5.  He has a kind of perverse genius at writing new words to already-existing songs.

6.  He can actually make my daughter vomit with laughter when he decides to bring stuffed animals to life.  They are often attitudinal, and frequently Indian.  You can tell by the accent.

7.  He rode his bike to the hospital when he burst his appendix.  (He survived) (Barely)


Steve here: So we're going to play it this way, eh? Let the games begin.

OH NO! It's happening again.

I just clicked on "New Post," but got "Conflicting Edit" as a reply.  This is because we were BOTH clicking at the same TIME.

KREEPI.

[Oh, and consequently, I have lost my train of blog-writing thought.]


[Steven here: I am now attempting to write the "Oh, no! It's happening again" story for our esteemed readership, as a warning to all of them.]

How Our Phone Conversations End

Steve and I were chatting on the phone this afternoon, and I was pondering to him what I should put into my salad for lunch.  I recall saying that I wanted to use up some leftovers and be thrifty, but not go over the line into "let's all get food poisoning."

So I was listing my available ingredients.
"Ok. I've got some breakfast sausage.  Some rigatoni. Bell peppers?  Oooh -- ricotta!" and so on.
He mentioned that ricotta is always good. I blathered on a bit, mentally walking through the crisper. "Broccoli? Carrots?  Hey! I have some cooked whole oats.  Yogurt?"

Suddenly, Steve said, "Well, I've lost focus on this conversation.  Goodbye."

And he hung up.

And that's how we do it here at Sibling Ribaldry.


[Steven here: It must be noted, nearly all our phone conversations are 15 minutes or less, because Kate only answers her phone when she is in the car and on the way somewhere. And because she's in a smallish 'burg, she never has to drive anywhere for longer than that length of time. From my perspective-- and Mom's, with whom I discussed this just a day or so ago, so it must be true-- this is the true way all our conversations end: "Okay, I'm here now. Love you!"  The only exception is when Kate is bored with the conversation and doesn't want to say so. So she'll come up with something like, "I have to wax the cat now," or, "Oh, my shellfish is having an allergy, and I need to give it an injection." Or something. It doesn't matter what she says, really, because it's all just, "Blah, blah, I'm tired of talking to you now, blah, blah." I've decided to cut to the chase and just say, "Okay, I'm done talking to you now. Love you, good-bye!" Saves on the elaborate and transparent lying. Don't you think, Kate? What's that? Can't answer because your heliotrope has a flat?]

[Kate here:  It's "fifteen minutes or FEWER."  Sheesh, grammar-boy.  And sorry, I can't write any more now.  I'm going through a tunnel. --click--]



[Steven here: I now include a gmail conversation between Kate and myself. This is why other people just don't talk to us anymore.

thehappykate: just responded to your response

me: NOT CORRECT. Because minutes can be subdivided, they can be LESS.

thehappykate: your

NO.

nonono

me: o yes, indeed

thehappykate: minutes can be COUNTED

therefore, fewer

me: anything can be counted, but not everything can be subdivided

without a chainsaw

thehappykate: But I have a chainsaw.

me: Well, then everything should be "less" for you.

thehappykate: But I have a chainsaw, therefore I will simply defend myself and my choice with it.

me: "I want less people to be here. Specifically, I want less of you."

Too bad you don't have an extension cord.

thehappykate: Hm. You may be right.

I DO. It's 50 feet

me: How many feet do I live away from you, again?

thehappykate: I could keep unplugging it and advancing.

me: I'm like Foghorn Leghorn, being attacked by the dog on the leash. Untouchable.

thehappykate: Until someone drops a piano.

me: So you'd just keep plugging in at gas stations on the way? Like if you were driving a Leaf?

thehappykate: Yes.

me: Very scary idea. You could make a horror movie.

thehappykate: But not a Prius. Because they don't stop.

me: Ever

They run on damned souls.

That's how they get such great mileage.

thehappykate: Whoa.

me: (by the way, did you get the accent on the second syllable of damned? very post-postmodern literateur of me, I thought)

thehappykate: Priuses are the Official Pacecar of Hell

YES!

me: They are in the second ring of hell, which is the race course.

It's been certified.

It's where urban hipsters go when they die, condemned to eternal NASCAR races

and Budweiser

thehappykate: bwahahaa

one sec

me: it's where the monster trucks are REAL monsters.

Sent at 11:26 AM on Tuesday

me: Did you just unplug your chainsaw and get 50 feet closer to me? I sense a disturbance in the Force

thehappykate: that was just gas

me: I hate it when you have gas, and it disturbs the Force

maybe you should try less exotic recipes

thehappykate: fewer

Sent at 11:28 AM on Tuesday

me: YOU'RE STILL WRONG

"You should try recipes that have less spice," rather than, "You should try a smaller number of spicy recipes."

thehappykate: ahh.

me: There are plenty of people who have better grammar than I have. You're just not one of them. Ptthtttptttpbbb.

thehappykate: Ptthhhhbob.

me: bob?

thehappykate: that's what I thought you had written

me: I have nothing against Bob, and I do not include his name in my raspberries.

thehappykate: racist