Metamorphosism

I got your Condoleezza Rice dirt right here

Who is weirder, someone who writes "Condoleezza Rice naked on a jet ski" (okay, minus one Z) or someone who searches for that phrase?

Unlängst, bei der Oma

Much of what happens on this blog happens originally in German and gets translated. This scene, however, just doesn't translate. Sorry if you don't speak German.

Sonntag. Mittagessen bei der Oma: Eintropfsuppe, Bioschnitzel, Erdäpfelsalat, grüner Salat.
Beta: Die Franzosen sind so grindig.
Alpha: Das ist rassistisch. Und ausserdem: dein Austauschschülerinfoblatt hat gesagt, sie duschen sich zweimal am Tag.
Beta: Ich meine früher. Die haben sich am Hof gar nicht gewaschen, nur gepudert und mit Parfum getränkt. Urgrindig!
Oma: [Ziemlich steinerne Miene] Bitte. Verwende dieses Wort nicht beim Mittagessen.
Mig: Welches Wort, denn? "Pudern"?
Oma: [Zum ersten Mal im Leben sprachlos]
Alpha: [Ebenfalls]
Beta: [Augen leuchten] Schau, gleich kommt Erdäpfelsalat Mama aus der Nase.

Had to be there, I guess. (Any German-language mistakes are my own.)

Two links

Tulip Girl - live from Ukraine.
Perfect Storm? Americans are already spending a record share of disposable income paying their interest bills. And interest rates haven't even risen much yet. But it sounds as if they're about to.

Weird

What's the weirdest thing you've ever done or seen?
(Remember, my kid reads this site, so if it's too weird, send it to me in email. On the other hand, she's my kid, so she's pretty used to weird. Use your judgement.)
I ask this because I've heard some weird stories lately, and this makes me think that a lot of people must have some.

Mammals, pff

It's all very simple:

The breast is a mass of glandular, fatty, and fibrous tissues positioned over the pectoral muscles of the chest wall and attached to the chest wall by fibrous strands called Cooper’s ligaments. A layer of fatty tissue surrounds the breast glands and extends throughout the breast...

The glandular tissues of the breast house the lobules ... and the ducts... Toward the nipple, each duct widens to form a sac (ampulla). During lactation, the bulbs on the ends of the lobules produce milk. Once milk is produced, it is transferred through the ducts to the nipple...

So why the powerful interest in this portion of human anatomy, anyway? Culturally-determined: If it's hidden, it must be interesting. A nipple on a stripper is, in general, less interesting than one on the housewife in the tank-top bending over the lettuce in the produce section of the grocery store.
I'm not judging anyone. I'll never forget when I was twelve, sitting on a beach in Hawaii, a beach that ran steeply into the ocean at that point so the waves broke powerfully and without warning, and saw a small woman from my hotel standing there, minding her own business when a sudden wave crashed down on her and Neptune swiped her bikini top. Thirty-three years ago, what, that's how old Christ got, right? The life of Christ separating me now from that event, and I see it so clearly.
So there's that. Which, together with the huge number of apparently bored people sitting at their computers, explains why my traffic doubled after I used the phrase "Condoleezza Rice nipple slip".
Also, I'm currently number two or so for the phrase "elf fucking".
Slow day here, as you can see.

Biorhythm report

Click for big, legible image.

All I can give you

In the car it's warm. The windshield is dirty but I don't wash it because I'm afraid the wipers will break again. The morning sky is glorious nevertheless. The naked woods against the sunrise clouds make me want to buy oil paints and canvas and there you sit so perfect and so quiet.
And all I can give you are those three deer huddled in the cold, dark meadow.
Your grandmother, we don't tell her this to her face; she wasn't the best mother in the world, by turns overwhelming and insufficient, but she gave me roses and daffodils and violets hiding close to the soil. She gave me clouds and the smell of barkdust in the spring and the colors of grass, and I have to think of her whenever the sun comes out while it's still raining and your mother bundles everyone outside as if it were the first rainbow ever there, over the neighbor's house, just look at that!
Get a load of those trees, I say. A hundred thousand shades of winter per ten by ten plot.
All I can give you is my love, and I worry it's not sufficient.
There are so many shades of blue, you say.

Acceptance speech

Above all, this morning I would like to thank my subconscious for my eccentric homestay family, rural English intellectuals in a cluttered house, and the homestay father who painted himself yellow and blue each morning, in a different pattern daily, everything but his curly ginger hair; and for the beautiful moor outside the house, in autumn colors, pools of water reflecting the sky with a fine clarity; and for the gangs of geologists exploring the region on a large sailboat for National Geographic, taking tons of photographs and removing their shoes and piling them up, shoes which, viewed upside-down, made expressive faces that amused Gamma mightily when I pointed them out to her.

Why the subconscious is better than a Fiat Dobló or a Nokia cell phone

• When driving my subconscious in the rain, the thing connecting the driver's-side wiper to the wiper motor that makes it go back and forth doesn't break off.
• When I drop my subconscious in a roasting pan full of hot, greasy turkey drippings, the asterisk key doesn't break making it impossible for me to unlock it to call my wife and tell her to buy 75-watt lightbulbs instead of only 60 watt lightbulbs after all.
• If I get stuck on a character, all I have to do is wait and a brilliant solution comes to me, and it doesn't come to me from the Fiat or the Nokia.

Because some people don't have email links on their sites, or at least I can't find them

Thanks pagest.

Thanksgiving warnings

(Since Thanksgiving Thursday is not a holiday where I live, we celebrated early, on Saturday.)

1. Cooking the turkey will make you feel like a pervert again. Even worse, for reasons you do not understand, it will remind you vaguely of Condoleezza Rice this year, in addition to everything else, as it lies there on its back in the roasting pan, legs submissively in the air, while you stuff fistful after fistful of stuffing into its abdominal cavity. Why does the recipe call for me to tie the legs together, you will ask yourself, as you search the "miscellaneous" drawer for twine. And why does it give me so much satisfaction to do so?
   
2. When you are cooking, keep your cell phone in your pants pocket, not in your shirt pocket, even if you prefer the quick access the shirt pocket location affords, even if you have given a friend dodgy directions to your house and included your cell phone number to make up for it, and want the quick access to be able to respond quickly when he finally calls, lost. Because if you keep the phone in your shirt pocket, you will be overwhelmed by the following flash of insight when, towards the end of the roasting period, you notice that the side of the turkey nearest the oven door is not quite as brown as the far side and ought to be turned around for a while to even out and you are standing there, bent over at the waist holding a heavy tray of aromatic, assymetrically-browned hogtied turkey in your clumsy oven mitts:
   
3. Cell phones are not designed to be turkey-dripping-proof. Therefore, it will no longer function, having plopped into the pan. Therefore, my guest will not be able to reach me. Therefore I will have to contact work colleagues to get his number, since I only have his number stored in said cell phone, now submerged in an inch of turkey grease. Which, by the way, I cannot quickly snatch from its greasy bath due to clumsy oven mitts, not to mention the heavy tray they are holding. But the only work colleague whose number I have will be sleeping all day today, having told me of plans to stay up all night the previous night, so I will try in vain to contact her.
   
4. Your teenaged daughter will finally get the phone out of the grease for you and give it to you after you get the turkey back into the oven. The coefficient of friction of the phone's surface will be significantly reduced by the fresh coating of grease, so you will drop it onto the kitchen's tile floor.
   
5. Twice.
   
6. This will give rise to optimistic hopes of a new cell phone for Christmas, preferably with a built-in camera and death ray.
   
7. Unfortunately, your daughter and her friend will be able to take the phone apart and repair it. At first, the 4 and 7 buttons still won't work so you remain optimistic, but by the next day even they are working. By Monday the phone is back in your shirt pocket and your co-workers are sniffing and saying, "Mmm. What smells like turkey?"

Miracle Pie

I baked two apple pies this evening because we are having friends over tomorrow to celebrate "Thanksgiving". (We celebrate on Saturday because we don't get the Thursday off here in Austria because Austria is not America -- at least not yet. And vice-versa.)

Imagine my surprise when I took the second pie out of the oven and saw that it clearly wore the face of Buddy Hackett.

(Click on small pie picture to get a big picture.)
(Click here for a small pop-up image of Buddy Hackett.)(It's quite small, so if you have a lot of windows open on your monitor it might be hard to find when it pops up.)

If you can't see the resemblance right away, be patient. Stare gaze at the pie for as long as it takes to see Buddy Hackett's face.

And turn your speakers to 10!!!

Marcella Marceau

Alpha lost her voice last night due to a sore throat.
Aww.
{{{{Alpha}}}}
Not one to whisper, she communicated last night via a complex system of squeaks until I finally told her it was bad for our relationship.
This morning I got up and did the usual things and she came down for some coffee with me and conversation, which went much better than last night because she was using sign language this time. (When I first typed that, I wrote "sigh language," which would also be cool).
Sign language conversations are useful because they eliminate the linguistic level almost entirely, and allow you to directly access the subtextual level of what people are saying, that hidden meaning that usually gets obscured by surface meaning.

It works like this:

Some man: Good morning, Honey-Bunny.

Some woman: [waves]

Some man: Voice still on the blink?

Some woman: [Nods. Gestures.]

Some man: It is called a grapefruit in my country.

Some woman: [Shakes head, gestures.]

Some man: You want me to change lightbulbs at the mall? Is Beta awake yet?

Some woman: [Nods, gestures.]

Some man: She's dancing the macarena on the ceiling. Okay.

Some woman: [Emits coffee through nose, shakes head, gestures.]

Some man: [Explains new method pharmacist allegedly recommended for application of throat lozenge]

Some woman: [Brandishes big serrated bread knife]

Condoleezza Rice Dream Date

It's okay to be obsessed with Condoleeza Rice, or Condoleezza Rice for that matter. It's a normal, okay thing.
Driving home yesterday, I was reminiscing about when I used to date her.
I remembered the following details, for starters:

• Condoleezza Rice can melt lead in her mouth.
  
• Condoleezza Rice can unlock doors with her eyes.
  
• Condoleezza Rice wears a brassiere made of pure hammered platinum.
  
• Condoleezza Rice can drive a forklift through a crowded warehouse at 35 mph, backwards.
  
• Condoleezza Rice dreams the same dream every night.

Hi, I'm Mig. Hi, I'm Mig.

It is very windy here today and has been since last night. Beta had difficulty falling asleep and so she drank some hot cocoa before bed and sat up reading for a while. Gamma fell asleep okay but talked in her sleep alot during the night, according to my wife who apparently didn't get a lot of sleeping in either.

I slept well, on the other hand. This morning I made coffee and fed the cats, at least the one who came home in the morning, but he didn't like his food so I petted him for a while until he accepted the fact that he wasn't getting anything better and climbed off my lap to go eat a little after all. I made lunches for the kids and put away clean dishes from the dishwasher and drank coffee and ate some cottage cheese and talked to Alpha for a while. Then I got up to wake up Beta and turned off a light that was in the cellar. When I sat back down at the kitchen table I couldn't remember whether I had woken up Beta so I went back upstairs and woke her, either for the first or second time - she couldn't remember either.

I felt like that tertiary character in "50 First Dates" who keeps introducing himself to people every 10 seconds because his short-term memory doesn't last any longer.

Wind is my least-favorite weather. Even toads and locusts would be better, because although they are officially plagues, at least they are rare and interesting, at least where I live. Wind, however, blows my car around the street and I also have to park it beneath trees where I work - all the streets within walking distance are tree-lined, which is nice on a calm summer day but on mornings like this not so nice - branches were already covering the streets when I parked and I figure there's a 50:50 chance something substantial will fall onto my car during the day.

Two deer sightings this morning, though. I had expected they'd all be in the woods, out of the wind, but there were two in the first field and three in the second. I pointed them out to Beta, who gave them a glance before returning to her book, "The Collector" by John Fowles. She dislikes the main character mightily. I told her to concentrate on the style, because it's marvelous, and on the vocabulary, because one can learn a lot of new words reading John Fowles.

We also studied the sunrise extensively on our drive into town. The wind had scoured the atmosphere clean and stretched out the clouds and it was all quite intense and brought me right back up against the window of my soul.

Condoleeza Rice Nipple-Slip

Traffic here spiked yesterday as a result of National Security Advisor Dr. Condoleezza Rice's nomination for the post of Secretary of State. I misspelled her first name in a post (Condoleeza instead of the correct Condoleezza) and judging from my referrer stats seem to have done fairly well in searches for

• Condoleeza Rice sex
  
• Condoleeza Rice Bush sex
  
• Condoleeza Rice nude and
  
• Condoleeza Rice e-mail ("De4r Secretary Rice wH4t R U w34R1nG?"

when in fact had I spelled her name right, searches like that would have never led them to metamorphosism.com, and searches like:

• Condoleezza Rice naked on a jet-ski
  
• Condoleezza Rice Bush cigar
  
• Condoleezza Rice piano+brahms+topless and
  
• Condoleezza Rice upskirt briefing

Things I learned over the weekend

• You can't go wrong with a dark suit, at least in Vienna. Accept it. No need to experiment. If you feel overdressed, remove the tie.
• Seriously, go with the suit.
• If people remark on how well you speak German, change the subject. Under no circumstances should you agree with them: you can't go wrong with self-deprecation, or at least modesty, either.
• Especially if you're drinking. After two drinks your language skills disintegrate.
• Of course you find it difficult to talk to your kids, especially when they get big. Why shouldn't you? You still can't talk to your dad, either.

To the moon, Alice

There is a thing kids have in Austria called a Freundschaftsbuch, which means Friendship Book. Friends stick in a small picture of themselves and answer a list of questions about themselves - birthday, star sign, favorite color, other favorite things (music, food, sports etc) things to do, dreams, what they like about the friend whose book it is, wha tthey wish for them, and so on. Last night before going to bed I filled out an entry for myself in Gamma's friendship book, each friend gets 2 pages.
Then I read what my wife had written. Where my dream is "to be alive", Alpha wants to be shot into space.
What would you write in my friendship book?

I would write something like: Taurus, year of the pig, I can't decide, Nina Hagen, Bach, playing cello... wait a minute, this entire blog is one big massive friendship book entry! But what would you write?

Spam koan

"Are you lonely or horny?"

Normally I just delete my spam immediately, but that subject line... I deleted it immediately too, but I can't get that subject line out of my mind.

Lonely or horny?

I just can't decide.

Lonely?

Horny?

I could make a decent case for either one.

Jorane

My cello teacher is such a geek. I love him so. Yesterday he told me about a band he saw, Jorane. The musicians included a viola player, a guitar, and a cellist who sings. He complained that the cello, being amplified, lost some of its rich sound, which he said was a problem on the recording he bought as well. If you go to that site, the recording in question is the 2003 recording, "Jorane", which is available only in Germany according to the website.

Brief tangent before I forget: he also analyzed the way I learn a song. I had always assumed it was like a picture coming into focus for me: blind at first, then blurry, then I could recognize individual elements, then sharper. Sort of like a big .gif file on a very slow-loading website, where you usually give up and click away before it's finished.

But he remarked that, starting out hopeless, I get better at a song, but then it collapses and I get very frustrated, after which it then sort of comes together magically. There are a few more steps to the process, but they are similar and I don't want to bore you.

Anyway.

You know how music creates images in your mind? And good music entire movies? You know how most pop music on the radio makes you think of, maybe, several teenagers sitting around trying to decide, Should we stay at home and watch TV or go to the mall and if we go to the mall what should we eat at the food court? But better music does more interesting things?

Listening on my commute this morning to the Jorane CD my teacher loaned me last night, I first thought, this is the perfect soundtrack for driving through frozen woods and meadows trying, on a grey morning, to decide whether they want to stay green or be snow-covered, just beautiful.

Then the music went on and I thought, there is a creature called a Grymeaon; it is the exact size and weight of a Toyota Corolla. It has six legs, like a crab that's lost a few fights only a Grymeaon loses no fights; it's a mammal, though, with an endoskeleton and a pelt and flowing mane like a horse, but rows of shark-like teeth and absolutely no sense of humor. You are riding one along a beach past snow-covered hills trying to decide whether they want to stay snow-covered or go green again. It's a smooth ride on six legs, you sitting there in your barbarian saddle made from the soft skin of the asses of bureaucrats from the tax office, finely-burnished from years of sitting, and you're feeling the afterglow from just fucking an elf who is, say, like 350 years old which is about 18 in elf years.

And you're on your way into town to cash in a winning lottery ticket.

That's what this Jorane album makes me see. But then I'm not a cello geek.

First snow

Nothing gets a sleepy little kid out of bed quicker than the words, "gee, is that snow?"

OTOH, it also made me wish I had winter tires on my car. My lovely wife generously insisted I take hers instead, as she is home today.

November is often like this in Austria: a nasty cold snap that makes you hope of blizzards and a white Christmas; then it warms up again, Christmas is grey and it doesn't get good and cold until January.

So was the election hacked, or not?

In Baker County, for example, with 12,887 registered voters, 69.3% of them Democrats and 24.3% of them Republicans, the vote was only 2,180 for Kerry and 7,738 for Bush, the opposite of what is seen everywhere else in the country where registered Democrats largely voted for Kerry.

PS:
BoingBoing has links to some election-day footage.

What we hear

So Alpha apparently said, as she left for the movies with Gamma, "you'll have to make a painting table contraption for Gamma for Christmas, it will be a nice winter project and we can surprise her with it for Christmas."

What I heard, though, was, "BzzBzz have to make painting table contraption for Gamma bzzZbzzzBzzz, and as soon as they drove off, I leapt into action.

My workshop is a complete mess, but I found enough workbench space and cut a bunch of big pieces with the circular saw, then a bunch of little pieces with the jigsaw, drilled holes into them with the drill and had the table about 80% screwed together by the time they came home. Gamma came into my shop and asked what I was up to and I proudly told her, which got me into trouble and now I have to think up another Christmas surprise for her.

But the table is going to be so cool when it's finished.

Big surprise

Ohio machine error gives Bush extra votes.

Seriously, very last post

Sorry.
Via Jessica, in my comments. Thanks.

Last post today, I promise

This is interesting: Why Bush Won.

Crisis of masculinity? But then I think about my "little" brother, with his big cars and gun collection and broken marriage; he's a Democrat and a union man and saw through Bush from day one. This explanation is too simplistic, although there is an element of truth to it. I always thought Reagan won because he spoke to emotions as well.

How to relax

If you're like me, you could use a new relaxation technique about now, so I'll share something with you I recently discovered all on my own.

This is entirely serious, by the way.

I was at a conference at the UN a while ago and noticed a little weird-looking guy. He had a large, shaved head and a small body packed into a black suit but the most unusual thing about him was his posture: erect but relaxed, devoid of the usual body language. His arms hung at his sides relaxed, but not limp. There was zero aggressiveness or defensiveness about him.

It struck me as the way an enlightened person might stand, wasting no energy but somehow completely there, and I decided to try it.

The next week was the best of my life, in memory at least, as far as relaxation and what that brought goes. By being relaxed when I stood and walked, I quickly moved to a higher level of self-awareness and consciousness.

No fooling.

I think it works like this: by unconsciously using defensive or aggressive postures (shoulders up, arms up, or crossed, or hands in pockets, etc) you are not protecting yourself, only your persona, a persona that is holding you back. Your postures are preventing you from actually being yourself.

YMMV, of course.

I did it while walking today, as well: instead of flying forward, carried forward by momentum, I took each step consciously and individually. It takes a bit of concentration to do this without looking like someone from the Ministry of Funny Walks, but it's entirely possible.

I concentrated on the smell of the air, on how my feet felt on the pavement (through my shoes), how my body felt and what colors the leaves were. Back at work now, I'm stressed out and distracted again, but for those few minutes I was right there.

Maybe you do this, or something else (what?) already. When did you figure it out? If you try this, let me know if it does you any good.

Guided meditation

Enough about little girls. Time for a guided meditation.

Get comfortable.
You comfortable? Warm place? Comfortable position, loose clothes?
Breathing deeply and regularly, eyes closed?
I'll walk you through.
You're a guy and you are doing something in Vienna, walking around waiting for the Democrats Abroad Election Night Party to start, that's it, and you've had a couple pints and you really have to piss bad. So you make a detour and walk over to the public toilets on the Graben, which were designed by the famous fin-de-siecle architect Adolf Loos, whom the Austrians like to claim as one of theirs although he was Czech.
Only, this being a cold wet night and your bladder being increasingly full, the public toilets are closed indefinitely. Although the city itself is beautiful, dark and wet and cold.
So you make another detour and walk past the subway station at Stephansplatz and think, "subway station = restrooms" and tell yourself, relax, this is Austria, how bad could they be?

Relax, and keep your eyes closed. You with me?

Luckily there's no toilet lady waiting outside to make you pay, because you're out of change. The restroom is brightly lit and spacious but, dreamlike, grows smaller and dirtier with each corner you turn as you work your way to the urinals.

Finally you're at the urinals. You check the floor for puddles: dry.

There are eight urinals in a row. Three men are already there, standing like three men would in that situation: the first man, in a leather jacket, standing at the first urinal on the right as you come in. Then two vacant urinals, then a man in a suit. Then two more vacant urinals, and a man in a jacket and corduroy pants. Then, finally, on the far left, a last empty urinal.

Where do you stand? You will choose one of the first two vacant urinals, because there's no point in walking further to face the same situation again. So do you stand next to the guy with the suit, or next to the guy with the leather jacket? If you stand next to the guy with the suit, you risk being perceived by some indefinite person, yourself perhaps, or someone else, one of the other men in the restroom maybe, or maybe God, as too snooty or too conservative to urinate beside a man in a leather jacket, somehow preferring men in suits, since you yourself wear a suit, and wanting to avoid your actions being interpreted as some classist show of solidarity with other men in suits you choose to stand beside the man in the leather jacket.

This all happens in the wink of an eye, you don't even break your stride. You plant yourself before the empty urinal beside the man in the leather jacket and release the liquid byproducts of the metabolism of two pints of Guinness Stout into the white porcelain receptacle with great relief. This takes quite some time, and during this time you notice the man in the leather jacket is, of course, not actually peeing and is taking an awfully long time to shake off his dick.

Most men give it a shake when they finish, you know; the especially fastidious might squeeze the last drop out of the urethra with a base-to-point movement one might use trying to get the last bit of toothpaste out of the tube.

There is no excuse for what this guy is doing, however. Look: two pints. You come in late, pee two full pints into the urinal and you're still the first one done? It occurs to you that you are, in fact, the only one here actually taking a pee.

Thinking, Ah, I get it, you zip up and exit the restroom (washing your hands of course).

Okay, now I'm going to count slowly from five to one, and when I finish you will have only a vague memory of our guided meditation, but a keen understanding of how I felt, on a certain level, when I learned of the "results" of the latest presidential "election" in the United States.

Hoax or not?

IQ and voting behavior.

Test

Man: So, what are the most important words in the English language, do you think?
Little girl: "I love you."
Man: Aw.
Little girl: And "please," and "thank you."

Magic Makeup

Gamma: Hi daddy! [Big hug]
Dad: Whoa! You scared me! You want to give me a heart attack? Give me a kiss.
Gamma: [Smooch]
Dad: Wow, you sure are pretty today.
Gamma: I am?
Dad: You wearing makeup or something?
Gamma: Heh. My magic makeup.
Dad: You have magic makeup?
Gamma: My smile.

Little girls

Gamma: I'm so mad Bush won.
Friend: Who's Bush?
Gamma: Kerry should have won.
Friend: Who's Kerry?

Sale ends 10 Nov. 2004

George Bush's qualifications for sale on Ebay

Have a banana

Which is more credible, exit polls or Diebold?

Voting arrangements in Florida do not meet "basic international requirements" and could undermine the US election, former US President Jimmy Carter says.

7even

Gamma has changed her career plans. She no longer wants to run a disco.

"It will be like a disco, only the lights will be subdued and there will be sofas and there will be lounge music, for people to relax." Gamma likes lounge music lately.

"You mean a chill-out club."

"Sure."

Gamma had a friend over for Halloween. They dressed as witches and I took them trick-or-treating. The next day, while Gamma was at her grandparents', my wife and I did a little housecleaning. First of all, these being seven-year-old girls, there was a ring around the bathtub, like any bathtub ring, except this one glittered. In Gamma's room, we found a mattress completely covered with toys, hair accessories, bags and other booty. Hundreds of little shiny objects, every single one of them a Hello Kitty product. I guess she was showing them to her friend.

In the playroom... Ah, the playroom. A large plastic bag full of the horse chestnuts Gamma likes to collect, all covered with a wicked fur of mold. Countless containers full of various poisonous-looking potions and stinking mixtures bad enough to make a health-department inspector wince. A soup made of stones and corn. Many unrelated things tied together with string, yarn and/or leather straps. A toy stuffed tiger rendered glittery. Container after container full of smallish objects ordered according to a principle obvious only to Gamma, and perhaps some ancient Lovecraftian being. My personal favorite: inside a baby doll's crocheted underpants, a plastic scorpion.

Listen, my personal belief is that tiresome parents who brag about their children deserve a special corner in hell, but this girl bears watching.