severus snape is a poo-face — any comments??

To all Best Thing Ever Tournament Players:

Here’s the Boo-Bye Speech from that loser, Severus Snape. Uhm, he lost. HE’S DEAD. And he refuses to admit it. I’m putting it here — front and center — so that nobody misses it, because he basically smack talks everyone, even people he won’t ever get to play. Because he lost and he’s dead. Even I, your benevolent game mistress, am thrown under the runaway bus of verbal abuse. Here is what the sorely departed Mr. Snape has to say to us all:

I don’t expect the crowds will really understand the beauty of the barely out-of-bounds backhand with its shimmering bright yellow lack of chalkiness… the delicate power of the double fault that creeps through a service game, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses, sounding like “love… forty.” I can teach my fellow players slash characters how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death.

That’s right, Mer-cue-she-pwn3d! I said stopper death. Yeah, baby, I’m the potions master! You think you kill’d me with the sword? I’m the Prince, baby! Dumbledore’s most trusted confidante! I’ve danced with the devil, Lord Thingy himself! And lived to tell the tale, yo! For a while, anyway.

I do not concede defeat, because I have not yet been defeated. Don’t believe me? You, too, will die, Merwhatsyerface. And when your head is being lopped off by Faraqueer [sorry, sorry], I want you to ask yourself. Did I really kill Severus? Or was it a Russian tennis chick under the influence of Polyjuice Potion?

You can ask Miss Tracey, the insufferable know-it-all. She’ll tell you.

Oh. I have to go. My snake is squiggling. Thingy calls.

By the way… EXPELLIARMUS!

Haha, got your racket.

the best thing ever: england — more results!

In further court action today …. more stream-of-consciousness reporting from Wimbledon’s laziest on-scene newsgirl ….

Zither Bumblebee
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picked victory from the pockets of

The Artful Dodger
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which is weird, because The Artful Dodger is the well-known scamp in that department, isn’t he? On the other hand, Zadora Butterbean has those two heads so who knows what kind of advantage that gave him over The Artful Dodger? On the other hand, that second head has an eyepatch, so, really, Zazzy Bassinet had only one extra eye and in this reporter’s opinion, that extra head-eye combo should have wreaked all kinds of havoc with his peripheral vision and service toss. On the other hand — and apparently, there really is another hand — the dude has three arms, which, lordy, could make for a seriously wicked three-handed backhand and how is the poor little pickpocket supposed to stand there and return that?? And how come two matches ended in death and ruined grass and this one just ends in a pickpocketing? Is anyone playing tennis here? Hm. I guess that remains to be seen.

Meanwhile, in the battle of the Bildungsromans ….

Jane Eyre
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left begging and starving on the moors

David Copperfield
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which is weird, because, you’d think of all people, Jane Eyre would know what that felt like. Throughout the match, wild screams erupted intermittently from somewhere in the upper part of the stadium. Jane, however, kept her focus and dispatched Mr. Copperfield in 51 minutes, including 11 services aces, all in excess of 100 mph, which is really amazing for such a frail, small-framed woman in layers of sweltering petticoats. When the match was over, a disconsolate Mr. Copperfield was rushed by one Mr. Uriah Heep howling at him repeatedly to “Eat umble pie with an appetite!” Tournament officials quickly swarmed Mr. Heep, stuffed strawberries in his mouth, and dragged him off the court.

We await your sad Boo-Bye Speeches, Messrs. Dodger (Dawkins) and Copperfield.

A really bad day for Mr. Dickens.

the best thing ever: england — results so far!

In court action today …. here’s your stream-of-consciousness rundown ….

Mercutio
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kill’d with a sword

Severus Snape
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which is weird, because this is tennis, although none of the judges intervened, which is weird too because this is Britain and Wimbledon and everyone is usually very uptight about tradition and wearing white and eating strawberries and playing matches with rackets and not swords and such. Killing someone with a sword is a definite, you know, break in tradition. And it just ruins the grass, which really chaps my hide. During the match itself, the ever-loquacious Mercutio just kept blathering on loudly about some chippie named “Queen Mab,” not “Queen Elizabeth” which, frankly, seemed like a terrible breech of etiquette not to mention somewhat disloyal and all the talk-talk-talking seemed to unnerve Mr. Snape who tried several different unsuccessful spells to get Mercutio to shut up — which is weird because his spells usually work; on the other hand, what was he thinking performing all that magic in front of a crowd of Muggles? So when you think about it, it’s just as well he’s dead now — kill’d with a sword — because, otherwise, he’d be in big fat trouble with the Ministry of Magic now, wouldn’t he?

And in other action …

Faramir
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also kill’d with a sword, how weird ….

The Pardoner
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But then again, the grass was already ruined from the previous bloody mess with Snape, so Faramir was pretty much, “Well, no big whoop; the grass is already soil’d and this is what I do” while The Pardoner just cowered under his horse for the entire match (how the horse got out there, I have no idea; maybe a leftover from one of Snape’s unsuccessful spells) which is frustrating, especially after I specifically TOLD The Pardoner there was no cowering allowed. But what are you gonna do? You try your best. You can’t help everyone, you know? They’ve got to want to be helped. Faramir kill’d him with a sword out of sheer annoyance, I’m sure.

Stay tuned for more results! Two more of you are going down today. Although, hopefully not kill’d with a sword.

Snape and Pardoner: I’m sorry you’re dead. Pony up with them Boo-Bye Speeches.

the best thing ever: england — the matchups!

You are ALL playing tomorrow!

Here’s the breakdown. Scroll down if you still don’t know who your player is. Although, it doesn’t really matter as long as you trust me to get it right here.

Severus Snape
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VS

Mercutio
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Then ….

Jane Eyre
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VS

David Copperfield
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Thenn ….

The Pardoner
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VS

Faramir
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Finally ….

Zaphod Beeblebrox
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VS

The Artful Dodger
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I love these matchups. They give me joy.

(Please allow the game mistress to announce the results here — even if you hear them on the news before I do, which is entirely possible. Get those speeches ready!)

Good luck and good matches, everyone!

best thing ever england: the players!

Here’s our lineup:

UPDATE: Plus player assignments from the exciting random bowl drawing!

1. The Artful Dodger, Sheila
Wimbledon Ladies’ Singles Player: Nicole Vaidisova, CZE
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2. Jane Eyre, Lisa
Wimbledon Ladies’ Singles Player: Serena Williams, USA
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or

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or

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(Pick the one you like best, Lisa. Putting a real-life face on Jane is too hard for me!)

3. Severus Snape, sarahk
Wimbledon Ladies’ Singles Player: Nadia Petrova, RUS
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4. David Copperfield, Leslie
Wimbledon Ladies’ Singles Player: Agnieszka Radwanska, POL
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No?

Okay. Maybe this one?
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5. Zaphod Beeblebrox, Cullen (No way I can type that name out every time. I simply canna do it.)
Wimbledon Ladies’ Singles Player: Jie Zheng, CHN
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6. The Pardoner, Kate P.
Wimbledon Ladies’ Singles Player: Tamarine Tanasugarn, THA
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7. Mercutio, Gradual Dazzle
Wimbledon Ladies’ Singles Player: Elena Dementieva, RUS
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8. Faramir, Nightfly
Wimbledon Ladies’ Singles Player: Venus Williams, USA
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Stay tuned for your matchups! And before anyone else says it: Yes, those Williams’ girls are tough, but they are NOT unbeatable. They aren’t! It’s anyone’s tournament!

Also: Don’t forget! The Boo-Bye Ritual is still in place. As game mistress, I insist. Nicely. This means that when your player/character loses and is out of the tournament, you must post your “Boo-Bye Speech” in the comments section. Written as your character might say it. Talk smack. (No one can out-smack sarahk, but it’s worth a try, no?) Claim victimhood. Pout. Whine. Accuse judges of taking brides. Swear revenge. Whatever. I don’t care what you talk about in your Boo-Bye Speech. It’s YOUR forum. Your last indignant stand. Make it count. This is the only other thing you have to do to be involved in this game, basically. Easy peasy.

So, that being said: Start preparing now. All but ONE of you will have to make one!

best thing ever blog game: england

It’s that time again! And I kinda almost forgot because, well, I’m just really distracted these days. But a gentle nudge came in my email yesterday from the adorable sarahk:

Please please please tell me you’re doing Best Thing Ever with Wimbledon this year. I already have Anthony Head all picked out.

(Sarahk is currently obsessed with Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which I totally understand. I came to that show very late, but there is one episode that is BY FAR the scariest, creepiest thing I’ve ever seen on TV.)

Anyhoo.

There WILL be a giveaway but I’m still deciding what it will be. Still mulling. It may include coffee; it may include tea; it may include some small mixed-media piece I’ve done; it may include some Caramel Almond Freakout Popcorn. These are all possibilities. It may be a combo of things. Not sure yet. But one thing I know the game will now forever include is this:

The Official Best Thing Ever CUP:

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This is the 2008 Best Thing Ever England Edition. (Out-of-focus shot courtesy of my cruppy cell phone. Stay tuned for another out-of-focus shot from a different angle. In person, it looks — well, I hesitate to use the word “better” — uhm, like a weird shiny coffee cup make by a total weirdo who needs to get a life.) And yes. It is a coffee cup. And yes. It is collaged or altered or whatever you wanna call it. I made several of these in the last dying days of Boheme when I’d lost my will to live but not my will to create. Even if only with coffee cups and scraps of paper and food coloring and glue. So this … well, it’s really a timepiece, you know? Of an era. Soon-to-be vintage. Basically, I have enough paper coffee cups of various sizes left over from Boheme to last for this project until … you know, Iran goes nuclear and KA-BLOOWEY or something. Each new game winner will receive a new cup. Each is an original work du great art. Not suitable for holding beverages. Official Best Thing Ever Cups for prominent display purposes only, of course.

All right. Down to the game. If you’re not familiar with the rules, go here.

Okay. Last year, honestly, I nearly ran myself ragged with 16 players — what with finding photos and posting match results and trying to keep on top of results with the time difference and so on. It was all a little dizzying. Huge fun, don’t get me wrong, but just dizzying.

So. This year, I’m going with 8 players only. We’ll try that. Basically, these will be the quarterfinal matchups. I’m going with the ladies’ side of the draw. The men’s seems a bit too predictable — although I could be wrong this year. Roger Federer keeps winning over and over, but this just may be sexy Spaniard Rafael Nadal’s tournament. (Fingers crossed.)

The THEME this year is different. I want to mix it up:

The Best Thing Ever England: English Literary Characters.

(Sorry, sarahk! But I’m saving a slot for you regardless, okay?)

I have 8 slots only. If you want to play, leave your name and your English Literary Character in the comments. Duplicate picks will be decided based on a first-come basis. If a comment goes into moderation for whatever reason, the same rule will apply.

All right. For the Queen! For the Cup!

The Best Thing Ever: English Literary Characters.

Ready? GO!

me, age 2

See this? This was my thing at that age. This move with my arms in the air. Apparently, I did this all the time. I was obsessive with the arm thing. While other toddlers were rockin’ their Fisher Price bubble vacuums, being useful, I was running around with my arms up in the air declaiming “I am SO BIG!” until mom or dad or random strangers agreed with me. Needy much, Trace?

So, yes, yes, little Tracey. You are SO BIG! Please calm down.

And, oh, I can see your diaper, big girl.
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please, i want this

Look at this sofa from La Maison Coloniale. I want it. I even want that statue of Hammurabi or whoever in the background. I want to lie on this sofa in my maison coloniale somewhere in jungles of Thailand and eat pad thai and look at my statue of Hammurabi or whoever.

My needs are simple really.

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the movie that saved my life last night

After renting Charlie Wilson’s Bore the other day and managing to survive it barely, only as a mere shell of a person, a mere shadow of a human being — Philip Seymour Hoffman is the ONLY reason to see that movie in my opinion — I felt suddenly wary about all movies, anywhere, everywhere. That’s what that movie did to me, in addition to sucking my precious and well-known joie de vivre out of my very marrow and eyeballs and such. At my core, I wondered if my ability to enjoy movies was gone forever, stolen by Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts in a stupid blonde mushroom wig.

Oh, and then to compound matters, the next day, there was the world’s most BORING documentary about the world’s most BORING band, you know, QUEEN, that had me screaming at the talking head onscreen — who had clearly dug up Freddie Mercury’s corpse and stolen his teeth: “Shut up, shut UP with the talking and show the FREAKIN’ BAND ALREADY!”

AGGHHHHH! My precious and well-known joie de vivre! What had happened? I collapsed in a sobbing heap on the not-entirely-clean floor.

“Is there another movie in the pile over there?” I wailed at MB last night.

There was. And it, praise be, was this:

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Hitman
.

Glorious Hitman.

Glorious, gratuitously violent, based on a video game I know nothing about because I know nothing about any video games Hitman.

Because sometimes, the only thing that can restore your precious and well-known joie de vivre and make you live again is a sizzling sexy bald man with a bar-code tattoo on the base of his skull slaughtering and splattering your fellow man left and right.

Know what I mean?

Sometimes, the only thing that can restore your precious and well-known joie de vivre and make you live again is a lonely enigmatic killer in a crisp suit and a red tie who can and does wield what you can only assume is a grenade launcher in each of his nimble lonely hands.

It’s true. I’m not making this stuff up.

Sometimes, the only thing that can restore your precious and well-known joie de vivre and make you live again is an unconscionable murderous romp with a side of sympathetic whore.

I mean, what screams joie de vivre more than sympathetic whore, I ask you?

And sometimes, the only thing that can restore your precious and well-known joie de vivre and make you live again is a lonely killer and a sympathetic whore reveling in their intense but arm’s length chemistry where a date consists of dinner and murder and chastity.

I mean, what’s better than a movie that makes you fuzzy and nostalgic about your past?

Sometimes, in the end, it won’t matter to you that the smarties-that-be mostly panned a movie. Not if it restores your precious and well-known joie de vivre. They clearly have no joie de vivre that even needs restoring so how could they possibly appreciate the bloody romantic epic that is Hitman? Besides, if you refer to anyone’s opinion, you refer to your beloved Roger because he a smartie who seems unpretentious while simultaneously making you think of a delicious oatmeal cookie dunked in a cup of hot coffee. And he, your delicious oatmeal cookie, liked the movie, for the most part — although he didn’t mention that it saved his life in any way, which you understand might not happen for everybody. He liked the same things you liked about it so you feel validated and plenty smart, too. Although you sometimes wonder if you’re capable of independent thought apart from your beloved Roger. But don’t think about it now. Just because you’re not on a roll here doesn’t mean you should stop, Peaches.

So bless you, Hitman. Bless you for sheer ridiculousness. Bless you for a nonsensical plot that makes perfect sense to anyone with joie de vivre. Bless you for life-affirming violence. Bless you for oddball chemistry. Bless you for smoldering baldness and helpless whores and celibate killers. Bless you for every little part I managed to see through the queasy cage of my fingers.

Mostly, bless you for restoring my precious and well-known joie de vivre and making me live again.

Bless you, Hitman.

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