@macromeh@medz@ruouttaurmind Oh, I dunno, I liked El Camino. Sure it is an obvious cash grab, but it was fun seeing some of the old faces once again…except for fat Opie. Man that dude gained some serious weight. But he still had the character down.
I think this is the earliest notice I’ve seen before. I usually get a 15-20 minute heads up, not an entire hour! How am I supposed to keep my itchy trigger/left-click finger from selecting every random thing until 12 EST?!?!
@ruouttaurmind@tinamarie1974 Since I work for myself, I told the boss I’d be sleeping in, he was kind of a dick about it but he understood. Thank goodness I got all the banking and statements done toda…er…yesterday!
Email? Email? Email!!! What, meh, don’t you love me anymore? What did I do? I shower daily. I use mouthwash. I say nice things about you. And now I find you send secret emails! The hurt, the pain, the depression…
Just what is it you want from me? Please don’t make me beg…
@msklzannie I noticed Iowa sales tax two buys ago. Assumed it was because Amazon now collects Iowa sales tax.
Iowa seems to have a goal of the highest taxes in the country. Behind California and New York.
@JnKL Amazon and Woot have charged sales tax for awhile now (probably due to volume of sales to Iowa addresses). Meh usually doesn’t charge sales tax unless they have a physical presence (i.e., an employee) in a state.
@msklzannie From what I understand, online retailers charging sales tax depends on the state laws, though there are all sorts of loopholes. For example, I once used my friend’s California card to buy an online game bc I got to skip sales tax. Here in Seattle, we have a 10.1% sales tax on everything. I looked up Iowa and the itty bitty 6% makes me sad.
@Omehgawd It’s been a little lame. This will take you to 5AM Central:
It’s A Monster Mehsh: A Very Haunted Meh-rathon
Car trouble on the way to the party? On Halloween night? No cell service? And only a single house looming in the distance? This is how horror movies start, you think. But still you trudge towards the front door, stopping only when you see something, hanging on the door knob.
On closer inspection, you find that it’s a shirt. Only a shirt. And yet, why does it feel so ghostly? Is it something about the material, perhaps, something faint and ethereal woven into its fabric? Or is it, you know, the ghost design printed on it?
You don’t know. All you know is that it’s starting to rain. So, without even knocking, you try the door. It opens and you go inside.
When the door shuts behind you, you find yourself in a small mudroom. “Hello,” you call out. “Sorry to let myself in, but it’s starting to rain, and I’ve had some car trouble, and I was wondering if you had a phone I could use.”
You expect someone to respond. Or perhaps not. Perhaps you expect silence broken only by the patter of the rain outside mounting towards a more uniform white noise as it grows stronger.
Instead, you hear discordant singing.
You’ve heard stories of sailors being lured overboard by the sirens’ songs, acrid in their melodic sweetness, and you wonder momentarily if you have succumbed to something similar, if you’ve been lured here by some beastly beauty. But then you see the Altec Lansing Sonic Boom bluetooth speaker in the corner.
You breath a sigh of relief. It’s just a recording. And yet, it means you’re not alone. You proceed further into the house.
Through the mud room, you find a small sitting room, and on the corner of one of the chairs hangs a bandana. This seems, to you, the perfect attire: a costume component of the many action movie heroes you looked up to in your youth. Perhaps if you put it on, some of their scripted bravery will be transferred to you.
You tie it around your head and confidence pulses through you. Sure, your car is on the side of a dark county road, and sure you’re not at the Halloween party with your friends, but at least you’re not stuck outside. The rain has increased to a downpour now, punctuated by the occasional flash of lightning.
In the corner of the sitting room you see a door. You head towards it.
You open the door and find yourself looking into the closet. It’s dark and you reach in, finding a cord. You pull it, and the light above bursts to life, illuminating the closet’s contents.
You step back, covering your mouth for fear that you might vomit. All the bravery you felt a moment ago is gone in an instant. For you are standing face to face with a monster… of commerce: some mish-mash of failed products and trinkets, Frankensteined together inside of a box, the only thing in common among its various parts being their need to be expunged from a distant warehouse.
You slam the door shut, the regret filling you instantly, and dash out of the sitting room, across the hall.
In frantic retreat, you sprint into a dimly lit dining room, bumping into something large and cold, catching it before it falls from the table onto the floor. It is a Bubba 3 gallon insulated jug. As you steady it, you hear a faint jingle from inside.
Could it be the rattle of a prisoner’s chains? Dare you open its top and glance into it, lest you risk engaging some curse that will shrink you and trap you within, your soul shackled and subsumed forevermore?
But no, when you look inside, you see no swirling mass of chain-bound ghosts. The jingling, it seems, was merely ice, swirling around in some liquid. The pieces were whole, you note, not melted at all. Either someone just filled it, or this is one well insulated jug.
It smells like it’s iced tea. You find a cup on the table and drink some to calm your nerves.
You’re just starting to breath easy again when you hear something turn on down the hall.
In the dark hallway, you see a shadow cross from one room to another. You freeze, but then tip toe to the room it came from. The bathroom. On the counter is some sort of device, the source of the noise you’d just heard.
But what is it used for?
You don’t dare turn it on, lest you risk drawing the attention of the shadow. Luckily there is a box next to the small wicker trash bin: my2face Non-Surgical Skin Rejuvenation Mist Scrubber.
Of course, it could just be a product used by someone who likes to keep up appearances.
But what if it’s more than that?
What if it’s something that an ageless evil uses to keep itself looking youthful and human? What if this seemingly simple beauty product is what allows a great dark force to walk among us, undetected?
You need to get out of this house. You put the box down and attempt to flee…
…But in the hallway, on the way out, you notice something bizarre: a Utilitech Wall Mountable Remote Light Switch.
You’ve heard of these things. Basically, they turn your lamp into a remote-controlled light. Once it’s installed, you need simply plug whatever lamp (or device) you want into its receiver; then, you flip the switch, and viola–it turns on.
So, you’re not surprised by the switch. But you are surprised because there are so few electricians in the area. You know because you’ve needed some wiring work done in your attic and it’s been almost impossible to get anyone in to do it.
That means, either these things are easy to install, or the ‘presence’ you’ve felt (and seen) must have some electrical knowhow. What other electrical devices lie deeper in the house? You’re not about to stick around and find out.
Only, there’s a problem: it’s dim in here, and you’ve gotten a bit turned around. You reach for a door you think will take you closer to the entrance…
But you’re no closer to leaving this terrible place. Instead, you find yourself in a kitchen. And what you see there gives you chills. Or, not what you see. What you taste.
Which is to say: you’ve just tasted the ice cream being made inside the ice cream maker on the counter.
Not gonna lie. That’s sorta weird. Like, you’re wandering around, fearing for your life, ostensibly looking for a phone to call a tow truck because your car broke down, and you’re gonna stopping to taste some ice cream?
Seriously, wtf, buddy? What are you doing? Get your head in the game? You can’t be hanging out having a snack in this strange house occupied by an evil presence that is right now opening a door at the far end of the kitchen. You’ve got to–
Wait? SOMEONE IS OPENING THE DOOR!
You run out the way you came, your footfall as soft as you can manage, and proceed down the hall, throwing the first door open that you see.
You nearly fall down the stairs, into the basement but manage to catch hold of the railing. There you stand, holding your breath, waiting. You didn’t see what was on its way into the kitchen, and you hope it didn’t see you either.
You wait nearly ten minutes before you finally take a deep breath. You’re safe…
It seems too risky to go back out into the hallway, so you tip toe down the basement stairs. Something grazes your shoulder and you jump. But it’s only a cord for a light. You pull it and a single weak bulb lights your surroundings.
Boxes. Up to the ceiling. So, so many boxes.
You pull one off the top and check what’s inside. Towels. They look fine, but when you touch them, you shiver, as if they’re haunted by the souls of all the others who’ve wandered into this terrible place.
Then you find the packing slip: cooling towels. Oh. Never mind. That makes more sense.
yo wassup it’s ya girl here to prove i still have an awful tattoo to get a box of useless garbage
More seriously: I have a neurosurgical date lined up in just a few weeks to cure an excruciatingly painful, usually fatal condition I honestly thought was going to kill me. I am equal parts giddy and terrified, considering both the hope of it going well as well as the 10% mortality rate. To be honest, I got the tattoo entirely because I thought I was going to die young, without ever getting to do anything particularly fun or dumb or make any entertaining mistakes, and it is my favourite poor life decision so far. Keep your fingers crossed I am still around to get to unbox the IRK when it gets here.