Tag Archives: comedy

A Piece of String

Posted by Piscis on

Piece of string

 

A funny little anecdote for the week:

Last month, just before Christmas, a former colleague from my DoD days sent me an eBay listing for these nifty little Android pocket computers (pack-of-gum-sized things that plug into the HDMI port of a television), bundled with a wireless handheld keyboard+mouse device.  The asking price, incredibly enough, was only $11 (with free shipping!).

Now, I didn’t have any explicit need for such a thing, but come on, $11?  The handheld keyboard thingy alone was worth that.  Yes, it seemed too good to be true, particularly as the seller was in China, so the shipping alone would seem cost-prohibitive, but his feedback was 98% positive over 500+ transactions.  Maybe he’d less-than-legitimately obtained a crate of them, and was trying to palm them off as quickly as possible?  I thought about it for a couple days before curiosity got the better of me, and I decided that sure, I’ll take a gamble for $11.  I placed the order, and got a tracking number for the shipment the following morning.  Cool.

Fast-forward a few weeks, and a package from China arrives in my mailbox.  It’s a padded envelope with the android computer clearly declared on the customs label.  Inside of that envelope, however, was not a little android computer.

Inside of that envelope, was a piece of string.

The bald-faced audacity of it was too amusing for me to really get upset.  I expected I might get nothing, but there was just something delightfully bizarre about the seller actively taking the effort to ship me a piece of garbage from China in a tracked package.

I looked back up the eBay listing, and found that it had been taken down, and the seller’s account suspended, so they’d obviously already gotten word of the scam (I imagine the seller must have utilized a pay-for-review service to generate all the positive feedback on his account).  Since I’d payed the seller’s PayPal account, I was referred to them to get a refund.

PayPal’s dispute resolution system is heavily automated, but my transaction had simply gone through my credit card rather than my own PayPal account, so it didn’t show up in my history for me to act upon.  As such, I used the general web form to explain this and the situation in general, ensuring I provided my transaction ID.

I received an automated response an hour or so later telling me to select the transaction on my account history and file an automated claim.  Awesome, they didn’t bother to actually read what I wrote.  I responded to the e-mail, reiterating the situation, and the next day I received a response saying my claim was escalated to PayPal.  O.K., cool.

A couple days later, I got another canned e-mail saying that the dispute had been decided in my favor.  They would gladly reverse the charge – just as soon as I returned the “item not as described” to the seller and provided them with a tracking number showing I did so.  Ah-ha!  So this was the core of the scam – the seller is banking on this policy (and the obtuseness of dealing with PayPal in general), in conjunction with the item’s just-low-enough price, to make it economically nonsensical to pursue the refund when it requires paying for the return shipping.  A pretty clever scheme, I have to admit!  Obviously not one I was going to play along with, though.

The e-mail address they had sent this request from obnoxiously did not accept replies, so I sent my response to first one they’d been using.  I (politely, I promise) explained that I did not feel sending a piece of garbage back to China was a reasonable course of action, that enforcing this policy would only perpetuate scams like this, and that if we could not work around it, I would simply have my bank rescind the charge.

(I could have simply pointed out that the return ‘address’ they gave me – nothing more specific or meaningful than “Beijing, Beijing, Beijing, China” – was not exactly one I could ship to, but you know, principles and all.)

A couple days after that, I received a canned response informing me that they were still waiting for me to send them the tracking information for the return shipment.  Good lord.

Tempted as I was to just go to the bank at that point, I decided to give them one more chance, and called the support number.  Naturally, I had to wait on hold for over forty-five minutes before anyone answered (all the while listening to a recording of someone touting how much easier and more convenient using the automated online dispute system would be than continuing to wait on the phone).

When I was finally connected with a person and gave him my dispute ID (I could hear him mumbling the words of my last e-mail to himself, so they did indeed receive it and add it to my case before ignoring it), it took all of about thirty seconds for him to go over the situation and put in a payment reversal, which I had an e-mail confirmation for as soon as I got off the phone.  Funny how much smoother things go when there’s actual communication happening.

Ah, well.  Caveat emptor and all that, I suppose.  (>^-‘)>

Oh, and a final note: I received one more e-mail from PayPal a few days afterward, asking me if I would have any interest in taking a short survey and providing feedback about my recent experience with their transaction dispute process.

Why, yes, PayPal  Yes, I would.

 

Bene scribete.

Christmas Time is Reindeer Time (Probably)

Posted by Piscis on

Looking for some classic Christmas entertainment to liven up the holidays?  Of course not – you can find that anywhere.

Looking for some crazy Christmas entertainment to crazy up the holidays?  Well, then, might I prescribe a double dose of Finnish reindeer drama?

Behold the magical insanity that are these films:

 

Niko 2Reindeer Drama

You can’t always strike gold when absently perusing Netflix, but sometimes, you might strike…reindeer?

Don’t strike reindeer, though.  That’s terribly rude.

(View Post)

 

Niko posterReindeer Drama: Part -1

After seeing the second movie, tracking down the first became a necessity.

It does not disappoint.

(View Post)

 

 

They really do need to make more of these (if for no other reason than these reviews are always bringing in web traffic…  (>^-‘)> ).  Get on it, Finland!

And to the rest of you, have a wonderful Christmas!

 

Bene scribete.

The Dastardly Pumpkin

Posted by Piscis on

The Evil Pumpkin

There was once a pumpkin – an evil pumpkin.  It was so evil that, when passing it by, people would say, “Hey, look at that pumpkin, Jim; I bet it’s evil.  Rotten to the core.”

(Everyone who passed by it did so with a man – or, in one case, a woman – named Jim.)

 

The spider approaches

One day, a spider approached the pumpkin.  Apparently, it was an unreasonably enormous spider.

“Pardon me, Mr. Pumpkin,” the spider began, all politeness, “but I wonder if you might tell me why it is that you are such a dastardly fellow.  Do you resent that holes were carved into your face?  Or perhaps that your innards were torn away to make a pie?”

The pumpkin did not respond, for it was a pumpkin, and pumpkins cannot speak in the slightest.

(“Then why can the spider talk?” I hear you asking, but I shan’t be answering such silly questions.)

After a time, the spider said, “Oh, I see how it is.  You are not evil – simply rude,” and left the mannerless squash behind.

 

The mouse approaches

A day or two later, the pumpkin was paid a visit by a little mouse (that grey blob is a mouse – I promise).

“I bet you’re not so evil,” the mouse burbled in its squeaky little voice.  “I bet you’re just lonely, sitting here on your porch all day without anyone to keep you company.”

So the mouse curled up next to the pumpkin and remained with it all day (what a sweet little mouse).

Until, that is, a cat crept forth and snatched him up.

 

The cat approaches

“Thank you once again, Sir Pumpkin,” the cat purred around the mouse’s tail as he dangled from her jaw, crying for help.

The pumpkin might have shed a tear, were that something a pumpkin was wont to do, but alas, it could not move an inch to save its new friend.

The cat lay down before the pumpkin and ate what she would of her catch, then set his remains within the pumpkin’s jagged mouth.  “Were it not for you, I shouldn’t get away with nearly so much.”

 

Poor pumpkin

In the final hour of Halloween, when all the children had gone home and the streets were empty, the pumpkin so vile it would eat its only friend sat alone on its porch, beneath a doorbell unrung and candy untouched.

“But I am not evil…” the pumpkin finally murmured aloud, making a proper liar of me, but not a soul was around to hear it.

And it was absolutely right – for, you see, pumpkins, as it turns out, are secretly fruits, which on the whole tend to be much more magnanimous than their strictly vegetable brethren.  Unless, of course, we’re speaking of durians, which are little if not sin and corruption condensed into fruit form.

Cats, on the other hand, usually are evil, but I think that’s why we as a society appreciate them.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is: don’t be so quick to blame inanimate plant matter for acts of malice when there’s a cat in the vicinity.  What are you, a crazy person?

 

Have a happy Halloween, everyone.

 

Bene scribete.

Hot h’What?

Posted by Piscis on
Hot...what, now?

Put chalk in your hair, kids

 

Saw this…thing…in the store the other day.  “Hot (h)wezz”?  What…why would anything be called that?  It sounds like, well, Spanish slang for something filthy.  What—what does it mean?

I have a habit of taking pictures of weird products, so I did just that.

Then, when sharing my photographic incredulity with others, I was promptly informed that it was “hot hues”…just, you know, spelled stupidly.  Ohhhh.

…that’s not nearly as funny.

Anyway, the moral of the story is: don’t spell things stupidly, or they might end up sounding…let’s say…implicitly unsavory.

 

Bene scribete.

Lemons

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A pile of lemons

If life hands you lemons, say “Thanks, life!”, ’cause lemons are good!

–Emmy

 

Somewhere in a field of snow
An ermine scampered to and fro.
She was a small but steady thing,
And Emmy was her name.

With fur as white as table salt
(Her tail-tip the only fault),
She zipped unseen along the ground
Whose color was the same.

Now, Emmy served a magic cat –
But, oh, let’s not get into that.
We’re merely speaking of her quest
To find her favorite fruit.

She’d buried one just months before
Beneath the forest’s earthy floor,
Yet now the turn of weather was
Impeding her pursuit.

She dug right here and dug right there
Until at last a yellow glare
Revealed itself to her within
The endless sea of white.

A squeak of joy escaped the throat
Of Emmy the triumphant stoat;
She snatched the lemon up and couldn’t
Wait to take a bite.

She licked her lips and closed her eyes
And sank her fangs into her prize,
But when the juice beset her tongue,
The ermine was distraught.

Without another sip she frowned
And tossed the fruit back to the ground,
Then turned and sulked away and grumbled,
“Stupid bergamot…”

 
 
Floobing bergamots.
 
 
Bene scribete.

On Ghostwriting

Posted by Piscis on

Writing ghost

Money is the universal shortcut.  You can get just about anything with it.  Sometimes for a lot less than you’d think.

In my line of editing work, I come across a lot of want-ads for ghostwriting.  Now, I can look the other way when it comes to surrogate writing in certain scenarios – you’re a not-so-eloquent public figure who needs the notes and rough drafts for your topical book or memoir worked into something fluid?  Sure, O.K.  But I’m talking about ghostwriting for fiction.  Things like: “I need a sci-fi novel written.  Preferably something to do with space exploration.  Need it to be around 70,000-80,000 words.  Must sign NDA and forgo copyright. I’m willing to pay up to $500.”  (No joke!)  It shouldn’t come as a surprise that there would be a few people out there with that kind of audacity, but I see a dozen of these a day.  And what’s even crazier – these listings get a ton of responses!

It’s a little hard to believe.  I can’t see the appeal to either side of this arrangement.  Does anyone really love the writing process itself so much that they’d be willing to undertake the grueling process of producing a novel for pennies an hour, only to forsake any rights and claims to their own creation upon completion?  Is anyone so desperately enamored with the idea of being known as a writer that they would be satisfied with the hollow “achievement” of putting their name on someone else’s work?  Apparently the answer is a disturbingly frequent yes on both accounts – it’s a big industry.  It baffles me.  It really does.

If I’m being entirely honest, I suppose I would consider ghostwriting a novel for someone if I were offered an absurd amount of money to do so (financial freedom to pursue other projects is nothing to take lightly), but these jobs are being offered at too comical a salary to be considered “just work”.  I could never quite comprehend the sentiment behind the other side of the table, though.  If you want to be a writer then, you know – write!  At the very least seek a co-author if you need help with a specific book.  I simply can’t see fiction-ghostwriting as something that has any reason to be a thing – particularly not as big of a thing as it is.

But I’m curious to hear others’ thoughts on the matter.  Have you ever had experience with ghostwriting (from either side)?  Would you ever consider it?  Am I taking crazy pills?

 

Bene scribete.
 

 

(Want to win a free signed copy of the non-ghostwritten The Amber Ring? Check the link for details. No entrants yet, so your odds are sitting at 100%!)

 

The Amber Ring – WordPress Giveaway

Posted by Piscis on

The Amber Ring

When the twelve-year-old Heroine of the Fairwoods dies, her morose twin sister reluctantly joins her trusty gryphon sidekick on a quest to save the enchanted land in her stead.

 

The giveaway I did at Goodreads a few months back got some decent traction, so I figured I’d do a quicker, smaller one here just for my fellow ‘bloggers.

Let’s try this: If you’d like a chance to win a free signed copy of this cynical fairytale novella, just reblog this post.  I’ll gather up the names from the track-back comments, throw them into a randomizer, and announce a winner in two weeks (July 21, 2013).  I don’t anticipate many entrants, so your chances should be pretty good!

 

[This giveaway is for the physical (print) edition.  The eBook, as always, can be acquired for free at your favorite retailer (Kindle | iBooks | Nook | Sony | Kobo) or direct download (ePUB | PDF).]

 

Bene scribete.

Death Scene: Turkish Style

Posted by Piscis on

Death scenes can be tricky to write, particularly for primary characters.  Do too little, and it can feel jarringly abrupt, not allowing the reader (or watcher) to properly absorb within the moment that the character has legitimately just met his end.

Do too much, on the other hand, and you may end up with something like this:

 

 

(…all right, I may have just wanted an excuse to post that video)

 

Bene scribete.

A Silly Scene from The Amber Ring

Posted by Piscis on

Only a few days left to enter the drawing for one of three signed copies of The Amber Ring.

 

Goodreads Book Giveaway

The Amber Ring by A.L. Walton

The Amber Ring

by A.L. Walton

Giveaway ends May 15, 2013.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

 

And, as always, you can get the eBook for free right now at iBooks, Sony, Kobo, Nook, or download the PDF here!

Still aren’t convinced you want to give it a shot? I don’t blame you – time is precious and new things are iffy. But in an effort to maybe pique a little more interest, I thought I’d share one of my favorite scenes in the book (at least one of the most fun to write), wherein the reluctant heroine Maya and the gryphon Camden encounter the mirthfully single-minded Fairy Cobblers.

Hope you enjoy!

 

Amber Ring Title

“Ho!  Come in, come in!” exclaimed a boisterous little man in a tan shirt and maroon overalls, moments after Maya knocked on the door of his towering boot-shaped house.  “Honey-bear, we have customers!” he called over his shoulder.

“What’s that, sweetie-muffin?” a woman’s voice came in return.

“Customers, cherry-doll, customers!”

The woman came quickly into view, rushing up to meet Maya and Camden as they stepped through the doorway.  She wore olive overalls and a white blouse, and was clapping her hands together with excitement.  “Not just any customers, lovey-cakes, but the Heroine of the Fairwoods herself!”

“Actually,” Cam winced, holding up a talon.  “This is her sister, Maya.  Sofia’s…”

“She’s dead,” Maya said bluntly.

The couple blinked, sharing a surprised look.

“We’re very sorry to hear that,” murmured the man, taking off his cap – which matched his overalls – and holding it against his chest.

“She was just the loveliest girl,” the woman added, shaking her head at the floor.

After an awkward moment of silence, the man put back on his cap.  “Well, we’re glad to meet you in any case, Miss Maya.”  He pointed a thumb to himself.  “I’m Pilder, the husband.”

The woman copied the gesture.  “I’m Hilma, the wife.”

Together, they finished, “And we’re the Fairy Cobblers!”

Maya stared for a moment.  They were about goblin-height, these shoemaking spouses, and had pointed ears.  They looked like they were perpetually on the edge of middle age.  Lesser elves.

“Nice…to meet you,” she managed, taking her first good look around the cobblers’ combined home-and-workshop.  Shoes were piled at every wall from floor to ceiling.  Boots, sandals, clogs, loafers, heels, and slippers in all shapes and sizes covered every spare surface, spilling from shelves and closets and even the chimney.

What was it with fairy-types and shoes, anyway?

“See anything you like?” Hilma asked, noticing her eyes wander.

Maya found it hard not to gawk at the dizzying array of footwear.  There must have been over a thousand pairs just within her sight.  “There certainly are a lot of…shoes.”

“Of course!” Pilder grinned, swinging a fist across his chest.  “We’re cobblers!”

“Are you stocking these all up for a large order?”

“Well…not exactly.”  The shoemaker shrugged abashedly, scuffing the floor with his boot.  “It’s only just…not a lot of Fairwoods citizens actually wear shoes, so…they sort of kind of pile up a little bit.”

Maya raised an eyebrow.  “If the shoes you have aren’t getting taken, why keep making more?”

“Because we’re cobblers!” Hilma cheered.

Maya exhaled lengthily.

“So!”  Pilder clasped his hands together and rubbed them briskly.  “Shall we get you fitted up?”

“Good thinking, sugar-loaf!” his wife chimed.  “I’ll get the big boy.”  She was already behind Camden, grabbing at his hind paws with measuring tape in hand.  He looked back, startled, then tried to pull away gently, turning, but the elf woman spryly and persistently kept up.

“That’s all right,” Maya told the couple, holding up her hands.  “We didn’t come here to get shoes.”

Pilder froze, his expression drooping.  Then he laughed – a nasal, rickety sound – and tapped his foot.  “Didn’t come to get shoes, she says!  Did you hear that, candy-bean?  We’ve got a jokester on our hands!  Ha!  Ho!  Didn’t come to the cobblers for shoes!  That’d be a real cat-at-the-end, wouldn’t it?”  He chuckled again and winked at Maya, then turned and knelt to start digging through piles of his product.

Maya twitched.  “I’m…no, I really—we only came here to ask you a question.  Just a question.”

The cobblers both stopped what they were doing and shared a disappointed look.  “No shoes?” Pilder asked, voice nearly despondent.

“No shoes,” Maya confirmed.

Pilder rose and sighed dramatically, hunching his shoulders and slipping his hands into the pockets of his overalls.  His eyes bored holes in the ground for several seconds, and then he took a sharp breath and looked back up to Maya, jolly composure suddenly regained.  “All right, then!  No biggie!  What can we answer for you, Miss Maya?”

Maya cast a dubious glance back toward Hilma, who seemed to have undergone the same transformation, then asked, “Do you know Gnarble—Gnilling—er, Gnibling—”

“Gnarlington Gnibblemeister?” Camden saved her.

“The gnome geographer?” Hilma intoned.

“The geographer gnome, butter-button!” Pilder corrected.

Hilma put a hand to her chin.  “I don’t know, cookie-lumps, I swear it was gnome geographer…”

“Geographer gnome, coffee-bird!  He’s a gnome who is a geographer.”

“But isn’t he also a geographer who is a gnome?”

“He was a gnome before a geographer, I think you must agree!”

“So shouldn’t gnome come first?”

“No, jelly-dove, geographer is the descriptor, the distinguisher, the—”

“Do you know him?” Maya interrupted.

“Oh!” Hilma touched her chest, smiling apologetically.  “Yes, of course!  We sold him the most dashingly dapper pair of boots just a few weeks back.”

“And you delivered them to his house?”

Hilma clapped her hands.  “We sure did!”

Finally, they were getting somewhere.  “Can you tell us where he lives, then?  We need to go see him.”

The elf put on a pouty face and looked to her husband.

“Well, you see…”  Pilder scrunched up his features, making fists and tapping his knuckles together.  “The thing is…that’s confidential customer information!  We can’t just go telling anyone that, even if you are the Heroine’s sister…”

Maya sighed.  “But you’re the only ones we’ve found who seem to know his current whereabouts.  It would be a very big help to us.  I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”  He probably actually would, Maya had to imagine, but it seemed like the thing to say.

“It’s about the goblins,” Cam added.  “He can tell us what we need to know to stop them.”

“Goblins,” Pilder grumped, nose reddening.

“Those dirty little devils stole half our leather supply,” his wife mourned.

“And their blasted weasels killed our guard-pig, Spoinky.”  Pilder shook his head, raised an eyebrow to Hilma, who nodded, then turned a grin on Maya.  “I’ll tell you what, Miss Maya – maybe we can make a little fairy bargain.  If you can answer us a riddle, then we’ll tell you where ol’ Gnarly hangs his hat.”

“A riddle?” Maya echoed.  That sounded like a hassle.

Pilder bobbed his head, then cleared his throat into his fist.  “I’m not always right, but I’m never wrong.  I have a tongue and a throat, but no mouth to speak of.  I move better when tied up.  What am I?”

Maya groaned, eyeing Camden with the expectation of shared incredulity, but saw him deep in concentration, mouthing the riddle to himself.  “A shoe,” she answered, pinching the corners of her eyes.

The cobbler blinked.  “O.K.  O.K., that may have been an easy one.  You try, caramel-puff.”

“Sure thing, vanilla-boo, I’ve got just the one!”  Hilma pumped a fist, then gave Maya a devious smile.  “You tread on my sole, yet—”

Maya cut her off, “A shoe.  Are you a shoe?”

Hilma stood in silence, her mouth still hanging open, then folded her arms and nodded gravely.  “Very clever, this one.  I think she’s got us beat, cricket-pie.”

Even Pilder seemed to double-take at that one.  “Yes, yes,” he conceded.  “Very well.  We’ll give you the gnome’s current address.  But on one condition – you must pick out a new pair of shoes to take with you!  No charge, of course.”  He winked at his wife.  “Do we have a deal?”

“You’ll tell us what we need to know if I let you give me free shoes?”  Maya slipped her hands into her pockets and shrugged.  “Yeah, that sounds fine.”

 

Bene scribete.