Make me, reCAPTCHA.

 

Why, though? Why are you forcing me to do this? I literally already checked the box twice. Now you know. I'm totally a human. Now zip it so I can find my dream pen name in peace. 

Cat Roof Moss is Underrated

 My dad has been mad this week because moss is growing on our roof. He wanted to get it off, so he began watching video tutorials on how to do so. 

Some had different solutions. One had a man scrape it off with plastic tools then spray on this white stuff called Cory's Moss B Ware. Another had two men get on a roof with harnesses, pull it off, and then pour bleach on the roof. 

After a few days, he took out our tallest ladder, put it on the patio, and secured a rope around his waist. He tied the rope to a post holding up the patio. Then, once the rope had no more slack, he started removing moss on the other side of the roof. 

He threw it into our small rock garden below, and it landed PERFECTLY in the dirt. Seriously. Does it not look like it's always been there?

It was lucky, because we wanted a moss garden there anyways. And we got it. And it was awesome. 

"It landed like a cat on its feet!" Dad said. 

"Moss doesn't have feet," I replied. 

"Well, cats do."

"Whatever."

I've been betrayed...

 DISCLAIMER: I'm sorry to say that this post is not going to be funny or hilarious at all. It's about me getting betrayed, so you can skip it if you want, because no part of this is supposed to be funny. Understood? Good. I now return you to your (somewhat) regularly scheduled post. 

---

I've been on Fandom for a while, and I've been an administrator on the Birdstories Wiki ever since 2023. Birdstories, an unsuccessful, unpublished book series by me, was an amazing book series about my chickens and ducks going on adventures. 

This new person posted to my message wall, asking to be an admin of the wiki. I said yes, because we did need more people on there. So, I gave them the admin rights.

They did about a hundred edits and improved the interface vastly. One day, I noticed my account was blocked globally!

I quickly sent an e-mail to Fandom Support asking what the whole ordeal was. Botan, one of the agents, replied saying that it was the same reason as my previous account was banned. I gasped. How did they know?

---

About a month later, I checked out the wiki again. It seemed fine. I checked out the new admin's activity and contribs.

---

But the profile page brought me to tears:

I'm sorry for what happened.

I never expected Marci to get g-blocked. Now that Whalie shows no sign of activity, this wiki is probably doomed.

My actions were in good faith. When I found out [removed for privacy reasons], I took the best course of action and reported Marci.

I should have done it a different way.

I should have just kept quiet. But no, I've just ruined it all.

I'm so sorry everyone.

To Marci, to Whalie, to all the users here.

I never expected this to happen.

I really never did.

*note: I (Marci) have changed some of the names and removed some details in here for privacy reasons. Thanks for understanding. 

---

What?

What just happened? 

I checked out the contribs more carefully, and then I saw an announcement in the bottom left corner of the screen. Something was definitely wrong. I mean, look at this wreck:

They just came in, worked for a bit, then dropped a bomb and ruined the whole site. It was the most cruel, betraying act I had ever seen. All my hard work-- shut down. They were aware they trashed it all, but they just did it anyways, and it really just shocked me. I got this admin so the wiki could be helped, not hurt. 

I guess I'm just going to say goodbye... 

My foot, injured-- somehow.

I can't sit on my foot because it's all swollen up but I was just standing on the couch when I suddenly lost my balance and my foot hit the frame of the couch really hard and then it hit the floor really hard and it didn't hurt at first. So I went in my room to scream into a blanket when the pain finally came and I was all, "help. me. right. now." 

I ran to sit on our Mexican sofa, and I felt a pulsing in my foot. That's when I realized THE SIDE OF MY LEFT FOOT WAS SWELLING UP. Ohholycrap, it hurt SO bad. Not even the coldest chunk of ice could numb it. 

That's when I realized, I had to go to my friend's house. How would I explain this to them? "Hey guys, I hurt my foot falling off a couch because that's what normal people do." 

I had to go down our flight of stairs. Seventeen stairs in all, not carpeted, very slippery. I couldn't understand how my cousin could make it down these, even though she'd broken 20 bones in her foot playing basketball. Which is insane, but also convenient, because you can leave your other shoe in France. Nice. But also not so nice if it's 20 bones. At least, according to my memory it was 20 bones. Somewhere around there, I think. Probably. 

Anyway, when I finished going down the stairs, I needed to get in one shoe. So I did, but it was impossible and I ended up backing into the wall, stepping right on the side of my foot, and screaming in pain. 

And then a dog ran into me and I got even more injured. 

We did end up watching National Treasure and eating nachos though. And ice cream. 

And my foot still hurts. 

UPDATE: Last night, I got a picture of my swollen up foot. You don't have to look at this if you don't want to, but you probably won't even notice. 

Proof the Cowselkie Totally Exists

 NOTICE: You might see little "[" throughout the post. This is where I will soon post images when I can get at them. Thank you for your understanding. 

______________________________________________

This morning, I went for a walk by the bridge with the dog. With all the rain lately, all the creeks in the valley are super high, and so I couldn't go for a swim. Besides, who swims in November? Selkies and cowselkies, apparently. 

I let the dog, Cleo, out of the truck. She had to be on a leash because this is the highway, infested with firewood and American mushroom pickers who think they know everything about mushrooms when they actually don't. (No offence, America.) 

My mom decided to come, too, so that's what happened. 

Not too long down the road, though, we began to notice the American mushroom pickers were leaving their stuff on the side of the road. 

ME: Is that a deflated moose head?

MOM: Uhhh... *picks it up* 

ME: No, seriously. Is that a deflated moose head? 

MOM: *turns it over* is... is that a mitten?! 

ME: Oh yeah, that is a mitten. Never mind what I said about deflated moose heads. 

MOM: This is pretty high quality. It looks like seal skin.

ME: Huh. Maybe a selkie dropped it. 

MOM: Actually, it's probably cow skin. 

ME: Seriously? Well, maybe a cowselkie dropped it. 

MOM: Nope. 

We walked along the road more and also found this small, yellow, bear bell. 

Mom then threw the bell and the cowselkie mitten into the back of the truck for later, so we could take pictures. The dog really wanted to sniff the cowselkie mitten because she probably thought it was a small, roasted turkey, but we didn't let her because the cowselkie probably had the flu. Or the plague. Or charley horse. And y'all know that we don't want her to get sick. But saying, "I got sick from a plague-covered charley horse cowselkie mitten" probably isn't going to get you anywhere in the ER. Just a warning, people. 

There's this DMS (Dynamic Message Sign) that they put up near the bridge recently, and it has a little humming power station and all. There's also jersey barriers you can walk along underneath the DMS. But they also put a reflector right in the middle of your path if you're walking on the barriers, which I recognize as a design fail. 

[

Like, I had to go around it by leaning to the side, grabbing onto it, and swinging my body onto the other side. In fact, it was so disruptive, Cleo (our dog) decided to just get off the jersey barrier entirely. 

We turned back at the cow sign. (I can assure you, it's there solely because of the cowselkie.) After we got back to the truck, we had walked two miles. 

My legs were tingling, and I was wondering if my blood had started to crystallize yet. 

UPDATE: Two pictures of the mitten were put on Facebook, and turns out, it's not owned by a cowselkie at all. It was owned by a man named David. We went to his house and hung the mitten on his doorknob with the other mitten. And then the world lived happily ever after. THE END. 

Dear Skittles: Sorry for the Trauma

Dear Skittles,

First, I would like to apologize for my dad's regular panic attacks when I eat you. Those are uncalled-for. He just hates it when I eat candy. He loves it when I eat kale meanwhile, which he kinda forces me to eat. 

Also, you're delicious. I love your strawberry flavour, and grape is real good too. 

Sincerely, 

Marci 

Boris Yeltsin, barred owl

 This morning, I got a phone call from this guy I knew. I found rare insects, and he would photograph them, and then they would be released near where they were found. Like, if I found a rainforest bug, it would be released down the valley, close to the ocean. 

ME: Hello?

HIM: Yeah, it's me. 

ME: Oh, hey. What's up? 

This is the point where I probably just should have complained, because this is November, and everybody knows there are no special rainforest bugs in November. Unless you're in the Southern Hemisphere, in which case, yes. 

HIM: Yeah, we found an owl here. It flew into our fence and got injured, and it's currently in our sanctuary. Wanna come and see it before it's released?

ME: Yeah, sure. Thanks. 

HIM: Come down in 15 minutes. 

ME: Cool, thanks. Will do. 

I was then deciding which Russian name would be most suitable for it. Maybe Svetlana? But we don't know if it's a girl. Anton? Nah, that's the name of my friend's mom's ex. Nina? Actually, that doesn't even sound close to an ideal name for a owl. 

Then it came to me when I sat on the couch to tell my dad about it. 

ME: He's got this owl in a sanctuary and I'm going down to see it in 15 minutes. 

DAD: Really? What kind?

ME: He didn't say. 

DAD: Seriously? 

ME: I'm still deciding on a name for it. Something Russian-- like, Boris. 

DAD: It's pronounced Bor-ihs. 

ME: Whatever. You don't know that. 

DAD: I know everything. 

ME: *pfft* Yeah, everything except Russian. And the fact that baked kale is disgusting. 

DAD: Baked kale is extremely healthy. 

ME: Anyway. FYI, it's pronounced Bor-EEHS. 

DAD: Our neighbours pronounce it Bor-ihs. 

ME: Our neighbours aren't Russian. I'm pretty sure they're Spanish. 

DAD: Whatever. 

ME: For example, Bor-EEHS Yeltsin. 

DAD: Where did you even learn of his existence?

ME: I learned it in the Simpsons. So basically, Homer Simpson is really drunk at the bar. The guy makes him do a test on the Breath-O-Meter before he can drive home. And it goes all the way to the top, and it say Boris Yeltsin drunk level, and--

DAD: *turns on football game* 

ME: Hey, I'm not finished yet! So then Homer has to walk home through the deep dark woods. And that's when he sees the alien. Except the alien is really Mr. Burns. And Burns has developed a healthy green glow from running the nuclear power plant, and he's had a slight spinal adjustment, a vocal cord scraping, eye drops that dilate his pupils, and a vaccine that makes him all weird. Vaccines are like that. Anyway, Fox Mulder and Dana Scully come along and they see the alien. It was awesome. 

DAD: Well, of course you learned that in that stupid show.

ME: It's not stupid! 

------

Later on, we arrive at the place. We were led around multiple corners until we reached a small shack with a glass door. I peeked through the hole and this is what I saw:

It just looked at me and blinked. It even winked at me. Basically like Gillian Anderson's pause faces, except transferred to an owl. 

But before I could hand Boris a large vodka and let the Yeltsin family adopt him, it was time to look at the bug collection. 

The collection consisted of four small drawers. When you opened them, the top would be covered with a layer of glass. The dead insects were displayed neatly using sewing pins stabbed through their hearts. There was even a jewel beetle with his head stabbed off. Probably unintentional, but it made me wary of insect specimen collectors. You just never know their display methods. 

Cheeseouts

 "Why buy expensive gym equipment when you could just use a large block of cheese?" 

The idea first came to me at a regional district office next to the airport, where I got a couple pounds of old cheddar, permission to use the whiteboard, and a pamphlet on the benefits of recycling used oil. 

I started by sitting on a table and reading the oil pamphlet. I have to admit, used oil is pretty good when it comes to recycling it. Like, you can use the old filters to make rebar, which I used a lot during the construction of the root cellar.

 Anyway. When I finished the pamphlet, I decided to do some bicep curls with the block of cheese. That was when the idea hit me. 

Instead of buying expensive weights, how about you lift a big, heavy block of Old Cheddar? I was so excited I just picked up the marker and started scribbling ideas:

In case you can't read my terrible printing, here's a transcript:

It's a new kind of workout!!

>CHEESE-OUT<

Using a block of cheese!

~The moves~

Cheese curls! --- Cheese-ups! --- and even... --- jav-a-cheese! 

Get your CHEESY STRENGTH today! www.cheesystrong.ca 

"Who needs fancy gym equipment when you can just use a block of cheese?"

-Marci Case, founder of CheesyStrong 

Stay cheesy!

-------------------------------------

I know. I'm a genius, right? 

Why anything could kill you

 My dad told me one time that it's possible that anything could kill you. A pillow, for example. It may seem soft and comfy, but you could also suffocate on it. 

"Even a sweet little baby chick?" I asked. 

I mean, look: 

"Yes," my dad said. "You might choke on one."

But then than got me wondering, how the heck would you end up with a chick down your windpipe? Unless maybe you mistook it for a biscuit? But biscuits aren't fluffy. You'd have to be mentally retarded in order to be eating live chicks, so that's out of the question.

I wonder if rainbows could kill you. Like, the ones you see after it rains but the sun is out. That isn't really possible, I suppose, so I'll have to unfortunately declare my dad wrong. Correction: almost anything could kill you. 

Introduction (feat. Cleo the dog)

 Hiii. 

Here's a picture of my dog: 

If you're curious, concerned, or assume it's a glass ornament, it's actually a pear. Yes, Cleo (the dog) eats pears. And no, we would never feed her glass Christmas ornaments. That's dangerous. She could die. Don't ever feed your dog Christmas ornaments of any kind. 

Anyways, welcome to Alpha Soup. I chose that name because it kinda sound like Alphabet Soup, except this will be the best blog ever-- the alpha blog. Basically the same as the alpha of the wolf pack, alpha hen, whatever. And why did I choose alpha SOUP? Because I'm craving hot alphabet soup right about now.