Posts tagged Hilarity
This post went live over on the vitaminwater canada blog yesterday and I wanted to share it here too because, well… I put a lot of thought into it.
I wanted to include hungover owls but that didn’t really fit the steez, what with all of the intoxicated forest creatures and such.
“When Parents Text” took the number one spot on that list because it’s probably the most hilarious thing I’ve stumbled upon all month. In fact, that’s exactly why it did.
A late addition to the memeverse of 2010 , WPT was December’s darling for sure.
Unfortunately for my blog idea, I think she’s the only mom who actually Tweets and doesn’t use Facebook. Fortunately for me, I find this to be pretty damn cool.
I posted some of these “best of” images on my Tumblr the other day after it made me LITERALLY shoot water out of my nose. Word to the wise: don’t creep memeblogs and drink at the same time. “The kids are in the Cheerios now” is what did me in.
Damn you Autocorrect would obviously be on that list too if it weren’t so salty in the language department. Heck, it’d probably be number one!
Me: Hey Internet?
Internet: Yes, my child?
Me: I love you.
Is this for serious? Are the boys in U of T’s residence buildings actually clogging up the pipes by… unclogging their pipes? (Sorry. There’s no tactful way to phrase this one.)
Maybe some prankster got his (or her) hands on University of Toronto letterhead and decided to have a bit of fun…
Or maybe those poor kids really are overworked and under… played.
I don’t know how to begin describing what I saw at the Drake Underground Monday night.
I seriously can’t think of an appropriate adjective.
“Weird” is too tame. “Awesome” is too lame. “Hilarious” is thrown around way too loosely in my everyday vocabulary to be used on something that literally made my face ache from laughing so hard for two hours straight. My cheeks are quivering just thinking about it.
I’m sure there’s a word somewhere within the English language to describe Everything is Terrible’s Quest for the Magick Crystal Tour… If not in English, then surely in Mandarin, and if not Mandarin, then SURELY in Newspeak. “doubleplusgood“, perhaps?
Whatever the most appropriate adjective is, it should most definitely be used with an emphatic “fucking” in front of it.
If you like post-postmodernist psychadellic pseudo-vintage pop culture remixes, or are a hypersatirical millenial neo-nerd who tries to use schmancy terms in big run-on sentences like me *BREATH*, you’ll love this film.
Also, if you have eyeballs you’ll love this film.
If you didn’t already know, Everything is Terrible = Seven internet monsters who scour the seven seas (but like, on land) for old VHS tapes with so-weird-it’s-pee-your-pants-hilarious stuff on them that isn’t actually supposed to be hilarious but IS hilarious – know what I mean?
EIT takes said VHS tapes, digitize them and puts them online for you to watch at work while you’re supposed to be doing something less awesome.
THEN, they take these fabulous clips and re-mix them into insanely entertaining feature-length films like the one I saw on Monday night during their show at The Drake.
I think I fell legitimately in love with these monsters after seeing them do their thing in person – and by “do their thing” i mean dance around the room, make witty quips in funny voices and teach the audience about shade tippage.
Did I mention that they’re monsters from the internet? Monsters. From THE INTERNET.
I used to think I was quirky and unique for loving weird shit like this. Not to sound like a hipster who gets all pissy when their favourite obscure underground band starts to get popular but like… well you know where I’m going with this.
To fetch my dinner from the microwave, that’s where – ’cause that little black tray of sodium saturated goodness certainly isn’t going to walk into my belly on its own, now is it?
Oh great and mighty interweb, eternal bearer of random hilariousness and all things awesome, you’ve done it again!
Meet ‘Grandpa Gaga’, cats and kittens; The latest in a long line of viral video superstars, coming soon to every computer screen in an office building near you.
He’s spry, he’s sassy, and he can jig for DAYS son! I don’t know what’s more impressive; when he turns into a butterfly and does about a gazillion speedy jumping jacks in a row, or his noble split attempt around minute 2:16.
Either way, his dopeness supersedes anything we’ve seen come through meme land in quite a while.
I bet he picks up like mad at the retirement home box social.
Ten bucks this guy’s on Ellen by the end of the week. Twenty that he’s linked to Betty White in a late-night comedy bit.
It was a big, busy day in the bustling GTA and this plucky cub reporter has a lot of things to say!
- A poetic salutation by Lauren O’Neil.
As some of you may have felt (if you live in Ontario, Quebec or the Northern United States), a 5.5 magnitude earthquake rocked the earth up in my neck of the woods today.
It was approximately 1:46 p.m. when tremors hit the 5th floor (and probably every other floor) of the Toronto Star building according to my log.
I was sitting in the box, deeply engaged in the story I was writing about marine restrictions between June 25th and 27th (I guess a bunch of rich dudes are throwing some big fancy party to talk about how rich they are at The Metro Convention Centre this weekend or something… how terribly inconvenient!) when I felt the building start to sway.
I’d heard that there were going to be severe storms today (still waiting on that), so I figured that it was probably a strong gust of wind – until it kept happening. I got up from my chair and looked around the newsroom. Everybody else was doing the same thing.
That’s when I started to get excited.
Did somebody bomb the convention centre? Are G20 protesters rioting downstairs? Could we, just maybe, be experiencing a real live EARTHQUAKE?!? Like the movie stars in HOLLYWOOD? Like Zach and the gang in that episode where Mrs. Belding has her baby in an elevator?
I’ve only ever experienced one earthquake before, and I don’t even remember it. It was when I was in Grade 5 and it was like, 8:30 p.m. and I was already in bed and slept right through it. All of my classmates who stayed up like because they were cooler than me were talking about it was the next day and I totally had to lie about how the picture frames FLEW OFF OF MY WALLS and UP INTO THE AIR LIKE GHOSTS!
I’ve never been a very good liar.
As soon as our bodies stopped rocking, the newsroom was all “full steam ahead!” – not that it wasn’t already. The days just keep getting busier as the G-CRUMMY gets closer (see what I did there? see? HA! I slay myself, I do!)
The phones were ringing off the heezy with citizen tips, and the Twitterverse was abuzz with #earthquake chatter (I think that calling the newspaper must have been what people did before Twitter was around, ya know? I talked to a lot of precious old ladies today on the phone about how their plants and couches were shaking.)
I frantically tried to reach Earthquakes Canada, but of course their website wasn’t loading because the internet connectivity had dropped like woah.
When I did manage to finagle their digits, I couldn’t get through to an operator because everybody else was calling them too (scientists must feel like rockstars when natural disasters occur, eh?). So I called the Americans instead. The U.S. Geological Survey confirmed that is was, in fact, a 5.5 Magnitude earthquake we had just felt – and not the Decepticons, as I had secretly feared.
All of this came on the heels of an already uberbusy day.
I started my morning trying to snuff out the story of a suspicious package found at Queens Park station, which turned out to be nothing more than a briefcase someone had left behind. That little black “package” shut down the University subway line for an hour and a half during rush hour. Oi. The city of Toronto feels like a giant freakin’ post 9-11 American airport right now.
After that, the scanners were going nuts with all this gobbily gook about a cemetary sitch. I don’t think I’m allowed to repeat what I hear on the scanners on my blog. Even if I could, is that integrous? Whatever. I DID get everything I put into the article confirmed bye ze police, ’cause that’s how we roll in the box: PYAW!
Just as the earthquake kerfuffle was dying down a titch, one my editors came in like “Can you call the police to find out what’s going on at the Eaton Centre? Someone’s saying that there’s a man with a rifle there and it’s being evacuated…”
I called the Division the mall is in right away. The Staff Sergeant was busy, so I called the Eaton Centre instead. After being put on hold for about 10 minutes, some stodgy sounding man came on the phone saying that it was against procedure to speak with the media and that I’d have to get my information from the police.
He was obviously very important. (what does an eye-roll emoticon look like?)
Of course, the fact that he wasn’t talking got me a little bit worried. I started to think of my friends who work and/or shop in the mall and I remembered that – YES! I have friends who WORK and SHOP in the mall! They’ll tell me if there is, in fact, a psycho on the loose near Yonge-Dundas square!
Exceppppt they couldn’t, because I couldn’t call them. I had just lost all of my address book contacts (yay BlackBerry auto-sync. NOT.). So I did what I do best – I took to Twitter.
A quick search for “Eaton Centre” revealed dozens of tweets saying “Rumour has it that the Yonge and Dundas subway station had a man with a machine gun and the entire Eaton Centre just got evacuated.”
‘Holy Moly!’ I thought, as I logged into my personal Twitter account to see if anybody I knew had posted about the incident.
My next move had the potential to cost me more cred as a journalist, in my opinion, than almost anything I’ve done to date (except for maybe this).
I re-tweeted the “rumor”.
Now, this wouldn’t be such a big deal if I was just some kid – but I’m supposed to be a reporter. Verification of facts is my GAME.
Not only am I n00b journalist, I’m a flaming tweet-a-holic. You’d think that I would know the power and potential of a tweet gone awry better than anybody.
According to Klout, my Tweets have the potential to reach approximately a quarter of a million people.
That’s a lot of misinformed Tweeps.
After calling 2 different police divisions, their communications line, and the main police headquarters, it was confirmed that whoever had called in the initial report was confused.
Apparently, a man had been taken into custody in the area hours earlier for busting out a fake gun or something in a subway terminal (don’t quote me on that). There was no evacuation. There was no rifle. But I’d been retweeted dozens of times by this point – and my retweets had been retweeted too. It was spreading like wildfire.
So much so that Toronto Police put out a counter-tweet:
I felt like a bloody idiot.
After all the things I’d learned in J-School about accuracy, about the dangers of using Twitter as a source… I did exactly what I shouldn’t have done. I jumped the gun and, even though it was from my own personal Twitter account and not an actual article, I spread information that wasn’t true.
I left work feeling worse than that time Petah did something mildly zany and I had a flashback to it for comedic effect.
I’ve come to realize that it doesn’t matter whether or not I put unverified facts into a news article that makes it into the newspaper (though thankfully there are editors to ensure that this would never happen) or tweet unverified facts from my personal account.
Okay, so there’s a HUGE difference in terms of impact, but the point is that if I’m going to choose to make it known that I’m working as a journalist – if I’m going to publicly associate my name with my employer’s brand – then I need to hold my Twitter feed up to the same standard that I would hold my professional work up to. Or maybe I should abstain from trying to break news on a personal account altogether.
These are things that I already sort of knew, deep down, but didn’t really think about until after I’d clicked that irrevocable send button.
I’m learning that what the grownups say is true: They can teach you all about the practice and principles of a profession in school, but it’s not until you actually encounter these types of issues in the real world that you truly learn.
I am reminded (said the sage old post-grad) of a young doctor I once knew while interning at a hospital. He told me all about how, in medical school, he had studied human anatomy extensively. He knew everything he needed to know about the practice of dissecting a body, but when it came time to make the first cut into a cadaver, he almost tossed his cookies. But he didn’t puke; he made the cut. It was really hard at first, he said, but the experience taught him more than any book could have.
You get what I’m sayin’, right? Growing pains.
Nothing wrong with making mistakes if you can learn from them to improve your game in the future. I guess I’d rather learn this lesson within my first month on the job than down the road once I’ve established some real cred and something mega’s at stake.
Anyways, I just want to apologize to anyone who may have been freaked out by my tweet earlier today. I hope that in time, I can earn your trust back… but until then, I’ll stick to what I know best – Hilaritawesomeness.
Check out the saddest IMDB profile ever (via @DarynJones):
heh heh heh…
Bed time for me! Majorhuge day tomorrow. If you thought my Perez interview was cool, just wait until you see who I’ve got lined up next eeeee!
Laur-Anne Sellors O’Nizzle
I work in Toronto. I play in Toronto. I live, laugh, love, lounge and alliterate in Toronto.
But I am no Torontonian, my friends.
Not officially. Not yet.
Though, I suppose in a way I’m pretty much living in this city already
I’m here for the majority of the week – sometimes the entirety of the week. It’s actually becoming quite a beeyatch for me to go home every 6-8 days or so for a suitcase re-load / parental fridge & wallet raid…
Which is why I need to find myself a freaking PLACE here – stat!
Unfortunately, all of this aformentioned work, play and highway jaunting has left me with little time for much else.
Sleep has been a luxury these past couple of weeks – let alone apartment hunting.
What little hunting I have done has been just that – hunting. Straight up camo-wearing, rifle toting, muthavuggin HUNTING.
I honestly feel like I would have better luck bringing a deer home from the forest than landing the place I want for the price I can afford; and that’s saying a lot since I don’t like guns or killing and would basically have to sweet talk the deer into following me home and/or giving me a ride home on it’s majestic deer back.
Deers don’t (usually) speak English, and my Deer is mediocre at best so this would understandably be quite a difficult task - Almost as difficult as finding an affordable one bedroom apartment in downtown Toronto that doesn’t come with a family of rabid squirrels in the bathtub and a crack-dealer landlord who insists on installing a video camera in the female tentants’ showers (for security, of course!).
A couple of days ago when I had a few hours to catch my breath between gigs I decided to take the sage advice of my happily renting friends and hit up teh interwebz for some help.
“This won’t take long,” I thought. “This city is HUGE. I’m sure there are tons of great places for me to choose from!”
I mean, I’m sure there are tons of great places out there, but when you don’t know Jane and Finch from Forest Hill, it’s hard to determine what’s reasonable, lifestyle appropriate and, well… safe. (I have since learned that I am way too poor for Forest Hill and poor enough but a little too soft for Jane and Finch).
The area I’m living in now is absolutely perfect. A colourful, vibrant, oh-so-clean neighbourhood right on the subway line, located just a stone’s throw from the biggest park in the city.
It’s filled with yuppies and old people, but that’s okay because with that set comes tons of cute dogs in cute outfits, quaint little cafes, overpriced organic produce markets, trendy upscale boutiques (for to window shop and fantasize, of course), yoga studios, book stores, cute dogs in cute outfits and cute dogs being cute dogs in cute dog outfits…
Unfortunately, for the price I’d pay to live here on my own (as opposed to as a squatter in my best friend’s apartment), I could afford to buy a new Macbook Pro or a full-priced pair of Christian Louboutin’s Double Platform Python Pumps every month (which, conveniently, they actually SELL in this neighbourhood. Kill me now.)
When I think about renting in this light, it’s tempting to consider just living in my car under a bridge and building up my wardrobe for a little while.
I’d be the snazziest bum…
Anyways – back to my “searching for apartments online” story…
It took me all of about an hour to realize that that the old adage about “when something seems too good to be true, it usually is” applies to this situation just as much as any other.
After cruising Craigslist and Kijiji (why does the spell check suggest ‘Nijinsky’ for this word?) for a little while, I fired off a slew of inquiry emails and went about my day.
A short time later, my blackberry was abuzz with friendly messages from eager potential landlords.
“Ha! Easy peasy! I’ll be chilling in my new 800 dollar Liberty Village condo by next week!” I gloated.
The guy on the subway seat next to me shot me a look as if to say “why the hell is this chick talking to herself?” so I began to gloat internally instead… until I started to notice a pattern among these emails.
It appeared as though most of the people who owned these impossibly beautiful, newly renovated, dirt-cheap properties in hip neighbourhoods were “out of the country”. No problem though, because I could just send them a money order or my credit card in exchange for a key that would later come in the mail…
Craiglist scammers. Tons of them, all up over the interwebz throwing salt in my game.
I wonder how many people actually fall for this stuff?
When I got over my initial feelings of outrage and embarrassment, I realized that these emails were actually pretty hilarious. Check it out:
Sure thing girl! I’ll be on the next flight!
The gladness is all mine, my friend.
P.S. – what the hell kind of name is Smelchi? Seriously?
Ahhh, yes – the safe and quiet neighbourhood. I’ll take it!
It looks like I’m going to need to compromise a little bit to get what I want.
If I want to live alone, I’m going to have to live a bit further away from downtown – and if I want to live downtown, I might need to get a roomate or two.
A one bedroom might have to be scratched in favour of a loft or a bachelor, and ensuite laundry? Something to dream about for my next place.
Closet space, however, will not be compromised. I need a lot of it. A dishwasher would be nice, too Oooh, maybe I’ll check out this place – it’s got a zukuzzi and a suana!!
Anyways, I’m off to bed now. For the amount of sleep I’ve had this week, it’s a miracle that I’m still functioning.
Training at The Star has been awesome, but intense. Last night I worked my first overnight shift (midnight to 8:00am) and I think I slept about 3 hours the night before… maybe 5 the night before that?
I’m exhausted, but some things are well worth a little bit of sleep deprivation – like newsing it up or watching one extra episode of Southpark or catching up on music blogs or um… hitting up fabulous parties and interviewing world famous supermodels and stuff
But that’s a different story for a different day.
I’m a d-bag, I know. I’m sorry. I’m just so excited about life right now.
Big things just keep on poppin’ my friends!
Now hows aboot you tell me what’s been popping with YOU, blogbudday?
I can see you in my webstats, but I rarely hear from y’all in the comments.
I’d love to know a little bit more about the people behind those mouseclicks and eyeballs…
If this doesn’t make you laugh and laugh and laugh, you are NO friend of mine good sir!
“started making trouble in my living area” bwahaha…
When I was in grade 4, I tried to enter my elementary school talent show by rapping the theme song to the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.
My friend Janelle and I put on our most colourful Northern Getaway T-Shirts and hot orange clip-on earings (I remember this explicitly because I didn’t want to wear the clip-ons. I thought that they would fall off when I busted out my running man. They didn’t.)
At the time, I still wore different coloured socks every single day (unless I was dragged to something fancy-ish by my parents):
Needless to say, we looked pretty fly; and for two 9 year old white girls, we could rap pretty well too.
Well, we got up there on that little platform in the gym to audition for Mrs. Wellington (the bespectacled fifth grade music teacher) and we were FIERCE, if I do say so myself!
We had energy and we had style. We had cute side ponytails, monsterous pink scrunchies, and plastic neon bangles for DAYS, son!
But Mrs. Wellington was not impressed.
“Well, your dancing is quite… interesting” she said. (I had a wide range of influences – from after school ballet classes to Paula Abdul videos to a steady diet of “In Living Colour“. Yeah, I was totally that four year old who danced along with the Fly-Girls every night.)
“But,” continued the notoriously stodgy and saggy-chested Mrs. W., (jeez, I really hope she never reads this. Like, if she’s still alive that is.) “That type of music isn’t appropriate for the talent show.”
Now, mind you, this WAS the mid 90′s, so educational institutions weren’t quite as obsessed ablout being all ‘P.C.’ like they are now. But still… it was the freaking theme song for a TV show about a rich black Bel-Air family and their mischevious yet kind-hearted rapscallion of a nephew who ultimately wins the affections of even the most curmudgeonly yet kind-hearted man in the house, Judge Philip Banks!
It’s not like we were up there spittin’ lines from The Chronic or something, come on meow!
Whatevs… I’m angry now. What got me onto this tangent? Ah, yes… morning hilarity.
It’s lunch time for this kid! Off to Starbucks for a much deserved java injection.
After lunch, I get to write an AWESOME story for the 6pm newscast about a Conference Board of Canada Report on near-time employment prospects and the Help-Wanted Index or something.
Now, I need to figure out what the heck all of that that means and try to make it sound more interesting than Ned Flanders’ bachelor party.
Thank goodness coffee solves all problems. You know what else solves problems? Voting Lauren for AXE