From Hoops, via Pancho:

Man Punches Another He Accuses of Being a ‘Zombie’
Monday, October 26, 2009

IOWA CITY, Iowa — Iowa City police are investigating an early morning assault in which a man accused another of being a zombie, then punched him twice.

Police say the assault occurred at 1:17 a.m. Sunday at an Iowa City restaurant south of the University of Iowa campus.

A man was ordering food when he was approached by another man who called him a zombie, then hit him in the eye. When the victim tried to call police on his cell phone, the man punched him again, breaking his nose.

The man then ran out a back door.

The victim was taken by ambulance to a hospital.

I am so using this excuse if I go shopping on Black Friday. “That’s MY $15.00 Betsy Johnson purse, you $%#@ing zombie!” *punch*

Mark me, for I have vanquished the evil katydid in my apartment and sent its leafy green carcass back to the dark, fetid hell from whence it came.

It all started when I overslept this morning. The night before last, I’d slept poorly due to the sounds of the katydid and the beetle that had somehow gotten into my apartment and the fact that I had left the kitchen light on, hoping it would lure the bugs closer to the front door of my home. Last night, I could still hear the katydid, but I couldn’t find it. Fast-forward to me waking up this morning at 8:32. (For the record, I’m supposed to be at work by 8:30 at the latest.)

After calling my boss to let her know I’d overslept, I got dressed and went out to the brightly-lit living room to put on my makeup. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a leafy green abomination of nature clinging to one of my pretty sheer curtains. I froze. If you know anything about me, you know that I am absolutely terrified of bugs, especially 3″ -long kissing cousins of a Biblical plague (read: locusts).

After about five minutes of staring at the katydid and wishing it would somehow spontaneously combust in a way that wouldn’t damage the curtain, I realized I was going to have to do something. I slipped on the first pair of shoes I could find (I didn’t want to step on it with my bare feet if it landed on the floor). Then I checked the cabinet under my sink for any chemical that might kill the bug, finally settling on a can of oven cleaner, mostly because its label contained more hazard warnings than any of the other cleaners I had on hand. I patted myself on the back for not having made the switch to those all-natural Green Works cleaning products; I knew instinctively that it would take some no-kidding, for-real, skull-and-crossbones-type shit to take this bug down. Armed with a wad of paper towels and my can of oven poison, I crept back into the living room.

The katydid was still there, just sort of chilling out. For a fleeting second, I felt bad for what I was about to do. I wondered if there was a way I could just capture it and release it onto the front porch, where it could live out its little katydid life until it got eaten by a bird or a cat or something. After all, who was I to interfere with the circle of life?

Then the big twitched a little bit. I screamed and let loose a torrent of swear words and oven cleaner until the twitching stopped. It was still clinging to my curtain, but I was pretty sure it was very quickly expiring. I pried it off of the curtains with the paper towels, wrapped it up, and then smooshed it between my hands to make sure it was dead.

I’d wasted almost ten minutes doing this, so I didn’t have time to finish putting on my makeup. I grabbed my purse and ID badge and headed out the door. On the way, I called one of the women in my office to regale her with the tale of my triumph over the katydid. Then I called my mom. Then I called my old roommate. By the time I got to work, I was feeling about ten feet tall. After sitting down at my desk and logging into my computer, I happened to glance down at my feet, and I realized that the shoes I’d slipped on to avoid getting squashed bug on my feet don’t even remotely match what I’m wearing today.

We’ll call it even, you six-legged bastard.

Glenn and I are participating in a Saturday night ritual we haven’t been able to share in many, many months: SyFy (formerly SciFi) Channel movie marathons.

We watched Thor: Hammer of the Gods with Zachary Ty Bryan (I know! I didn’t think he was still acting either!), which was just stupid, and now we’re watching Lightning Strikes with Kevin Sorbo. This movie is something else entirely. It features lightning that hunts down and kills people (*pause* *blink* *blink* *blink* *pause* *resume*) and a bunch of unnamed major characters who just go by “Sherrif” or “Mayor” or “Doc” or “Token Black Guy,” and a lot of random bullshit that keeps making us scream at the TV. For example, did you know that mythology + science = valid area of research? And that pumpkins and lightning have a centuries-old rivalry?

Yeah, this movie is so bad. It’s pretty bad when the most likable character in any film is a weather phenomenon. (See: Twister)

But seriously, this movie is terrible. Its only saving grace is that one of the characters looks a lot like a mutual, British acquaintance named Emmy Lou, so Glenn and I keep joking about leaving her notes that say things like, “WHY DO YOU HATE US?! YOUR MOVIE SUCKS! WHEN DID YOU BECOME AN AMERICAN?!” She would have no idea what we were talking about. At least we’d think it was funny.

I’m happy (?) to say that this is not the worst movie I’ve seen this year. That would be Terror at Blood Fart Lake. No, I did not make that up, even though I kind of wish I had.

Oh, hey, lightning also steals children. Bet you didn’t know that, either. Lightning sucks.

I was feeling gross this morning, but it gradually subsided after I got to work. At about 3:30, I started feeling nauseous again, but I was determined not to say anything, because if I did, I’d only be accused of wanting to go home to hang out with Glenn on his last day here.

Anyway, so I was sitting at my desk, being nauseous and light-headed, when my boss walked into my cubicle to ask me a question about our new system. As I was answering her, I was hit with a particularly nasty wave of nausea, and I heard myself commit the following social faux pas:

ME: “I’m pretty sure we should be able to fix that before the system goes live on [ALMIGHTY BELCH] . . . um, October 5th.”

My boss looked horrified, and I hoped she would leave quickly, as I was pretty sure I was going to do it again, and next time it would be a lot more . . . productive. But she stuck around a few minutes longer, and I finished my conversation with her sans any technicolor distress.

On the plus side, there’s only an hour left in the day.

Unfortunately, my boss now suspects that I’m brutally hungover, which makes this post even more hilarious.