PB & Torture Part 2

So I still haven’t found any cartoon that resembles the one from my previous post on this topic (check it out here if you missed it).

BUT I remembered another Got Milk? commercial that always kind of rubbed me the wrong way.

It’s a scene of a family in the hospital and the father tells his daughter to share a cookie with the man in another hospital bed. The man is in a full body cast.

The daughter goes over to the man and shoves a cookie in his mouth. He munches happily, but the family starts pouring milk in glasses and they don’t offer any to the full body cast guy.

He’s trying to get their attention and bouncing around, but they ignore him.


How rude to give someone food and not offer a drink after!

—          —          —

Alright UPDATE: I just took a minute to look up the commercial with the hospital and got sucked down a rabbit hole of old Got Milk commercials and I have to get this off my chest.

The Oreo commercial was the best. I don’t know why, but it made me laugh…and scare my sleeping cat, but because of the laughter. Look it up. I don’t want to take anything away from its beauty.

Keep Calm and Have a Kitten

I play video games…a lot.

A shock, I know, a millennial who plays a lot of video games. The only way it could be more stereotypical would be if I had a YouTube Gaming channel (or Twitch…Twitch is a thing, right?….I’m not a very good millennial).

As a purveyor of video games I have on occasion engaged in gamer rage. Getting stuck on a level and playing it over and over without getting further into the game. A game control causing the game to be nearly unplayable.

Or for the importance of this anecdote, difficult boss fights.

“What does this have to do with kittens? I came here for the kitten. WHERE IS THE KITTEN?”

Calm down pretend reader in my head and I’ll tie the title of this post with the story of my game addiction*.

*I do not endorse the idea of gaming addiction as a joke. Because if gambling can be an addiction than gaming can as well as both release endorphins hence the continuation of participating in these activities….as one does with drugs or alcohol…but arguably a less deadly addiction. Sex addiction is pushing the line a bit. BUT THIS POST ISN’T ABOUT ADDICTIONS! BACK TO THE KITTEN!

Christmas came and went and I received a number of presents. Books I requested (a large number of essay books), a recipe box with new cards, some things for work, and video games.

One in particular I was excited for: God of War.

For those of you who have played the new God of War probably already know exactly what boss I am referring to and for those who have no idea what I’m talking about…it wasn’t the final boss of the game like you’d probably expect.

I went into a harsh rage fighting the Valkyrie Queen.

For those who’ve played the game, here is some context:

I was Level 9, I found all the apples (full health upgrade), upgraded my axe, blades, and the shattered Gauntlet of Ages (I don’t remember what combat runes at this moment), fully upgraded the Ivaldi armor set, upgraded Atreus and assigned Wrath of the Wolf runic summon, and brought the best resurrection stone with me.

But even with all this, that flying bitch was the most frustrating thing in the entire game. I mean, I LOVE this game. The mechanics and controls are superb. The story is one of the best in a long time.

But Sigrun, the Valkyrie Queen….oooooooh, I’m getting angry thinking about it.

I think I’d attempted to beat her for possibly two hours before the anger became that kind of anger where you start talking to no one in particular, but every other word out of your mouth is the F-word or some other insult. Also, the pitch and volume of my voice had reached bellowing mouse.

Anyway, my kitten, Midna ran into the room and meowed. Now this may seem inconsequential, but Midna so rarely meowed we initially thought she couldn’t. She put her two front paws on my leg, but I was so focused on the flying bitch on the screen I simply, and rather calmly, told her “Not now, Midna.”

So she jumped onto my bed which I was leaning against and put her front paws on the top of my head and meowed again.

She was upset and didn’t like hearing me so angry so she came in to calm me down. She was trying to stop me from playing the thing making me angry.

I died for the (over) fiftieth time. I paused the game and picked her up. I laid on the floor with her on top of me. She refused to move so I couldn’t play again and laid down on my chest. She purred to calm me down.

It worked. I calmed down, she left with her job done and I attempted to fight Sigrun again.

Two tries.

It took me two tries and then I beat her after my kitten calmed me down. If Midna didn’t like me yelling angrily, she didn’t really know how to react to the crying cheers of relief.

And that’s the story of how my kitten helped me beat the hardest boss in God of War.

PB & Torture

I have this very vivid memory of a cartoon character eating a peanut butter sandwich and another character with a glass of milk.

This other character refuses to give the first character the glass of milk unless the first character answers a question? Or does something for him? I can’t remember the details.


I REMEMBER this scene sooooo vividly, but I can’t find it!

This also reminded me of the old Got Milk? commercial with the guy enjoying his sandwich and then getting a phone call to win money with the correct answer to a question. But the caller can’t understand him because of the peanut butter sandwich in his mouth and he’s OUT OF MILK!!!*

* I did find this commercial and the guy was an Alexander Hamilton historian? Fan? Something, but the question was who shot Alexander Hamilton. The answer of course being Aaron Burr. (There’s a great remake of the commercial with Leslie Odom, Jr. who played Aaron Burr in the musical Hamilton. You should check it out)

Anybut, I bring this up A) because I’m sitting here eating peanut butter and B) those kinds of things always upset me as a kid. I always hated a character (whether good or even bad) making that pathetic sound. You know the awww sound that’s the pitch of a mewling kitten or whining puppy.

P.S. – If anyone knows what that cartoon scene is from…PLEASE RELEASE ME FROM THIS NIGHTMARE!



I don’t have a fun name for this mind vomit.

Insomnia runs in my family…I think…or it does starting with my mother and me…sure. Anybut, here I am at 1:28 am writing a nonsensical observation on insomnia.

It got me thinking about that article that came out some time ago (when, I have no idea, I didn’t really pay that much attention when said article came out). The article was about how people in olden times (this phrase was standing in for the actual time period the article mentioned, but as I wrote it I realized I won’t be doing research to find this article…so there) how people in olden times used to sleep for like fours hours, wake up in the middle of the night, do some chores or something else productive, and then go back to sleep until they woke up for the day.

What does this have to do with my insomnia? Nothing really, but I always think about that article. I wonder if my insomnia is due to my past life as an olden time person bleeding into my now life. Like the olden times person inside of me is wanting to only sleep four hours then do productive work, but unfortunately the present me would rather watch stupid videos on YouTube or binge watch the same shows over and over on Hulu or Netflix.

The opposing forces fighting inside making it impossible for me to sleep. Causing my insomnia.

…Or maybe it’s my anxiety. Yeah, that sounds more correct.


I got a recipe box for Christmas with brand new recipe cards and I took some time during a rainy day to start filling it/copy down the recipes in my grandmother’s old recipe box.

Before I continue I need to make one thing very clear…I’m not a cook. I’m not a baker. I’ve only made food three times for my friends total…and that was mostly because of guilt for always bringing cheese plates or fruit trays to parties. I’ve helped my friends cook, but I need them to walk me through every step. I didn’t even know how to properly cut up a bell pepper (apparently there’s a specific way to do it?!).

Now, continuing the story:

While I was working on my…30th card the word coconut had been coming up a lot. Now some of these cards I was copying from are OLD. I mean 40+ years old. Anyways, I noticed coconut occasionally was spelled cocoAnut.

This got my stupid brain thinking, a dangerous thing to happen. I called my mom and asked her, “Do they call coconuts, coconuts because when they discovered them, people thought they were like cocoa beans, but clearly a nut so they called them cocoanuts?”

She paused. Sighed, you know the sigh. It’s the Am I really having this conversation right now? sigh. Then she answered, not very enthusiastically I might add, “I don’t know. I wasn’t there when they decided that.”

Fair. But then why do people constantly misspell it cocoanut?

And before any of you get smart with me and try to explain the linguistics mumbo-jumbo, realize it won’t work. I’ve created this version of history in my head where the first explorers or whoever found a palm tree and thought “Wow! Look at the size of that cocoa bean! We could make sooooo much chocolate out of that sucker!” Then when they cracked it open to see the white coconut flesh inside and got soaked from the coconut milk they deflated and were really disappointed and sad. I mean could you imagine a cocoa bean the size of a coconut? That would be the best chocolate ever…

Shame Dragon

There’s a dragon in our downstairs bathroom that watches you while you pee. Their (it’s a pink dragon but I choose not to assume gender because there are perfectly handsome pink dragons who are boys and besides the dragon in our bathroom won’t answer if I ask) judgmental eyes are both a deterrent to anyone clogging the pipes as well as a guilt trip to ensure one washes his or her hands.

We originally bought this dragon as a Valentine’s Day gift for my mother and she chose to hide it around the house. Whoever found it would then have to hide it and so on. We did this for around two months before the dragon found its home in the bathroom.

It’s still there.

I don’t think many people notice it or if they do, they choose not to say anything.


But when I use it, those big ol’ eyes stare me down until I almost can’t do my business. It’s moments like this that make me wonder, why do we get so embarrassed in public restrooms? (A leap in logic, but hang with me)

I can only speak on behalf of the female perspective, but I assume some men go through a similar feeling…? Maybe differently…no definitely differently since you guys have that whole stall versus urinal thing. So you know when a man uses the stall it’s more than likely cause he’s releasing the stinky kraken…that’s totally a saying, right?

I mean, everyone knows people pee and poo, but for some reason we become embarrassed when in those solitary stalls. You can’t tell me you haven’t once in your life sat there waiting for the other person to start their business before you do yours. Or you do the required cough or loud sniff or loud sigh to cover the sounds of your business.

This of course doesn’t count close friends or family, or when you’re so sick you literally couldn’t give a fart knuckle if the person next to you hears your intestines being forcefully exploded from your butthole…TMI?

I understand there are those few who give no thought when they use the public restroom, but for the many who awkwardly hope to keep the (purely misplaced) lie that humans don’t excrimentate (this is totally a word, btw) it’s oddly infuriating.

One of my closest friend’s significant other didn’t even believe women pooped or farted for the longest time. (I mean he did believe it, but did that whole man thing where they ignore that fact to keep women on this strange pedestal of…I don’t know…cleanliness I guess?) It took a loooooooong time for them to become comfortable with her pooping. No issue about him pooping, which I wonder if that’s like a sexist thing or a, I don’t know, double standard that oddly everyone just kind of accepts?

Anyways, I went off on a tangent, as one does. This was supposed to be a funny story about the pink shame dragon in my bathroom and it turned gross.

I apologize…but the shame dragon knows the truth and will continue to judge you.


Okay, here is my obligatory cat mom moment.

I have two cats. Lele and Midna. I made them an Instagram account (lele_midna if you were curious 6_6).

Those little punks have more followers than me (not like a lot a lot, but enough that it still hurts my pride). I mean, I’m not really into the whole social media scene as evident by the fact my regular, normal Instagram is barely updated/posted on.

And true, I have invested more effort into keeping their account posting at least one picture every day (when possible).

And TRUE! My cats are a lot more adorable than me and people seem to enjoy creeping on other people’s pets.

AND TRUE! A lot of the accounts that follow them are probably bot accounts or spam accounts that post the same posts…BUT STILL!

I’m a little offended that two creatures who don’t even know what Instagram is or why I stick my phone in their faces when they’re trying to sleep are more popular than me. Not that I like attention anyways.

I just think someone who actually puts a small amount of effort to be a weirdo online should get more attention than two lazy bone cats.



For those sad souls curious……deep breath…….my Instagram account is luddiewig.

Octopus Nightmare

I’ve been having some weird dreams lately. Maybe it’s because I’ve actually been getting some good sleep, you know the deep sleep.

Real life blending with…well, not real life. Anyways, it’s been reminding me of this one nightmare I had back when I was maybe eleven or twelve. I think it was the first real nightmare that terrified me while I was experiencing it. I’ve had nightmares before and since that’ve given me the cold sweat wake ups, but this one is still as clear as the night I had it.

I was on a tour bus, like the one at Universal Studios, except instead of touring a studio it was touring our neighborhood. Only it wasn’t really our neighborhood, there were no trees or hills and the houses were spaced out more like the neighborhood from Edward Scissorhands.

The bus driver stopped and pointed behind us like in an old B-movie horror kind of way. You know, the point with open mouth and scream instead of running or saying anything useful.

Everyone on the bus turns and a tidal wave is rushing towards the bus, but then a giant octopus exploded from the water. A giant purply-brown octopus (yes, I remember the color…it had silver eyes).

I feel I need to explain something before continuing. When I was in elementary and middle school I had an irrational fear of octopi. I choose to believe this was due to how the Indianapolis Zoo chose to present an octopus. In the darkest room ever. The tank was so dark you could barely see anything. It reminded my young, innocent child self of that seen in Jaws 3D (yes, that Jaws 3D) where the girl is looking out the window and the half eaten diver appears sending everyone into a panic (needless to say that scene scared the piss out of me as a child…the only thing in that movie really). So I expected the hiding octopus to slam into the glass if I stood too close.

Follow-up: the octopus never did, it barely ever moved from under a very comfortable looking rock…if you ever saw it at all.


So I’m already suffering from said irrational fear of octopi when a gigantic, enormous octopus explodes from the tidal wave rushing at the tour bus I’m on. I, being an intelligent human, run off the bus and into my house which the bus conveniently parked in front of before the tentacled attack.

I lock the doors, but I can see the octopus outside the windows, its creepy eye peering in at me. The front door is knockedf off its hinges and a large tentacle chases me up the stairs.

I run into my parents bedroom because as in typical horror movie fashion I think the bathroom will be safe and my parents had a very nice bathroom in Indiana. A tentacle wraps around my ankle and starts pulling me back. I grab the bed posts of my parents’ bed and hang on for dear life.

And here is where the nightmare entered into the forever remembered halls of my brain. I did the trick. You know, the trick you’re supposed to do to prove your in a dream.

I pinched myself. I DID! I hung onto the bed post as a tentacle pulled my leg nearly out of socket and pinched my arm. To be fair, it didn’t hurt so I knew I was dreaming. But it didn’t really make me feel better because I was still terrified.

Then I woke up. Cold sweat, breathing quickly, heart pounding a mile a minute…but not being attacked by an octopus.

Fun fact: I’m no longer afraid of octopi. I think they’re fascinating and probably could take over the world if they chose. I AM deeply terrified of sting/manta rays though…but that’s a story for another day.

6-Foot Bullshit

BEFORE I EVEN START: I know not all people over 6 ft do this. This rant is about those who do. If you don’t, congratulations this ISN’T about YOU!

This is a rant about 6-foot Bullshit. What is 6-foot Bullshit? It’s those select few who tower above the rest of us and try to intimidate shorter folk with their sheer size.

I’m here to tell you…IT DON’T WORK ON ME!

Now I’m not short short (I’m a nice average 5’5”) so I can only speak from my perspective. BUT it happens often enough I need to say something about it.

I’ve had multiple occasions where people have tried to shove their way past me (whether in a line or not) and when I don’t allow it, they physically lean over me and try to intimidate me into allowing them to do whatever they want. Sorry, buddy, that doesn’t scare me. I’m the runt in my family so I’ve had my whole life to learn how to handle you tall people.

And what I’ve learned…it works. Standing up to them or showing you aren’t one to be steamrolled…they tend to back off. It’s simple, people get away with things because others let them. But most times (there are ALWAYS exceptions) once someone pushes back, they stop.

For those few cases who continue even when faced with someone who won’t take the 6-foot Bullshit…you are a 6-foot Asshole.

Don’t be a 6-foot Asshole.

Fart Knuckle

Do you ever censor yourself? There’s no real need to, but for some reason you catch yourself and choose not to say one of the many words society shudders?

The “clutch-your-pearls” words, if you will?

I think one of my favorites that I use is “fart knuckle”. I mean, what the hell is a fart knuckle? Is it someone punching a fart? Is it farting on your knuckle before punching someone? I DON’T KNOW!

But I love saying it instead of the dreaded F-word.

The other thing I love about my own censorship is I can’t really tell you some of the other ones. They happen naturally. Though I do remember tending to say son of a >insert random noun<. For example son of a Rasputin. Why Rasputin? WHO KNOWS!

Of course, I’m not saying I don’t partake in the good ol’ swear off now and then, but sometimes my brain decides we’re going to be family friendly and the strangest thing pops out of my mouth.

Like fart knuckle.

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