Today’s’ big excitement, aside from water changes (very exciting) was hearing the little “new message” noise. I went to my desk, thinking it was most likely P., or L. answering a message I’d sent earlier, but it wasn’t. A week or so ago, about half in the bag, I read the profile of one of my Flickr contacts, and he had his MSN in it, along with an invitation to “add me”. He seemed like a nice enough guy, and I think it said right on his profile that he’s married (or somehow in a relationship), plus he’s into insects and flowers, and even rescued a praying mantis, so I thought, “Meh…how bad can the guy be?” Though I rarely take anyone up on the “add me on MSN” invitation (I mostly tell people, “Oh, I use Linux, so I don’t have MSN”, which is technically not a lie because I have aMSN) I decided to stick him on there, but just not say anything until he did first. Today, curiosity finally got the best of him and he sent me, “Anyone home?” then asked to make sure I was the person he thought I was (and I was). He asked about the mantis-girls, and just as I was thinking, “Hey, he’s a pretty decent guy”, he said, “Do yo look like your avatar?” That’s sort of cute, but also pretty lame, and after I said I’m slightly less round, not quite so pink and less penguin-y than my avatar, he asked whether my webcam is only available for special people. Jesus wept. I ignored that (though he was right–it is, and he’s not on the fucking list), and said I’m a perfectly ordinary-looking 41-year-old woman, a little taller than average, I hoped he’d get the hint, but no, he asked what I look like. I sent him a photo to shut him up; neither a good one nor a bad one (the file is actually called one-i-dont-hate.jpg), and expected he’d just say something polite and we’d move on. Nope. Dumbass returns with, “You’re gorgeous, nerd!” Oooooh, he’s soooo smooth! Christ. One, I am sort of a nerd, but I am not, have never been and will never be gorgeous, so don’t insult my intelligence by trying to make me believe that. I know what a gorgeous woman looks like, and I ain’t it. Two, any woman who’s been on the internet for more than fifteen minutes knows full well that there’s not a lot of time between, “You’re gorgeous!” and “Hey, accept this bad webcam shot of my junk!”

Dude, I’m 41, not 14, and I’ve been on teh intarwebs for almost as long as it’s been available to home users. I’ve been using IM since ICQ was still a Mirabilis-owned product and everyone used it, and there’s a reason I never, ever make myself “available for chat”. Anyone who’s not on my contact list can’t even send me a message at all. AFAIC, there is no “Skype me” status. Know why I do that? It’s because of overly chatty people who think that the fact that I’m logged in means I care what their fucking mother’s cat did that day, and because of guys–and they’re almost always middle-aged guys–who think that IM is like some kind of bad 70s singles bar. A stupid line won’t get you a pickup in a bar (okay, near closing time, maybe) and a stupid line won’t get you cyber, either. You want a live person on the other side of your jack-off session, go find one; there are tons of sites where fat, middle-aged women pretend to be young and hot just for your fantasies, and 20-something attention whores with daddy complexes will pretend you’re hot…for a price. You want to have a civilised conversation, and you’re at least reasonably intelligent, and you’re not a slimy little creep….you have my attention. I have nothing against a compliment, and even a bit of harmless flirting, but Christ, wait until you’ve talked to me for more than fifteen minutes, and while you’re at it, try to stick something intelligent or at least amusing in there somewhere before you go looking for a place to stick your dick. I’m not interested in your dick, thanks. I’m a Linux user…for me, the internet is almost one big sausage fest to begin with. Do try to stand out from the rest, dear. 😉

I did eventually get D. to STFU and talk to me like a human fucking being, but goddamn, it made me appreciate L. even more than I did already. Thank the FSM for that man. He’s felt as comfortable as my favourite old cutoffs and my “sudo make me a sandwich” T-shirt for practically as long as I’ve known him. Right from the start, I wrote walls of text to him that would have made Leo Tolstoy jealous, and he never complained, not once. I’d apologise, thinking, “Christ, he must think I’m some sort of creepy stalker madwoman,” and whether he did or not, he was too polite to say so; he’d just tell me he enjoyed reading them. Now, he’ll say practically anything that comes to mind (and so will I), but that’s because he knows me and I know him. Before he did, he was almost excruciatingly polite, and I remember thinking, “Wherever this dude went to charm school, he must’ve been valedictorian!” I have a lot in common as far as career background (what little I know so far) with D., and and as far as creepy-crawlies go, I think E. might be one of the few who like them even more than I do, but when it comes to “I can see myself still hanging out with this guy years down the road, and still thinking that’s fun to do”, they have nothing on L.. He says he doesn’t think he’ll be able to manage the trip to Memphis, but I wish he could. I have zero desire to ever get to know most of the people I meet online (hell, I don’t even want many of them to know my real name), but that one…yeah. That one I’d greet with a rib-cracking hug just ’cause he’s so goddamned cool. 🙂

Oh, and I had such a nice chat with B. today, and I’m even getting a prezzie from Sweden. Well, technically from Denmark, but he won’t even give me a decent hint; just says that there are two green dots somehow involved (fantastic–I’ve always wanted mouldy cheese), and that when he saw (whatever this is) I came immediately to mind. Knowing him, that could mean absolutely anything; I talk to him most weekdays, but there are no clearly defined roles. Sometimes, he just wants to be funny, sometimes he’s a bit down and needs some cheering up, sometimes he wants my opinion on something, or wants to ask a question or teach me something, or wants to tell me stories, or wants me to tell him stories. Sometimes, we have discussions about human behaviour, sometimes, he just wants to tell me about his day, and sometimes, I know that I remind him of A. (not J. because she wasn’t the rebellious one), and bring back fond memories of “what does that word mean?” and pling-books. I can’t guess what would remind him of me because I don’t know which “me” was on his mind at the time. An odd man, a stubborn and occasionally slightly bossy one who doesn’t seem to understand that I don’t want him to buy stuff for me, and I don’t care how he spells when he’s tired. I usually stop him right at, “I would like to buy you…” and tell him flat-out, “No. I know you love to buy presents, and I appreciate the thought, but I don’t want you to buy me anything,” but he’d seen (whatever this is) when he was there a couple of times before, and when he mentioned it for the third time, I was just tired of arguing. I don’t want stuff–I can buy stuff myself–but if it means that much to him that I have (whatever this is) and it makes him happy, then I’m not going to rain on his parade. He said it’s not expensive, so I think it’ll be okay. Bless his heart…sometimes he’s like a five-year-old kid.

OMG…WANT! This will teach me to stay away from fashion blogs. I have no fucking idea where I’d ever wear them (at least not in public…heh), and certainly not $950.00 worth of “wear them” (I’ve driven cars that cost less than that). I don’t even like shoes, but I don’t care–I loooove these!

OMG…DO NOT WANT! Holy fuck, Batman. Pam Anderson is just two months and one week older than me. I understand that once you hit 35 or thereabouts, you really don’t want to be caught in bad light, but goddamn…this is a lot more than bad light. This, my friends, is the stuff of nightmares. She’s had the plastic boobs for years, and by the looks of it, she might want to get to work on a plastic face, and fire whatever idiot painted that “Tim Burton meets Bozo the clown” gunk around her eyes. The lipliner…well, yeah, you can go a little outside the natural line to add some fullness, but there’s not supposed to be a white mark! She might want to grab a root touch-up kit at Walgreens, too.

Toxic fish? I fart in your general direction…pussies! If you really want to fucking poison yourself, go with 250mg of erythromycin every 6h for 3 days, and about 2L of cheap wine in…uh…I dunno…maybe 3h? Chuck in an entertaining Swedish distraction, just to make sure you don’t realise just how fast you’re sucking back stuff that’s half a step above MD 20/20 and half a step below purple drank. Jesus Christ, I still don’t feel quite right, and that was Friday night. Never a-fucking-gain. Fuck the antibiotics; I’m not taking any more because I’m getting nauseous just thinking about it. I don’t care, my immune system will just have to sack up and do what it’s supposed to do. I got physically sick Friday night and again Saturday morning (midway through breakfast, no less, which made scrambled eggs and toast a whole lot less appealing), then spent all of Saturday nauseous-ly (it’s a word…now) shuffling between the bed and my desk (a distance of approximately 1m) in a blue satin night dress and my pink bear feet slippers, with a headache that felt as though a small man with a grudge and a jackhammer had positioned himself directly behind my left eye. I didn’t even manage to get showered and dressed until somewhere around 1900h and had to get P to pick up some Tylenol for me because we were out and I couldn’t keep Aspirin down. Apparently not understanding that I was giving serious consideration to dying of sheer misery, P. brought me a glass of wine last night, and I did try to drink it (without breathing, since the smell was making me gag), but one was all I could do; even that made me feel worse. Sorry, ol’ drinking partner pal, but I’m not willing to die for you. I think I was in bed by 2300h, though I’d slept off and on most of the day and wasn’t tired…just felt horrible. Today was marginally better–hey, at least I didn’t throw up (yay)–but holy fuck, Batman. Never, ever again. God damn. I haven’t had antibiotics of any kind for years, but never had that much trouble with erythromycin before. Then again, I don’t recall ever having washed it down with half a gallon of cheap wine before. If I did, this didn’t happen because no fucking way would I forget. I don’t think I could take on a dedicated binge-drinker, but I have a reasonable tolerance for alcohol–hell, I drank Purple Jesus when the recipe still involved any leftover “normal” booze, Bacardi 151, Everclear sneaked in from AB and a plastic trash bin–and can’t even remember the last time I drank enough to end up praying at the porcelain altar, let alone sick for two days afterwards. I didn’t remember too much of what I’d said to L., but the next morning, he told me enough that I’m actually grateful I don’t remember. I sort of recall saying some off-colour things, but he’s used to that, I guess, so just one or two things I should have STFU about. Thank Christ I was talking to him and not some random whomever; he’s 99.99% unshockable, and wouldn’t repeat a word of anything I said at anything short of gunpoint. He’s a really good guy…parallel universe and all that.

I heard about her when it happened a couple of years ago, but forgot about it until I was looking for something this morning and came across a reference to it on a YT clip. Joanna, I still think you’re a fucking worthless attention whore and although I don’t know (or care) where you are, and neither does anyone else now that your five minutes of fame are over, I do hope you have genital herpes and open, weeping sores on your cooch, and that the two “friends” you convinced to go to church by torturing that poor praying mantis as you ate it alive have since converted to Satanism. Like nearly all Christians, though, you’re a hypocrite and it’s only one of “God’s creatures” if it’s human (and of your religious denomination). Fuck you. Now I’m pissed all over again, and were it possible, I’d ensure that you dreamt every night of being consumed by a giant mantis, you useless ditchpig. If I could feed you to my own pet praying mantises, you bet I would. Then again, they’d probably spit you out for being of inferior quality. DIAF.

EDIT: Watched Scene 1 of Who’s Nailin’ Paylin, and laughed my arse off. Sorry, women’s rights movement, but that’s one woman who deserves to have at least her image demeaned. I always wondered what Russians she could see from her house, and now I know. Anyway, Lisa Ann, the woman who played “Serrah Paylin” said it was fun. You betcha! 😀

So I won’t forget, it was last Sunday (02 Nov) that I found and “cat-napped” (not as obvious as manti-napped, but I know what I mean) hungry little Bucky the caterpillar, and when I went to give him his plantain for breakfast today, he was in no condition to eat because my little paterkiller pal had become a chrysalis. Awwww! I don’t know whether he’ll go in the basement near a window or whether I’ll detach the chrysalis from the top of the Kritter Keeper and put him in the window like I did Polly the Polyphemus Moth, but either way, he’s got to stay at outdoor temperatures because I don’t want a beautiful butterfly to emerge when there’s nothing for him to eat. Oh, and when I can’t find this next spring to check the date he was found and when he went into the pupal stage…..caterpillar chrysalis butterfly buckeye common buckeye. That oughta be enough for a search to find it.

Okay, Bucky…I’ll make sure you don’t get too warm or too cold, or covered with ice, and you just be a good bug and stay snug in your little sleeping bag until it’s warm again and there’s food for you! 🙂

No, not the Dionne Warwick song. I actively dislike the vast majority of poetry; my appreciation for it pretty much begins and ends with, “There once was a man from Nantucket…” I flatly refused to participate (aside from turning up in the class) in an entire unit of English because I had already an average high enough to pass with a decent grade, and I thought poetry was a stupid waste of time. I said, “I’m not doing it. I’ll take the zero.” If you have something to say, for Christ’s sake, just spit it out, never mind fussing about with flowery words. That said, some of Chaucer and Shakespeare (both rather naughty), and A.E. Housman’s A Shropshire Lad (somehow, that’s supposed to be about the Greek dude, Narcissus, I think) are pretty good, and I do recall a few lines from Wordsworth’s Intimations of Immortality From Recollections of Early Childhood (WTF is with the mile-long name?). The class had to discuss and dissect the Wordsworth poem, which I thought was an utter waste of time, but in order to get credit for the class, I had to be in a discussion group, and there was nothing else going on, so I sort of listened. Apparently, Wordsworth (FFS, even his name is long) believed that we are born knowing everything; that a newborn is not a clean slate, but an old soul in a new body. We are born knowing everything, at one with God and the natural world, and as we live and age, we lose the oneness and the knowledge, until we eventually die; our soul to be reborn in a new body. Interesting (if depressing) theory, I suppose, but without a belief in a higher power, or a human soul, and with some biological knowledge of the human brain, one to which I cannot subscribe. Anyway, that’s what the poem is about, and according to the discussion, that’s why we experience déja vu. It’s not just a funny feeling of having been somewhere or done something before, even though we know we have not; it’s remembering something that our “recycled” soul has experienced, or at least in this theory.

Today is rather warm for November (68F) but it’s grey and dull, and looks as if it will rain soon. I looked out the window, and for some reason, was reminded of a day I’d skipped school. There were many of those days, of course, but I didn’t always do the same thing. Sometimes, I’d go to the school and then take off somewhere with friends, and sometimes, I’d just not go at all and stay home to drink gallons of coffee, chain-smoke cigarettes and talk to my stepmother. Bless her, she’d tell me I should go to school, and she meant it, but she never once ratted me out for “missing the bus”. Most of the time, though, I didn’t want to be around anyone; I just wanted to be by myself. Sometimes, I’d just skip class and go to the school library to read. The librarian knew that I didn’t really have all of those free study periods, but he had a soft spot for me because he, like all of my teachers, knew I was a really smart kid, but a world-class underachiever, and quite a “troubled child”. Mr. Drake also knew I absolutely loved to read, so he’d try to use that to his (really my) advantage. He’d often hold back new books and magazines at the counter because he thought they might be of interest to me, and when I’d go into the library, he’d “not notice” that I didn’t sign in, and he’d call me over to show them to me. I wore shoulder-length earrings back then–seven on the left, three on the right–and I remember one magazine article about the history and significance of tribal markings (tattoos, piercing, scarring) that was really very cool. I must admit, the man truly understood my interests, and looking back, I know that he was trying to get through to me without kicking in the contrary, “Fuck you–you don’t tell me what to do!” aspect of my personality for which I was famous. I’d do it even to my own detriment…I just would not let anyone tell me what to do, even if it was in my best interests. I didn’t know then that he was trying to gently “redirect” me, of course; all I knew was that Drake was cool because he didn’t report me, or kick me out of the library even though I’d perhaps been there for the whole afternoon. I didn’t sit at tables; I’d go to the last booth in the back corner of the room…that one was “mine” because no one would disturb me back there. Drake did get pissed off the few times I just walked out with books instead of signing them out (line too long, couldn’t be arsed, and I knew I’d return them), but I honestly liked and respected him, so I stopped when I realised it really was that big a deal to him and he wasn’t just trying to get a paper record of my having been there when I should have been somewhere else.

Other times, I’d take off for the university library instead. It wasn’t much of a walk from the high school to the university, and the thing I liked the most about the uni library was the anonymity. Nobody knew who I was, and nobody gave a goddamn, either; I was just another face in a sea of faces. I’d go to the library, poke about to see what caught my interest, and read to my heart’s content, sometimes until it was so late that I had to run like hell to catch the school bus home when it stopped to let off the town kids from the high school and pick up the junior high kids. If I was there all day, or most of it, I’d take a lunch break and go to the cafeteria on the second floor of the Student Union building; I used to sit by the windows and look down at the people walking by. I thought they looked like little ants, scurrying from place to place, looking very busy and important, when really, none of us is very important at all, at least not in the grand scheme of things.

Occasionally, I’d go in the other direction, to the shopping centres in NM. Back then, there were two malls, plus the whole business district. I never had a lot of money because Dad knew I’d buy drugs if I had a lot of spare cash (and he was right), but I always had some, so I could buy lunch, and maybe a cassette (god, I’m old) or two, or a new Iron Maiden T-shirt or whatever. That’s what the light today reminded me of…one time I was walking from the school, up the hill toward NM. I didn’t dare hitchhike because if I’d got picked up (cops did watch for high school kids), I would’ve had to explain it to Dad, and even if I didn’t, there was always the chance that someone he knew would pick me up. If you’re on a sidewalk, drivers don’t pay much attention, so I felt pretty safe. I did make a little detour when I went by the driveway of Co-Op, since that’s where Dad worked, but for the most part, I was again, just another face and nobody bothered me.

It was cloudy and grey that day, and trying very hard to rain. Not cold, but chilly and damp, and as I crested the hill, I saw the power lines against the grey sky, and the very top of the Zellers mall building, and I got the strangest feeling. I felt like everything wasn’t real; like the whole thing was an illusion, created to distract me and keep me from remembering something that was critically important, and that I had once known, but forgot. As I got closer and could see the whole building and the people in the parking lot, the feeling went away, and I still don’t know what the important thing was, or if it ever even existed, but when the sky is grey and the light is right, that feeling returns, and again, I just can’t remember. I wonder whether I’ll have an epiphany before I die? Maybe, maybe not.

I was so happy that Obama won (pity it wasn’t Paul in spite of the religious thing, but faced with a choice of Obama/Biden and Insane/Caribou Barbie, there’s no contest), then was abruptly thrust back into cold reality when someone whose first language is English used, as the past tense of bring, the word….brung. No shit–not brought….brung. This was supposed to be a legitimate political observation.

He just wants to fix this country, and has proved it through both the issues he has brung up, but more importantly, through his voting.

How the fuck does a person begin a reasonably intelligent sentence (I’ll give him “has proved”, though “proved” or “has proven” would have been better), manage to spell correctly “importantly” (which I’ve seen spelt “importently”, since that’s how it sounds, and “portent” is a word), and correctly navigate the through/threw homophone, then somehow turn up with….brung? WTF?

Okay, so I don’t actually hate anyone, including your stupid self, but I do harbour an enormous, intense dislike for you, both you personally, and those like you.

“I set up my aquarium and it looked just perfect–so beautiful, and it really made a nice addition to the room décor! A few of the fish died in the first few weeks, but it’s okay now, and I was able to find replacements that were the same colour, so the tank looked good again. Then, I bought live plants, and there were snails on them. Oh, the horror–terrible little things, and they just didn’t look good! I put some snail-killer in the tank, and that killed them, but then the water went cloudy. The guy at the pet store said that they had stuff to clear the water, but it didn’t work, plus it left nasty, fluffy brown stuff on the bottom, and I didn’t want to clean it, so I tried a different kind, and that worked. Then, I got this horrible green algae on the ornaments and plants! I threw out the plants, but I couldn’t find new ornaments that were the same colour as the wallpaper in the room, so I need to keep these ones. I got some stuff that says it kills algae and put it in, but it didn’t kill the algae. Now my fish are all acting funny. Some of them are hanging at the top and some are lying on the bottom, and they all look really pale. I am using water conditioner, plus that stuff that means you have to change the water only a couple of times a year. The blue fish wouldn’t even eat this morning, and I don’t know what’s wrong. PLEASE HELP ME!!!”

The only help I can offer to someone like you is this advice: Find a nearby aquarium club, and either post on their message board or call the contact number, and tell them that you have fish, a fish tank and all of your supplies to give away. Don’t try to tell them what kind of fish, because you don’t know. You went to Petsmart, picked out whatever went with the carpet in the room without asking even the idiot high-school kid what they were or reading the labels on the tanks, and that’s all you know. Just tell the aquarium club people that you want to get rid of everything, and then get yourself either a pet rock or one of those revolting little yappy dogs. I don’t have to know you to know that you’re a woman, and you’re a soccer mom, and you live in a “really nice subdivision” in a McMansion that you can’t afford. You probably drive a Tahoe, and you can’t park worth a good goddamn. Your kids are over-scheduled, and your husband is nagged to death, or at least when he’s not working 14h days so you can “spend time with the children.” Not that you do, of course, because they’re always off at some practice or another, since that’s the only way they’ll ever get into a good college. Yes, I know you…you shop at the upscale stores in the mall, but you can’t quite afford designer stuff. If your hair is dark, it’s streaked blonde, and if it’s light, it’s bleached blonde. Cut in some kind of chin-length style, too, and you buy your cosmetics from the Clinique counter, and your coffee from Starbucks, where you’re a bitch to the barista. You wear an enormous, hideous diamond ring that your husband could not afford when he asked you to marry him, but he went in hock because he knew you wanted it so you could show your friends how much he wanted you. You go to church on Sunday, but not because you really have any spiritual feeling about it; it’s a social event for you, and a chance to see who’s underdressed according to your standards.

Oh yeah, I know you, and you have no business keeping any live animal. That’s a fish tank, you stupid fucking bitch, not a cocktail, and there are times when a fish tank doesn’t look the way you want. That is because it’s a living (if closed) ecosystem, not a decoration, and the fish don’t give a flying rat’s arse what it looks like, just as long as the water’s fit for them to live. If I knew where you were, I’d come over there and take the goddamned fish from you myself, you stupid cow, and give you a good smack while I was at it. Maybe knock some sense into you.

*pant* *pant* Okay, I feel a bit better. Heh.

Obviously, there are thousands of acronyms–some that are actually used, some just made up so the list appears more comprehensive–but these are the ones I’m actually likely to use. Arranged for your convenience in alphabetical order. 🙂

AFAIC/AFAIK – as far as I’m concerned/as far as I know
AFU – all fucked up
AMFYOYO – Adios, motherfucker, you’re on your own
AYPI – and your point is?
BFD – big fucking deal
BFU – butt-fuckin’ ugly
DIAF – die in a fire
DILLIGAF – do I look like I give a fuck
EABOD – eat a bag of dicks
ESAD – eat shit and die
FOAD – fuck off and die
FSM – Flying Spaghetti Monster
FTL – for the lose
FTW – for the win
GBTW – get back to work
GG – gotta go (used with or without RFN, depending upon degree of urgency)
GTFO – get the fuck out, get the fuck off
IANAL – I am not a lawyer (prefaces legal advice, often incorrect)
IME – in my experience
IMHO – in my humble opinion
JAS/JAM – just a second/just a minute
JC – just curious
JFGI – just fucking google it
MMYF – my mistake, your fault
MSM – mainstream media (can’t speak for elsewhere, but in the US, television news channels are “infotainment”, not actual news; radio to a lesser extent)
NIMBY – not in my back yard (those who are pro-alternate energy…until someone tries to put wind turbines anywhere that “blocks my view and potentially lowers my property value”)
NM – never mind
NOMFB/NOMGB – none of my fucking business/none of my goddamned business
OOTB – out of the box
PITA – pain in the arse
POS – piece of shit
RFN – right fucking now
SOS – same old shit
STFU – shut the fuck up
TCR – The Colbert Report
TDS – The Daily Show
TFB – too fuckin’ bad
TL;DR – too long, didn’t read
TMI – too much information
YMMV – your mileage may vary

P. surfs happily with no ad-blocker, no script-blocker, and only the built-in pop-up blocker in FF. I’d rather die. I need Adblock Plus and Filterset.G, I need NoScript, Remove It Permanently and NukeAnything Enhanced. Couldn’t bear the internet without them. I don’t mind tasteful text ads, or image ads as long as they stay still and don’t take up half the goddamned page, but I can’t stand anything that flashes, moves, covers content until I click to make it go away (Flash ads), makes any sound or otherwise competes with the page content for my attention, so I block them. I guess I’m really doing the advertisers a favour because I am the kind of person who will deliberately blacklist a product if I have seen an advertisement for it that particularly annoyed me, and I’m fantastic at holding a grudge. I am not an impulse buyer, and if I’m coughing up anything that is even a reasonably significant amount of money, I do my research first; nobody is going to sell me something without my knowing exactly what I’m doing. I’m the one Best Buy doesn’t want to see come through the door because although I might look around, I’ll buy what I came to buy and nothing else, and I will walk out empty-handed if a salesperson is pushy (and anything much beyond, “May I help you?” falls under my definition of pushy). Control freak? Probably. Do I care? Nope.

I sometimes watch TDS and TCR on CC, and I really appreciate their putting up full episodes without commercials. Sometimes, though, I go to Hulu to watch other shows. If it’s a full episode, I don’t mind advertising too much; I mute the commercials the same as I do on TV, and sometimes get up to get a drink or something, but I will usually turn off Adblock for the duration of the show. This morning, though, I wanted to see a clip from Family Guy because it was referenced in an article. It wasn’t the whole episode, just a clip, and it was only 41 seconds long. In order for me to see that, Hulu expected me to sit through a 30-second commercial. I know because I watched the little countdown at the top of the black screen I get when I block ads. I didn’t turn off Adblock because I never dreamed they’d have ads before short clips. I can understand it for full shows, but clips? C’mon. Just 11 seconds less than the content I wanted to see, and I’m supposed to watch it? Nope, not fucking happening. In fact, now that I know they force full-length commercials even for clips that barely fall outside Fair Use, Hulu can fuck off. Now, I’ll never turn off my ad-blocker, and I’ll even sit there and watch the counter, congratulating myself on seeing all of the content without their getting one red fucking cent. Not that they ever made any money from the fact that I once did turn off Adblock, but now, it’s on principle.