More Than You Ever Wanted
To Know About Cassandra...

What's with the "Villainous Company"?

Aside from the fact that it aptly describes the unsavory assortment of misfits, rogues, and snarksters who infest this blog, "Villainous Company" harks back to a line from Shakespeare's Henry IV in which one of Prince Henry's carousing companions, a rogue named Falstaff, complains: "Company, villainous company hath been the spoil of me".

FALSTAFF
Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely since this last action? do I not bate? do I not dwindle? Why my skin hangs about me like an like an old lady's loose gown; I am withered like an old apple-john. Well, I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking; I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I am a peppercorn, a brewer's horse: the inside of a church! Company, villanous company, hath been the spoil of me.

BARDOLPH
Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live long.

FALSTAFF
Why, there is it: come sing me a bawdy song; make me merry. I was as virtuously given as a gentleman need to be; virtuous enough; swore little; diced not above seven times a week; went to a bawdy-house once in a quarter--of an hour; paid money that I borrowed, three of four times; lived well and in good compass: and now I live out of all order, out of all compass.

Cassandra chose the name because she's the sort of sentimental, sappy idiot who thinks of this as a family of sorts. There has been a continuity of our 'villainous company' from our wild and crazy days on ScrappleFace where the old crew originally met while enjoying the wit of Scott Ott, to Jet Noise, Brett Barboursville and the Hall of Shame where the captioning dynasty began, to VC and the Rogues Gallery where it continues.

May it ever be so, until we tire of it all or too many of us get arrested.

 

cassWho the heck is Cassandra?

 Cassandra is a beautiful (look... bear with me... we all have our little fantasies) tech wench who flits about the DC area in a hot red sports car solving incredibly thrilling technical problems for the CIA when she's not making up snarky lies about her sex life or drinking herself into a state of blissful nirvana. She's also extremely pretentious and loves to talk about herself in the third person -- it gives her a feeling of power over others. She gets off on this incredibly.

Really... you have no idea.

 

What's with the dorky picture?

It came with her wallet. Seriously, it's part of her cover for the CIA.

Can I write to Cassandra?

People do. She employs a half-vast editorial staff of itinerant Eskimo typists to answer her mail. Sadly, she has found them unreliable. When caribou season comes around they have a disturbing habit of vanishing without warning, leaving her Inbox looking more cluttered than the inside of Imelda Marcos' shoe closet.

If that happens, please understand that though she adores getting your mail, there are only so many hours in the day and she needs time for bubble baths, impromptu trips to Milan, and the odd lime dacquiri. She feels intensely guilty if she doesn't answer mail right away, but good help is so hard to find.

How come I never received that stuffed marmoset Cassandra promised me?

Good Lord, man. You didn't really believe she was going to mail you a marmoset, did you? Do you even know what a marmoset looks like?

 

Will Cassandra use the fascinating link I sent her?

Quite possibly. If you send something interesting, she may or may not use it as she has a huge backlog of material she hasn't found time to write about. But she loves receiving blog fodder. So please don't be discouraged if she doesn't use something you send - she doesn't use most of what she finds, either.

Lots of times she loves things she gets in the mail, but can't think of a single intelligent thing to say about them...

Generally when this happens, she dashes off something incredibly long-winded anyway.

Or not. It depends on her mood.

If in doubt, send them on! Trust me, she'll be grateful. Even if those durned Eskimos don't send a thank-you note.