I'd like to thank all the little people...

...For stroking my kittycat ego with the ardor that, in all honesty, is just part of their job description as humans. Your cross-species fan mail has been pouring in.

This little piggy has been featured here before (June 2005?)-- and has a penchant for my doppelgangers (photographic evidence of this later).

And this little piggy bore the tremendous burden of spending time with T.O.C.E. during her formative years. Yeeeech and perish the thought.

Both have championed my leonine wit in their not-too-shabby human blogs (1)(2) and I, ever the enlightened despot, hereby return the favor.

And for the rest of you ingrates (didn't your momma teach you how to cat-worship?) here is a picture of The One Called Ill that T.O.C.E. especially likes:

The One That is the Cousin of T.O.C.E. circa 3/1998

Try not to think of pink elephants

Just so T.O.C.E.'s friends don't think The Other was telling tales out of school, here is a photo evidence of the nuptuals (now 4 years in the past-- yowza!) and the corresponding law suit that were the subject of much recounting at last night's fake 4th of July fete:



Things we learned at said fete:

1) Sometimes even European princes need guidance when it comes to sportswear.

2) The One Called Casey's rage extends to the following: fat animals and The One Called Mckeen, when he is remarkably sucessful at "Trivial Pursuit: the 90's Edition."

3) The answer to nearly every question in "Trivial Pursuit: the 90's Edition" is "Michael Bolton."

4) The One Called Bern's cat, Sunshine's favorite song is "Midnight Train to Georgia" (good choice, comrade!)

5) Said one called Bern was too busy peddling contraband at jam band concerts to pay attention to politics in the 1990's.

6) Sparklers make human girls happy.

7) The Declaration of Independence contains the word "erection" and the phrase "eat out" in the same sentence.

8) T.O.C.E. and The Other do not own a spatula.

9)The way to The One Called Gracia's heart is through a treacherous trek up the bleachers and a Bryan Adams CD single.

10) If you live in a major metropolitan area in any corner of the globe (read: not Iowa City) you are contractually bound to come down with "World Cup Fever."

Jeez Loueez!

Can't a three-legged body take a two-week break from preaching to the humanoid masses without a public outcry? Yeesh.

This hot weather has sent me spiraling deep into a 360-hour napping bender. And oh, has it been sweet. The house was also nice and quiet for a while, what with T.O.C.E. working across town, falling on the floor for money and The Other romancing that fat, flat, froggy tart Des Moines. But now they're both back and clomping all over the apartment, much to my kitty Chagrin. So I seethe. And now I blog.

Speaking of seething, have you ever seen that epimasode of THE JETSONS where George does something to piss off a vengeful Robot and all of technology calls a "code red" on him? Neither have I. I don't watch any TV shows with talking dogs. Actually, I don't watch TV at all.

Irregardlessably, this past Thursday, all the machines of Iowa united to terrorize T.O.C.E. on the very day when her play opened and she had to try to keep the government from weasling an extra $ two grand from her Dickensian-ly empty pockets. The phone died. The computer died. The TV died, etc. Said mutiny worked our anti-heroine into such a dither that she found herself talking on a payphone to The Telephone Service Flunky Named Michelle in decidedly less-than-dulcet tones. Tho' it started off innocently enough...

A transcript:

11:15AM 6/29/2006

T.O.C.E.: Hi, I was told I could call this number to return the phone you sold me that broke and is all your company's fault?

The Telephone Serivce Flunky Named Michelle: No, sorry, you just passed the 30 day time limit so you have to pay an exhorbitant penalty to our phone company (who shall remain nameless).

T.O.C.E.: Well, actually, I talked to another one of your representatives a few days ago who explicitly told me I had until July 3rd to make my final decision about your crummy phone. Yes, here it is. I wrote his name down. Chris Smith. I'm sure you can see it on my phone records.

T.T.S.F.N.M.: Oh please. Do you expect me to fall for that garbage? You and I both know you never talked to anyone here. There isn't anyone named "Chris" in all the secret underground ratholes of Cingular...er our company (which will remain nameless).

T.O.C.E.: But...

T.T.S.F.N.M.: We don't even have any customers named "Chris." "Chris" is such a foreign name to me, I can barely pronounce it. Here, let me try: "Kruuuuixzs." "Eeeeekriquiz." "Luulululuuli." Nope, can't do it.

T.O.C.E.: Are you calling me a liar?

T.T.S.F.N.M.: Hey, Pinnochio, if the flaming pants fit! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh! And your return penalty just went up to a zillion-zonka-kabillion dollars, your first born, your big toe, and eternal servitude pushing a large boulder up Cingular Hill, only to have it roll back over you right before you reach the summit. Then a flock of Cingular Seagulls will pick out your liver. And stuff.

[bypassing 15 minutes of the same abuse, as T.O.C.E.'s rage crescendoes]

11:31AM

T.O.C.E.: WHO THE FAT FLAMING F*CK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE TO TALK TO ME LIKE THAT? I HOPE YOUR LITTLE JUDY-THE-TIME/LIFE-OPERATOR HEADSET GIVES YOU HEADLICE, YOU DISGUSTING, DUPLICITOUS VERMIN-SLUTBAG-ROACH EGG WOMAN. I HATE YOUR VOICE. I HATE WHATEVER PATHETIC BODY IS ATTACHED TO YOUR HIDEOUS VOICE. YOUR VOICE GIVES ME GAS. HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE CARRYING THE OFFSPRING OF SATAN IN YOUR UNDOUBTEDLY SHRIVELLED, TOXIC WOMB, YOU CANTANKEROUS, POWER-HUNGRY CRAP-FEST. "DOES YOUR MOTHER KNOW YOUR JOB IS TO TREAT PERFECTLY NORMAL PEOPLE LIKE THIS. F*CK OFF. SHAME ON YOU, MICHELLE. SHAAAAAAAAME ON YOU."*

*That part in quotes is the only thing she really said, but she wanted to say the other things as well. After she hung up the phone, T.O.C.E., shaking with rage, burst into tears. Amateur. Doesn't she know she is supposed to wear her rage like a cloak that keeps her warm? The young Jedi still has so much to learn. Jane, get her off this crazy thing.