Today Juice came to school with cheese molded in the shape of hearts stuck all over her dress. I almost didn’t walk home with her, but her mom was baking cookies.
“Cooking the hearts on my dress?” Juice joked as we entered her house.
“Yum yum, fiber,” I said.
These two comments are by far the wittiest things Juice and I have ever said.
“Oh no, it’s Jolly,” Juice’s mom moaned, pulling a sheet of freshly-baked cookies out of the oven. “She always eats all my chocolate chip cookies, the pig.”
“Hey, we cookies are alive! Don’t eat us!” the cookies screamed.
“I love eating alive cookies while watching my sister,” Juice said as her sister wailed, holding a Lick-N-Stick sticker book to her mouth.
“My tongue thtuck!” she cried.
“Too bad she’s still noisy,” I commented, successfully pulling off the second wittiest thing I’ve ever said. After I yanked the kid’s tongue off the book, I asked her if she loved me better than Juice.
“She can’t hear you,” Juice said. “I plugged her ears with cheese hearts from my dress.”
This wit competition was getting tight. Fortunately, Juice’s ex-boyfriend Smarty barged into the house saying, “Juice, I still love you. I brought you this.” He held out a spider in a jar.
“Ugh. I thought I dumped you,” Juice said, sticking out her tongue as we made our way upstairs to practice for our school’s upcoming recital race. Juice and I are going to compete directly against each other in the Academy Award acceptance speech category.
“I wish you hadn’t dumped that nice boy,” Juice’s mom said, stopping us mid-staircase. “That’s a rare species of spider he brought you.”
The answer Juice’s mom got was “Try to guess which one of us is speaking, Jolly or Juice. We’re both taking ventriloquism to improve our speed-ranting techniques.” The truth was that we were speaking in unison, but Juice’s mom didn’t care enough to guess.
“My mouth turned into a triangle during our attempt at ventriloquism,” Juice said as we entered her room and she tried to shut the door on Smarty.
“That’s what you get for dating a geometry wizard,” I scolded her. “You should have dumped him for Joely sooner. Then you would be sick of Joely by now and I could have him.”
“You’re just jealous because I got an A on our first geometry test and you thought it was a snack,” Juice smirked.
“I got to retake the test.”
“At least I dumped him,” Juice said, still smirking and holding Smarty off as he struggled to keep his head and one arm in Juice’s room.
“What a dork!” I laughed.
“It’s a great spider,” he said, responding to my compliment with an optimistic smile. “It even talks!”
“Yo,” said the spider.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
most heartwarming day EVER
For those of you who were asking, the library nerds never paid enough attention, so eventually we and our emotions took a hike elsewhere and Juice went on to another fashion phase.
This phase is called the watermelon phase, given her preference of colors. She even joked that her skin represented the seeds. She tolerates my teasing, but today another subject made her blow up at me completely, though she retained her bodily form. As we were walking home from school she told me to read the word on her shirt and I flatly refused, saying, “I can’t. I can’t read anything at all.”
“You can’t even read the word on my shirt?” she shouted.
“Of course not.” I smiled and turned away from her. “I’ve forsworn reading. I can’t read.”
“Yes, you can!” she screamed as she ran away from me. “Just because you’ve forgotten what words look like doesn’t mean you can’t read, Jolly!”
“Get a new outfit!” I called after her.
I stormed home from school thinking things like, “Reading is for idiots. Pulling up my skirt is so much more fun.” This would be a good time to point out that I am in a short-skirt phase.
Once at home, I marveled that my skirt didn’t slide down on the couch even when I propped my knees up. I figured that had something to do with my cat sleeping on my feet. After getting through several rounds of my new handheld video game, “Poet Elimination,” and giving up because Wordsworth just wouldn’t die, I opened a book to reassure myself of my immunity to reading, and realized that, shock of all shocks, there were words all over the pages of the book! They were really small. I decided to kiss the book just to see what would happen, and immediately my lips swelled up. “Maybe the book warned about that!” I thought. “Maybe I should read again. I keep thinking about Watermelon Juice.”
“Don’t knock me over, Jolly,” Mom said as I ran out the door at the same time she was entering the house. “I just won a day as prime minister of Canada. You should treat me with more respect and less running.”
“I have to run in this skirt so everyone can see my undies!” I cried.
Of course my best of friends was running toward me as well, consistent with what television commercials lead us to expect from everyday encounters.
“Juice!” I cried. “You really do look like a watermelon! That is so sad!”
“Jolly!” she cried back. “I kissed a book and my lips swelled up!”
We had a long, heartfelt talk about the entire situation up in my room, and Juice agreed to join me in forswearing reading. She added that she would end her watermelon phase if I would get rid of “that hideously ugly outfit.”
“Not till I look good naked, Juice,” I snorted. Then I turned to finish reading a magazine article about how to see your boyfriend in others you love.
“I can see myself in my parents,” I said after explaining the gimmicky premise to Juice. “I guess that means that I’m my own boyfriend.”
“My boyfriend does look like you,” Juice said, patting me on the hand. “But his idiot father wants him to break up with me. I heard them yelling back and forth yesterday as I was working on Joely’s tasting project in his room--you know, the one where he has to go around tasting everything. His father was saying, ‘Your idiot girlfriend made pee come out of the side of my head when she performed brain surgery on me! Plus she put my tie in a waffle iron!’”
I pretended to care, and then said, “There must be a boyfriend out there for me who looks like me.” I remembered a few days back to when my caninivorous neighbor told me I looked like Joely, the gorgeous young whippersnapper hunk she was after. I hoped Juice was picking up on my hints for her to break up with him for my sake.
“Tee hee,” Juice said, then suddenly halted her giggles. “Jolly, why did you let your mom in the room?”
“Somebody left the door open and I don’t know how to close it,” I shrugged as my mom opened my dresser drawers. “I don’t know why she keeps coming in and putting clothes away. Those aren’t even my clothes.”
“That’s right, Jolly, and I’m not even your mother,” she said, turning toward us. She began to glow all over. “I’m an angel, sent by the most-beloved television networks, to provide answers to all your problems. I’ve come to tell you, Juice, not to feel guilty about what you did to your boyfriend’s father. For a happy ending, I’ve arranged for the three of us to be in a toothpaste commercial together.”
“Nice lipstick,” I said to my fake Mom during the spontaneous and ill-prepared commercial shoot. Then I sniffed and embraced her. “I’ll never forget you, fake Mom,” I told her, “or the money I’m making from this commercial.”
This phase is called the watermelon phase, given her preference of colors. She even joked that her skin represented the seeds. She tolerates my teasing, but today another subject made her blow up at me completely, though she retained her bodily form. As we were walking home from school she told me to read the word on her shirt and I flatly refused, saying, “I can’t. I can’t read anything at all.”
“You can’t even read the word on my shirt?” she shouted.
“Of course not.” I smiled and turned away from her. “I’ve forsworn reading. I can’t read.”
“Yes, you can!” she screamed as she ran away from me. “Just because you’ve forgotten what words look like doesn’t mean you can’t read, Jolly!”
“Get a new outfit!” I called after her.
I stormed home from school thinking things like, “Reading is for idiots. Pulling up my skirt is so much more fun.” This would be a good time to point out that I am in a short-skirt phase.
Once at home, I marveled that my skirt didn’t slide down on the couch even when I propped my knees up. I figured that had something to do with my cat sleeping on my feet. After getting through several rounds of my new handheld video game, “Poet Elimination,” and giving up because Wordsworth just wouldn’t die, I opened a book to reassure myself of my immunity to reading, and realized that, shock of all shocks, there were words all over the pages of the book! They were really small. I decided to kiss the book just to see what would happen, and immediately my lips swelled up. “Maybe the book warned about that!” I thought. “Maybe I should read again. I keep thinking about Watermelon Juice.”
“Don’t knock me over, Jolly,” Mom said as I ran out the door at the same time she was entering the house. “I just won a day as prime minister of Canada. You should treat me with more respect and less running.”
“I have to run in this skirt so everyone can see my undies!” I cried.
Of course my best of friends was running toward me as well, consistent with what television commercials lead us to expect from everyday encounters.
“Juice!” I cried. “You really do look like a watermelon! That is so sad!”
“Jolly!” she cried back. “I kissed a book and my lips swelled up!”
We had a long, heartfelt talk about the entire situation up in my room, and Juice agreed to join me in forswearing reading. She added that she would end her watermelon phase if I would get rid of “that hideously ugly outfit.”
“Not till I look good naked, Juice,” I snorted. Then I turned to finish reading a magazine article about how to see your boyfriend in others you love.
“I can see myself in my parents,” I said after explaining the gimmicky premise to Juice. “I guess that means that I’m my own boyfriend.”
“My boyfriend does look like you,” Juice said, patting me on the hand. “But his idiot father wants him to break up with me. I heard them yelling back and forth yesterday as I was working on Joely’s tasting project in his room--you know, the one where he has to go around tasting everything. His father was saying, ‘Your idiot girlfriend made pee come out of the side of my head when she performed brain surgery on me! Plus she put my tie in a waffle iron!’”
I pretended to care, and then said, “There must be a boyfriend out there for me who looks like me.” I remembered a few days back to when my caninivorous neighbor told me I looked like Joely, the gorgeous young whippersnapper hunk she was after. I hoped Juice was picking up on my hints for her to break up with him for my sake.
“Tee hee,” Juice said, then suddenly halted her giggles. “Jolly, why did you let your mom in the room?”
“Somebody left the door open and I don’t know how to close it,” I shrugged as my mom opened my dresser drawers. “I don’t know why she keeps coming in and putting clothes away. Those aren’t even my clothes.”
“That’s right, Jolly, and I’m not even your mother,” she said, turning toward us. She began to glow all over. “I’m an angel, sent by the most-beloved television networks, to provide answers to all your problems. I’ve come to tell you, Juice, not to feel guilty about what you did to your boyfriend’s father. For a happy ending, I’ve arranged for the three of us to be in a toothpaste commercial together.”
“Nice lipstick,” I said to my fake Mom during the spontaneous and ill-prepared commercial shoot. Then I sniffed and embraced her. “I’ll never forget you, fake Mom,” I told her, “or the money I’m making from this commercial.”
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Walks
Juice was moaning at my kitchen table today, saying, “I can’t believe I ate an apple while I’m wearing cherries. This is such an inconsistent phase!”
“I can’t believe you’re studying from a blank notebook,” I said. “Nothing you do is consistent, Juice, but I take French. I’m smart.”
“Are you smart enough to know what a ‘walk’ is?” Juice asked.
“Um, no.”
That’s when Juice introduced me to the world of “walks.”
“A walk is when you walk somewhere, enjoying the outdoors,” she explained as we walked toward Greasy Burgers.
“Makes sense,” I said, pushing the glass door open without using the pushbar. “I love putting my greasy fingerprints on Greasy Burger’s glass doors,” I told her. “That makes sense too. See how logical I am?”
“You wanna talk logical?” Juice smirked. “Look. When I touch this super-size cola painted on the wall, it looks like I’m holding it.”
“Big deal,” I said.
Borel then interrupted us, gushing that the library had received a new supply of French books.
“Floating hearts come out of them when you open them,” she said.
So Juice and I are heading to the library, figuring the floating hearts will visibly express our love for the dreamy nerds who work there. Wish us luck!
“I can’t believe you’re studying from a blank notebook,” I said. “Nothing you do is consistent, Juice, but I take French. I’m smart.”
“Are you smart enough to know what a ‘walk’ is?” Juice asked.
“Um, no.”
That’s when Juice introduced me to the world of “walks.”
“A walk is when you walk somewhere, enjoying the outdoors,” she explained as we walked toward Greasy Burgers.
“Makes sense,” I said, pushing the glass door open without using the pushbar. “I love putting my greasy fingerprints on Greasy Burger’s glass doors,” I told her. “That makes sense too. See how logical I am?”
“You wanna talk logical?” Juice smirked. “Look. When I touch this super-size cola painted on the wall, it looks like I’m holding it.”
“Big deal,” I said.
Borel then interrupted us, gushing that the library had received a new supply of French books.
“Floating hearts come out of them when you open them,” she said.
So Juice and I are heading to the library, figuring the floating hearts will visibly express our love for the dreamy nerds who work there. Wish us luck!
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Puppies my butt!
Last week one of my next-door neighbors put her dog up for adoption after finding out that she had caninivorous tendencies. As soon as I heard the news I ran over to her house and rapped on the door. She wasn’t home, but I came back later and told her that I wanted to adopt her dog.
“Oh, I’m so glad!” she exclaimed.
“Me too,” I said. “I love dogs. It’s fashionable.”
She brought me into her house and brought forth an adorably tiny lump of fluff and flesh.
“Here’s my puppy-shnuppy-cuppy-fluppy-yuppy.”
“He’s got dots for eyes!” I squealed.
I toted home my new pet, set him on the floor, and watched him jump up and down in front of me. “I’m so glad I didn’t let her eat you,” I said. “But stop sticking your tongue out at me.”
“Eat me,” barked the puppy.
That was only the beginning of my problems with that stupid dog. He proceeded to reassemble my mom’s nasty-smelling citrosa plants, which I had toppled over and kicked around in hopes that Mom would think the stinky things committed suicide. Then, when I tried to feed the dog, he wouldn’t eat.
“You’re going to eat these shoes whether you like it or not!” I screamed, trying to shove a heel sole into his little mouth.
“You can’t make me,” he barked, backing away from me.
Then I decided to teach him to fly so that he could migrate with those droppings-happy sparrows come winter, but I had no luck. Finally I called up my caninivorous neighbor, who rushed over with a bag of groceries, saying, “So you say he wants to be eaten?”
“Yes!” he barked.
“Munch away,” I panted.
“Oh, I’m so glad!” she exclaimed.
“Me too,” I said. “I love dogs. It’s fashionable.”
She brought me into her house and brought forth an adorably tiny lump of fluff and flesh.
“Here’s my puppy-shnuppy-cuppy-fluppy-yuppy.”
“He’s got dots for eyes!” I squealed.
I toted home my new pet, set him on the floor, and watched him jump up and down in front of me. “I’m so glad I didn’t let her eat you,” I said. “But stop sticking your tongue out at me.”
“Eat me,” barked the puppy.
That was only the beginning of my problems with that stupid dog. He proceeded to reassemble my mom’s nasty-smelling citrosa plants, which I had toppled over and kicked around in hopes that Mom would think the stinky things committed suicide. Then, when I tried to feed the dog, he wouldn’t eat.
“You’re going to eat these shoes whether you like it or not!” I screamed, trying to shove a heel sole into his little mouth.
“You can’t make me,” he barked, backing away from me.
Then I decided to teach him to fly so that he could migrate with those droppings-happy sparrows come winter, but I had no luck. Finally I called up my caninivorous neighbor, who rushed over with a bag of groceries, saying, “So you say he wants to be eaten?”
“Yes!” he barked.
“Munch away,” I panted.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Pus = Profit
Last week I was lounging in a yellow inflatable kiddie pool in my back yard one afternoon when Juice, in her prairie dog phase, rose out of the ground and rested her cheek on my legs, which were hanging over the side of the pool. When I asked Juice why she had risen out of the ground she said, “So I can flick pool water at you like so.”
She began flicking, but I smiled with my eyes closed and said, “Sorry, I’m not annoyed. Plus, I can’t feel my legs. I disconnected them.”
“Gross!” Juice shrieked, causing me to open my eyes. “This isn’t pool water! Your legs are pussing! I think some pus went down my shirt!”
“I’m growing pus to sell to florists. I figured if hangnails will grow a decent amount of pus, imagine how much detached legs will grow!”
“What do flower shops want pus for?” Juice asked, gazing over my increasingly pus-filled pool as I stirred my precious white commodity with my hands. “Pus can’t be more valuable than my little bunny Foofoo,” she added, holding up two fingers to form her current finger friend.
“The presence of my pus grows white roses, which are valuable,” I said.
Needless to say, Juice stripped to her bathing suit and joined me. “Golly, Jolly,” she said, sinking her body deeper into the pus. “Detaching one’s legs is fun.”
“Help me detach my arms,” I squealed, glad for the encouragement. After Juice obeyed, I leaned my head back against the poolside and said, “Now I can grow twice as much pus. I’ll be rich! I can finally buy hairless armpits!”
“What, is there a sparrow town meeting up in that tree or something?” Juice asked, tilting back her head as well.
I looked above me. We were in the direct shade of my oak tree, which seemed to be holding more sparrows than leaves. Then my vision was blurred when a white substance other than pus plinked down on my face.
“One bird dropping and you’re scared out of the pool,” Juice smirked at me as we watched from inside my house a few minutes later. The sparrow convention was raining down their droppings all over my yard, contaminating my pus pool beyond repair. “How many birds are there?” Juice asked.
I leaned my reattached arms on the window sill and said, “They’ll be done soon.”
They've been there for SEVEN FRICKIN DAYS!!!!!!!
She began flicking, but I smiled with my eyes closed and said, “Sorry, I’m not annoyed. Plus, I can’t feel my legs. I disconnected them.”
“Gross!” Juice shrieked, causing me to open my eyes. “This isn’t pool water! Your legs are pussing! I think some pus went down my shirt!”
“I’m growing pus to sell to florists. I figured if hangnails will grow a decent amount of pus, imagine how much detached legs will grow!”
“What do flower shops want pus for?” Juice asked, gazing over my increasingly pus-filled pool as I stirred my precious white commodity with my hands. “Pus can’t be more valuable than my little bunny Foofoo,” she added, holding up two fingers to form her current finger friend.
“The presence of my pus grows white roses, which are valuable,” I said.
Needless to say, Juice stripped to her bathing suit and joined me. “Golly, Jolly,” she said, sinking her body deeper into the pus. “Detaching one’s legs is fun.”
“Help me detach my arms,” I squealed, glad for the encouragement. After Juice obeyed, I leaned my head back against the poolside and said, “Now I can grow twice as much pus. I’ll be rich! I can finally buy hairless armpits!”
“What, is there a sparrow town meeting up in that tree or something?” Juice asked, tilting back her head as well.
I looked above me. We were in the direct shade of my oak tree, which seemed to be holding more sparrows than leaves. Then my vision was blurred when a white substance other than pus plinked down on my face.
“One bird dropping and you’re scared out of the pool,” Juice smirked at me as we watched from inside my house a few minutes later. The sparrow convention was raining down their droppings all over my yard, contaminating my pus pool beyond repair. “How many birds are there?” Juice asked.
I leaned my reattached arms on the window sill and said, “They’ll be done soon.”
They've been there for SEVEN FRICKIN DAYS!!!!!!!
Monday, August 11, 2008
My Rankings of Sir Walter Scott novels
Due to popular demand (if by popular you mean Juice, and I do), below is my ranking of Sir Walter Scott novels. As most of you know, he is my second favorite author after Ryan Rhodes, author of Life Pus. I'm still holding out for the movie version of Life Pus, though Rhodes has apparently turned down multiple offers so far. Anywho, the list:
1. Quentin Durward: I just love positive protagonists. None of these modern "life sucks cuz I don't get what I want but at least I found myself along the way" craptagonists. Quentin is optimistic, idealistic, and his cuteness just leaps off the pages. Plus he finds true love. Too bad no GOOD movie was ever made from this story. I did see the old crappy movie version, and am still having anger-management issues as a result of that butchery. A+
2. The Fair Maid of Perth: This book has it all--romance, violence, drama, violence, death, kidnapping, violence, a hero who kicks butt, and a heroine who converts from anti-violence to "Oh, violence has merit." We'll never see a book that awesome again. A+
3. Ivanhoe: Juice will disagree with me because of one or two chapters where she had no idea what was going on, but this was the first Scott book I read so it will always have a special place in my heart. Who needs characterization when you have a medieval setting? A+
4. The Pirate: I loved the characters, loved the ending, and unlike alot of Scott's books that I ranked much lower, this one had a plot that actually moved, and you got where it was going before the midway point of the book. Always a plus. A+
5. Count Robert of Paris: Again, I got interested in this one pretty quickly. It helped that it was shorter and had a medieval setting. Scott does this setting well. A
6. Peveril of the Peak: This is my favorite of Scott's 17th century novels. The plot sounds dumber than it is when I describe it, but it really is a good read. A
7. Waverley: Scott's first novel, and a very good one. The female characters were underdeveloped, and it was a little predictable, but the plot moved well and kept me interested. A
8. Castle Dangerous: I'm a little surprised I placed this book so high. It was Scott's last novel, and I did get a sense he was a little tired of novel writing during the book. It took a little while for the story to get going, and the end seemed rather implausible, but it was a good way to spend a few long flights during vacation. A-
9. Redgauntlet: This book's title makes it sound a lot cooler than it is. It's actually a book that's half made of letters between two best friends who just graduated, and one of them ends up getting kidnapped, so the other one goes on a quest to find him. The epistolary parts get a little cheesy, but I really liked it for all that. I'm a sucker for epistolary cheese, I guess. A-
10. The Talisman: Again, title much cooler than book. The talisman has little to do with the story and was probably just chosen in order to sell the book. There's a ton of Saladin-worship in it, so if you're a Saladin fan you might enjoy it more than I did. Not to say I didn't enjoy it, but I get it already, Saladin is perfect. B+
11. The Betrothed: More boring, romantic girls might like this book alot more than I did. Very cliche plot about a couple in love, but she's betrothed to his uncle. Gee, I don't know where that's going. The medieval period makes up for some. B+
12. A Legend of Montrose: This title is actually accurate. It's a short book, so maybe it would have been ranked higher if the story was more fleshed out. Or it might have been ranked lower, because the story would have moved more slowly. B+
13. The Fortunes of Nigel: I liked this book, but I hated Nigel. Biggest baby ever. Dude couldn't even dress himself, the priss. He didn't deserve a happy ending, but I was happy for him anyway. B
14. Woodstock: Rather contrived plot that takes place during the time of Cromwell. Some good fight scenes and other dramatic scenes. Nothing special. B
15. Anne of Geierstein: This book is one of Scott's weird ones that kind of take place outside of a bigger story, or multiple bigger stories. The action is very sporadic. It's like Heidi with a little political intrigue and war tossed in there. B
16. Guy Mannering: Scott's third book. I liked the characters, but the plot was all over the place. It's like he made it up as he went along, which would be ok if the plot ended up being plausible. He really should have made fewer of his books about kidnappings. B-
17. The Black Dwarf: Like A Legend of Montrose, lengthening this book might have made it better or worse. It was fine for what it was. B-
18. The Heart of Midlothian: This is supposed to be one of Scott's best novels. It was fine, but the female characters were a bit overkill. This one could have been alot shorter. B-
19. The Abbott: I would have liked these characters much better in a different story. Basically they're stuck guarding Mary Queen of Scots the whole time, until she gets taken away to be killed or something. Mmm-kay. B-
Everything below this point should not be read unless you really want to waste your time.
20. Rob Roy: The worst of Scott's titles that were obviously chosen to sell books. Perhaps it wasn't his fault, but come on, Rob Roy was a tertiary character in this story at best, and the real plot isn't a speck as interesting as anything Rob Roy was involved in, and the end was such a rip-off. D+
21. The Antiquary: Scott's second novel, written solely for Scott's enjoyment of writing about a character who was a geek about all thing ancient. The plot teetered between boring and nonexistent, but what there was of plot was predictable. D+
22. The Monastery: This book had potential, but it sucked. D+
23. A Tale of Old Mortality: Do not read this book. It was an excellent book up until the last chapter, and then it became the stupidest, most cliche and unsympathetic book ever. You begin the book being set up to think that Old Mortality is a character in the book, and that one of the male characters will become him. Turns out Old Mortality is NOT a character in the book, he was just used to set up the story and has nothing further to do with it, causing most of the interest of the book to be taken away. I hate this book. The ending makes me so angry! F
24. The Bride of Lammermoor: It's pretty much like the opera, only not as good. F
25. Kenilworth: This was praised as one of Scott's best novels. Huh? Why? The only decent thing in it was two tertiary characters. F
26. St. Ronan's Well: Scott's only contemporary novel. No one in the history of mankind liked it, including Scott himself. F-
27: Chronicles of the Canongate: A couple lame short stories. F-
1. Quentin Durward: I just love positive protagonists. None of these modern "life sucks cuz I don't get what I want but at least I found myself along the way" craptagonists. Quentin is optimistic, idealistic, and his cuteness just leaps off the pages. Plus he finds true love. Too bad no GOOD movie was ever made from this story. I did see the old crappy movie version, and am still having anger-management issues as a result of that butchery. A+
2. The Fair Maid of Perth: This book has it all--romance, violence, drama, violence, death, kidnapping, violence, a hero who kicks butt, and a heroine who converts from anti-violence to "Oh, violence has merit." We'll never see a book that awesome again. A+
3. Ivanhoe: Juice will disagree with me because of one or two chapters where she had no idea what was going on, but this was the first Scott book I read so it will always have a special place in my heart. Who needs characterization when you have a medieval setting? A+
4. The Pirate: I loved the characters, loved the ending, and unlike alot of Scott's books that I ranked much lower, this one had a plot that actually moved, and you got where it was going before the midway point of the book. Always a plus. A+
5. Count Robert of Paris: Again, I got interested in this one pretty quickly. It helped that it was shorter and had a medieval setting. Scott does this setting well. A
6. Peveril of the Peak: This is my favorite of Scott's 17th century novels. The plot sounds dumber than it is when I describe it, but it really is a good read. A
7. Waverley: Scott's first novel, and a very good one. The female characters were underdeveloped, and it was a little predictable, but the plot moved well and kept me interested. A
8. Castle Dangerous: I'm a little surprised I placed this book so high. It was Scott's last novel, and I did get a sense he was a little tired of novel writing during the book. It took a little while for the story to get going, and the end seemed rather implausible, but it was a good way to spend a few long flights during vacation. A-
9. Redgauntlet: This book's title makes it sound a lot cooler than it is. It's actually a book that's half made of letters between two best friends who just graduated, and one of them ends up getting kidnapped, so the other one goes on a quest to find him. The epistolary parts get a little cheesy, but I really liked it for all that. I'm a sucker for epistolary cheese, I guess. A-
10. The Talisman: Again, title much cooler than book. The talisman has little to do with the story and was probably just chosen in order to sell the book. There's a ton of Saladin-worship in it, so if you're a Saladin fan you might enjoy it more than I did. Not to say I didn't enjoy it, but I get it already, Saladin is perfect. B+
11. The Betrothed: More boring, romantic girls might like this book alot more than I did. Very cliche plot about a couple in love, but she's betrothed to his uncle. Gee, I don't know where that's going. The medieval period makes up for some. B+
12. A Legend of Montrose: This title is actually accurate. It's a short book, so maybe it would have been ranked higher if the story was more fleshed out. Or it might have been ranked lower, because the story would have moved more slowly. B+
13. The Fortunes of Nigel: I liked this book, but I hated Nigel. Biggest baby ever. Dude couldn't even dress himself, the priss. He didn't deserve a happy ending, but I was happy for him anyway. B
14. Woodstock: Rather contrived plot that takes place during the time of Cromwell. Some good fight scenes and other dramatic scenes. Nothing special. B
15. Anne of Geierstein: This book is one of Scott's weird ones that kind of take place outside of a bigger story, or multiple bigger stories. The action is very sporadic. It's like Heidi with a little political intrigue and war tossed in there. B
16. Guy Mannering: Scott's third book. I liked the characters, but the plot was all over the place. It's like he made it up as he went along, which would be ok if the plot ended up being plausible. He really should have made fewer of his books about kidnappings. B-
17. The Black Dwarf: Like A Legend of Montrose, lengthening this book might have made it better or worse. It was fine for what it was. B-
18. The Heart of Midlothian: This is supposed to be one of Scott's best novels. It was fine, but the female characters were a bit overkill. This one could have been alot shorter. B-
19. The Abbott: I would have liked these characters much better in a different story. Basically they're stuck guarding Mary Queen of Scots the whole time, until she gets taken away to be killed or something. Mmm-kay. B-
Everything below this point should not be read unless you really want to waste your time.
20. Rob Roy: The worst of Scott's titles that were obviously chosen to sell books. Perhaps it wasn't his fault, but come on, Rob Roy was a tertiary character in this story at best, and the real plot isn't a speck as interesting as anything Rob Roy was involved in, and the end was such a rip-off. D+
21. The Antiquary: Scott's second novel, written solely for Scott's enjoyment of writing about a character who was a geek about all thing ancient. The plot teetered between boring and nonexistent, but what there was of plot was predictable. D+
22. The Monastery: This book had potential, but it sucked. D+
23. A Tale of Old Mortality: Do not read this book. It was an excellent book up until the last chapter, and then it became the stupidest, most cliche and unsympathetic book ever. You begin the book being set up to think that Old Mortality is a character in the book, and that one of the male characters will become him. Turns out Old Mortality is NOT a character in the book, he was just used to set up the story and has nothing further to do with it, causing most of the interest of the book to be taken away. I hate this book. The ending makes me so angry! F
24. The Bride of Lammermoor: It's pretty much like the opera, only not as good. F
25. Kenilworth: This was praised as one of Scott's best novels. Huh? Why? The only decent thing in it was two tertiary characters. F
26. St. Ronan's Well: Scott's only contemporary novel. No one in the history of mankind liked it, including Scott himself. F-
27: Chronicles of the Canongate: A couple lame short stories. F-
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Vicious Pirate Trainees Suck!
We've ended our stint as Vicious Pirate Trainees mainly because they changed the dress code. The bigwigs kept the red, horizontally-ribbed shirt but replaced the rest of the wardrobe with khaki shorts. I’m all for wearing khaki shorts on my butt, but wearing additional pairs as earrings, bracelets, a hat, a belt, and a necklace was a bit much for me.
So today I was sitting in the park with my mother. She was sitting on the seat of a park bench, and I was trying to balance on the seat’s back so as to distance myself from her as we read separately. I managed to keep my balance by fitting my toes into a pair of paper cups littered beneath the bench. While we were reading, along came Borel.
“Hi Jolly and Mrs. Rogers,” she gushed. “You look like you’re in uncomfortable positions.”
Mom, whose legs were crossed several times over, said, “I really have to pee, but I’m trying to shrink these pants.”
“Shrink your pants? You’re too old for such trends!” Borel squealed. “You’re aging as we speak!”
“But according to The Idiot’s Guide to Fake Youth, age can be fought,” Mom replied with a wrinkle-ridden smile. “Not with scalpels or acids, but with meditation and a nighttime neck brace named Fluffy.”
“Ok, I won’t say anything. Anyway . . . Jolly, you’re reading Pork Hockey? Wasn’t that book banned by the Vicious Pirate Trainee Association?” Borel gasped, looking at me.
“I don’t care,” I said, leaving my uncomfortable seat. “I find it to be a very moving account of a girl who’s a loser but finds that she has a gift for playing hockey as long as a frozen pork chop is used as the puck, which conflicts with her Orthodox Jewish upbringing. Besides, I’ve quit the Vicious Pirate Trainees.”
“Oh pooh!” she gushed. “No real Vicious Pirate Trainee would ever quit. Look at me. I’ve never taken off this red shirt since I joined. It may have cost me my friends, what with the odor and the festering sores, but I’ve been elevated to the rank of hypnotee. I gape like a big screen actress and my hands take on a life of their own.”
“Don’t listen to Borel, Jolly,” said Mom. “Vicious Pirate Trainees may have clout and fan clubs, but they can’t fight age. Here.” She held open her book for me to see. “Gaze at these words of wisdom and--oh wait, this is a blank page for notes.”
“Borel, wait,” I said as she began to turn and strut away. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather be a Vicious Pirate Trainee than bond with my mom. Help!”
“Forget it,” she scoffed. “You had your chance. I’m going tooth shopping, and then I’m going to convince the association never to readmit you!”
We watched Borel strut away singing.
“Looks like she’s composing a song about your failures as a Vicious Pirate Trainee,” Mom said to me. “This is all my fault, isn’t it sweetie? I feel ready to cry. Oh wait . . . no, that’s just gas. Oops. That one didn’t sound too good.”
I regained my uncomfortable seat and edged further from my gaseous mom as she muttered, “Must shrink pants! Must not wet pants beforehand. Now my slimmed neck is sinking into my lungs. Aack! The trials of youth!”
“Ha!” I said, my face resting on my palm. “You think you’ve got problems? I have a wedgie.”
So today I was sitting in the park with my mother. She was sitting on the seat of a park bench, and I was trying to balance on the seat’s back so as to distance myself from her as we read separately. I managed to keep my balance by fitting my toes into a pair of paper cups littered beneath the bench. While we were reading, along came Borel.
“Hi Jolly and Mrs. Rogers,” she gushed. “You look like you’re in uncomfortable positions.”
Mom, whose legs were crossed several times over, said, “I really have to pee, but I’m trying to shrink these pants.”
“Shrink your pants? You’re too old for such trends!” Borel squealed. “You’re aging as we speak!”
“But according to The Idiot’s Guide to Fake Youth, age can be fought,” Mom replied with a wrinkle-ridden smile. “Not with scalpels or acids, but with meditation and a nighttime neck brace named Fluffy.”
“Ok, I won’t say anything. Anyway . . . Jolly, you’re reading Pork Hockey? Wasn’t that book banned by the Vicious Pirate Trainee Association?” Borel gasped, looking at me.
“I don’t care,” I said, leaving my uncomfortable seat. “I find it to be a very moving account of a girl who’s a loser but finds that she has a gift for playing hockey as long as a frozen pork chop is used as the puck, which conflicts with her Orthodox Jewish upbringing. Besides, I’ve quit the Vicious Pirate Trainees.”
“Oh pooh!” she gushed. “No real Vicious Pirate Trainee would ever quit. Look at me. I’ve never taken off this red shirt since I joined. It may have cost me my friends, what with the odor and the festering sores, but I’ve been elevated to the rank of hypnotee. I gape like a big screen actress and my hands take on a life of their own.”
“Don’t listen to Borel, Jolly,” said Mom. “Vicious Pirate Trainees may have clout and fan clubs, but they can’t fight age. Here.” She held open her book for me to see. “Gaze at these words of wisdom and--oh wait, this is a blank page for notes.”
“Borel, wait,” I said as she began to turn and strut away. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather be a Vicious Pirate Trainee than bond with my mom. Help!”
“Forget it,” she scoffed. “You had your chance. I’m going tooth shopping, and then I’m going to convince the association never to readmit you!”
We watched Borel strut away singing.
“Looks like she’s composing a song about your failures as a Vicious Pirate Trainee,” Mom said to me. “This is all my fault, isn’t it sweetie? I feel ready to cry. Oh wait . . . no, that’s just gas. Oops. That one didn’t sound too good.”
I regained my uncomfortable seat and edged further from my gaseous mom as she muttered, “Must shrink pants! Must not wet pants beforehand. Now my slimmed neck is sinking into my lungs. Aack! The trials of youth!”
“Ha!” I said, my face resting on my palm. “You think you’ve got problems? I have a wedgie.”
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