Today is a special treat from my friend Whirlochre. All we really know about him is that he's British, he takes insults from Sock Monkeys as a form of therapy, he has strange taste in socks, and he's unparalleled in the field of making up words. (Also he's a writer, and awesome, and is one of my oldest readers. As in, he's been reading my blog the longest. You're not THAT old, Whirl.)
When Kiersten invited me to be a guest blogger, my first thought was get that tentacle out of my ear, you foul otherworldly shibboleth. Just my luck that the diminutive superstar-in-waiting should stop by for a chat at the very moment an alien invader from another galaxy was about to suck out my soul.
If you’ve ever found yourself in this kind of situation, you’ll know the dilemma. Type ‘help’ in the chat window, and the alien gets you; fight the alien, and you risk alienating a friend. As for the on-screen luxury cowhide liederhosen offer: not helpful.
At risk of having my head ripped clean off, I opted for typing. Writing is in my genes, it seems. Along with stupidity.
Me: Hi! Wow! Yeah!
It’s amazing how eloquent you can be when you’re eyeball to eyeballs with an armoured insectoid horror.
Kiersten: So you can do it? Yay!
As her words flashed up onscreen, I sensed the zest behind them. She’s good like that. Flattered to be the recipient of a KW quasi-squee, I knew couldn’t let her down, which made the whole alien scenario all the more disturbing. ‘Look,’ I said, and explained the problem — 103 words and just the one typo (‘wauuuuuuuuuuuuugh’ instead of ‘waaauuuuuuuuughhh’).
Kiersten: Describe this creature to me. I’m kind of awesome with paranormals.
Me: It’s not so much a paranormal as an alien. A para-abnormal.
Kiersten: Para will do nicely. Let’s switch to vidcam. Trust me, I’m an expert.
Our monitors swapped live pixellated footage. What flashed up on Kiersten’s screen, I have no idea (though I suspect my backside featured heavily and unflatteringly, along with the coffee mug I was using as a weapon). I got the view you see regularly on her Vlogs, complete with self-opening fridge and that crazy eyebrow action we all know and love. Problem was, Ms White also had visitors...
Kiersten: Waaauuuuuuuuughhh! That’s how you spell it btw ;)
Me: Try...kicking...the darned thing...on its wibbly bits...
Ellipses — show or tell? All I know is, every time I ventured a poke at the creature’s eyeballs, I kept hitting the period key by accident. That’s when Kiersten’s foot appeared from between her assailant’s thrashing coils, daintily adorned with a sky blue flip flop.
Kiersten: Kick? In these? What are you, Whirl? Some kind of dork?
Before I could Google the statistics for how flip flops matched up to swords and machine guns in the killer weapon stakes, Kiersten managed to slip free of her foul otherworldly shibboleth’s grasp. It’s a trick many short people can perform, which is why so many of them end up in circuses. Or in this case, the fridge.
Kiersten: Throw pizza! Aliens love pizza!
Me: Will a thesaurus do? I’m in my study.
Kiersten: Hmmm. Tricky. You’ll just have to pass it off as meat loaf and hope for the best...
A transatlantic anti-invader thesaurus ‘n’ pizza fling fest ensued, augmented by a cacophony of shrieks to rival Snow Patrol playing Madison Square Garden with half a ton of itching powder shoved down their jeans. If H. G. Wells had known about this kind of arsenal, War of the Worlds would have run to 15 pages.
I have no idea whether we saved the planet between us, or merely discovered a better way of staying trim than cavorting about our respective abodes at the mercy of Wii Fit Home Acrobat, but as our unwelcome invaders fled in their Teleport Hub cum Play Doh Fun Factory thing (don’t ask me, I don’t make the rules for what’s hip in modern day interstellar space travel), Kiersten and I concluded that, at very least, combatting otherworldly shibboleths was considerably more fun than editing.
Kiersten: Phew. I could sure use a Dr Pepper.
Me: And I could heck deploy a cup of tea.
We exchanged raised eyebrows in that “divided by a common language” kind of way, smiled, then waved goodbye.
And that, as they say, was Mission Accomplished.
Ruined my best pair of flipflops, they did. And I had no pizza left to feed my kids--now THAT is a terrifying scenario. Ask Whirl to make up words for you in the comments section.