Category: Scary

Doctor Who Is The Most Diabolical Villain on Television

April Daniels2 Comments

The whole “Doctor’s Companion” thing kind of horrifies me. Let’s really sit down and examine what it implies.

You’re an ordinary person. Probably British. You’ve got a life worth living. You’ve got hopes and ambitions and dreams and talents, all of which only make sense in the context of the time and place in which you were born.

Then one day an old police box sets down in your vicinity, and a thing that looks like a man (also British) walks up and gives you the sales pitch. The sales pitch boils down to this:

“Hello! I’m a monstrously powerful alien, here to whisk you off on an adventure (That you cannot POSSIBLY understand well enough to provide informed consent for) to see all of time and space (until I get bored of you, or you die horribly)!”

And you, like a damn fool, say yes.

Even if you don’t die, and even if you return home to your family, you will be irrevocably traumatized by all the terrifying experiences you’ve been exposed to.

For the Doctor’s amusement.

And yet fans wish that the TARDIS would set down in their own back yards.

The Doctor has seduced an entire fandom into Stockholm Syndrome. The Doctor is pure evil. Hell, sometimes he even looks like Kilgrave! If you see a blue police box chilling out in your back yard, run the fuck away.

*Yes, I know he’s not called Doctor Who. I need those sweet, sweet SEO clicks.

Peeple

April Daniels
There’s a new app coming out that is basically Yelp, but for individual humans who are just living their daily lives, not, you know, companies engaged in public-facing financial transactions. It will let you give people a 1 to 5 star review, as well as leave comments about them. It will let *anyone* who knows you do this.

The article I’ve linked above doesn’t quite do the situation justice, so I’ve included some line edits here for clarification (helpful additions in bold):

“We’re creating a platform that allows users to provide a rating and commentary on the people they come in contact with everyday, on a level that we haven’t seen before,” said Julia Cordray, ominously. The self-described “female, emphatic” CEO then paused for a high pitched and somehow disturbing giggle fit before continuing, “We feel this is the ultimate social experiment. Let’s look at everyone in the three ways you could possibly know someone — personally, professionally and romantically — and let the world rate them, while allowing yourself to be rated.”

She said the app will help people to better choose who they hire, do business with, date, let babysit their kids, become roommates with or teach their children, among other uses. When pressed on what those other uses could be, she only replied, “You know. OTHER uses.”

Users will log in through Facebook and provide a cellphone number to verify their identity. Co-founder Nicole McCullough was more or less able to suppress a fit of laughter while she explained the service’s security measures.

“The aim of our platform is to showcase a person’s true character,” said McCullough, with deadpan sincerity. At press time, the company’s twitter account remains locked to the public.

CLASSIC: Manic Pixie Nightmare Girl

April Daniels

NOTE: This post originally appeared on the blog I maintained under my now defunct pen name.

 

She’s cute, and quirky, and enthusiastically malicious. When you meet her, she’s quick to let you know that she’s sexually available in a mild, nonthreatening kind of way. It’s a dark and terrible lie. She has no visible means of support, but does not appear to live in poverty. (Her victims fund her well.) This gives her plenty of time to enjoy visiting funky local shops, eating street cart food, and torturing cats with hacksaws.

Bump into her on the train, as if by chance. No chance about it. Her perspective on the world is so unique and free spirited. She’ll show you the joy of giving up on society’s stodgy rules and marching to the beat of your own drum, and also of arson.

Her room is filled with salvaged antiques and hand-drawn posters. A mobile hangs above the bed; bones and feathers and squirrel pelts. She says she’s into taxidermy. The walls are a familiar reddish brown, a color you recognize but can’t quite place. The paint is strange, and kind of crumbly.

One night when you’re sleeping over at her place, you hear loud thumping and wailing from beneath the floor. Just the downstairs neighbors having noisy sex she says. She disappears to ask them to be quiet. For some reason she takes a hammer with her. Later, you can’t recall ever seeing the entrance to a basement apartment in her building.

One night you start to wonder if she’s right for you. You  thought you saw her across the street from your apartment, standing in the shadows under a tree, but when you went out to look, you found nothing. Now you’re wondering what that sudden bolt of fear was about. And why’d you bring a knife?

Picnics in the park, running around with your arms spread out making airplane noises. This hamburger tastes interesting, is it pork?

She says you spend too much time at work. You joke that she should take it up with your boss. The next day she’s in there screaming at him. The day after that, the building you work in burns down. Now you can spend all your time with her! Isn’t that great? Yeah, just…just great.

It’s not working out. The chemistry is gone. You’re afraid to sleep without locking the door. She takes the news well. Where’d your dog go?

Your new job has an anthrax scare, the letter billowing with white powder. They find your fingerprints on the envelope. The door to your holding cell opens, and in she walks. You tell her to leave, she says something kooky and sweet. You scream for the guard, but they don’t hear you. She won’t explain how she got in. She won’t explain how she got your fingerprints on the envelope, or your saliva on the stamp. She explains, with great disappointment, how you just weren’t good enough, and now she’s got to stand up for herself.  She’s shows you a small wad of cash, says it’s all that remains of your accounts, but don’t worry; some public defenders are actually pretty good. Somehow, at trial, the prosecution produces video of you packing the envelope. She sits alone in the audience and stares at you with a quiet smile on her face. You try to ask  your lawyer to call her to the stand, but when you point at her, he can’t see who you mean. Her smile grows wider.

No actual anthrax involved; you only get 8 months. When you get to the halfway house, there’s a laptop waiting on your bed. It boots up when you enter the room, and there she is, welcoming you back. She’s the Manic Pixie Nightmare Girl. She’ll ruin your life, and then send you cutesy videos where she uses your dog’s severed head as a puppet.