And the Winner is...

... H. Yep, she triumphed, nearly slaughtering me by 6-3. (I won an impromptu competition, but in all fairness, does it really count? No, really, can we count it?)

H will post more details, including who won what and some delightful snapshots of the day. I thought about doing it, but then I figured, why dwell on the defeat? And I've got a lot of work ahead of me; praising H requires some serious thought and creative wording.

Three cheers for H! She rocked.

Competition is the Spice of Life

H and I have temporarily joined forces to plan our sisterly olympiad and we're posting the pertinent bits for your enjoyment.

Time and Place
Saturday, July 28, afternoonish, at M's

What are We Doing and Why?
We're officially competing in a series of silly events, because 1) we enjoy competing with each other, 2) it's our bit, 3) we can (and our friends and family humour us), and 4) we have nothing better to do. Mostly, we're doing it all for the glory, even if it's not officially recognized glory. Which we think gives us heart. In a way.

As long as the winner is celebrated, and the loser, humiliated.

Official Judges
E: Our sassy youngest sister, spitfire of the family, and famed Ginger Kid. She knows our tricks and how to keep us in line. She claims to love us both equally. We've tried bribing, cajoling and threatening her; she remains impartial. And oh so pretty.

I (aka the "Croatian Sensation"): An all-around good guy and smokin' bit of man. He's a tall drink of water who enjoys laughing, watching movies, walking in the rain, and kittens. He's also E's boyfriend and has nothing to gain from myself or H winning.

Early props to our judges!

Competitions
Here's how it will go down. Our competitions, in no particular order:
- Who can hula hoop the longest
- Who can go longest without laughing
- Who can win at arm wrestling
- Who can win at Rock-Paper-Scissors
- Who can spit a watermelon seed the farthest
- Who can go the longest without swearing
- Who can win at badminton
- Who can steal the most of the other's stuff unnoticed
- Who can stand on one leg the longest

Humiliation
We've selected an appropriate humiliation, one which honours the spirit of this blog: The loser must post an entry praising the winner, with nary a sarcastic or snarky bit to be found.

Yes, competition can bring out the worst in people, but damn it, we love it.

One will triumph...

... one will not.

Game On!

As much as I hate to give H credit for anything (and I do, I really, really, do), she introduced me to the hilarity and immaturity that is Kenny vs Spenny. What better salute to our best "boys on mugs" than to stage our own competitions?

So H: challenge happily accepted! I'm all in. I love competing for me, so much so that, at times, some people - friends, family members, boyfriends - have refused to play games with me. I'm not proud of it, but I might have been known to be rather ungracious when it comes to boardgames, card games, oh, any type of game in general. I've mellowed since then, but if H is willing, so be it.

One of the best KvsS episodes is when the boys arrange "mini-comps", a series of smaller, slightly silly competitions. Rules are simple, there's very little to plan, we'll be less likely to bore our guests, and I'll have more time to exult in my many triumphs.

Suggestions and humiliations have been noted, with thanks! We'll publish the full list before Saturday. Winner takes all; the loser is my, I mean the winner's, bitch.

Oh what the hell: suck it, H.

H vs M

I'm not one of those people who "doesn't watch TV" or "hates TV." Actually I hate those people. Smug fuckers, just because they are actually productive and participate in the world. Sheesh.

Energy-wise, I hit a major wall in the late afternoons (and after breakfast, before and after lunch, also around 3:15-ish) and TV saves me. More specifically, my favourite show, Kenny vs Spenny. And when I think about it, KvsS is actually a major influence on Sisterly Torture.

If you've never seen it, shame on you. (Though understandable, since nobody watches Canadian television.) But the concept is two best friends -- the self-proclaimed good one and evil one -- who hold weekly competitions, after which the loser suffers a massive humiliation. Competitions include "Who can stay awake the longest?" "Who can live in a van the longest?" "Who can wear a dead octopus on his head the longest?" and many more.

This show is a fascinating look at rivalry and the struggle between the forces of good and evil. It's also packed with super-immature-toilet-sexual-grossout humour, so I'll admit it takes a special person (one who is at her core, extremely immature) to appreciate its genius.

Okay, so we don't exactly hold formal competitions, but M and I certainly compete. And I don't claim to be the "good" one, but I do claim to be the better, nay, best one. So, M, when we see each other on July 28th, are you interested in a challenge (or a good old fashioned ass kickin')? Here's what I've come up with so far:

- Who can be nice the longest.
- Who can go the longest without swearing.
- Who can win at badminton.
- Who can steal the most of the other's stuff unnoticed.

As for humiliations.... any ideas?




(I saw Kenny in the grocery store once. All I could think to say was, "I have your face on a mug!" so I opted not to talk to him.)

And So It Goes

There once was a little girl, who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead,
And when she was good, she was very, very good,
And when she was bad, she was horrid.
-H.W. Longfellow

You know, my parents often told me that lovely verse had been written just for a young me and after reading the last blog entry, you'll probably agree. H - wordsmith of champions - has beautifully told a very humiliating and unflattering part of my life and amused a dozen or so readers. Don't worry, she'll tell more. And I've been thinking: while have a pretty good idea how to get her back (coming soon!), how to respond now? Like a low-budget, choose-your-own-adventure, pick your response:

1. As a young child, I lived by the pleasure principle; didn't we all? It was all about me. I was very often naughty. I did know that it's not nice to steal at Christmas, but I also thought I would get away with it: I sought the immediate pleasure of a soft plush toy and avoided the painful boredom of my own "toys".

2. Are we really responsible for things we've done at 5? Already I was burdened as the eldest in a growing family, expected to set an example and remain forever responsible. By playfully switching toys - and wearing footie jammies - I didn't have to grow up. Consider: Why would parents give a 5-year old a label maker? Preferential treatment (in favour of H) was rampant at home and sometimes, it was a hard-knock life, living in angelic H's shadow. I had to take what good I could get, by force if necessary.

3. Maybe I was just a jerky kid.

Forgive me, my bitchy little scribbler?

Scooby Doo, Where the Hell Are You?

Picture it: Christmas day, 1981. You are a five-year-old girl with curly blonde hair and an evil plan. You wake up extra early and sneak downstairs, your footie pajamas wooshing softly on the carpet.

You make your way to the giant tree in the living room and marvel at the mountains of presents beneath it. But one in particular catches your little green eye:

A plush Scooby Doo.

On the dog's collar is a tag that reads, "To H. From Santa."

"Not for long," you think.

Cunning as a Grinch, you take the tag from another present (later discovered to be a label maker) that reads "To M, From Santa" and switch it for the tag on the Scooby Doo. You tent your tiny fingers and cackle "Heh heh heh!"

Having heard your fiendish glee, your parents and sisters H and E awake and join you downstairs. "Look what Santa brought me!" you exclaim with a sinister squeak as you strangle the Scooby Doo doll in a surprisingly strong grip.

Now, everyone knows that your innocent little sister, H, loves Scooby Doo. She is his greatest fan. She lives and breathes Scooby Doo and will do almost anything for a Scooby Snack.

After a tense moment, H snaps the silence like a candy cane and bursts into tears. She can't understand why Santa has betrayed her, why there is only pain in the universe. Make no mistake, H lost her innocence that morning.

At this point, the parents intervene by saying Santa told them what presents he was bringing and that he clearly made an oopsie. You are sent to your room with only your Life Savers storybook and your cruel little thoughts.



Scooby Doo restored to his rightful (and bit puffy from crying) owner. M has been thwarted once again.

Big Sister is Watching You

While H is knocking my town of choice, I've had my own issues: getting the goods, as promised, on H. She can't be the only one who brings up childhood stories.

To my surprise, it's been a hard go. Thinking back, I don't remember her doing anything particularly bratty; therefore, my memory must be faulty. What's been even worse is questioning my parents, both subtly and outright. The results? H was a "people pleaser", an "angel", "very quiet and calm", whereas I was "lively" and "scary". Not particularly useful.

Surely there's something (how else can she have infuriated me so?), I just need to find it. And figure out how she conned the parents. Luckily, I grew up reading Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden (and recently, watched Veronica Mars) and it's safe to say that I've picked up a thing or two about sleuthing, girl-style. Advantage: M.

If all works according to plan, I might be able to parlay my investigative skills into other areas, securing additional income for future visits to H. And find some good typos and earn a free coffee and muffin.

Spellbound in K-Town

About, oh, two years ago, M announced that she was moving away from the superfantastic city where we both lived to another, smaller, less cool place. I'll admit, I was pretty bummed. Whose fridge was I supposed to raid? From whom would I take DVDs? I'd watched all of mine already!

After M settled in, I hopped on the noblest form of transportation (aka, the bus) to borrow her DVDs, visit, and check out her new home -- known as K-Town. If you think I'm about to start ragging on it, then you'd be right. I immediately made a few choice observations:

1. There are a lot of pregnant teenagers, or teenagers with babies.
2. The bus station is a cool place to hang out, and the security guards make you feel like you're in a nightclub that smells of piss.
3. There are spelling errors everywhere.

And I mean EVERYWHERE. (I actually have a theory that the city is run by guinea pigs, but my proof is scant.) So now whenever I visit, we make a game of seeing who can spot the most spelling mistakes. Winner gets a coffee and a muffin. This is one that earned me a large double double and a blueberry bran.


This sign was posted on most city buses. Seriously.


I was so fucking happy that day.