Tag Archives: animal farm

Holy god above mother of a monkey heaven swallow me up

Uncategorized, , , ,

One of these just ran by on the wall. And I was all oh you again, I thought I put you outside. It can stay until the cat notices it, but the cat is totally busy staring at that raccoon that’s eating a chicken bone up in the tree outside the window. The cat likes the raccoon, and she likes the skunk, but she does not like other cats. I live on Mount Trashmore*.

So uh what else. I am fresh out of ideas here. And the topical is sooooooo irrelevant. You all know that we are going to die, and that we live in a ridiculous socio-political construct, so why do you need me to rub it in? I can’t sustain a thought for that long anyway. Sometimes when I am driving around, I think “A.D.D. means America Deserves Doomsday.” I also think about how much art exists only as pixels and electrons, and I wonder if that’s a problem. I don’t use paper for anything but wiping. What was me saying?

I could talk about anal sex, or I could talk about going to the grocery store and how that is a bad, irritating place. Or I could talk like Hulk, because I am in such a cranky mood. See, Hulk off happy pills because Doctor say “Hulk, you want to make green strong baby, not SPINDLY WHITE BABY, right?” And Hulk say, “Oh, Hulk guess so.” Hulk not want to make baby anymore, this too much trouble. Hulk plan to adopt monkey cub and go back on sauce.

So what do you clams want me to talk about? Let me know, or suffer. Cuz I can vamp indefinitely. My current favorite wine costs $8. It is the 2001 Campo Viejo Rioja. We buy it by the bucket, and there is no accounting for taste. I could talk about apostrophes, because they get me so mad. Condo’s and Apartment’s. Sandwich’s. OK, anal sex it is; the people have spoken. I hereby declare this Anal Sex Week. I think that would be super, as do American teenage virgins and most people I know, except for my mother. How original. Call Katie Couric.

But seriously, Hulk hate the damn grocery store and the bad people one finds there. Hulk get flustered and purchase macaroni salad for some reason. Who wants to eat macaroni salad?

*Not true, but I have visited.

Glamour kitty

Uncategorized, , ,

Oh, internet. It’s a big day. I have so much fucking laundry to do, and so much work to do, and I have to ingest some calories, and probably make a few trips to eliminate waste, and the house is dirty, but that has nothing to do with the waste. And it’s almost Mother’s Day, and that means I have to go get a wall vase from Pottery Barn that someone has been coveting.

Yesterday I had road rage supremo, and I soon tired of shouting insults related to the term “colostomy bag.” So Hulk growl and roar. This actually seemed to frighten people, and it made me feel a lot better. It was a tough day. I had to go to a funeral, and Google Maps steered me to Main Street in Springfield instead of West Springfield, even though I clearly entered “W” in my directions. I have the print out. Behold it. I finally found the place I needed to be through sheer Spidey sense, and all was well, or at least as well as it can be at a funeral.

But get this, the cat has finally learned to talk. If I say “Who’s the Kitty!!!!!” she says “Mee!” We could do this for hours. If I say “Who loves Mommy?” she says “Mee!” If I say “Do you want cheap Canadian Lasik?” she says “Mee!” I am going to be so fucking rich. With all the money I save on Canadian Lasik, I mean.

Got nothing, but died of complications

Uncategorized, , ,

Sometimes a Kodiak bear will drop by. He brought me a diet soda.

This morning someone pointed out to me that feeding tubes are the new black. The pope’s getting one, and so is Jerry Falwell. If I get one, I’ll never have to leave the couch. I guess I would also need a catheter and a colostomy, but the bear should have no problem changing me and occasionally rotating me. Wouldn’t want a PBJ to get stuck under a fold. Although come to think of it, the feeding tube probably would not accomodate a sandwich. That would be too bad, because I really like sandwiches of all sorts.

Internet, let it be known that I wish to be killed as needed. Hangnail? Bad haircut? Put me out of my misery! Don’t even think about putting me on TV in muu muu. Just wheel me out onto the lanai and let me expire with dignity, watching Golden Girls reruns as you serve me a mango daiquiri laced with downers. I asked Mr. H “You’d kill me, right, baby?” He pledged to smother me with a pillow in a satin case. Heather also offered to kill me, and of course I’d trip over her plug any day. That’s love, people.

My dad e-mailed me last week to say he’s making an effort to die on the job because his pension will be larger if he does. That 72-year-old bastard climbs eight flights of stairs twice a day. Sadly, this physical exercise will probably prolong his life, but I really appreciate the hustle.

Love my way

Uncategorized, , ,

If it’s Tuesday, it must be Wednesday. I seem to be operating under a different time zone. I have a hard time falling asleep at night because the days are sunny and I want to pee on fire hydrants, but that’s OK, because the animals are on parade. Ocelots and apes! Donkeys and alligators! They look like felt hand puppets in shades of magenta and yellow. Oh, it’s a hippo. There goes the puffin. I think the antelope is a jerk. If I really can’t sleep, I crush the animals with Tetris blocks.

I fired the cleaners last month because they were making meth in the guest bathroom with MY Sudafed. They still show up once a week and sadly press their noses against the window, but I shout “NO!” in Spanish, or maybe Portuguese. So now I am cleaning everything in sight, ADD-style. I have to abandon what I am doing at least every ten minutes and go do something else, but things eventually get done. I had a conference call the other day, and what the other participants did not know was that I was on a ladder in the tub, scrubbing the corners of the ceiling with a toothbrush dipped in bleach. Cleanliness, Godliness. Fumes. All that.

Later I picked up trash on the street uncovered by melting snow while yelling into my headset. I wasn’t on the phone then, just yelling. OK, I was on the phone. But headsets make everyone look insane. So does picking up trash, but I can’t help that. it’s in my blood.

Go forth. Nip. Tuck. Spackle. Exfoliate. Oil those hooves. Shine your horn. Shake those bones.

My house sits your ass down…

Uncategorized, , , ,

Oh, you know things are bad when the events of your life trot out UB40 songs in your head on eternal repeat. There has been a rat in the kitchen for a while now. Pennywise started out living in the basement and got greedy. We were content to trap him and out him into the street, but he is a wily fellow. Just when you think you have not seen him in ages and he must be gone for good, off to more posh digs in the dumpster behind Shaws, his shadowy step will be seen again. The line has finally been drawn in the sand, however. Pennywise has taken to sitting on our sofa, eating our snacks! There he was watching VH1 Classic and eating Seth’s cheese doodles like he was one of us. We could tell he was an imposter, though, because he didn’t warble along incoherently when they played Michael Mcdonald. So the exterminator is coming. The dawn shall rise on vengeance! YA MO BE DERE!

In other news, I received my letter of acceptance to the Big Sister program. I am going to go practice mentoring something. Like maybe the coffee machine or my pencil case.

-xo

She’s a brick house

Uncategorized, , ,

Last night I went to the towniest bar on the entire planet with my sister-in-law. We watched a cover band, and overweight women throwing bras. I can’t even make this funny. I get uncomfortable around people with bad hair.

We’ve given the heave-ho to the evil, deceitful apartment people. They are refunding our money, but hemming and hawing about reimbursing us for the storage fee for our crap for the month we stupidly waited. I am thinking of calling the local paper and asking for the Bone To Pick Department. Now it’s off to look at ten or twenty apartments this afternoon. I am totally opening all the medicine cabinets and checking for water pressure.

Oh, confidential to Mr. Baby’s parental units: I am sure you get lots of parenting advice, and maybe you’ve already done this, but don’t you think it’s time to photograph him in a roasting pan or a soup tureen? I mean before he gets too big. I can’t tell you how often I fondly look back on my “kitten in the microwave” series and wish I’d thought to pose her in the toaster oven too. Now she’s just plain huge.

-xxoo

I’m OK, you’re OK

Uncategorized, , , , , , ,

A flash of peripheral motion caught my eye out the window, and I looked up to see a red-tailed hawk on the ground, bending and bobbing over something. Then it swooped off, clutching the limp dangling body of a squirrel. Stupid squirrel, of course you’re going to show up against white snow. Duh. My mother used to dress my sister and I in bright colors, to avoid hunters, she said, but maybe she was trying to attract hawks.

I owe this nature hour to the backyard of Mr. H’s parents’ house, where we’re still bunking. The evil building management people say our new place will be open for business on February 1, and that the holdup is the state elevator inspection people. I wonder if they have heard the phrase “cross my palm with silver.” It seems to be indicated. I have also heard of a person called a “permit expediter.” Apparently they hand out $100 bills all day at City Hall. Maybe this doesn’t work with a state agency, although I don’t see why it wouldn’t.

Some alert and concerned readers have asked if Lambchop and I are both stark, raving mad. I would have to say we’ve both seen better days, but in many ways no more so than usual. She handles the mania, and I am in charge of ennui. You see, we are a team! We both might fancy a trip to someplace warm, involving umbrella drinks!

-xxoo

The Simpsons Are Going to Japan

Uncategorized, , , , ,

Thanks to my pal Thrifty J for pointing out the stupid cheap $360 fare from Boston to Tokyo! Huzzah. Turned out to be a misprint (it normally would have been $3000 for us to fly on those dates), but American honored it anyway. When I called to finagle it, the world-weary Texan lady who answered said “Oh, the Boston thing again.” Sigh. And now it’s gone, and someone probably got fired. I can’t wait for April. We’ll pirouette ‘neath daintily falling cherry blossoms, and I’ll croon “Hot Child in the City” with some drunken businessmen. Mr. H is all hot to go to a country n’ western bar.

Other than that stroke of luck, today was a major ass-ramming. And not in that good way. Just as poor Heather suffers from ailments of the tract, there seems to be a capricious gnome squatting in my chest. His friend Stabby lives in my throat. Maybe it’s rabies. I’m about to hit the Nyquil pretty hard.

We took Spare Cat (a stray who lived on the front porch) to the animal shelter last night, and he savaged us right and proper. I understood, I really did. I don’t like to get crammed in tiny boxes either, even with my very small frame. You’re right, I *can* curl up into a very small ball. Oh no, you flatter me! It didn’t help that Spare Cat had space madness from being stuck out in the cold. In a triumph of my mother’s meddlesome DNA, I made him a wretched little insulated hovel on the porch, which is how he survived the past week. If anyone is interested in a handsome devil of a white cat (with big blue eyes and an extra toe), I can point you in the right direction. Unfortunately he does not play well with other cats, which is why we couldn’t keep him. And he’s got a meow like a rusty hinge.

-xxoo

Action cat, cat of action

Uncategorized, ,


action cat

This is as lame as it gets, people. Pet photos. I am essentially punishing you for reading! Just like I am punishing the guy who sits in the office building across the alley by picking my nose while staring right at him. He *started* it by staring at me. And I wasn’t picking my nose the first time, just scratching it. But then he looked at me like “Aha, I caught you.” So I glared at him. He glared back. Now it’s WAR.

The little mister and I got a new coffee table a few months ago, and Coco loves to stuff herself underneath it, so Mr. H took a picture after provoking her. We call this compulsive need to burrow under something “weaseling.” She’s not happy until she’s wedged into the couch or tunneled into the middle of the laundry basket. We call her “Weasel.” She doesn’t really care, since her brain is the size of a walnut. So we abuse the privilege and call her “Monster” or “Monstro the Monster Cat.”

This morning was not cute. She woke up me at 5 a.m. by biting my tank top strap and letting go. Repeatedly. She has all the finesse of an 8th grade bra snapper, but it’s a pretty effective tactic. She figured this out when she was but a babe. She does not do it to Mr. H, since he doesn’t make a habit of wearing spaghetti straps. But mommy is fair game. Apparently I am doomed to play out biological gender roles by someone not even of my same species. Curses! She also has a shocking lack of respect for cashmere.

Anyway, then she threw up. Luckily not on me. So that was my day. How about yours? Whoopty shit.

-xxoo

Tequila Sunrises and other forces of nature

Uncategorized, , , ,

Your intrepid lambchop is still in search of gainful employ. Walking through Post Office Square at lunchtime is like entering a yuppie petting zoo. If only there were dispensers of kibble. I take heart from the monument to the Hungarian Revolution on Kilby Street. It looks like a woman holding up a baby and the plaque quotes Kennedy “it was a day of courage, conscience, and triumph…” Looking for work does not have much in common with bloody uprisings (no threat of evisceration, really) and yet i mutter this phrase to myself before every hearty handshake with a prospective employer. Which is very likely the reason I am still looking for a job.

I should just change my title to:

flaneur \flah-NUR\, noun:

One who strolls about aimlessly; a lounger; a loafer.

The studio practice is back in full swing. Stay tuned and see!

Yesterday I was on the loose with my pal Stu. We drove through perilous lightning and cracking thunder. We drank pink gin and tonics with our friend Mr. King and wrestled on the wet asphalt. We took turns racing Mr. King’s bicycle down the rain slicked street and Stu came up bloody. We thought he was kidding. Sometime around four it began to rain again and we just stood in the street getting rained on.

xo