What the hell is coming out of my butt?

My cat has decided to learn how to type.  This is my slow cat.  This is the same cat who used to scream when she pooped.  She’d whine as if to say, “What the hell is coming out of my butt?”  (On a side note, I too have taken to screaming while in public restrooms.  It’s really great fun.  Try pounding on the stalls next to you and saying, “It won’t come out!”  This is why I’m single.)

So Blue has discovered the keyboard and, I’m afraid, wants to pen her memoirs.  Mostly she just says this:  dasfjldjfa;ldjfasd; f.  As I said, her skill level is low.  She thinks her tail is a foreign object that wants to kill her.  She thinks the toilet is a water bowl.  Ok, that one is my fault because I forget to leave water out.  Nevertheless my cat wants to write.

As a struggling writer myself I have to dissuade her from this project.  But it’s not because writing is a lonely business.  It’s not because writing makes you want to jump off a bridge.  It’s because I’m afraid my slow-witted cat will get an agent before I ever do. 

Until that time, I leave you with this:  adfjouernvcmvo dfouweirjf;.  (That roughly translates to: Feed me already, bitch.)

Where in the world is Joe Camel?

First, there were baboon gangs in South Africa and now there are “marauding, wild camels” making waves in Australia.  Apparently, there are thousands of them.  They are desperate for water so they raid local houses, hotels, and strip clubs.  The Australian government plans to corral them with helicopters and then shoot them.  It sounds as if Australia is going rogue.

I’m pretty sure Xe (nee Blackwater) is in charge of the helicopters and someone named Sarah is manning the artillery.  The camels are said to store precious resources in their humps.  An unidentified source calls the precious resource black gold.  It should be noted that when this source said “black gold” a chorus of shushing reverberated throughout the desert.  Other shouts of “shut up, mate” and “fuck you, you’ll give it away” could also be heard.

Meanwhile the camels have up-armored their humps (one camel said he was “Blingtastic”) and plan to take over the world one country at a time.  A high-ranking camel, who spoke on condition of anonymity, scoffed at the notion that they were looking for water.  “That’s a tactical move,” he said (though to be honest I didn’t get close enough to determine the camel’s sex).  “We need a cover story.”  He then spat on the ground and kept repeating: “Four horsemen?  Four horsemen?”  War weary, this poor camel suffers from Tourette’s.

Several high-ranking officials in the US and Australian governments contend that none other than Joe Camel is responsible for the uprising.  He has been in hiding for several years, some say in the cave complexes of Tora Bora.  Now, it appears, he is ready to make his move.  One official told me to print this message:  “The world is watching, Joe Camel. And we will get you.”  He then coughed loudly and stubbed out his cigarette.

Would you give a baboon a sandwich?

There are baboon gangs in South Africa running amok. They unlock car doors, steal food and punch children in the eye. Should we be concerned? Most certainly. But give the baboons a break. The economy is awful; it’s no wonder they have to break into cars. Plus, I feel these baboons are being maligned for several terrible reasons.

First, humans are feeling a bit insecure. Think about it. For millennia human beings have been stealing from one another and now that privilege is being usurped by a common primate. Next thing you know they’ll be running Ponzi schemes and begging for a bailout. I hear one of the baboons is named Bernie.

Next, it’s clear we need a new scapegoat for our bad behavior, but we’ve run out of options. We’ve already targeted Jews, gays and people who shop at Wal-Mart. Clearly there’s no one left. But baboons? Come on. Surely wombats have done more harm to humanity than a baboon ever could.

Finally, people need to quit caring about their possessions and learn how to share. I’m sure that if you offered a baboon a sampling of your lunch he would gladly take it without snatching off your nose or jabbing you in the eye. I might sound like a Commie but I believe we should share our resources with everyone and everything.

Well, everything but a wombat.

What’s behind that door?

I have two cats, Mazik and Blue, who are full of imagination.  They see me leave the house and wonder what’s beyond the door I walk out of every day.  My cats love doors.  They are fascinated by any door I open.  In fact, this morning I opened my linen closet.  Were they stunned to find towels and sheets and pillow cases – oh my!  Then they peed on them.  And ate a few.  All doors are opportunities to eat and pee on stuff.

I’m not always sure what stories the cats tell when I leave, but they must be scary enough to pee their pants.  My cats don’t wear pants but I didn’t know how else to say that.  Plus they vomit sometimes.  The stories must be full of action.  They run around and shake up their bellies and then vomit.  And then they eat parts of my couch.  But that’s because I don’t feed them.  I haven’t put them on a diet; I just forget sometimes.

So I’m pretty sure I can channel my cats’ imaginations because we’re pretty close.  We sleep in the same bed and share utensils sometimes.  I let Mazik use my toothbrush.  So anyway, I’m pretty sure this is the story that makes them pee and vomit and eat my couch:

Once upon a time there was a little cat who pretended to like his owner. (At this point Blue starts laughing)  He pretended so much that his owner really believed it.  Let’s call this owner Abby.  Abby loved her cat, but she didn’t know he was a big faker.  (At this point Blue laughs so hard she pees herself.)  Because Abby liked her cat so much she danced around with him and cooed at him and made him wear dresses.  (At this point Mazik shoves a paw down his throat and vomits.)  But the cat’s real goal was to smother her in her sleep because that’s what cats do.  (Blue looks at him quizzically.)  You know it’s true, doofus.  Anyway, one day when Abby comes home the cat will snuggle and hug and all that crap. (Another paw down the throat.)  And all will be well until that evening when he smothers her.  The end.  Now let’s go gnaw on the couch.

I love my cats and I think they really love me.

Couldn’t we all use a personal cheering section?

Whenever Americans are judged in talent shows such as American Idol, they must stand before a panel, which usually includes a snarky Brit, and be told how much they suck.  Most of the time, the looks on the contestants’ faces are the same.  They calmly stare at the judges and nod and shuffle their feet.  But you can tell they’re seething inside.  Just once I’d like them to yell back.  Sure that’s happened during the auditions, but I want it to happen more often.  And I want it to happen during the more civilized part of the show, the part beyond those ridiculous auditions.  Scream and yell at them.  Cause a ruckus.  Engage in mortal combat.  Come on, wouldn’t that be fun?

Given the fun quotient here, I’d also like to propose three-judge panels in the workplace.  When performance review time comes up, all the judges, including the requisite Brit, must evaluate your job performance.  You ask for a raise and the Brit says, “Like bloody Hell.”  This, of course, is your cue to beat the crap out of him.

We should have these panels everywhere: in the grocery store, the gym, the bookstore and the bathroom.  We could all use a little encouragement in the john, and, let’s face it, who wouldn’t relish the idea of a snarky Brit telling you to put the cookies down and buy something healthful?  This, of course, is your cue to beat the crap out of him.

Still, a plan like this calls for some balance.  A three-judge panel can get tiresome.  To that end I propose maintaining your own personal cheering section.  To offset the snarky Brit, your cheering section can applaud your taste in fatty foods, your healthy bowel movements and your flabby stomach.  Hooray, they say, whenever you sing off key, forget to pay your cable bill, or misplace your sunglasses.  Then when the snarky Brit tries to tell you your life sucks, you tell the cheering section to beat the crap out of him.

Why does no one ever eat popcorn while they’re watching my life?

Whenever I have a heated debate with somebody I want it to end with the soap pause.  You know, on soaps, whenever there’s a really tense scene, the cameraman zooms in on one actor who stares into space for an uncomfortably long time.  I could’ve raised ten children in the amount of time they zoom in on his face.  But that’s what I want – my close up and passionate music playing in the background.

I’d also like to fall in love with someone within a montage:  A shot of our first date, our first kiss, more fun dates, and then Bam! We’re in love.  I mean, wouldn’t it be great if all that awkward crap could be cut out?  Plus, if we could wrap up this falling in love thing within an hour and a half I’d finally have time to write my novel.

I’ll admit it – my life is far too influenced by movies and TV.  All too often I find myself having a conversation and thinking, “This is the part that should end at commercial break.”  Say a witty line or create a tender moment…..and scene.  Instead, I’m left twiddling my thumbs and thinking of the next joke.  I have, however, left conversations at strategic moments to go to the bathroom or get a drink.  Some lines just have to hang in the air.

I’m not sure if this comes from being a storyteller or a dreamer or a nut job.  But there’s one thing I do know for certain. (Cue music)  Lots of people on TV have jobs, but they never do them.  They just carry around papers and look busy.  Sometimes they stare at the papers because they’ve forgotten their lines.  And to that I say (the music rises in intensity) – to that I say, damn you!  Where can I get a job like that?

And scene.

Would you like some E. coli with that?

Ever have the drive thru guy ask you how you’re doing?  It’s a little disconcerting, especially when you’re expecting something like “Can I take your order?”  I appreciate the kindness, but generally I’m thrown off guard.  I wonder, “Do I say I’m great and wait for the conversation to get rolling or do I immediately place my order, ignoring the pleasantries altogether?  And if I ignore them, do I seem like an ass? And why is he asking me questions when he knows I’m bad at small talk?”  By the time I roll up to the window I’m pounding my fists on the steering wheel.

I’ll admit, however, that I kinda like it when the drive thru folks break with convention.  I appreciate their capricious spirit.    One time, a guy made sound effects.  Another time, I had an especially beneficial therapy session while ordering my tacos.  “You’re not emotionally eating?” the cashier said as he handed me my bag.  “I assure you I am not,” I said, and I wasn’t lying.

I like these renegade cashiers so much I’m tempted to get a job as one myself.  I’d have so much fun.  Surely I’d get fired, but that’s beside the point.   Some things I’d like to say in my new job:

• Would you like some E. coli with that?
• McWould you like to McMarry me?
• How often do you bathe?
• Damn, you’re ugly.

Oh the fun I’d have.  And I can’t believe they only pay them minimum wage.

Are you a chinchilla person?

Some people say you are either a cat person or a dog person – as if you can’t be both.  I’m a woman who has cats, but I also had dogs growing up.  I also like dogs a lot, but I don’t own one now because I’m terribly lazy.  I have the cats because they can take care of themselves.  Dogs, on the other hand, need more care.  If my laziness makes me a cat person by default then so be it.  But I don’t like it.

Not only am I not fond of this false dichotomy, but I don’t like the condescension people throw around when they’re talking about cats or dogs.  Cat people turn up their noses at dog people, as if, like their dogs, they too will engage in butt sniffing.  Dog people talk about cat lovers with such disdain you’d think they were once sodomized by a cat in their sleep.  Can’t we all just get along?

To stop the fighting I propose we take an expanded view on the subject.  Let’s not be so divisive.  And if that doesn’t work, we can make fun of the people who own hermit crabs.  I mean, have you seen those things?

What’s wrong with bombing the crap out of people anyway?

Whenever we’re in a prolonged state of war that seems doomed to failure people often trot out what they perceive as the only way to beat the enemy:  Let’s just bomb them into oblivion!  Sounds great, doesn’t it?  With the push of a button the entire problem will be gone!

Er, well, what about the fact that we’ll be killing innocent civilians?  I know, I know – there have been scores of reports claiming that babies are now wielding AK-47s and machetes, but I’m here to tell you that these reports are patently false.  Of all the innocents, only my cats know how to wield a machete and they do so with great skill (though I’m not sure if they’re all that innocent).  I also realize that one American life is worth 50 civilians’ lives (depending on inflation, GDP, and the going rate of maple syrup).  But who will we exploit if we kill them all?

And, um, won’t we make the rest of the world mad if we make an entire nation disappear?  (By the way, I don’t know the logistics of making a country disappear, but it can be done.  After all, the US created the Big Mac.  Anything is possible.)  So I guess it’s not a big deal if we upset the French.  After all, they kinda hate us.  But do we really want to piss off the Germans?  They make cool cars.  And I’m sure the Japanese will have a thing or two to say about this bombing-into-oblivion thing.  Plus, we know Americans can’t be without their coveted electronics.

I’m just saying this bomb-a-country-into-extinction tactic makes for bad foreign policy.  It goes against our own self-interest.  Instead, I have a modest proposal of my own.  Let’s send in the cats.  I’m sure they all secretly know how to wield machetes.

Who needs 20/20 vision anyway?

I recently bought my first pair of glasses in probably 70 years.  I haven’t worn glasses in awhile, but they have always been a staple in my life.  I got my first pair at four and have had glasses, contacts or pince-nez ever since.  My dad gave me the nickname “Professor” at four because, apparently, my nerdy glasses made me look oh so professorial.  I have since started teaching at a community college.  Self-fulfilling prophecy?  Well, let’s just say I’m glad my dad didn’t nickname me Dog Catcher.

These new glasses have done wonders for me.  I can now see my sheet music very clearly.  Of course, now I won’t be able to blame my bad playing on blindness.  I can also see my surroundings without bumping into things.  The glasses, however, do not fix my overall clumsiness. 

I like the glasses; they’re cute and dainty – in other words, the exact opposite of my personality.  But I think I’m going to have to reconsider the whole thing.  I can now see every pore in my face.  Yeah, that’s TMI, but think how horrifying this is to me.  I have holes in my face so large small galaxies have collapsed inside of them.  I can divine the apocalypse by looking at my face.  Plus, my eyes are magnified so large I look like an alien – perhaps one that has escaped the galaxy that collapsed in my face.  These glasses are definitely no good.

By the way, did I mention my dad’s other nickname for me is Stretch?