And you know what's funny? Even with all of this talent and wit that I keep claiming to have, I STILL can't come up with good material for a worthwhile voice acting demo reel.
What in the hell is wrong with me?? Why is it that whenever I have actual work to get done, my creativity just gets shot to high hell? It's like my brain wants me to fail...
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
You BASTARD
Aww, when I changed the time/date of my BLOG, Blogger decided to be a right prick and adjust all of the times and dates of my archives, too.
Well shit. I somehow doubt I'll have the urge to bother rectifying that. Ah well.
Well shit. I somehow doubt I'll have the urge to bother rectifying that. Ah well.
Wilfork
Suddenly feeling an inexplicable urge to take BLOGgin' back up... Which is a damn shame, considering nobody reads my BLOG anymore. Back in the day, I'd be able to jot down any old crap and expect at least a response or two.
But no mas.
Nowadays, I'm spouting my witticisms into the blank, empty abyss that is the Internet... a place where dreams go to die. Or at least get altered into pornography of some description.
Damnation, I really didn't have anything to type, did I? Why actually, yes I did, but it's roughly a month later than it should have been. Just watching week one's Bills/Pats Monday night matchup, and have to declare - the personal foul called on Vince Wilfork early in the third quarter was absolute BULLSHIT. I can't believe how incredibly ridiculous that call was! I thought the flag was for intentional grounding, because that's the only goddamn penalty I saw on that play.
Isn't it funny how as our awareness of the game's nuances evolve, the officiating has somehow over the last couple of years degenerated to absolute shit? I say this with great caution, because I'm almost certain that idiot Goodell is scanning the web for any negative words spoken of his precious officials... I'm half-expecting a fine here.
Alright. Enough about football games that happened four weeks ago. Let's get to the world of today, shall we? It seems to me as though I'm a strange mix of lethargy and insomnia these days... I can't get to sleep at night, but during my waking hours it's all I want to do.
I can't decipher exactly why my body would have wanted to shift to a nocturnal state, but I just assume that I'm so highly evolved that it has its reasons, that we shall all discover shortly. I recommend everyone else makes the change quickly, before suddenly going to bed at 1 am is all the rage, and you missed your chance!
Sorry, what?
Ah yes, BLOG. You know, it's funny - I occasionally scan over the most frequently read BLOGs to see what the popular kids have on offer, and it would appear as though at the moment, I'm mightily outmatched.
Right now, the State of MANtana offers helpful advice on how women can please a man (namely by 'shutting the fuck up and getting me a sandwich'), DocManJay is proudly stating his belief of God, while Human Evolution has amusingly chosen to write a BLOG about why religion is wrong. Add in there Eminem celebrating the fifth anniversary of Shade 45 (one line of text followed by a video from another website is enough to garner 157 kudos, incidentally... In my years of BLOGging, I've collected 55).
Put simply, I'm fucked. You know what my conversational piece was? Vince Wilfork tackling Trent Edwards four fucking weeks ago. I don't think that will be enough to evoke in my reading public an intense urge to weigh in on this exciting debate. And even if they were to read, I'm sure that they'd be more interested as to when and why it was that I started saying 'fuck' in my BLOGs.
Self-censorship was cute for years, but my opinions aren't PG, I've finally realised. All because popular programming need adhere to restrictions in order for them to remain in popular syndication, I myself have the glorious luxury of not being in syndication. ...Or popular, for that matter.
Besides, I was a lazy man to begin with, and years of becoming a jaded theatre twat have soured me into this bitter shell of a thing with an ego that's a queer combination of being both tattered and deflated, as well as an insatiable hunger for my services somehow becoming desirable.
I hadn't intended to go on an acting spiel, but why the hell not. It was either that or Wilfork.
So anyhow, I'm talented. Massively talented. More talented than the whole State of MANtana, for that matter. It's just such a pity and a shame that the unwashed masses haven't quite cottoned onto that yet. It's a curious thing, really, this egotistical view that I'm above the people, while so desperately seeking their recognition. Some years ago, my good friend Chris Lane realised that his contempt for the idiotic everyman meant that he need not pander to them and be out there to please them. He became a far more focused, driven individual than I'd ever seen him before due to this.
Not me, however. I want people to give a shit that I'm a violent alcoholic who churns out shitty movies at a fervent rate, constantly with the 'troubled' label attached to my name. The media really need to come up with more buzz words. Every goddamn celebrity out there is described as 'troubled'.
Just letting you know, budding journalists, Amy Winehouse is not troubled. She is in actual fact what we like to call a shithead.
When will it be my turn, dammit? Jessica used to reprimand me for so desperately seeking fame, considering it to be shallow and potentially dangerous, but did it deter me in the slightest? Nope.
It's a funny thing, you know, because you ask nearly any celebrity out there, and they'll tell you that they miss the anonymity of everyday life. That they'd trade all the money, fame and glory in the world to just be like everyone else...
Bullshit.
The apathetic at best, but more likely completely oblivious public opinion I hold is one of the most infuriating things in my life; something that I gripe about constantly and desperately long for a change. You could in all fairness say that I've never experienced the celebrities' lives, so I can't really judge them. And I can't offer a counter-argument to that... No, I've never been famous. I could very possibly end up hating it and eat these very words I'm spouting out so furiously.
But... you just feel it, you know? It's what I want. I've had to scale back every now and then in accordance with what I can realistically expect from life; at one time I intended to be the world's greatest actor, but over the years it's occurred to me that, unfortunately, I'm not really much of an actor. Any straight roles I've played could be kindly described as shithouse. Rather content then to be known as the world's greatest character actor, time slowly wore away at that notion too, as my mind started ticking in unfortunate ways until I'd convinced myself that I'm not exactly doing great shakes in character acting; what I portray is less about acting, just more about being extravagant and big. Well shit, I'm just an entertainer then.
A great many things I'm apparently not, but I'm still pretty certain that I've got enough marketability to make something happen. It's a damn shame that it doesn't come with any kind of work ethic whatsoever; I've done jack shit for years and I've got mostly myself to blame for that. Tragically, my once very reasonable belief that I would just somehow become famous without any effort whatsoever seems slightly less reasonable nowadays.
Christ, I'm probably going to regret posting this somehow. I really am an arrogant, pompous prick when it comes down to it. I guess that's the good thing about having a BLOG that nobody reads anymore; you can feel good that you've expressed yourself without any fear of repercussions afterwards.
And honestly, looking back on what this BLOG has become, even I myself must declare...
tl;dr
But no mas.
Nowadays, I'm spouting my witticisms into the blank, empty abyss that is the Internet... a place where dreams go to die. Or at least get altered into pornography of some description.
Damnation, I really didn't have anything to type, did I? Why actually, yes I did, but it's roughly a month later than it should have been. Just watching week one's Bills/Pats Monday night matchup, and have to declare - the personal foul called on Vince Wilfork early in the third quarter was absolute BULLSHIT. I can't believe how incredibly ridiculous that call was! I thought the flag was for intentional grounding, because that's the only goddamn penalty I saw on that play.
Isn't it funny how as our awareness of the game's nuances evolve, the officiating has somehow over the last couple of years degenerated to absolute shit? I say this with great caution, because I'm almost certain that idiot Goodell is scanning the web for any negative words spoken of his precious officials... I'm half-expecting a fine here.
Alright. Enough about football games that happened four weeks ago. Let's get to the world of today, shall we? It seems to me as though I'm a strange mix of lethargy and insomnia these days... I can't get to sleep at night, but during my waking hours it's all I want to do.
I can't decipher exactly why my body would have wanted to shift to a nocturnal state, but I just assume that I'm so highly evolved that it has its reasons, that we shall all discover shortly. I recommend everyone else makes the change quickly, before suddenly going to bed at 1 am is all the rage, and you missed your chance!
Sorry, what?
Ah yes, BLOG. You know, it's funny - I occasionally scan over the most frequently read BLOGs to see what the popular kids have on offer, and it would appear as though at the moment, I'm mightily outmatched.
Right now, the State of MANtana offers helpful advice on how women can please a man (namely by 'shutting the fuck up and getting me a sandwich'), DocManJay is proudly stating his belief of God, while Human Evolution has amusingly chosen to write a BLOG about why religion is wrong. Add in there Eminem celebrating the fifth anniversary of Shade 45 (one line of text followed by a video from another website is enough to garner 157 kudos, incidentally... In my years of BLOGging, I've collected 55).
Put simply, I'm fucked. You know what my conversational piece was? Vince Wilfork tackling Trent Edwards four fucking weeks ago. I don't think that will be enough to evoke in my reading public an intense urge to weigh in on this exciting debate. And even if they were to read, I'm sure that they'd be more interested as to when and why it was that I started saying 'fuck' in my BLOGs.
Self-censorship was cute for years, but my opinions aren't PG, I've finally realised. All because popular programming need adhere to restrictions in order for them to remain in popular syndication, I myself have the glorious luxury of not being in syndication. ...Or popular, for that matter.
Besides, I was a lazy man to begin with, and years of becoming a jaded theatre twat have soured me into this bitter shell of a thing with an ego that's a queer combination of being both tattered and deflated, as well as an insatiable hunger for my services somehow becoming desirable.
I hadn't intended to go on an acting spiel, but why the hell not. It was either that or Wilfork.
So anyhow, I'm talented. Massively talented. More talented than the whole State of MANtana, for that matter. It's just such a pity and a shame that the unwashed masses haven't quite cottoned onto that yet. It's a curious thing, really, this egotistical view that I'm above the people, while so desperately seeking their recognition. Some years ago, my good friend Chris Lane realised that his contempt for the idiotic everyman meant that he need not pander to them and be out there to please them. He became a far more focused, driven individual than I'd ever seen him before due to this.
Not me, however. I want people to give a shit that I'm a violent alcoholic who churns out shitty movies at a fervent rate, constantly with the 'troubled' label attached to my name. The media really need to come up with more buzz words. Every goddamn celebrity out there is described as 'troubled'.
Just letting you know, budding journalists, Amy Winehouse is not troubled. She is in actual fact what we like to call a shithead.
When will it be my turn, dammit? Jessica used to reprimand me for so desperately seeking fame, considering it to be shallow and potentially dangerous, but did it deter me in the slightest? Nope.
It's a funny thing, you know, because you ask nearly any celebrity out there, and they'll tell you that they miss the anonymity of everyday life. That they'd trade all the money, fame and glory in the world to just be like everyone else...
Bullshit.
The apathetic at best, but more likely completely oblivious public opinion I hold is one of the most infuriating things in my life; something that I gripe about constantly and desperately long for a change. You could in all fairness say that I've never experienced the celebrities' lives, so I can't really judge them. And I can't offer a counter-argument to that... No, I've never been famous. I could very possibly end up hating it and eat these very words I'm spouting out so furiously.
But... you just feel it, you know? It's what I want. I've had to scale back every now and then in accordance with what I can realistically expect from life; at one time I intended to be the world's greatest actor, but over the years it's occurred to me that, unfortunately, I'm not really much of an actor. Any straight roles I've played could be kindly described as shithouse. Rather content then to be known as the world's greatest character actor, time slowly wore away at that notion too, as my mind started ticking in unfortunate ways until I'd convinced myself that I'm not exactly doing great shakes in character acting; what I portray is less about acting, just more about being extravagant and big. Well shit, I'm just an entertainer then.
A great many things I'm apparently not, but I'm still pretty certain that I've got enough marketability to make something happen. It's a damn shame that it doesn't come with any kind of work ethic whatsoever; I've done jack shit for years and I've got mostly myself to blame for that. Tragically, my once very reasonable belief that I would just somehow become famous without any effort whatsoever seems slightly less reasonable nowadays.
Christ, I'm probably going to regret posting this somehow. I really am an arrogant, pompous prick when it comes down to it. I guess that's the good thing about having a BLOG that nobody reads anymore; you can feel good that you've expressed yourself without any fear of repercussions afterwards.
And honestly, looking back on what this BLOG has become, even I myself must declare...
tl;dr
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Formatting FTW
Oh hellz yeah, I've only now just worked out how to kindly inform Blogger that I'm not a Yank, allowing me to post BLOG entries from my own timezone.
In case y'all thought I was some kind of weirdo who BLOGs about paintball at 5 am.
...Nah, it's only 12:45 am. :D
In case y'all thought I was some kind of weirdo who BLOGs about paintball at 5 am.
...Nah, it's only 12:45 am. :D
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
I'm shithouse at paintball
What was I to expect, really? I don't believe I've ever operated a firearm before, let alone trying to get to grips with one while being pelted with enemy fire from more experienced opponents...
Quick thought; perhaps they should call it painball. Because those little pricks sting a bit when you get hit with them. I've got the bruises and a big lump on my leg soon to turn purple to prove it. Obviously bikini season is now out of the question for me.
Tragically, though I got hit with regularity, I can't actually say with any certainty whether I actually managed to shoot anyone else. I think I might have at one point, but I'm not entirely sure. I just couldn't figure out how everyone else was able to aim their guns so well while being shot at from every angle.
On the plus side however, I can say with pride that any of my he-man Rambo-like runs from place to place left me entirely unmarked. Yes, after the match's conclusion, I realised that I did not get hit once while on the move. ...I instead got hit about twenty times while trapped behind the places I thought to be safe, opponents creeping closer and closer before finally putting me out of my misery.
In case you're wondering, yes I was the first person to be hit. And yes, I was also the first one to cop one to the face; hit the third time right in the visor from Jorrel, obscuring my vision and reminding me that, had I not been wearing that helmet, I'd be down one eye at this moment in time. And yes, I was one of only three people to get hit right on the top of the head; an entirely unprotected area that did not appreciate the direct impact of paintball down upon it. I mightily declared 'FUCK' at the time... though in all honesty, I said that about 100 times today. Fifteen of those times right near the beginning, when I was first behind a metallic sheet and listening to the impact of paintballs on the other side.
Another quick thought, there's not really any other feeling out there quite like being trapped behind little cover, and hearing paintballs actually whiz by you like bullets, knowing that you're just about to get hit. The closest feeling I could relate it to would be having a soccer ball fly right past your head, also frightening in its own right, but in all respect, it's likely not being shot out of a rifle.
Unfortunately, it wasn't until the end that I started feeling a bit more ballsy, making desperate runs towards the central flag in the hopes of claiming victory, but I like to think that I was just adhering to my age-old tradition of being better in a supporting role towards others, giving Zula my last refill card so that he would have another 100 bullets, and swapping guns with Frances so that I was out there firing nothing but air while she ended up being the only one on our team left with ammo. Watching her run out bravely in the final charge, gun blazing... it was inspiring. It also made me glad that I had ditched those bullets. Lord knows I didn't want to be making that kamikaze run. She looked like a morbid rainbow after that dire attempt at heroics.
Would I do it again? Probably not. It was a lot of fun, but as you've probably gathered, I was pretty abysmal at it, and I much prefer to partake in activities where I'm not a liability to my team. ...I haven't quite concluded what those activities might be, but I assure you they almost certainly exist.
...Crap, I better take the cup I wore out of my backpack and wash it or something. Hell no I didn't throw it out, I paid good money for that thing and I intend to keep it on hand should I ever need it again. I'd much rather be the cup-bearer who's over-prepared rather than the poor cupless sap who ends up with blistered genitalia.
Was that last paragraph really necessary? Probably not. But I would have felt angry with myself if I omitted it.
Quick thought; perhaps they should call it painball. Because those little pricks sting a bit when you get hit with them. I've got the bruises and a big lump on my leg soon to turn purple to prove it. Obviously bikini season is now out of the question for me.
Tragically, though I got hit with regularity, I can't actually say with any certainty whether I actually managed to shoot anyone else. I think I might have at one point, but I'm not entirely sure. I just couldn't figure out how everyone else was able to aim their guns so well while being shot at from every angle.
On the plus side however, I can say with pride that any of my he-man Rambo-like runs from place to place left me entirely unmarked. Yes, after the match's conclusion, I realised that I did not get hit once while on the move. ...I instead got hit about twenty times while trapped behind the places I thought to be safe, opponents creeping closer and closer before finally putting me out of my misery.
In case you're wondering, yes I was the first person to be hit. And yes, I was also the first one to cop one to the face; hit the third time right in the visor from Jorrel, obscuring my vision and reminding me that, had I not been wearing that helmet, I'd be down one eye at this moment in time. And yes, I was one of only three people to get hit right on the top of the head; an entirely unprotected area that did not appreciate the direct impact of paintball down upon it. I mightily declared 'FUCK' at the time... though in all honesty, I said that about 100 times today. Fifteen of those times right near the beginning, when I was first behind a metallic sheet and listening to the impact of paintballs on the other side.
Another quick thought, there's not really any other feeling out there quite like being trapped behind little cover, and hearing paintballs actually whiz by you like bullets, knowing that you're just about to get hit. The closest feeling I could relate it to would be having a soccer ball fly right past your head, also frightening in its own right, but in all respect, it's likely not being shot out of a rifle.
Unfortunately, it wasn't until the end that I started feeling a bit more ballsy, making desperate runs towards the central flag in the hopes of claiming victory, but I like to think that I was just adhering to my age-old tradition of being better in a supporting role towards others, giving Zula my last refill card so that he would have another 100 bullets, and swapping guns with Frances so that I was out there firing nothing but air while she ended up being the only one on our team left with ammo. Watching her run out bravely in the final charge, gun blazing... it was inspiring. It also made me glad that I had ditched those bullets. Lord knows I didn't want to be making that kamikaze run. She looked like a morbid rainbow after that dire attempt at heroics.
Would I do it again? Probably not. It was a lot of fun, but as you've probably gathered, I was pretty abysmal at it, and I much prefer to partake in activities where I'm not a liability to my team. ...I haven't quite concluded what those activities might be, but I assure you they almost certainly exist.
...Crap, I better take the cup I wore out of my backpack and wash it or something. Hell no I didn't throw it out, I paid good money for that thing and I intend to keep it on hand should I ever need it again. I'd much rather be the cup-bearer who's over-prepared rather than the poor cupless sap who ends up with blistered genitalia.
Was that last paragraph really necessary? Probably not. But I would have felt angry with myself if I omitted it.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Blog number what... four?
You know what sucks?
My presence as a blogger for the last four years. I've cycled through so many blogs, garnered so many comments and provided so much insight - and here I am once again... Square one.
Blog entry #1.
No history.
No notoriety.
No viewcount.
Damnation.
So anyhow, welcome to post #1. Iffin you're from futureville and have noticed that I've in actual fact made a slew of entries preceding this one, then you can put that down to the handy little tool of backdating. I assure you that all the dates are in actual fact correct, and as for the people of today, I hope you don't mind being part of my retroactive updates. No doubt confusing as all get-out, but hey, I'm a stickler for historical accuracy, y'see?
My presence as a blogger for the last four years. I've cycled through so many blogs, garnered so many comments and provided so much insight - and here I am once again... Square one.
Blog entry #1.
No history.
No notoriety.
No viewcount.
Damnation.
So anyhow, welcome to post #1. Iffin you're from futureville and have noticed that I've in actual fact made a slew of entries preceding this one, then you can put that down to the handy little tool of backdating. I assure you that all the dates are in actual fact correct, and as for the people of today, I hope you don't mind being part of my retroactive updates. No doubt confusing as all get-out, but hey, I'm a stickler for historical accuracy, y'see?
Friday, January 9, 2009
How to light your kitchen on fire
My eyes still sting a little. My fingers are shaking, but not a whole lot. What's primarily on my mind at this time is imaginative ways to clean a bubbling ceiling.
So the low down, then. Being the creative culinary experts that we are, Jess and I decided tonight that we'd take a crack at making some crumbed calamari.
Things got off to an inauspicious start; our batter mix was overpriced for what was essentially just flour and crumbs, and it told us to just add water... not how much water or anything, but just add water. At one point in the night, I added water to something. The results were interesting.
First of all, let me heartily advise anyone against cooking at 11 at night. It sounds all fun and adventurous; late-night cookin' over a hot stove followed by some serious Baywatch and maybe even a little drunken session of Wii Fit (as long as nobody jumped on my balance board!)
Anyhow, with our crumbs all mixed with spices and some chips in the oven, all that was left was for the pot full of boiling oil to get ready. Various Youtube videos suggested 20 minutes (yes, we are learning to cook through Youtube). So I left Jess to her own devices while I chatted with Jana on the phone. What were we talking about at the time? Oh yeah, dad had had some luck on the recent lotto draw, and Jess was hoping Jana could get something for us on eBay. It was all innocuous enough, until Jess told me in a firm voice that she needed me.
Generally, such a tone of voice meant that there was a cockroach about, but somehow at the time, I kinda figured that it was more likely something to do with that pot full of volatile liquid. ...That pot full of volatile liquid, that now appeared to be on fire.
I (rather casually) told Jana that I had to go, and then watched with keen interest for a couple seconds, pondering how to solve this scenario. I reached out to grab the handle, but that flame was licking about under the lid fairly wildly, and as you can imagine as time went on things were only getting worse. I snatched it up (thank god the handle hadn't heated at all) and threw it in the sink.
At this time, I was a smidgen confused - why was it that when I threw it in the sink, the fire appeared to be getting bigger? Who cares, I knew how to solve this - through use of my neglected buddy Blastoise, I was aware that water could definitely quelch a fire.
So I turned the tap on, and it happened. WHOOSH. The whole sink is up in flames. By this point, there are certain things running through your mind. My second thought was, 'well shit, I'm not going to be able to put this out' - Jess' house may not survive the night. But, honest to god, my first thought was 'WHY DID WATER MAKE THE FIRE BIGGER?'
...I'm a much more scientifically aware human being now, having discovered that water aggravates the oil. I mean hey, water being poured all over me would piss me off too, but damn man, the fire had engulfed the entire sink, and was nearing the ceiling - get over it, oil!
I had concluded by this point that water wasn't working so great, and my mind was now turning to thoughts of evacuating (but not before saving my Wii!), when all of a sudden it was gone. This all progressed very quickly of course, but I am not exaggerating when I tell you that in another couple seconds, the whole kitchen is up in flames.
So our Blastoise-powered tap had put the fire out (after having a little bitchfight with the oil), and we were safe. Now Jess was up on a chair, plucking the battery from the smoke detector because the noise annoyed the hell out of her. With that out of the way, a few fans were turned on, doors and windows open, and yeah.
Considering that the whole house could have been burnt down and that in the split-second after I turned the tap on the flames hadn't taken my hand off, I'm pretty pleased with how the evening went. The state of the ceiling, however? Not so grand. The paint is bubbling, and there are some nasty-ass stains that I reckon will require professionals.
So yeah. That was our wee little cooking adventure. The upsetting part now? We have barely any oil left to make the damn calamari with. Ultimate fail.
Our gorgeous redecorating
Ain't she a beaut?
Love the bubbles
Partially melted rubbish bag
Best calamari ever!!
So the low down, then. Being the creative culinary experts that we are, Jess and I decided tonight that we'd take a crack at making some crumbed calamari.
Things got off to an inauspicious start; our batter mix was overpriced for what was essentially just flour and crumbs, and it told us to just add water... not how much water or anything, but just add water. At one point in the night, I added water to something. The results were interesting.
First of all, let me heartily advise anyone against cooking at 11 at night. It sounds all fun and adventurous; late-night cookin' over a hot stove followed by some serious Baywatch and maybe even a little drunken session of Wii Fit (as long as nobody jumped on my balance board!)
Anyhow, with our crumbs all mixed with spices and some chips in the oven, all that was left was for the pot full of boiling oil to get ready. Various Youtube videos suggested 20 minutes (yes, we are learning to cook through Youtube). So I left Jess to her own devices while I chatted with Jana on the phone. What were we talking about at the time? Oh yeah, dad had had some luck on the recent lotto draw, and Jess was hoping Jana could get something for us on eBay. It was all innocuous enough, until Jess told me in a firm voice that she needed me.
Generally, such a tone of voice meant that there was a cockroach about, but somehow at the time, I kinda figured that it was more likely something to do with that pot full of volatile liquid. ...That pot full of volatile liquid, that now appeared to be on fire.
I (rather casually) told Jana that I had to go, and then watched with keen interest for a couple seconds, pondering how to solve this scenario. I reached out to grab the handle, but that flame was licking about under the lid fairly wildly, and as you can imagine as time went on things were only getting worse. I snatched it up (thank god the handle hadn't heated at all) and threw it in the sink.
At this time, I was a smidgen confused - why was it that when I threw it in the sink, the fire appeared to be getting bigger? Who cares, I knew how to solve this - through use of my neglected buddy Blastoise, I was aware that water could definitely quelch a fire.
So I turned the tap on, and it happened. WHOOSH. The whole sink is up in flames. By this point, there are certain things running through your mind. My second thought was, 'well shit, I'm not going to be able to put this out' - Jess' house may not survive the night. But, honest to god, my first thought was 'WHY DID WATER MAKE THE FIRE BIGGER?'
...I'm a much more scientifically aware human being now, having discovered that water aggravates the oil. I mean hey, water being poured all over me would piss me off too, but damn man, the fire had engulfed the entire sink, and was nearing the ceiling - get over it, oil!
I had concluded by this point that water wasn't working so great, and my mind was now turning to thoughts of evacuating (but not before saving my Wii!), when all of a sudden it was gone. This all progressed very quickly of course, but I am not exaggerating when I tell you that in another couple seconds, the whole kitchen is up in flames.
So our Blastoise-powered tap had put the fire out (after having a little bitchfight with the oil), and we were safe. Now Jess was up on a chair, plucking the battery from the smoke detector because the noise annoyed the hell out of her. With that out of the way, a few fans were turned on, doors and windows open, and yeah.
Considering that the whole house could have been burnt down and that in the split-second after I turned the tap on the flames hadn't taken my hand off, I'm pretty pleased with how the evening went. The state of the ceiling, however? Not so grand. The paint is bubbling, and there are some nasty-ass stains that I reckon will require professionals.
So yeah. That was our wee little cooking adventure. The upsetting part now? We have barely any oil left to make the damn calamari with. Ultimate fail.
Our gorgeous redecorating
Ain't she a beaut?
Love the bubbles
Partially melted rubbish bag
Best calamari ever!!
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