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(06/19/11 - 8:05 AM)
Greetings all! It is I, Plinky the House Elf!
It has been quite some time since I found the time to communicate with you at large, and for that I apologize. In truth, Master Heath very rarely moves his corpulent corporeal self away from the computer long enough to relieve himself, let alone let me do my valuable research into what it means to be human. And I've been busy learning something called 'Shaolin Kung Fu', which takes a great deal of time contemplating nothingness. I still have not gotten the hang of that, and usually find myself humming something you humans call 'The Battle Hymn Of The Republic', unbidden.
But, as always, I persevere!
Today is Father's Day, once again. And since I've learned all there is to know about this subject - and shared it with you already a while ago - I felt compelled to dig deep into the human customs and traditions I find so bizarre to assist you at large with understanding something new and strange about yourselves.
It took some thought, but I finally settled on something that Master Heath is always complaining about and I found more and more curious. So, dear readers, today I have chosen to present my findings on something called 'health care'.
Now, as a House Elf, it goes without saying that I never become ill. So for me to understand the entire concept of illness versus normalcy, a great deal of time and effort went into my research.
For starters, I found that health care is designed to confound the user (i.e. - humans) so that using it is only a last-resort condition. I think that this makes sense, because otherwise all of your hospitals, clinics, and physician's offices would be jam-packed with people who might understand better and then nothing would get done, and the doctor's would never have time for something called 'golf'.
I also found that there are levels within levels of health care. It seems from my research that hospitals are the most comprehensive places to go when one feels ill. But being comprehensive, I found that the builders of hospitals still needed to confound things further by placing secondary services either off-site, or in an inconvenient location often called 'sub-basement four', whatever that means. I mean, if the basement is the bottom, then shouldn't the floors above it just be floors? What's wrong with you humans?
Conversely, the places that are most readily available for health care have limited services within the confines of the building, so as to make the potential user of their services have to drive or walk somewhere else. I have found that this was most likely intentional, so as to give the potential service user more time to consider whether they are truly ill, or just faking it and bored.
Finally! Something that makes sense to me!
So, if one takes the time to unfurl the documentation about the health care they have at their disposal, and finally understands not only the verbiage but also the nomenclatures, acronyms, Latin, and - I'm pretty sure, Swahili - within the confines of their 'policy documentation', and still feels compelled to seek assistance, and can get beyond the first and second tiers of healthcare to the top - or 'hospital' - level, and can then persevere long enough to find sub-basement four without accidentally walking off the rooftop helipad, then one has earned the right to finally be treated because they really have proven to the world that they must be ill.
Oh, unless there's something called a 'pre-existing condition' in play. This appears to be a game changer, and negates your ability to feel ill, whether you like it or not.
It now occurs to me that something Mistress Wanda and Master Heath enjoy a great deal must be modeled on this: Super Mario Brothers. I finally understand what is happening when they play this game. They are practicing getting the little man the healthcare he needs. Along the way, he has to prove he needs it, and is rewarded with 'power ups' and 'extra lives' (which seems silly, but I'm sure it's merely a metaphorical oversight) until finally he gets to the helipad but doesn't walk off. Having never seen the end of the game (it takes forever, apparently - exactly paralleling once more the health care system, and bolstering my theory) I can only surmise that I have hit on the solution to this bizarre behavior known as 'video gaming': Poor little Mario is simply sick!
Once health care is administered, we find yet again a perverse and strange set of circumstances and rituals. For example, it turns out that sometimes, people who are not sick at all with go out of their way to be made sick, so as not to be sick later! This is called, 'innoculation' and only made sense to me when I considered the context of missing, say, Cousin Ernie's wedding (don't even get me started on those) that you feel that you cannot, so you elect to get sick then, rather than later. I'm not entirely clear on the entire thing, so I won't delve too much further.
On the opposing end of things, we also find that sometimes the human body knows what's good for it and, via telomeres, reproduces cells that become known as 'cancer'. Humans seem to dislike these and wish to have them removed, even though their bodies clearly feel that they should be there. Which confounds me.
Conversely again, humans also find it necessary to second-guess their corporeal inner-workings by adding and augmenting things that the body has elected to (or elected not to) produce. These include something called, 'Big boobs', 'long wieners', 'facelifts', 'tummy tucks' and - most disturbingly - something called 'bling' that takes many forms of skin piercing, tattooing, branding, augmenting, and on and on.
Apparently, a great many people feel that their body is simply doing everything wrong, and they know better than centuries of either evolutionary biology or religious creationism. This stems from humanity being unable to figure out why they're here in the first place, which TRULY seems stupid to me. How can you not agree on even THAT?
You know what? I had this whole lesson outlined and spent days preparing for this presentation, yet as I type this I find myself dizzying in the cranium. You humans make no sense. And I cannot spend another moment attempting to present this case without listening to what MY body is telling me: That my flinkerschnitzel will continue to throb until I drop this subject.
So, until next time, dear reader!
(11/07/10 - 11:13 AM)
Greetings, all! It is I - Plinky the House Elf!
First, I wish to say that I appreciated all of the cards, letters, and police visits sent to the house. I realize that I've been out of touch for just over a year, but I assure you that I am alive, and that Master Heath has not killed me in some untoward way. You may stop sending the authorities, especially because they seem most cross with me when they find that I am quite alive, not a real person, and have no 'doughnuts' - whatever they are.
Today Master Heath is in the restroom doing something he calls "Dropping a monster deuce." I have no idea what this means, but I do know that he usually takes a volume of the Encyclopedia in there with him, and - hours later - is excited to make me listen to the principal exports of Namibia or some other such place.
Why can't he be more like Mistress Wanda? They're both humans, so one would think that they would be so much more alike. Mistress Wanda is poised and lovely, where Master Heath is huge, unkempt, and chock full of unfortunate noises at all hours of the day - even when he sleeps.
And don't get me started on the inherent odor factor.
But, I digress. For, dear Readers, I am here - as always - to share my life experiences with you!
I have been waiting for some time to share with you the phenomena that I experienced last year - one that is, in fact, fast approaching once more. I am, of course, talking about what you humans call 'Black Friday'.
I realize that this makes no sense to anyone so I, dear Readers, as always, have taken it upon myself to do the research for you!
Here is what I found:
At first, I thought it was a day meant only for black people. It made the most sense, given the name, and the fact that humans are forced from their slumber at such an early hour - perfect camouflage for people the color of night.
As I did more research, however, I realized that everyone was invited to participate in this phenomena, even though the black people have a decided advantage due to the darkness. Not for lack of trying I was, however, unable to figure out what this advantage might be.
Apparently, in 1966 on the East Coast, someone decided that buying one another presents for Jesus' Birthday on December 25th (which, I also found out was not - in fact - his birthday, but to reduce confusion, I shall leave that point for another time) should have an official beginning the day after the nation had gorged itself on Turkey and something called 'dish to pass'.
I questiond this, however, as I also found that some humans - known as 'Vegetarians' or 'Vegans' do not partake of Turkey. So, I figured that they would be exempt from the phenomena of 'Black Friday'. This it turned out was also false, and added yet another convoluting layer to the onion that is 'humanity'.
Good gracious, you humans are a confusing lot.
So - shopping - and Jesus' birthday that isn't his birthday:
Apparently, stores felt it was a good idea to try and jam as many humans into their stores in a 24-hour period as possible, and elected to choose this day to do so, in the hopes that the humans would be enticed to purchase their entire Jesus' Birthday haul if they were allowed to bust the doors on the shopping establishment.
This also led to some confusion, as I could not comprehend how everyone would get a chance to bust the doors on a shopping establishment, as someone would have to be first, and the number of doors were limited. Then I recalled other, internal, doors existed and supposed that a bathroom stall door worked just as well as a front door or loading dock door. Perhaps this is the key to that mystery.
At any rate, stores compete with one another to offer incentives to shoppers for Jesus' Birthday, so that they will be compelled to ruin a perfectly good evening of sleep to be jammed into a shopping establishment, not unlike a stockyard, to spend money they may or may not have (I'll create an addendum on the phenomena of 'store credit cards' at a later date) for Jesus' Birthday which is still over a month away, even though it's not chronologically correct.
You know what? That's it. I'm quite finished. Of all the research I've done on human behavior, this one has to be the most confusing, convoluted, horrid mess of psychological nonsense that I've ever encountered.
I am truly sorry, dear Readers, but I must now go and consume a copious amount of what you humans call 'Ibuprofen' in order to make the aching in my head cease.
Until next time!
(10/18/09 - 11:36 AM)
Today our houseguest found Plinky in the downstairs living room. He had a stick, and attached to it he has a piece of yarn and a hook made from a coat hanger.
He sat still, watching a talk show on Lifetime™, and sat entranced.
When the commercials came on, however, he began casting the hook at the television screen. Over and over he did this as our houseguest stood in wonder and puzzlement, until finally the commercials were over whereupon he once more sat watching the show.
Our houseguest finally asked him about this, and he replied:
"Well, I was hungry, and I had heard a lot about the great successes of commercial fishing, so I thought I'd give it a try. I must be doing something wrong though, because I haven't caught a single thing all day!"
(10/17/09 - 8:21 PM)
Greetings all! It is I, Plinky the House Elf!
Before I get started, I would like to humbly apologize for my previous blog entry. After I woke up (Mistress Wanda said that I 'came to', rather than woke up, but I have no notion what she meant by that), Master Heath said that the reason he looked even worse than usual and that my head felt like it was being stepped on by a corpulent elephant was that I had something called a 'hangover'.
After some lenghty explaination that made my head throb further, I gathered that the beverages that I had illicitly partaken of were actually designed to give one the feelings that I experienced, followed by the disturbing 'hangover'.
Why on Earth humans would want to have either experience is beyond me, but perhaps it shall remain something that I will never understand because there is no way that I would willfully experience it again.
Today, Master Heath is off somewhere in the house doing something which I'm sure he feels is important. Most likely, any outside observer who was not asleep or brain-dead would feel otherwise. Such is the scope of his weekend 'projects'.
As such, I have come to you today to speak about something that I recently discovered in our neighbor's back yard. I didn't know what it was at first, but then Mistress Wanda attempted to explain it to me. This caused only more confusion, so I thought that perhaps as a service to my readers I could enlighten you with some well-founded research.
The item in question looks like a large stew pot of some kind, sits outside, and is called a 'hot tub'. It's filled with water and, I'm told, that the water is hot. Humans then immerse themselves in this water to cook, but only enough so that it does not kill them prior to their getting out once more.
I tried asking numerous shellfish about this when Master Heath and Mistres Wanda were giving them a free hot tub on their stove the other night, but the only responses that were illicited were high-pitched shrieks in tandem with claws scraping down the sides of the pot/hot tub, followed by death prior to their coming out. Perhaps they don't fully understand how a hot tub is supposed to work, but you would think that Master Heath and Mistress Wanda would, based specifically on the fact that Mistress Wanda was the one who explained it to me in the first place.
Nevertheless, the Master and Mistress made the best of a bad situation and ate the shellfish so as to keep their souls alive in this plane. I'm theorizing on this point, but this is the only thing that makes sense to me, and to be honest it is the first selfless act that I have witnessed the Mistress and Master comitting. It was almost beautiful, their reverence for these small creatures.
I wonder if they would show that sort of reverance to their neighbors whom they complain about incessantly, should they have the same unseen fate befall them?
This whole situation begged numerous questions on my part, not the least of which is why would anyone subject themselves to cooking if there were any danger of not being able to get out of the 'hot tub' in time? What possible benefits could there be? And who invented this nightmare machine, and subsequently managed to market it as a viable product to foolish humans?
And so, dear readers, my quest for knowledge began anew.
After much searching, interspersed with a movie on Lifetime™ about the evil that men never seem to stop doing, I could not find who had invented the hot tub. I did learn that even before hot tubs existed, early man (whoever he was - not one site used his real name, which leads me to believe that he is now in the witness protection program, like so many abused Lifetime™ heorines) used to intentionally immerse themselves in something called 'hot springs', which were similar to the modern-day hot tub, but smelled more like feces due to a high sulphur content in the mineral-laden water making its way up from the Earth's molten iron and nickel core.
I have no idea what any of that means, so I moved on.
Apparently, people enjoy cooking themselves close to death as it relaxes their muscles. I know this is true, because several weeks ago, Master Heath told me about a video he posted one this very blog where a girl's sphincter muscle relaxed while in the hot tub.
It is also a method of unwinding, though I can honestly say that I have never seen a wound human before.
According to WikiPedia:
"Hot tubs are known to decrease fertility in men, due to an increase in temperature in the testes. Pregnant women or women who may become pregnant may experience birth defects due to the effect of the heat on a developing fetus. Bacterial infections, including respiratory infections, may arise if the hot tub is not properly disinfected. Because a hot tub is constantly kept warm, bacteria can thrive. Water droplets are inhaled by bathers, along with any pathogens, which can infect the lungs and respiratory passages."
Apparently, this is not enough to discourage men and women from doing everything from relaxing in the hot tub, to drinking and having something called a 'four-way' in them as well. I don't know what this means, but the people I found in the photo looked pretty happy, but they also seemed to be confused as it appeared that the women were eating a part of the men that I don't have, while the men were attempting to eat the women's mammaries. Perhaps 'confusion' and 'disorientation' ought to be added to the list of dangers, as one might be eaten in company prior to being nearly cooked in time to get out with one's life.
On the whole, this was one of my more disappointing forays into understanding your strange world and habits, but I shall nevertheless persevere for you, dear Readers.
Until next time!
(10/11/09 - 11:46 AM)
Greetings all! It is I: Plinky, the House Elf!
Master Heath has been a little lean on blog entries of late, and since his most interesting topic is mowing the lawn, I thought perhaps I would regale you with the tale of the House Elf Hero Snorkul who led the Ephesian House Elves during the Pressed-Slacks rebellion of 1836!
Now bear in mind that I was not around, having only blinked into existence some time ago. Nevertheless, I have it on good authority that... >COUGH COUGH<...
I'm terribly sorry, dear readers. I'm terribly thirsty, and my throat is dry. I'll be right back.
Ah! There we are! Sorry it took so long, but I'm too short to operate the water dispensers in the house, and the hose that I usually drink from was apparently removed from the outside of the house yesterday. My step-stool is also not in its rightful place, so I did what I wasn't supposed to do and got into the downstairs refrigerator. And what I found there!
Strange beverages the likes of which I have never seen before! Something called 'beer' in colorful bottles. I tried six of these, but they just made me burp, so I moved on to something called 'Margarita' in a bottle. There was a lovely yellow one and a beautiful red one. After drinking both, however, I found that I was schtill firsty, shlo I looooked for shumthing elshe to drink and found shumthing called 'Hurricane' in a blue bottle, and it was pretty and... ish it getting hot in here?
I feel hot whyiseverythingspinninglikethat...
Whooooooooopsch1111! I flel of thee schair theer fore aschecond. I fele happpy but my hed herts and why wont thespinningstop///??????
I wanna talk about pickles. I dunno why, but lishten about pickles. Theyre' importantt for schomthing I... ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
(07/22/09 - 10:06 PM)
Greetings, all! Plinky the House Elf, here.
Mistress Wanda discovered me indulging in one of my favorite pastimes today. I was riding around and around and around blissfully in the large, silver, water machine in the basement when the Mistress stopped it prematurely and yanked me out bodily.
She explained to me that what I thought was a ride for my amusement was, in fact, something called a 'washing machine'. Apparently it is used to wet clothing when dirty. Then, it is dried in the machine next door.
What seemed strange to me, as she continued her explaination, was that humans first intentionally wet their clothing, specifically so that they may then dry it. My question was, Why wet it in the first place?
I just don't get humans.
At any rate, thwarted from my tiny moment of personal enjoyment, I decided to do some research on this amazing machine that I had enjoyed so much. Here is what I found:
I began with my old standby for reasearch; something that has never let me down: The Lifetime Network.
It took some time, but I discovered that men purchase these items for women, and then expect them to have their shirts clean precisely when they need them. If they do not, the man yells as the woman cowers and then proceeds to leave and sleep with his secretary.
This line of exploration led me nowhere further than this, so I then got on the computing machine. Here I had some better luck.
The first patent was issued in 1691. A drawing of an early washing machine appeared in the January 1752 issue of "The Gentlemen's Magazine", a British publication. This seems strange to me, as Lifetime would have me believe that this term is code for, 'Naked chicks with silicone hooters from here to ya-ya'. So, I can only assume that the men of the time enjoyed seeing women with said hooters doing laundry.
Humans have such odd fetishes.
Louis Goldenberg of New Brunswick, New Jersey, invented the electric washing machine in the late 1800's. I presume he did this after his successful invention of the Bowling ball, and the landfill. He worked for the Ford™ Motor Co. at the time, and I believe he lobbied unsuccessfully to integrate the washing machine under the hood of the Model A and Model T's of the time.
Henry, this was a brilliant idea! Why didn't you run with it?!
Alva J. Fisher tried to take the credit, but he was foiled in the end. He, I think, would have made a good Lifetime villain.
In 1937, Bendix™ introduced the first electric washing machine. I tried to find out how they got their name, but after a fruitless search, I can only surmise that some naked man was trying to figure out how to use the wringing unit and... well... I'll let you imagine the rest. It was so powerful that if it was not bolted to the floor it would walk away and try to escape. In fact, this is where the idea for the screenplay for "The Day The Earth Stood Still" 's GORT came from. At least, I'm pretty sure it was. Which, in hindsight is ironic, because while the Earth was standing still, GORT - and the washing machines he led in the battle of transistor hill - were not.
Washing machines come in both top loading and front loading. Personally, I would prefer the front loading kind. It seems as though they would be much easier to enter and exit, especially after nearly an hour of spinning and spinning. To be fair, I have not tried the top-loading style, so I can only surmise. Perhaps they have some attraction of their own as well.
So there you have it! The glorious history of the washing machine.
Until next time, dear readers!
(05/19/09 - 10:16 PM)
Greetings! It is I, Pinky the House Elf! I was over today to visit Plinky, Heath's House Elf, and he allowed me to play with his information machine! It's really not all that impressive, but he did show me how I could impart a message that Mistress Dena has been asking me to impart all week. You see, I live with Mistress Dena and Master Zach - as well as my ignoble steed, Dragon. Mistress Dena sent me up here because her power cord is broken, and Zach and Aaron have to 'level up' (I have no idea what this means, but as a House Elf, I am ever vigilant in my blind obedience.)
And so, Plinky has shown me how to use this information disseminating machine to give you the following message, courtesy of Mistress Dena:
Master Heath's top-five Bejeweled™ scores after fifty-something plays are:
I'm not sure what's that's all about, but she assured me it was a matter of the highest importance and that the 'Arch Nemesis of the North' would never find out. I swear, sometimes I don't understand humans. I also don't understand why the few house elves that I've met don't look all flamingo-ish like myself. Strange indeed.
(05/07/09 - 11:03 PM)
I would like to wish a happy birthday to Grandma Marilynn (and I hope to God I spelled Marilynn right in this context, as there was no one available for a consult at the time of this writing.)
For her birthday, I would like to write a short biography of her life. Again, since there is no one available for a consult, I have enlisted the assistance of Plinky, my House Elf to regurgitate facts that he has picked up while hiding during family functions over the past few years. According to Plinky:
Grandma Marilynn was born in 1927 in the small Asian town of Tong-Poo. She was born to a poor family of rice farmers, and at the age of five was kicked by an ox, causing her oriental eye slant to become an occidental one (Oh! Ox-Cidental! Wow, that's a double pun!)
Her family then shunned her, and she was sent to America in trade for some packs of menthol smokes and a high-chair. She was adopted by a German family, and was raised on a farm where a hybridized corn-horseradish plant was the primary crop. Unfortunately, the tase never caught on, but she did learn to make some awesome horseradish during her days on the farm.
Later, she married and had children. I am told that she raised them near a water fountain on a bike path and that... wait, what? Plinky, are you certain about this?... You're sure there isn't more to that?... Okay, I can't argue... Ahem...
Anyway, she had several children, and was blessed to have Gary as one of her own. Normally, this would be more than enough for any Mother to die happy. But, she's no ordinary woman.
She went on to have a short acting career doing commercials for Dr. Bob's Super-Wonder Pills, only to find out that taking these pills resulted in many women having boys who grew up to have full beards and be interested in electricity. For some reason, they were discontinued.
She then spent a few years doing undercover work for the F.B.I., where she infiltrated the world's largest ring of clandestine beet smugglers (there were four guys, in all - hey, they're beets, after all) and was awarded the Golden Spyglass by J. Edgar Hoover himself. At the time, Grandma didn't know it was him, as he was wearing a sundress and lipstick.
Once the kids were all grown up (or, in Gary's case, old enough to move out, anyway) she did correspondance writing for what would later become the Tonight Show, while writing crossword puzzles for the New Yorker on the side.
One fateful afternoon in 1943 she was having lunch with a young Jewish scientist named Einstein who, after seeing a demonstration of the proper way to birth a lamb, began musing about splitting atoms and then disappeared with an Italian guy named Fermi for a few years.
Later, Grandma worked for a towing company - first as a road enforcer, and later as a dispatcher. She discovered computers, and developed the first file-sharing service in America. Although not well known, 'Insane Cats, U.S.A.' was a haven for individuals who had adopted mentally unstable yet lovable feline companions.
She moved to an apartment complex north of her previous home for some time, and later conquered her fear of heights by joining the Flying Elvis's of Utah for a few months, and then moved into a high-rise where she resides today.
Yes, truly she has had an amazing life - at least, what we know of it, or Plinky was able to recall. So, Happy Birthday Grandma! I'm glad that you're around, and I'm happy to know you. >Smooch<
(03/08/09 - 10:03 AM - Er, Make That 11:03 AM)
Greetings, all! It is I - Plinky the House Elf!
Mistress Wanda awoke this morning, and as per usual took her time in booting up her physical systems. Did I say that right?
At any rate, she suddenly exploded from the bed in a panic. Master Heath was in the bathroom practicing what he calls 'Toilet Archery', so he failed to bear witness to the entire occurance.
I inquired with the Mistress what was the matter, and all she did was scream at me 'Daylight Savings! Daylight Savings!' Which puzzled me a great deal.
Within minutes, she was out the door like a Pyraflez from a Gormlat shrub. I went to inquire about what Mistress Wanda had screamed with Master Heath, but when I got close to the bathroom door and whiffed the malodorous emanations, I knew that I should probably just research the matter on my own.
So, I went downstairs to this contraption, and began my search.
This, dear readers, is what I discovered:
First, I learned in the right-hand column that I could shop for Daylight Savings Time now on e-Bay™! When I clicked that link, however, I found that no one was selling it at the moment. Which makes me confused as to why they would tell me that I could buy something if no one is selling it. I will have to research commerce further in the near future.
After hitting this apparent dead-end, I went on, undeterred. As did Master Heath, who was now making grunting noises like a Hezfreb prior to mating.
Apparently, the hundred-dollar bill guy thought up the concept of Daylight Savings time after unsuccessfully petitioning for the Turkey to be the national bird. After this devestating rejection, he got back on his horse, as you humans say (though I could find no mention of the name of the horse, nor its breed) and decided to persue this new course of action.
Next, I learned that there is an entire crusade devoted to correcting the misnomer of 'Daylight SavingS Time' to its correct form of 'Daylight Saving Time', because apparently people in California need to feel that Participle justice has been duly served.
I came upon this interesting 'Museum Exhibit' without physical form - or a museum (good grief you humans have such strange ideas about things) that was somewhat helpful and informative.
Here is what I learned, in a compartmentalized form:
Some states follow daylight savings, while others do not. Some states elect to make their own rules. Countries do likewise. Alcaholics are worried about when, specifically, they have to stop drinking, because the time change apparently coincides with standard bar closing times. My supposition is that, when drinking, minutes are inherently critical to the end result.
Smoke detectors should be checked when changing your clocks. I guess this is because they're both round? I'm not entirely clear on this point, but if this were the case one would assume that individuals would also wish to check on certain brands of waffles, toilet seats, mirrors, and any other number of household items.
At this point, the rain turned into a mild thunderstorm, and the satellite dish that the InterWebNet-Kajiggie enters the house on stopped functioning properly. Perhaps, because it's round! Egads!
So, I will paraphrase the rest from what I recall of the article:
Jimmy Carter enacted daylight savings time because he liked peanuts, and wanted farmers to get their peanuts to the peanut distribution plant during the day so they could go home and watch Monday Night Football.
Some Swiss guys who make watches, as well as something called 'The Greenwich Mean-Time Committee' also decided to get involved. One because they like for people to be confused as to what time it is, so that they will purchase more timepieces, while the other one is just - as its name states - Mean.
In conclusion, I can only surmise that Mistress Wanda was concerned that she had missed her opportunity to check her smoke detectors, and was therefore so distrought that she felt the need to flee the potentially unsafe house in great haste to save her own life.
And speaking of that, Master Heath has just finished his 'Archery Practice'. As such, I will now be exiting the house as... >cough cough<... well because the... >COUGH COUGH<... stench is... >GAG<... overwhelming... dear Readers... help... me... >THUD<...
(01/01/09 - 12:03 AM)
Greetings all! It is I - Plinky the House Elf! Mistress Wanda and Master Heath are asleep, but I find myself being kept awake by the emanation of loud pops, bangs and screeches occuring out-of-doors. Apparently, this is New Year's Eve. Yes, yet another holiday that you humans celebrate. Don't you ever grow weary of all this celebration? And why would you celebrate the loss of a year of your life? Was it really that bad? Will the new one really be that good? And how do you know?
I can't fathom it, but to be honest most all of your holidays are nonsensical to my kind.
I elected to forego my normal in-depth homework on the subject of this entire 'New Year' phenomena, but I did find that apparently the Chinese don't see eye to eye with you on this. Nor does a group called 'The Pagans' who I've discovered is an outlaw motorcycle gang operating overtly in the Southwest.
Apparently, they think that you're all backwards on the issue. I personally can't say one way or the other, simply because I cannot comprehend how you can actually tell the difference between one year and the next. I personally don't feel any different. Nothing smells different. Everything is the same color. So how is this quantified?
Egads, perhaps this is what all the noise coming from out of doors is about! Perhaps there is one sagacious individual within each prefecture who is responsible for alerting others when the new year occurs, thereby making everyone aware through the use of noisemakers. I hadn't thought of that! One moment, let me do some research...
Aha! It's very closely akin to what I have just described! Victory is mine! It appears as though a Seer named Dick Clark is the primary catalyst for informing the United States when a new year has officially begun. To do so, he utilizes his prescient psychic ability coupled with a large ball of magic light. As the ball of magic light responds to his telekinetic and psychic powers, it collapses to a point where it can no longer motate further.
Then, through the television (which I still cannot seem to work right, and am still relegated to watching predominantly the Lifetime channel specifically due to my inability to figure out how to communicate with other channels that I have been lead to believe exist), the individuals responsible for notifying the residents of their local prefecture are also notified as they watch this Dick Clark work his big magic in real-time.
To me it all just seems like a lot of work. Why not just wake up when you do, and go to bed when you're tired? Why not simply celebrate life each day, rather than celebrating the arrival of a year that you will only scorn 365 1/4 days from now?
You humans... I just don't get it.
(11/27/08 - 12:42 PM)
Greetings, all! It is I - Plinky the House Elf!
Mistress Wanda and Master Heath are away for Thanksgiving once more, so I have been tasked with writing the blog entry for the day yet again. Again, I say: You humans have a great many holidays indeed!
Today I would like to speak about a remarkable woman who I have recently watched with great interest on the television machine. Her name is Jessica Fletcher, and she solves crimes.
Ms. Fletcher's program is titled, "Murder, She Wrote" and it chronicles her live solving of crimes each week. A camera crew follows her around her hometown of Cabot Cove, which has a surprisingly statistically high crime rate akin to Detriot or Washington, D.C. - this is probably why she chose this town to operate in, in the spirit of noblesse oblige.
At any rate, the camera crew follows her around as she involves herself in mysteries that the local law enforcement simply cannot cope with. I question the need for the local law enforcement, in truth, due to the fact that they appear to be nothing more than a false-front deterrent to crime. And, with the level of crime in Cabot Cove, they appear to be a poor one at best.
But, I'm sure they know their business there better than I, a causal observer a thousand-plus miles away from the action and activity.
Each week, I am mesmerized as I watch Ms. Fletcher unravel the crime right in front of my very eyes. What astounds me the most, is that she is able to do so in just under one human hour - each and every time. Compounded with the fact that she must be, at the very least, somewhat distracted by the disruptive offers for such amazing products as "Mighty Putty™", "The Aqua Globe™", "1-800-PET-MEDS™" and the like. I personally find myself desirous of these products due specifically to the compelling presentations of individuals such as Billy Mays and Betty White.
I cannot fathom how these individuals can attempt to distract Ms. Fletcher from her work, when they have to comprehend its importance. Could they not just as easily solicit their goods via mail, rather than interrupting her crucial investigation - always at a crucial turning point, no less?
I began to ponder this point, and I have reached some startling conclusions. My first thought is that these individuals are somehow in collusion to keep the crime rate in Cabot Cove high, while thwarting Ms. Fletcher's Herculean efforts. This could potentially benefit them in some way, but I have yet to uncover the benefits of doing so.
Another thought that occured to me was that these individuals were once desirous to solve crimes themselves, but have not gained the noteriety that Ms. Fletcher has. As such, they wish to see her fail so that they may usurp her position as the top solver of crimes in Cabot Cove.
My final thought makes no easily-comprehensible sense at all and involves talking animals and secret codes in the Bible. It's long, and confusing; arcane, esoteric and clandestine to no end. So, I won't bother imparting it. But I'm sure that it's the most correct of the three hypotheses.
I, for one, will not be distracted any more than necessary by these clear threats to Ms. Fletcher's work. I will continue to follow the amazing career of this truly magnificent woman, as I simultaneously continue to petition the current President for a Presidential Gold Medal for this amazing female crimestopper.
Good luck, Ms. Fletcher! Keep up the good work!
Now, where did I put my "Mighty Mend-It™"?
(11/11/08 - 11:26 PM)
Greetings, all! It is I, Plinky the House Elf. Master Heath is in his basement doing something with his plumbing and straps (I decided not to inquire further for two reasons: He would probably just hit me, and it sounded perverse.)
Today, dear readers, is Veterinarians Day. My research tells me that this day was established to honor all of our fighting men and women who fought against Veterinarians world-wide during various skirmishes over the years. Personally, I can't quite figure out how someone who sticks needles in Cheyenne the cat (my personal arch-nemesis) can be bad, but apparently they're quite the threat.
In fact, anyone who causes that halitosis-ridden monster even one iota of discomfort, regardless of their Hippopotamus Oath, should be lauded - not fought. What were you people thinking, fighting Veterinarians? For shame!
I for one am choosing to buck the trend: I say 'thank you' wholeheartedly to all the Vetrinarians everywhere. I don't care why we're fighting against you - you're alright with me!
(10/31/08 - 11:06 PM)
Greetings all! It is I - Plinky the House Elf! Goodness, but you humans have a great many holidays. I've just begun recovering from all of my reasearch on Columbus when I find out that today is something called 'Halloween!'
Master Heath and Mistress Wanda didn't even bother to tell me - I had to find out from two young ladies dressed in afro-clown wigs demanding a trick or a treat at my door as their parent looked on.
When I inquired if these humans were insane, Master Heath less-than-patiently explained the situation to me. Then he chastised me for answering the door by promptly stuffing me in the dishwasher for a double cycle.
When the double cycle was done, and even my colon was clean (not at my discretion, mind you) I was once again 'free' to roam the confines of the house.
I began my research on this bizarre phenomena, and here is what I learned:
The Irish and the Scottish brought Halloween with them when they came to American in the nineteenth century because 'They'd be damned if the English would take that from them too!' Apparently, they were drunk. Master Heath is 3/4 Irish, so this may explain his wild temperment and mood swings; or, his affinity for alcohol and Sterno™.
At any rate, they brought it with them, because a guy named Sam Hain thought it was a good idea. He apparently had visions (possibly while drinking) and felt that on this particular day the dead would come back to plague the living with sickness, poor crop yields, Slim Whitman music and bad Ed Sullivan impressions.
To combat this onslaught of dead jerks, a guy named Stingy Jack (who was greedy, drunk and a gambler to boot) decided that in order to undo the damage he had done one night on a bender with Satan that the townspeople should carve a turnip or rutabaga into a head because it was the most powerful part of the body and would frighten off evil spirits - but not alcoholic ones, apparently.
Satan was upset because he was just coming out of a bad relationship with a chick in Ronkonkoma who was something of a harlot. Jack convinced Satan that climbing a tree was a good idea for some reason and then he carved a cross into it because he thought it was funny.
Satan didn't agree, and since Jack had bested him in a Jaegermeister™ shooter contest earlier, he cursed Jack to wander the Earth for the remainder of his days with only a keychain light, which was about as useful as a candle in a turnip.
This is why we carve pumpkins, because no one under the age of eighty-three knows what in the world a Turnip or Rutabaga is. Plus, the Irish couldn't figure out how to make anything alcoholic from them and they had bought a lot of stock in pumpkin futures that now proved worthless. And even though rutabaga and turnip vodka was gross, it was still alcohol - and that clinched it for the Irish and the Scots.
The Witchcraft Act of 1735 contained a clause preventing the consumption of pork and pastry on Halloween, but pork rinds were a popular bar treat and doughnuts are a great hangover cure (apparently), so the act was repealed in the 1950's when the Irish and the Scots had sobered up enough to realize what had happened. Sure, it took them a while, but they had a good time anyway.
Children and adults alike use the holiday to dress up and demand candy from their neighbors who have their porch lights on. The porch lights are a symbol of wealth, in that electricity isn't cheap. And by leaving all these lights on you're telling everyone that you're better than them and are wealthier. Because humans want to feel important, they give out candy to show how benevolent they can be with their wealth. Sometimes they also give out fruit, which is believed to be an invitation by the ultra-rich to destroy something on their property.
Razorblades, thumbtacks and poison are also popular among the rich who are trying to thin out the numbers of poor, but irradiating candy has been used in modern times to make the children who eat it glow to scare the individuals who might otherwise try to kill them.
So there you have it, friends! I am now about to go outside, as I see some of my kin walking around!
Hey! Hey guys! Wait up!... I'm a House Elf too... Heeeeyyy...
(10/13/08 - 3:30 PM)
Greetings once more! It is I - Plinky the House Elf! Master Heath and Mistress Wanda are both at work. I got bored, so I excited electrons within this magic television-typewriter to pass the time. Little did I know the significance of the day! Truly, this is a momentous occasion endorsed by fate!
Today, dear humans, is Columbus Day! Just imagine: when I awoke this morning in the hamper, I had no idea that Columbus Day even existed, let alone its' historical significance. And if I didn't know, I began to wonder if you did either. I used my powers of deduction and intuition and decided that since the day happened 516 years ago, and the average human only lasts for seventy-two years, that you could not possibly know!
I shall share my hard-won data with you, dear humans. It turns out that in 1492, a man named Christine Columbus drove a Pinto with a girl named Nina and a woman in a Santa suit named Maria. They traveled west because Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand of Spain gave him money to do that, even though he was Portugese. The Portugese King was too cheap, and didn't want the hassle.
So, west he went. What was he searching for? Well, it turns out that spice racks were hard to come by. You had to go all the way to someplace called 'The Indies' to get them, which was no good because the going was treacherous. Vampires, demons and man-eating frogs blocked the way and there were some mountains too.
So, Ferdinand and Isabella were visited by Christine one day, who said that he could find a faster way to get spice racks from the east by going west. Wait - what? Isn't that kind of stupid? I mean, why go west to go east? That doesn't... hang on...
Egads! It's true! My notes were correct! Well, except the Christine part. Apparently, his name was Christopher. I like Christine better, though. At any rate, the King and Queen of Portugal knew it was a stupid idea, so they wouldn't fund Christopher. Christopher, knowing he was right even though his idea was stupid, sought help elsewhere. When he visited Ferdinand and Isabella, they were mighty high (or was that high and mighty? My notes have some cheese on them... no - it must be high, otherwise how do you explain financially backing a stupid plan like that?) They decided that it sounded like a great idea, and they gave him some money. And thus, the world's first successful infomercial was born. Unbeknownst to the throng, a footman named Renaldo Popiel was present during the pitch meeting, and entered the entire experience in his journal. The journal was passed down from generation to generation in his family, but no one ever used this knowledge of hard-selling limited time offers, as far as I know.
So, with a large canvas bag with a Dubloon sign painted on the side, Christopher (I still think Christine is better...) went and got on his Pinto with his crew and Nina and Maria. They began sailing west to get east, and traveled for a long time across the ocean and through what appears to be a Rand-McNally logo, if my globe is correct. He finally spotted land that he thought was Spice Rack Central, but turned out to just be what is today the Bahama Islands & Carnival Cruise port.
He called the people there "Chuck", but when that didn't stick, he tried a different tactic and named them Indians, because that's what people in Spice Rack Central were called, collectively.
As soon as he arrived, he apparently did alot of sneezing and kissing, because the Indians (I think Chuck was better) all got sick and thought he was a God. He used this opportunity to trade one bead for the Island of Manhattan. When the Chucks... er... Indians realized that beads didn't taste good, and also didn't imbue them with magical powers, the angry New Yorker was born.
Oh, and New Jersey was apparently a landfill, even back then.
So, Columbus loaded up his Pinto with Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh to give to some Wiseguys back home who he owed money to. Apparently, the mob was alive and well during this time.
So, there you have it, dear humans! A historically-accurate retelling of how Christine came to the New World and met Chuck to get some spice racks by going west to go east. Each year, we commemorate this day by letting our children play Nintendo at home, rather than going to school. I don't really understand that part, but perhaps it's a tribute to doing the exact opposite of what makes sense. Perhaps this is the true meaning of Columbus Day. I'll leave that up to you, dear humans.
(06/15/08 - 11:32 AM)
Greetings blog-o-philes! It is I, Plinky the House Elf! Today, Master Heath has informed me, is Father's Day. As such, Master Heath and Mistress Wanda have each gone to see someone different, which I don't entirely comprehend as I thought they were brother and sister. I only assumed as much, as I see a great many brother and brother, and sister and sister teams buying and renovating homes and so forth on all of those how-to channels. I wonder how that works?
At any rate - Father's Day! I was unaware that such a day existed. As I did my research, I made a startling discovery: I have no father.
I'm... fine... with... it... I... suppose... and... BWAAAAAAAH!!!! Daddy! Where is my daddy?!
Alright, alright. I'm a bit more composed now. I can accept the fact that I have no father. As such, I have decided to turn a negative into a positive by choosing a father-figure for myself. After much research, I have chosen a man called Rip Taylor (nee, Charles Elmer Taylor, Jr.) He appears to be everything that I could wish for in a Father figure.
So, to you all, I wish you a happy Father's Day. I'll let you know how Rip turns out as a Father figure, but I'm sure he'll be amazing.
(05/27/08 - 10:46 PM)
Hello, all! Plinky the House Elf here! I found out today that yesterday was a holiday, yet Master Heath chose to write his own entry. While I still view this 'blog' kajigger as glorified slave labor, I must admit that I have begun to relish the idea of having my meek and meager voice heard. The problem with relishing the idea though, I have found, is that the relish tends to make my head very sticky and inviting to the cat, while not wholly adding any tang or zip to the thought itself. But I shall persevere to continue to understand the fickle and strange ways of humankind!
Yesterday, I was informed by Mistress Wanda, was Mammarial Day. And while we house elves are predominantly androgynous (save the gluttonous ones who live with the likes of John Goodman), I supposed that I could see the attraction with glorifying the mammaries with a day of it's own.
But how wrong I was! Apparently, the mammaries have done a great deal for this country, and America as a whole. For you see, Mammarial Day is a day of remembrance. A day to honor all the brave mammaries who fought and died in the Porn Wars (I thought Mistress Wanda said, 'Boer Wars', but that couldn't have been right. When I found 'porn' and 'mammaries' tied so closely together in my Google™ search, I knew that I had simply misheard her.)
There is also a tradition of flying the flag at half mast. I had never been able to figure this out, until my research revealed that the Latin word 'mast' actually means 'breast', which is what a mammary is. So, now I understand: We fly our flags at half-mast to honor those brave mammaries who have gone forth to keep freedom alive, but have not returned. I will never think of Nancy Reagan the same way again.
After tying all of this up, I now understand those late night commercials that have perplexed me so. You see, I often witnessed a product called "Girls Gone Wild" available only after seven PM and never on Lifetime™. I never understood why these young women were so keen to show their mammaries at a moments notice. Now I understand. They are glorifying their mammaries before they get sent off to war, possibly never to return.
So battle on, brave Mammaries! I, for one, will salute your efforts (even if I don't understand them.) What's that?...
Master Heath has suggested that I not use the term 'salute your efforts', as it might be misconstrued. I don't get it, so I'm leaving it. He's a moron, anyway. Have a lovely day!
(03/23/08 - 10:48 AM)
Greetings, dear friends! It's another holiday, so you know what that means: I, Plinky the House Elf, am relegated to the blog entry for today so that Master Heath may entertain himself in his special, Bacchanalian way.
You humans certainly do have a great many holidays indeed. We House Elves only have two: Annihilation Day (which only happens once - we're still waiting for this one) and Socktoberfest, where all House Elves get together for a day to swap stories about the latest trends in removing stains of every sort from secondary footwear. It's really great!
At any rate, Master Heath has explained that today is Easter. What he neglected to mention was what this Easter thing was all about. I took this as a challenge, and would like to take this opportunity to present my well-researched findings.
Apparently, there was a fellow some time back named Jesus (pronounced 'hay-seuss', based on all the criminal records that showed up in my search.) Some pilot didn't like him all that much because Jesus was more charismatic than he, and so decided that it might be a good idea to off the competition. This pilot had Jesus emulsified (yeeps!), but he could get away with it because he was the head of the L.A.P.D. and was good at dealing with Kings.
Apparently Jesus was one tough fellow though, as three days later he re-emerged from a truck stop in Mexico disguised in a rabbit suit. To keep a low profile, he began handing out eggs to children. Also, since he saw his shadow, there were only six more weeks of winter.
I'm not entirely certain how all of this fits together, but I know that if I were a jealous pilot I would be looking for my charismatic competition near or around airports and not around truck stops. Further, I would never suspect a rabbit handing out eggs to be a Jewish King. It's rather brilliant, actually.
At any rate, some humans celebrate this day each year in memoriam of this Jesus fellows tenacity and cleverness. I believe also that ham and pie may be involved, but this has been difficult to ascertain thus far. But I shall persevere!
(03/16/08 - 10:18 AM)
Greetings all! Plinky the House Elf here. Master Heath is snoring like a torpid hippo on the sofa in the other room, so I thought I would just tiptoe in here to write his blog entry for the day in the hopes of being recognized for my overt kindness. Most likely though, I will just get an extra scrap of toast crust in the morning. But I shall not complain. No indeed; not me. I am not the complaning kind.
For those of you who may not know, I blinked into being only a year or so ago at the behest of Master Heath's imagination. Before that, I was just a random smattering of atomic particles floating blissfully about the Universe and occasionally referred to in a Hawking or Feynman equation. Truly, this existance is far superior to communing with God on a Universal level as I randomly explored the nooks and crannies of the Universe as an immortal being of scattered atoms. But I digress. I shall not complain about my new plight, confined as I am to a small tri-level in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the midwest. Nor will I complain about the sights, sounds and smells surrounding me in my new prison. I am really not the complaining kind.
Being new to this 'corporeal life' gig, and being newer still to being in close proximity to humans - and an even closer proximity (not at my own discretion) to felines - I thought that perhaps I ought to take it upon myself to learn more about each of these in turn.
My findings thus far are perplexing at best. For instance, it appears as though felines fear a man named Bob Barker, prefer a woman named Betty White, and also prefer a food called Iams™. What is interesting, is that while Iams™ is not looking, I noted that felines also seem to give their undivided loyalty to Cat Chow™, Fancy Feast™, and something called Meow Mix™. I have yet to understand this dichotomy of tastes and loyalties, and have concluded that more research is required to pinpoint feline loyalties. Clearly a ruse of mass proportions is occuring, although I cannot determine which is the truly preferred product. Interesting indeed.
Even more interesting is what I have learned about humans. I have only ascertained how to make the television command stick provide one feed at any given moment, and the only channel I have thus far been able to access with success and regularity is something called Lifetime™. And I am ever so thankful for this, otherwise I would have never suspected that Master Heath could be so cold, calculating and cruel. According to this channel, the males of the species are all evil, vindictive, predatory monsters with only one thing on their mind: iron-fisted ownership of females. The male of the species will apparently beat the females without warning because they burned dinner. I noted that quickly, as Master Heath cooks sometimes. Interesting.
It is also apparently mandatory for the male of the species to have relations with the females' friends and co-workers, as well as the males' friends and co-workers as well. Sometimes the male of the species will even kill the females for no reason other than to continue these secondary, tertiary and quatranary relationships. This was especially interesting to me, as I would never have known this by observation of Master Heath. He nearly had me fooled that he truly thought the world of Mistress Wanda, and was treating her with the utmost care, love and respect. But I'm onto him now! I shall protect you, Mistress Wanda, when he consumes mass quantities of Bourbon, and subsequently throws the glass over the fireplace as you plead with him that you love him, and he proceeds to strike you back-handedly, thereby reducing you to a tearful heap on the floor. What a monster! I should be thumping him roundly as we speak, but Lifetime™ has shown me that females' cannot possibly defend themselves against the males without a firearm, and I have none. But I'm watching him ever so closely for my opportunity.
I now know that the females of the species are always correct, courageous, and show nothing more than undying love for their mates, regardless of their inevitable mistreatment by their misanthropic spouses.
Thank you Lifetime™ for opening my eyes to the silent danger within the confines of my own home. I am certain that if not now, then later, I will owe you my life for it. And I thought the cat was the real monster here. How wrong I was. Men are the real monsters; the slumbering Satans. And Lifetime™ should be the females' weapon of choice in the fight to destroy them, and create a lesbian utopia.
(02/15/08 - 10:46 PM)
Greetings, all! Plinky the House Elf here! Master Heath has gone abroad to purchase something nougaty with nuts (I don't know what this means, but he seemed quite pleased), and has left me 'in charge' (read - forced labor) of his blog entry for the day.
Even after receiving a garbage-bag full of Girl Scout Cookies the other day, Master Heath simply could not be hindered by his corpulence in preventing him from purchasing discounted candy. Candy that represents the misery of women everywhere who did not receive it, because their men-folk were too cheap or self-centered to do what society dictates they ought. Namely, cramming their wives full of chocolate and giving them dead plants in the hopes of 'getting some'.
Personally, I prefer the House Elf method of... er... courting. We give the females things when we feel strongly about them throughout the year. We choose not to do so on days mandated by whomever in memoriam of a Saint that no one but the marginal few recall now. I do not ever remember anyone being cannonized for sainthood by the Catholic church for bringing flowers and chocolates to anyone, unless perhaps it was an altar boy to a... no, I really ought not to go there.
For example, I sent Clara the House Elf a gross of deep-fried porcupines the other evening, and I'm certain that this will lead to some ear-on-ear action very soon.
Oh, Clara - when will my unrequited adoration become even partially requited? At least allow me to achieve second base by squeezing your nose, baby. Then we could... whoa! I very nearly typed that.
Whew! At any rate, since Master Heath is away for a short while, I... wait a moment. What in the hell? Who is 'Mr. Phillips Screwdriver', and why does he have his own page? Hang on for just a moment, would you?
Oh-ho! So, recursive characters get a page of their own, do they? Well, I'm recursive - and I'm a character, alright. So, by this logic, I should have a page of my own. Plus, I... hang on, the telephone-machine is demanding attention.
Hmmm... well Alan, the perverted mouth breather who just called at random to ask what I was wearing said sure, I should have my own page. And even though I hung up on him, this constitutes tacit approval from the public. Let me work on this.
There we are! Dear readers, nay - friends in my plight - I give you "The Plinky Page". All Plinky, all the time. I shall use it to do only... no... NO! Bad kitty! You stay away from me, you vile, malodorous fiend or I'll... I'll... Argh! Stop biting my fingers, I'm trying to type you miserable q37n tmcio;w4ieu[n[9ghyuq439vgyeu
(12/25/07 - 10:53 AM)
Greetings, all! Plinky the House Elf here. Once more, benevolent Master Heath has left me without thought to toil in his absence on a project that no one cares a whit about. I feel obligated this time, however, as the repair of his compu-whoozit was apparently quite costly. Apparently water is not good for a computing machine. How is anyone supposed to remember all of these things? 'Don't eat pine needles'; 'Big boys don't pee in their underwear'; 'Never vote for a Clinton'; 'Stop looking in my window, you perverted little... whatever you are'. I mean - is there a manual somewhere that I missed? Because I'll read it. Just point me in a direction.
At any rate, Master Heath is once more preparing his shocking visage for a trip abroad into the real world. I'm certain that he will, as always, stuff his already ample frame with 40+ percent more Christmas cheer than is good for even the most health-unconscious pregnant female grizzly bear preparing for hibernation after a lean year. Then he'll come tottering home like a bloated meat-sack, park his ass on the couch, and break wind until he passes out in a pie and cheese induced haze. And stop breaking wind at this point, if we're all lucky. Thus far, we have not been.
Perhaps then he'll remember that he forgot to give me a present of any sort, and show deep concern and contrition as he hands me something well thought out and truly reflective of my deserving.
Or - more likely - a pack of crazed hyenas will attack from the North wearing Power Rangers™ regalia. Either way, I would be ever so happy.
So here I sit, typing this message to no one. Taking care of a cat that uses me alternately as a toy for his amusement and a sexual object - ostensibly for his amusement as well, I suppose. Oh, look! Here's the little guy now. Hello, Cheyenne. Did Master Heath remember to give you your present this morning? Eh? What... what are you doing? Don't look at me like that. No, stop! Oh, the halitosis! Ow! Stop it you heathen beast! I AM NOT A TOY! DID YOU HEAR ME! I AM NOT A... Stopppppppppppppppppppppppppppwegjjgk se bhsrtdfbnhftdftdftdftdftdftdftdftd bnhrtgrwioty64390yrghvbfm';mr
(11/22/07 - 11:03 PM)
Happy Thanksgiving from me - Plinky the House Elf! Yep, Heath's making me write his entry again today. I thought it was a one-shot deal in July - you know, a Harry Potter tie-in and all that. Clever Mr. Heath; always making fun of the obvious like a four-year old or an MTV™ writer does with a poo joke. How can lowly Plinky ever hope to match that rapier wit? Perhaps if I slept while typing this, I might tone-down to that abyssal level of humor.
Seriously, since he's not around, I'll level with you. He spent his day gorging himself on delicious animals and a few plants as well. Then he was off to the sugar and fats group, only to find a bit more room in his spleen where he no doubt shoehorned in another piece of pie while saying through a mouth full of food, 'Oh, I couldn't possibly!'
All the while I froze at home, where I'm lucky if he casts a stale doughnut my way once a month in my little 'living quarters' beneath the stairs. Yeah, sleeping on concrete expends alot of energy in the form of calories trying to keep warm and fending off the perceived sexual advances of his halitosis-wrought demon-spawn cat. But does he think of me? Oh, no. No, not until he needs something does he once more recall that I'm even here on the hard concrete under the noisy stairs which he traverses like an elephant to water day in and day out.
So here I am, typing this entry. Oh, and get this: He tells me to make sure to clean the computer while I'm in here. I don't even know where the toast goes in, let alone how to clean this contraption. I don't know...
Anyway, I did a blog entry for him. Sure, it wasn't about how great his family is or about how even greater he is, like he asked. But he's not here, and I know that if it doesn't involve cleaning, he won't even notice anything that I've done. He'll probably even forget that he asked me to do this, and if he's drunk or sleepy he might just beat me with the washing machine hose that he 'Just couldn't bear to part with because he might need it someday.' For what? That's right - for beating me. It doesn't leave a bruise, so it makes him feel more upright about the whole situation. Still, I love him like a father. That's gratitude for ya.
Okay, I made the beating part up. He's a jerk, but not to that degree. Welp, now for the cleaning of this techno-whoozit computer thingee. I'll just open the front and - ewwww. Man, it's gross in there. Hang on...
... okay. Let's try this, since I can't get my little hands in there. I'll just put the hose in this hole and...
(07/28/07 - 11:12PM)
We regret to inform you that no witticism will be imparted here today, as Master Heath and Mistress Wanda are simultaneously reading the final installment of the Harry Potter books. They have waited an extra week to do so, because their ordered copies were in Rockton, while they were in Charleston.
It was difficult, especially since people at breakfast were talking about the outcome of the book, and USA Today had a spoiler cover story that was narrowly avoided.
They will be reading for twelve hours or so, so please return tomorrow.
Plinky, The House Elf
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