What happened here? Once indicool Janeane Garofalo has a lip so pumped up she could float on vacation and save airfare.

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I get how a woman of former doll-like beauty can wind up looking like the Joker, in a futile attempt at preserving her image. Meg Ryan, for example, bless her everlasting grin.

But Janeane has never been conventionally pretty, nor has the characters she’s played, so why this need to join the chorus of bland? Sorry, a hanglip does not a babe make.

You used to be so cool. My condolances to your lip.

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I stumbled upon a great article in The Times today, about the amount of hits you get if you search for Downfall +Hitler on YouTube, and why that might be funny. (Downfall being the english title for the German movie Der Untergang, about the last days of Hitler in the bunker in Berlin.)

The joke of course, plays on the fact that most english-speaking people don’t understand German, so that the subtitles – well, they could really say anything, couldn’t they.

And that is exactly what is going on. People take the original scene where his officers tells Hitler that the Russians are approaching Berlin fast and that there really is no way out, whereupon Hitler goes ballistic, and put new subtitles upon it.

There is the one where Hitler has been banned from World of Warcraft, the one where Hitler’s mom closed his porn-connection on the internet, Hitler having trouble with Windows Vista, all in all, people have the strangest, weirdest and funniest ideas for this.

My favourite so far is the one where Hitler realizes that he has lost his connection to Xbox live…

opener4-6247Funnily enough, after elizadrool posted the “Oh god, that is a big snake. And speaking of snakes…”-scenario the other day, Tim Dowling in The Guardian today muses about the different scenarios used to set up the sex, all of them of course completely silly. But maybe not so silly as that snake…

(Pictured above is the opening of what Tim Dowling happily refers to as The funeral parlour-scenario.)

This porn film opening cracks me up. Must have watched it ten times, I just love the fervor of the snake struggle. No indecent scenes, I promise!

Knowing that you are going to leave your job (or rather, being laid off as the case may be), is not a really great incentive for doing your best the last two months. And it doesn’t do much for the feelings towards your fellow workers either, I can tell you. Because, if you know that you are going to have to deal with these people for the unforseeable future, then you develope some techniques to deal with them. You have to, otherwise life would be unbearable.

The boss that never, ever can make a decision? The overpaid person in a job you don’t know what entails, that you never see doing anything worthwhile? The woman that is so scared of other women getting ahead that she constantly puts all the other women in the office down, but manages to charm management nevertheless? The woman you suspect having an affair with the boss? Does this sound familiar to anyone? (I really hope so, because if not, I’m the crazy one.)  You learn to tolerate it all, seeing as you spend more time with them than with anyone else in the world.

But to know that it is going to end? That in a short two months you don’t ever have to see them again? I can tell you what that means, it means that what you really think of them is starting to seep into all conversations you have at work, all the time.

Feel like George Costanza.

I work at a relatively large office, in a relatively large corporation. In my corner of the building alone there’s probably around a hundred people. A hundred people that are allowed the luxury of three separate toilets. Three. They are *always* busy, which forces me on a regular basis to reflect on office etiquette and human nature.

It’s easy math, really. If we’re on average a hundred people that spend seven hours in the office during the span of nine hours, peeing or pooping say for five minutes a time, in average 3 times a day – the three toilets will be occupied for 95% of the time. Pure math: there will be trouble. Add to this that human toiletry routines are very predictable, bound to be extra urgent after morning coffee, lunch, afternoon snacks – or before the start of meetings on every hour. And so on. Queues, I tell you.

Now let me say this, I work with decent people. There are no floater issues in this post, though the occasional skidmark or explosion scene is encountered. Neither is there obscene behaviour – like in one of my earlier workplaces, where the joyful remains of male auto-eroticism was deposited neatly, like cake decorations, on the rim of the seat of the women’s toilet (I’m glad to report that I was not the woman who sat in it).

Perhaps the queuing is the reason for this decency – you’re bound to meet a line of dancing colleagues when exiting, and generations of cultural shaming obliges you to do the little whinge of shame, the apologetic smile, perhaps an actual cry of it wasn’t me! complete with hands thrown up if the stink is too bad. That akward nod of recognition: hello colleague, I see you’re there, but I really wish you weren’t. Now you know that I am human and process my food in this unappealing manner.

Combined with this cultural denial of what’s actually happening, I must admit to a practically feral behaviour when on my way in to do my business.

When I’m allowed into a newly used toilet I can’t help but to willingly catch a big gulp of not so fresh air, inhaling and enjoying the essence of my dear colleagues, sniffing out their secrets. It is, after all, like turning someone inside out, so it’s a pretty organic experience. I have no idea why I do this, as it’s frequently followed by me faking pukety faces to myself in the mirror and miming at myself with an astonishing look, like I had no idea what they were doing in there – or that I’m about to repeat the number. Too much essential information, so to speak.

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It’s like I’m a dog taking the opportunity to sniff another dog’s ass, and proudly taking the opportunity to spray the toilet with my signature smell to own the toilet until someone else comes along.

This must be the explanation for men refusing to hit the toilet bowl or to put down the seat – and women refusing to SIT DOWN when peeing (urinating in the manner of a lawn sprinkler and, if possible, less precisely than men).

Closing that toilet door we return to our animal beings, far from office protocol and only matched by the desperation over a printer breakdown closing in on a deadline.

twin-peaks-tv-02Watching Twin Peaks again, near on 20 years later, is strange on many levels. I can’t help thinking how far TV has come since then, and remembering how crap it mostly was before Twin Peaks. It is hard to try and recollect how truly strange it really was watching it, back in 1990.

But what almost gets to me the most, is the smoking. It is strange in most old TV-shows and movies, the amount of smoking that went on. Everywhere, all the time. Seeing as it hardly is allowed anywhere anymore, watching people smoking indoors, in schools, the sheriff’s office, in the hospital – God knows where people didn’t smoke in those days – is just plain weird. And it is not only the bad guys either, it is everyone.

There is one particularly weird smoking-incident in Twin Peaks that just blew my mind.

Audrey Horne is hiding in the closet in the office of the manager of Horne’s Department Store, to find out how he recruits girls from the department store to work as prostitutes at One Eyed Jacks.

So there she is, hiding in this closet with doors that are more like blinds, really. Smoking. And she continues to smoke in there while the manager talks to one of the girls. Without being discovered. Without anyone saying; “Can you smell smoke?”

And you simply don’t see that anymore. It is quite hard not to think that it was ment to be ironic or strange, in that peculiar Twin Peaks-way.

But I really don’t think so. And that is the strangest thing of all, in 2008.

(This clip from youtube has nothing what so ever to do with this particular scene. I just wanted to share Audrey Horne in all her glory.)