Wednesday, September 7, 2011


Ya know, sometimes it just doesn't pay to get up out of bed. I'm here at ye Olde Library because I can't get online at "home." Apparently, stealing the internet is no longer paying off. You get what you pay for. On top of that, this isn't the blog entry I had planned on. I had just finished writing an entry that was probably the finest work of prose ever crafted by a human being and the damn computer froze. I had saved my work exactly zero times. Way to go, Miss "OS/2 Engineer, I Can Fix Anything and Save Your Work, Moron of 1997." Shoot me now.

Jesus; I think I'll go play the Walton Viola Concerto and relax. The babbling winos will certainly enjoy the performance. So, with that stellar re-beginning, we're off to the Asylum. Lemme get the health crap out of the way; no more eye surgery, the damage is too severe to fix. Heart palpitations for three weeks. Maybe I'm in love. My cardiologist says not, but I think he's been sniffing too much happy gas, or is full of shit. Enough of this boredom.

Now, on to the real stuff. We have acquired 2 or 3 more cats. I've lost track because every damn one of 'em look alike, they're just in different sizes. Someone stole Dale Earnhart, and L and D, our cat-whisperers were sad. I think one of the housies stole these new, random cats to cheer them up. Now, everyone is cheered up; you can't get in the house without falling over a cat or two. I can't see anyway, so this is always an adventure. There are cat toys strewn all over the porch and everyone who has even a little bit of money is spending it on treats, Happy Cat meals, cat nip, rye grass, wet and dry food. The cats will probably die of obesity before they ever approach their dotage. And they're a bunch of spoiled, rotten asses. Heh. I love it.

Mr. Pimp My Ride got drunk the other night. Hell, he gets drunk every night. He had been picking on O, but W threatened to kick his ass, so Mr. Pimp beat up and stabbed one of the garbage trucks. I don't know if he is one of our Rehab Ministers, but somehow I doubt it. He does this about oh, 6 or 7 times a week. Personally, I prefer A who gets drunk and goes out and serenades the passing cars on Nebraska Avenue. If we're lucky, A gets an extra special kick from his Blitz beer or Sterno or whatever he's drinking and dances for the cars as well. I never miss one of his performances. A in reality, is a true gentleman.

Godzilla moved in. I'm kind of glad. After Sasquatch left it got boring. Sasquatch, or Squatch as she (he? it?) is affectionately known, wears the same snot-green, puke-yellow, geometric tent for weeks at a time. This tent has no sleeves so we are treated to wads of cottage-cheese like flab billowing around in the breeze. Oh, and to top off this vision, she rats around in a pair of velour slacks that appear to have spent the last 47 years stuffed under a matress. To make an unappetizing story short, Squatch was stealing everything in sight, and she got the boot.

Now Godzilla is here and she is a piece of work. Picture a kid's top, the kind that's rotund in the center and has a point. Stuff it into a pair of stretch denims that are about three sizes too small. Make sure you put one of those crinkly, stretchy type chartreuse tops that pinch the hell out of your boobs and push them up under one's chin. I guess that's better than the two-aspirins-on-an-ironing-board look. Put on some green day-glo crocs and top it off with about four pounds of hot-buttered yak wool dyed yellow ("blonde"?") Now, imagine this visage at about 5'10" and 350 pounds and you got ya a Godzilla.

No wonder I'm legally blind. The guys(?) here outdo the gals(?) on occasion. There's one nitwit here who has a to-die-for ensemble of baggy bermuda shorts that are falling off, with bright canary yellow boxers and day-glo yellow crocs. Oh, and no shirt.

I gotta make this short, one question and I hope someone can anwer this. What is this deal with guys running around with one hand holding up their pants, while in the back their pants are hanging down around their asses. Is this supposed to be cool? I fail to see how walking or running hunched over like Igor is where it's at. It never seems to occur to these igmos that if they ever did have to run from the Police, it's gonna be a short chase. This is the stupidest thing I've ever seen, and this is coming from someone who shared a stage with "Garfield, the Musical." That damned cat scared me so badly, I almost dropped my viola. Jesus.

Anyway, I have to run. My love and I are moving crap from one shed to the back yard. Love to you all; I'll be back soon. I plan on actually paying for some Internet soon. Remind me to tell you about the demise of "Shit Found on the Sidewalk." It's a temporary demise, I'm collecting more for pictures. Peace and Love.
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