Guest Post! A Pornography Fan’s Review Of Miley Cyrus’ Performance At Video Music Awards
Welcome List of X! Today my guest blogger will be talking to us about Miley Cyrus and porn. For some reason he thought a porn related post would work here. I can’t imagine why, what with the many, many posts on that literary masterpiece 50 Shades of Grey. Anyhoo, with no further ado, here is a unique perspective on the latest Mileygate. Read on, then go check out his hilarious blog.
Lately, there has been a lot of noise surrounding Miley Cyrus’ performance at the Video Music Awards. It was called “pornographic”, “perverted”, “disgusting”, “pornographic”, “distasteful”, “objectionable”, and once again, “pornographic”. (This was the most common epithet by far.) Let me begin by making it clear that I enjoy porn as much as the next guy, and just as any guy, I consider myself a porn expert. (However, since the next guy is probably too busy enjoying it at the moment, I shall be writing this review myself). So, when I first heard Ms’ Cyrus’ VMA performance being described as “pornographic”, I was immediately intrigued. My hopes were sky-high after I had seen a few choice photos of the performance.
However, once I actually watched the video, I was extremely disappointed. The disappointment was somewhat mitigated due to the fact that I watched the video clip with the sound off, partly because of Ms. Cyrus’ singing, and partly because reviewing pornography requires complete silence to be able to concentrate on the object at hand, as well as to be able to hear if someone is about to walk in on you. To many males, pornography is an art form, and for many of us, it’s the only art form we recognize. Messing with the standards of our favorite art form is something we porn fans simply don’t take lightly.
To be fair, Ms. Cyrus had done a very good job demeaning herself, which is often a necessary part of the art, and I have to commend her effort and her obvious enthusiasm. But her performance lacked purpose, focus, charisma, and understanding of the unspoken porn boundaries – unspoken because of the silence. It had all the markings of amateur porn, without actually coming close to being porn.
Let’s start with the visual appearance.
Ms. Cyrus’ tongue, which kept falling out of her mouth, gave an impression that she’s being chocked by an invisible hand; her hair style looked as though she just fought a losing battle against a lawnmower; and her movements appeared to be more erratic than erotic. (Of course, that last part might have been caused by the illegible handwriting of Ms. Cyrus’ choreographer). In all, Ms. Cyrus’ performance served not to remind of the pleasures of sex, but rather seemed to remind of danger of doing drugs. At times, Ms. Cyrus’ movements were so quick that the outline of her figure was becoming blurred, and I couldn’t agree more with Robin Thicke, a fellow porn fan who once famously said, “I hate these blurred lines”. (If you had watched a video a few times, you might have noticed Mr. Thicke featured in the same video, performing from behind of Ms. Cyrus.)
Miley Cyrus, pretending to mate with a male zebra.
And what was Ms. Cyrus trying to say by playing with a giant foam finger? Doesn’t she know that the art standards require using only hard objects (such as poles, microphones, etc.) as props in the performance, because soft prop objects often instill a feeling of insecurity in the male audience? Especially when these props are also patently oversized and can cause foam finger envy in the more impressionable audience members. It only takes a couple of minutes to research that on the Internet; a few hours if you are a guy.
The choreographer has apparently also failed to explain that “The Glove” should not be taken literally either.
Finally, the tongue. Yes, I can’t help coming back to the tongue again – but only because said tongue made no less than 20 scene-stealing cameo appearances during the few minutes of the video (which still felt like an eternity). If the dangling tongue was supposed to be Ms. Cyrus’ impression of a female dog in heat, Ms Cyrus’ choreographer should have made it clear to her client that the “dog in heat” move isn’t meant to be a representation of a dog that literally feels hot and sticks out her tongue to cool down. Apparently, choreography and euphemisms just don’t go together well.
My disappointment reached the highest point when, a few minutes into the clip, I found myself looking forward to Robin Thicke’s appearances, so that I didn’t have to subject myself to Ms. Cyrus’ pathetic attempts at being an amateur porn star. There were no words in my vocabulary to describe what I was seeing, which made me appreciate the made-up word “twerking” that was used to describe Ms. Cyrus’ dance. Even given my normally chilly attitude towards the teenage slang terms, “twerking” was surprisingly appropriate as a description of what I was seeing. This bastard of a word paints a vivid picture of what was happening on the stage. It wasn’t dancing, or porn, it was nothing but “twerking”, with Ms. Cyrus occasionally drifting into twerking off.
Ms. Cyrus’ dance made me feel dizzy, but did not make me feel anything else. It seemed as though her pitiful performance was sufficient to make blood leave my brain but not enough to arrive where it should have, if Ms. Cyrus’ performance was indeed as pornographic as many have claimed. The only thing her performance was able to arise was the ire of the parents groups, and while it’s often an unfortunate by-product of porn, it’s not the kind of arousal any aspiring porn star should be aiming for.
In summary, if Miley Cyrus is considering entering a career in doing porn, I would strongly advise her to keep her day job, whatever it’s supposed to be.
View from a Baby Room: Part Two
Here is the continuation of yesterday’s post, View From a Baby Room: Part One. You can get off the edges of your seats now.
First was a large, chubby baby with a giant bald head. We called him Fester, like Uncle Fester from the Addams Family. He didn’t seem to mind. His favorite mode of transportation was to roll. Often he rolled under cribs. Once he rolled under a swing and Sue kept bopping him on the head with the leg of the swing while adjusting it for another baby. We’re shouting at her to stop and she’s not hearing us and we’re all going how the crap do we write out that accident report? Baby hit with furniture repeatedly? Luckily Fester was okay seconds later. He was a happy baby.
Uncle Fester
Bald baby. Get it?
Next up was Ralphie. We called him that because his mother dressed him in Ralph Lauren baby clothes every day. By the way, if you kept your kid in daycare, as I have, you have to know the daycare workers pay attention to this kind of crap. They’re stuck with your kid all day; they’re bored. I’m fairly certain Ralphie, who like the others would be about thirteen by now, is going to be a future politician. He could light up a room with a mega watt grin, so you’d forgive him, even if he just crawled over a line of babies, smacking them in the face with his hands and feet. Ralphie was an early crawler. They finally took him to the crawler room, which was where Thing One resided. As I found out later, Thing One was a piece of work as well. No telling what they called her. Perhaps she who would not hold her bottle, or she who army crawled.
And then there was . . . I forget if he was a Braden or a Braxton or a Britain, but he was definitely a brat. Though not as big a brat as his mother. She expected him to drink like three bottles while he was with us, even though he was only with us a few hours. He just wasn’t that hungry. But if the bottles weren’t given, she would get cheesed off. So we poured perfectly good formula down the drain everyday. Daycare workers do what they can to survive, parents. He ended up getting moved early too when he started to crawl. Later I heard that one of the workers in the crawler room, Barbara, was considering putting Ralphie and him in a single crib and letting them fight it out.
FIGHT! Bop!
My favorite baby, yes we all had favorites, was Nicholas. He was a long, skinny baby that drove the others nuts because he had no sucking power whatsoever. That meant he could take an hour or more to drink a bottle. I loved it. I could sit and rock with him while he slowly sipped at his bottle. He was very cuddly. Later when my mom showed up, I introduced them. She said of course I liked him – he looked like my baby. Oh, huh. Go figure.
His mother breastfed, but the stuff she pumped and froze (frozen breast milk is the nastiest looking stuff on earth, I’m here to tell you) was so thin it went, literally, right through poor Nicky. We had to hear him cry from hunger. We couldn’t take it. So we spooned him tiny bits of cereal. Was it wrong? Sure. But I’d rather be fired than watch a baby go hungry. And he was hungry – nothing else was wrong with him, and he calmed down after being fed. We finally got the guts up to tell his mother. Unlike some of the others, she agreed to supplement with formula, and didn’t make a fuss. Thank goodness for reasonable mothers.
We had two baby girls. One was Gwen. Her Mommy was a breastfeeding school teacher who refused to pump, so Gwen had to wait until her lunch break (5 hours) to be fed. Fortunately, by the time I came, she could eat baby food. (Moms – please don’t do this to your kid. If you must be gone that long, leave her something else. A tiny drop of formula is better than a kid who starves an hour a day or more. Just an FYI.) When Mom finally arrived, she’d proceed to unbutton her shirt and let the girls out. I mean really let ‘em fly. It was like, wow, um, nice boobs? It’s hard to think of a conversation when you’re staring at someone’s exposed breasts. I’m not against breastfeeding here, but sheesh, a teensy bit of discretion? Trust me, you don’t want a bunch of daycare workers discussing your frequent wardrobe malfunctions when you leave.
My measurements say . . . two pints!
Finally, and I’ve saved the best for last, was Australia. No, seriously, that was the baby’s name, and wow, did she deserve a long stupid name. I hate to say this, because one would think you couldn’t dislike a baby. But you did this one. I mean I tried to love her; I really did. But she made it difficult. It wasn’t really her fault. She had a mother and an aunt who both worked at the daycare. And lived with her along with the baby daddy and the grandparents. And they both checked on her constantly, leaving their own kids abandoned while they did so. At home, Australia was always held. When you’ve got ten babies, you cannot hold every one of them 24/7 (though I did try to hold each one as much as possible.) She wanted attention, all the attention, 100 percent of the time and if she didn’t get it? Watch out.
Here’s an example. We fed each baby one at a time. If a baby could hold a bottle, we let him. I didn’t like it, but we had too many babies to cope with at one time so we did the best we could. They tried to do that with my Thing One in the crawler room, but she refused. I love my Thing One. Anyway, we tried to feed Australia first, because she was the loudest. But she’d fuss and push the bottle away. So we’d move on to the next baby. And she would scream. And scream. And get louder. And louder. Her tiny face would get as red as her hair. When we got back around to her, fed her, and put her in bed, she’d shoot us this look. Mary once said, “I swear she just looked at me like ‘You bitch!’”
Australia: A country, not a baby name
It was Australia and her family that helped spell my doom. Her dear auntie came to get her one afternoon after I’d had a heck of a day. She picked up Australia, who had been napping. The baby had a wet diaper. Auntie was furious.
“How dare you let her lay in a wet diaper, Alice,” she fumed. “Take care of your babies.”
Okay, see, there’s some things you don’t say to me. One of these is “you aren’t a good mommy / caretaker.” I will cut you for it. So I informed her that yes she was wet because she was sleeping and no way in hell was anyone going to wake that baby up from a nap. She sniffed and left. I was still fuming. A few other workers stopped by and I unloaded. Maximum fire power. I still remember the looks of horror on their faces. It was awesome.
Holy crap, Alice Rage!
Still, I think back to that place and wonder where everyone has gone. One of the worst things was to sit and look out the window at the one-year-olds. They wandered about, totally unattended, while the workers sunned themselves on the slide. We complained about it, so the workers were fired. Haha, just kidding. They were moved to another room. Brilliant.
This is not to make people with kids in daycare feel bad. I later put my daughter in another daycare – after I grilled the director over the coals. I did my homework that time, and you can bet I made sure she was well taken care of. Still, I can’t say I was that sad to be fired from my job five months later. It is hard, very hard, to leave your baby behind. I know. I’ve had a view from both sides of the baby room.
View from a Baby Room: Part One
Turn back . . . turn back now!
I’ve worked a lot of different jobs. One of these jobs was at a daycare center, and yes it was after I’d already gotten two degrees. They were in English, though, so no one cared. (Kids: don’t major in English. Just say no.) Thing One was nine months old and I was staying home with her, but needed extra income so we could enjoy the luxuries of life like eating. So I discovered I could work at this daycare and my kid could stay at the same daycare for free as a “perk”. This sounded like a great deal at the time.
For an educated person, I can be really stupid.
First they stuck me with the two-year-olds. Bootcamp for daycare workers. At that time, in the state of Texas, you could have up to 11 two-year-olds for every adult. Yup. 11. Even Octomom never watched 11 two-year-olds at once. They put two workers in the room, which meant 22 toddlers. And two people. No problem.
22 of these? NO PROBLEM!
Unless you wanted to remain sane, that is. When there’s an 11 to 1 ratio, you’ve gotta be a clever toddler to get attention. One such toddler was Jaycee, who claimed to be potty training. “Have to go poop!” she’d say, so I’d go into the bathroom with her and stand. And stand. While Jaycee swung her legs on the potty and talked incessantly. Not one poop was had. Not even a pee. But you never could tell, so you always took her. Score 1 Jaycee.
You also had to put them all down for naps. At the same time. Now putting ONE toddler down for a nap is tough. Imagine putting down 22 toddlers – I mean without a hammer. The “trick” the director taught us was to pat them on the backs as they lay down to get them to drift off. Right. Guess who demanded the most pats? “Pat meeeee, pat meeeeeee!” Jaycee would cry. I’d lay down with her and pat, pat, pat zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Pat meeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
We couldn’t just let them play either. No, we had to make sure they played correctly. So no gun play. The little boys still played with their fingers. “Booda –booda. Booda-booda!” they’d yell, pointing their fingers at each other. “You can’t play guns,” I said wearily. Wes, the little boy in question, looked confused. “We were just playing booda-booda.” He said. Sometimes I do think we might be a bit too P.C.
After a couple of weeks of working with the toddlers I was about ready to run screaming from the daycare. The director sensed this, and told me there was an opening in the baby room. This was infants from six weeks up to crawling age, usually around six months. I liked this idea. Sure babies are tough, but at this age they cannot move and no one expects you to potty train them or stop imaginary gun play. I jumped at the chance.
I mean, who wouldn’t?
You could have four per person. Yeah, quads, who hasn’t raised a set on their own, am I right? We had around ten babies, I think, which meant there were usually three of us. Sue was older and did not want to move. Like ever. Sue also wasn’t too bright. She had never heard of “A Christmas Carol.” How the hell did you miss that? Jennifer was about my age. She had one child and went to tanning beds partly because they said you could burn out your ovaries that way. Mary came to help especially at lunch time or to fill in for another, or when our baby load went up, which it sometimes did.
Seven of the babies were boys. Anyone who says infants don’t have personalities has never dealt with an actual infant. We gave some of them nicknames because you have to get your jollies somehow when you work minimum wage with a bunch of babies. But I was talking about the infants. Though there’s some I can’t quite recall now, I can fully remember a few of them.
. . . To be continued!
Fuuuuuck: Or How I Got to Work This Morning
Fuck off, Sunshine
Yeah, so I was gonna try to be all positive this morning, right? What the hell was I thinking? Positive? It’s only Tuesday. The kids started back to school yesterday, which means “back to school traffic from Hades!” Also means, wake up the children out of zombie states without falling into one yourself. Also, that the oldest kid is hacking like a dying moose so probably needs allergy testing that will cost half a fortune and the other kid smiles with teeth out of place that will probably cost the other half of a fortune in braces and OMG THE JOY NEVER ENDS.
This is before I actually started my car, of course. We make it okay to the elementary school. I don’t see any of those cars with the flipping families on the back, which means I do not have to envision slicing their tires to ribbons while they take twenty minutes to wish their half dozen kids goodbye at the door, because they had to walk them to the door. That way they left their car blocking yours. But no, that didn’t happen, so score! One kid dropped off. Now all I have to do is get to the high school, which is now the junior high because they demoted my high school and drop off my newly minted junior high student. She looks thrilled. The humidity is awful, so she also has her little white girl afro goin’ on. I don’t tell her this.
We get to the high school and I have this brilliant idea. I will drop her off at the side of the school, so she won’t have to cross a street AND a parking lot full of equally pissed off parents (why can’t she drive already I mean GAWD isn’t 13 old enough nevermind then I’d worry about her driving let’s up the age to at least 21). So I’m like technically on the wrong side of the road, but it’s just a second to drop her off on the curb but FUCK here comes a line of cars. One after another after another after another and all of them giving me FUCK YOU looks because I’m on the wrong side of the road and I’m like I KNOW but you won’t let me out you bastards! I mean, let’s be reasonable here. Jeeez.
So I finally get out and decide to drive into the parking lot and poor Thing One is still hacking and her fro is expanding and I feel so bad for her so I’m hugging her and she’s like whatevs cause mostly she’s just so tired because school and I finally let her go and realize there is a car behind me going wtf lady quit blocking my way and GO what is wrong with you? Heh, uh, sorry. So I drive out of the parking lot and into the sun. Not literally into it, but it feels like it cause I am now driving blind. Yay! Fuck you, sun.
I am not paying much attention because Sun and Pissed and I end up where? The elementary school where I just dropped off Thing Two which is now packed with insane parents. FUCK I’m an idiot. So I wait again through traffic and take multiple turns in order to find a light cause no way am I taking my chances getting across and did I mention I live in a supposedly small town? But there is a university, where I am now trying to go sense I’m supposed to work there, and there are people trying to get out of this town in both directions to go work at other towns that are more exciting. So I am stuck in the middle. Every morning.
Oh, yeah, and I mentioned this in a post way back in whenever that our parking situation sucks because they decided to make it “open parking” which is like “open season” only with cars instead of guns, although this is Texas so I’m not ruling that out. And so I drive around and around looking for a spot. Fun times I tell you. Fuuuuuuck. I am so tempted to park in the reserved parking of the uppity ups. If only I knew I was getting laid off that day. Oh, well, I find a spot a mile away and trudge off to work where I get there right on the dot. I woke up at 6 AM and it is now 8 AM and work hasn’t started and I want to murder someone.
Just another typical day. Good morning, Alice!
Sparkleponies, away!
Hi ho, all, it’s Alice again. As if it’d be anyone else, right? Oh, wait, I guess it could be Sad Pony, Squirrel, Mary Alice, or my latest bud-dy, Sparky the Won-der Blog-ger! I have been told he resembles another Sparky who led children in Bible verses in a religious club known as Awana. There was even a theme song. “We are sparks, sparks, sparks, sparks to light the world!” Sparky has quite a back story he isn’t telling me. Awana leaders, please do not come after me!
Yo, homie. I is de shiz! (sparky is acting on his own here, I swear)
Anyway, another blogger, Laura (Linking to fellow bloggers to say thanks is not Sparky-ish), suggested that Sparky should have a name for his followers. I think that’s a fabulous idea that has probably never been done before! Her suggested name is fabulous too. She said followers should be called “Sparkleponies.” Who hasn’t wanted to be a Sparkle Pony? I, personally, had eleventy-billion of those sparkly My Little Ponies when I was a kid. Of course I wanted to be one. Only Barbie herself had more bling.
But like any club, there has to be badges so peeps know who has had the most Kool-Aid . . .I mean, who is a true and loyal follower of Sparky. So I made one for Sparky, all by myself, once again putting my education and multiple art classes to work. Check it out.
Now if you want to join the Sparkleponies, all you gotta do is take the pledge. Oh and a few other things. You can find them in the fine print of your enrollment forms, but I wouldn’t worry about them. It’s just minor details, really.
A trifle, really . . .
Okay, then, now you are ready to say the pledge! “Yes I am a Sparklepony! Got a problem with it?” Say it loud and proud. Then go put your badge on your blog, like on the side, or better right in the border of your blog. You’ll be glad you did. There are many benefits to joining Cult Club Sparklepony. Here’s a handy list.
- You get to worship Sparky at the blog of your choice, this one, Aliceatwonderland.
- You get to have wonderful artwork on your blog
- You get to explain to people how you have never grown up and no you do not intend to now.
- You’ll get paid . . . in joyness and inner peace.
- It’s just cool, you guyz.
Okay, then, my only question left to you is – are you a sparklepony?
* Edit – It was actually Laura who came up with sparkleponies. My bad. Alice no can read.
Blogging with Sparky!
Today I’d like to introduce you guys to Sparky. Say “Hello,” Sparky.
Yo, Homies, what be happenin’ down in de hood? Word!
Thank you. Now Sparky is a blogger who is way more famous than you are. He’s so famous, in fact, that no one has ever heard of him. But now he’s come out of hiding and has lots of tips for people just starting out. Take it away, Sparky.
Link Drop!
If you wanna get read, you gotta let people see what you’ve written. So be sure to put at least three links back to your own stuff in every post you write. Here’s one Alice wrote, for example. Also, you can link to other bloggers, but only really famous bloggers like the Bloggess. “Yo, Bloggess, Wazzup?” is something I often say while we are hanging out.
Leave Comments!
You gotta leave a bunch of comments on the posts of other bloggers if you want comments on yours. Don’t bother reading their posts, you don’t have that kind of time. Just say it was great, and then just happen to slip in a link back to one of your posts. This works especially well on blogs like, oh I don’t know, the Bloggess. Don’t worry if the link has nothing to do with the post. You didn’t read it anyway, right? How could they expect you to know? Here’s an example:
Cool post! Oh hey I wrote http://www.sparkywonderblogger.wordpress.com/coffeeenemas. Whoops, where’d that link come from?
Worship certain bloggers.
Everyone’s gotta have a hero, right? Be sure and let your bloggy hero know how much he or she is appreciated. Leave multiple novel length comments on every one of their posts praising them as the god or goddess they are. Write hundreds of posts dedicated to said blogger. Try to friend the blogger on Facebook, Twitter, Google Plus, Tumblr, etc. Find out where he lives. Send her long descriptive emails, or at least an e-card, several times a day. You won’t fail to make a great impression on them. You’ll be besties in no time!
Send out lots of those chainmail awards.
Who doesn’t like bling? Especially bling that comes with a lot of freaking work involved! Be sure and send a LOT of these awards out. It doesn’t matter if someone actually gave you the award to begin with. Just rip one off of someone else’s blog. It’s called copy / paste. Then send it to dozens of your blog pals, along with a list of demands. They must answer all the questions, and ask new questions, do the hokey pokey, and then link to a dozen other bloggers like the best pyramid scheme ever. If you’re super creative, you can make up your own award. Like this one Alice made up.
I’ve been awarded this one several times! Go figure, huh?
Inflate your blog.
So you have 2 followers, and one is you, and the other is your dog. No problems. Just get on Facebook and Twitter and randomly friend as many people as possible. It counts in the stats! Then display your follower number for all to see. You might also want a few dozen awards displayed in your side bar. An impressive one is that blue “Freshly Pressed” symbol. Haven’t been pressed yet? No problems. Remember the old copy / paste. Bam, you are an instant success. People will be begging to follow you now.
Declare yourself Ruler of the Blogosphere.
Now that you know what to do, you have to act like you are the best blogger ever. Be as conceited as possible. Form admiration societies for yourself. Remember, your poops are like freshly pressed cinnamon rolls.
Okay, well, that’s all Sparky has for today. What do you think of his tips? Have you tried them? Any questions for Sparky, the wonder blogger?
Marlene makes peach cobbler
On our Wonder Twins blog, Marlene teaches us how to make peach cobbler. And so much more.
Merbear and Alice Go With the Flow
Hi, ho, it’s Alice again. Merbear and I have decided to move our retro ads on over to our new blog, The Wonder Twins. Come check us out over there! Today’s topic? Tampons! Comments closed here so you’ll come on over.
How many ways to skin a Sim?
As promised, here is my post on The Sims. This has been one of my favorite games for a while. It’s been through 3 different transformations, all of them grossing millions. It’s like people like playing God or something. Go figure.
Sims 2 is my favorite. I am not always cruel to my Sims. Sometimes I let them have cute families. If you want to talk about pixels having a mind of their own, these guys really do – or seem to anyway. As long as you leave their free will on (Yeah, you can take that away too. Or, uh, so I hear.) they will do all sorts of funny things all on their own. They will hug, kiss, babies will try to eat their toys, and children will run and greet adults when they get home from work. And everyone goes to work in a carpool. Even the thieves.
But since I’m tying this post into the last one, where I talk about killing those cute Virtual Families, this post will address torturing Sims. Since it might be hard to torture someone who looks so lifelike, I decided to create something most people wouldn’t mind kicking around. That’s right, a clown. I call him Boppo Sadface.
Meet Boppo
When you create a Sim, you can not only decide what they look like and how to dress them (in this case, horribly) you can also decide their personality. You can either randomly select one of the astrological signs, or you can add the points yourself. And you can choose an aspiration for your Sim. Like whether he wants money, or family, or romance. You’ll notice I gave Boppo no nice points, yet made him want lots of friends. He’s also a very sloppy Sim, as evidenced by his lack of points in that area, and the fact that he is digging something out of his ear right now. He did that all on his own.
Next up, Boppo needs company. I figured no humans would volunteer to be with him, but why not a dog? And what dog is undeniably annoying? A poodle of course. Boppo has a dog named Wee Wee (cause that’s what pet dogs do best). You can give the pets personalities too. Wee Wee is aggressive, sloppy, and dumb as a post.
Now that we’ve got those two taken care of, it’s time to find Boppo a home! I tried to make it appropriate.
Do not attempt to adjust your screen – that’s what it really looks like.
Yes, his house looks like a psychedelic nightmare, complete with lawn gnomes, flamingos, ceramic (at least I think they are) rabbit heads, kitten heads, bears, and chickens filling his front lawn. I circled a few things to bring them to your attention. First off, see that thing to the left circled in pink? That’s a supposed “marshmallow roaster”, yet is much closer to a circular flame thrower. You might guess where I’m going with this one.
The green circle to the far right is the stupid, violent poodle Wee Wee. In the middle is a yellow circle around the hamster cage. One of my readers informed me that her Sim died from the bite of one of these squeaky critters. So I had to buy one for Boppo. His name is Help Meeee. Ironically, both the hamster and the clown are on my little wheel of death. Bwahahahahahaha . . . moving on.
Death one: Clown on fire!
For this one, you can use any old stove or fireplace, but for ultimate efficiency, I prefer the marshmallow roaster. Just move it into his room, remove the door, and watch the show. Make sure there’s no fire alarm to call the fire fighters or something crazy like that. Observe:
Never smoke in bed, guys.
In case you were wondering, yeah that’s a rack of bowling balls on fire in the corner of his room. It’s only a matter of time now. Don’t worry, I had Wee Wee leave the room. I’m not cruel or nothin’.
When your butt lights up, you’re in trouble.
It’s horrible, and yet fascinating to watch them. First they totally panic and race around in circles. No thought to say, grabbing a fire extinguisher or calling fire fighters. When in danger, when in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout. At least until your butt catches on fire. You’re in trouble then. Best defense? No stop, drop, and roll here. Just bounce up and down while attempting to blow out the flames from your clothes.
Strangely this method does not work well for them. Soon enough, the Grim Reaper arrives, and this is one of the funniest parts. You can tell he’s freaking annoyed by his job, just like the rest of us. He shakes his head, pulls out some paperwork, makes a call to the underworld on his cell phone . . . no seriously.
Eh, what can you do? Another one comin’ up, boss.
So this post ended up longer than I intended, and I’ve got lots of ways to kill Sims left to go! There’s death by electrocution (Sim + electrical appliance + fork), death by drowning, death by starvation, death by hamster bite and death by flies (I have never achieved either so these are now my goals in life), and so much more. Don’t worry for him – I have him saved, so I can bring him back to life again and again. And then kill him again. If I want.
Shall I mess with Boppo some more? Do you have any Sim stories of your own to tell? Do you want to recommend a mental health hotline for me? Let me know in the comments below!
Ask Mary Alice
Mary Alice, 1950s professional housewife, answers more questions she totally made up – I mean that were submitted by other women. Learn about how to keep hubby and kids occupied for hours!
aliceatwonderland 