If you have to ask, you're probably in the wrong place. And if you like unicorns and rainbows and skipping through dewy meadows, I'd advise you to leave, before you get traumatized too much. For the brave few that remain, every now and then Mojo's Craptacular is that thin ray of sunshine in your otherwise drab and pathetic life.
One time, AGES ago, in the glowing dawn of this technological marvel we now call the innertubes, I was asked to attend some vaguely secret introductory meeting with someone's potential client as a technological consultant. Which is a bunch of highfalutin multisyllabic words to convince you just how important Mojo is. My point is, the person who invited me had no REAL idea where the meeting was heading since they were called out of the blue by this person, but I was being brought in just in case there were some serious techie questions they couldn't answer themselves. Oh, and in retrospect, I have my lingering suspicions I was also brought in to be a sort of bodyguard/witness should things go way south, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Anyway, the meeting was arranged, and I showed up at the designated point in time and space (Mojo likes to be punctual), only to be greeted by the angriest face I have ever faced and the kinda rude greeting, "WHO the HELL is THIS?" (I kid you not. I don't really believe in psychic abilities, but I can't help but suspect--when you are greeted in this fashion--that Things Are Not Going To Go Well. But again, I am getting ahead of myself.)
So last weekend, in preparation for the Giant Snow That Wasn't, I decided to fill the house with firewood, which is what one does when an impending snowstorm makes one's nesting instinct go all haywire. All in all, I probably moved about a half a cord of wood, resulting in about a month's worth of firewood on the porch and in the house. Yay me.
Now that I am old and decrepit, instead of just muscling through the job like a tough young stupid thing I instead take several breaks, as befits a tough old stupid thing. And my method of taking a break means just plopping down where I happen to be and enjoying the yard while I give various appendages and core components a brief rest. Since the ground was totally frozen hard as a rock, my plopping down is actually kneeling and plopping down on my folded legs, sort of Japanese style, so that I am sitting on my calves and shoes instead of putting my delicate feminine butt directly on the sub-zero earth.
THIS is my all-time best-selling Christmas card. Which can only possibly mean ONE THING. That there is an inordinate amount of rather sick people in the world.
Nonetheless I rather enjoy Zazzle's attempt to class it up, what with the marble counter and the poofy dried flowers behind it.
...without Christmas Squid.
I suppose I should just come right out and say it: I'm not a HUUUUUGE Harry Potter fan. I don't HATE it, and people who like it--or LUUUUUV it--are just aces in my book, or at least have earned no demerits. And speaking of books, yes, I've read them all, and I've seen all the movies. Like many fantasy titles, it's just Not Really My Thing. If it turns out it *IS* your thing, that's cool. I'm not one of THOSE jerks. Fanboy or fangirl away, friend. I have no beef with you over that, nor with HP himself.
I found the books initially charming, and then increasingly depressing as the saga unfolded. Enough to kinda turn me off of any rabid fandom. Plus I was never in the core demographic in the first place, so there's that. The depressive aspects of the books were reflected, I felt, in the movies. By the time HP4 or 5 came out, I was pretty much done with it. But then that ol' sunk cost fallacy popped its sunken head up--the sort of illogical reasoning that figures hell, I've already spent THIS MANY HOURS of my life watching this series, so I might as well finish watching ALL of them.