Insert Tumbleweeds Here.

It's a gunfight at the IC corral, as frigid temps have kept both you-know-who and you-know-who-else from venturing out of the house for as much as a second, let alone to a drafty coffee shop or schlep-tastic library to get writing done. So they're in the office. Typing. ALL THE FRIGGING TIME. Not only is this cutting into my blogging; its also cutting into my solace and quiet meditiation perched atop what is known in these parts as the C.E.O. Chair.

You see, the office has the following options for seating:

1) a wooden folding chair, stolen from a caterer.

2) another wooden folding chair, ditto.

3) an ultra suede, lower lumbar-support, wooden-armed swivel chair upholstered to look like a pinto pony (aka C.E.O.).

4) the floor.

Naturally, we all gravitate to C.E.O. When they butted their fat human asses into the chair every now an again for a quick myspace check, I didn't fret. What's ten minutes a day? But now that they're here all the time, I have to, like, SHARE. Sharing is for wimps, not for pussies. Plus, I'm the only one who actually SLEEPS in the chair. Which totally calls it in my favor, I think.

Luckily for me, T.O.C.E. has been on some stupid diet that makes her drink, like more gallons of water per hour than what was dumped on The One Called Jennifer Beals' head in Flashdance. So she pees alot. If she leaves the chair to go to the human litter box, even if just for twenty seconds, I'm in C.E.O. Chair when she returns. I like to put a look on my face when she comes back into the room like "And you are? And I would know you from..." That pissed her off nice and good.

When The Other One is in the chair, I just howl and howl and howl until he moves. It works! That's how T.O.C.E. gets what she wants, too. When he's very pissed off, The Other One has a sure fire way to get me to leave-- he plays his guitar. Bleeech. Murder Ballads. I prefer Ray Charles. So one strum, and I'm under the bed.

This morning, T.O.C.E. got up and pretended to go pee, but really hid outside the doorframe for a second, then popped her head back in the room just as I was beginning to jump. Curses! Tricked at my own game! We stared into each others eyes, each waiting for the other to leap for the chair first.

It was totally all OOOOOOeeeOOOOOeeeOOOH! Mwah-Mwah-Mwah! (international movie showdown musique)

Then T.C.O.E. stuck out her enormous heinie, lunging into a seated position. Like a bolt of liquid lightning, I jumped across the room and into the chair, sliding in between the seat and her big ass(seriously, it blocked out the sun) in a millisecond, like The One Called Indiana Jones squeezing out of the Temple of....whateverthehellitwas. To avoid her gaze, I triumphantly started washing my face, like I'd been there the whole time.

She fell over onto the floor laughing, but I know it was only to hide her pain. Then she threw me out of the chair. One of these days, the two of them will come back and find their C.E.O. chair Tore Slam Up.