From FanFic topic:

Am-Chau Yarkona:

I, personally, completely in the inside of my head, cannot understand this at all. How can you not totally be in love with the idea of magic, for instance?

But I realise this is totally, totally personal, and I gave up seriously trying to convert people some time ago, unless they actually asked to have things recced to them, because I invariably end up sitting in the corner just saying, "Elves, man. Elves. How can you not love elves?" over and over again.

Steph L: I *really* want to order a Suffering Bastard at a restaurant and have the waiter bring one of the sous-chefs to the table.

Rio:

DO NOT EAT THEM

SHRIMPS ARE GROSS

THEY LOOK LIKE BUGS AND THEY FEEL LIKE KNUCKLES.

Elena B: Do I now have to worry about you folk bringing me to the top of a tower and cutting my tummy? Because I get enough of that at work.

Anne W in Natter:

So does this mean that amych, ita, and I are now some sort of axis of evil?

Lessee...

* amych fences...

* ita owns interesting blades and can maim people with overcooked vermicelli...

* I know how to knit baby sweaters...

Which of these things doesn't quite fit?

Jesse, in Natter (context? Bah.):

I use IE! And explosives! And like rap music! And France! Neutral this, buddy.

Billytea: It went down like this: I get to the station, on time for the train; ten minutes go by - so par for the course so far - when the announcement comes on: "Due to SEPTA being managed by rank incompetents who haven't noticed, despite the regular annual occurrence, that it can get a bit nippy around winter, there will be delays." So, still par for the course. By now my feet are turning into ice blocks, so I go into the (heated) ticket office. It's a good one, it even has a bakery on site, so the aroma exceeds expectations. I'm there for about ten minutes, not quite long enough for my feet to thaw, when the train finally arrives.

Looking back, it was a rookie mistake really. I'm still used to Australian philosophies regarding trains, where provision of some sort of service generally takes precedence over pulling elaborate practical jokes; so, suspecting nothing, I actually got on. The train - horribly crowded, of course - merrily trundles through four more stations, accumulating gulls at each stop, until it reaches Overbrook. And here they pull the punchline - this train Will Go No Further. (The conductors did a fair but not flawless job of keeping straight faces when they told us.) We all have to get off, and hope for a bus or another train (SEPTA's ability to provide emergency buses is legendary; you may hear legends of them, but you'll certainly never see one). What makes this such a side-splitter is that unlike all the previous stations, with their fancy heated ticket offices, Overbrook's office is abandoned and boarded up. SEPTA has successfully taken a crowded trainload of paying customers, enticed them from stops where they could experience a modicum of comfort, and left them exposed to the elements in an abandoned Antarctic research station decorated with boards over all derelict buildings proclaiming "The Future of SEPTA". (Granted, the slogans weren't there before I turned up. It's possible I'd lost some of my good humour by then; I will note, however, that no other passengers tried to stop me. One loaned me a laundry marker.)

Finally, somewhere in that ill-defined territory in which American business thrives between 'competent service' and 'exposed to crippling lawsuits' (and about five minutes before I'd decided to see just how long it would take to walk home from here), another train arrived. This was not as crowded, as many of the passengers were by now suffering from snow-blindness and couldn't find their way back to the platform, and a group of the more able-bodied had decided to recreate Scott's ill-fated expedition. So I got a seat, and the rest of the journey into work passed without incident, and here I am. I'm hopeful my extremities have suffered no permanent damage. The delays made the news, so at least I don't have to explain myself. Small mercies, I suppose.

So how's everyone else?

From Literary, an exchange which mysteriously was unrepresented here:

Penny B:

If you're going to call yourself a sleuth, you'd damn well better be driving a roadster. IJS.

Right now I'm reading books about Uncle Tom's Cabin, in preparation for my Magic Negro presentation. It's very, very interesting. Stowe got a lot of hate mail.

Betsy Hanes Perry:

Mmmm, roadsters.

Kathy Astrom:

Those last two posts have caused my head to explode, because I just pictured Little Eva in a red Miata, zooming across the ice like the last James Bond flick.

Penny B:

I just pictured Little Eva in a red Miata, zooming across the ice like the last James Bond flick.

AHAHAHAHA! Then they push Legree into a tank full of sharks with frickin' laser beams on their heads.

Betsy Hanes Perry:

Then Topsy strolls out, dressed in black leather from head to toe, and says "Looks like I just growed some more!" She and Eva kiss passionately, then tear off toward the sunset in the Miata.

Teppy: I don't get how Y Tu Mama Tambien got nominated for writing. Was there a special "Pretentions, Anvillicious, Preachy Teenage Road Movie You'll Think Is Arty Because It's Foreign" category?

Erika: Dude, Teppy, have you seen the Oscars? Of course there is.Along with the "It's Boring, but it's Period" category. And the "We Missed You When You Made A Better Film" category and the "It Takes Courage to Play Ugly or Crippled" category.

Natter 8:

amyparker: When did that start? I came back and everyone was swearing at everyone else.

Jesse: Blame it on Rio. Or the bossanova, I forget which.