Ruh-roh.

I'm Older Than You in Cat Years

Yesterday was The One Called C.Apeshit's birthday (!) and the whole world raised its glassy eyes in a wide, unblinking stare to salute her.

She was duped by humans, poor thing. I can't imagine how dumb you must have to be to let that happen.

Several of her human friends put on strange clothing and sat in a clean suburban condo, waiting for her to arrive. When she did, they hid, and then all jumped out and yelled at her. This is what humans do to their so-called "friends." T.O.C.C. responded to this strange ritual by threatening to vomit. She powered through the nausea, however, upon being given a crown and a scepter for the event. I've heard tell that all T.O.C.C. truly needs to enjoy an event is a scepter (or a branding iron).

Then came the ceremonial presentation of the strange and neither useful nor expensive gifts. This is another place where you humans baffle me. The One Called AshBut took a box and glued many things onto it, which made T.O.C.C. squeal like a wine-soaked piglet. Then The One Called Rebecca presented three pieces of paper stapled together with jokes on it, a hammer, and a plastic bag full of plates. Hmmmmm. Finally, the One Called Bird played a strange song on the banjo about human litter boxes. T.O.C.E. was supposed to play along on the saw, but she left it inher car. She also bought T.O.C.C. a piece of cat-defamation, but dropped it in a puddle on the way out of the store. Stupid, Stupid, human.

Then there was a dance contest, punctuated by some ceremonial juice. At some point, everyone drew pictures of T.O.C.C. Yeek.

It's a good thing none of you humans knows when my cat birthday is.

Regardless of that, happy birthday, You Queen of Rage Blackouts. You often resemble a cat from my own mothership, cloaked in human form to do your extra-terrestrial feline research. For that, I salute you.

The Tri-orama

This is like one of those cryptic, compelling, one-sentence posts that Skinhorse (who I will now out as The One Called AshBut) always does. Usually there's a fact about some phenomenological anemaeity, followed by an eyebrow-raising list. I feel so cool now.

On Patience

You humans can learn a lot from me. Rage, snub-ability, how to lick your own butt, etc. But most importantly, you can all learn patience. Patience is an essential ingredient to most of my favorite pastimes-- holding grudges, plotting overthrows of things, waiting for that pesky invisible bug to finally materialize. True megalomania takes time, people!

For example...you humans would've given up on howling at the door, begging to be let outside to go eat grass (my warm-weather ritual) after, say, four or maybe five weeks of autumn. Not me, doods. I camped out by that dang door, mewling and puking like a three-legged Lear for months. Everytime T.O.C.E. told me "no," or The Other told me "shut the f*ck up," my desire for triumph only further fueled my feline fire. I kept at it, the pantheon of perpetuity, the sultana of stick-to-it-iveness, until I wore dem bitches down. Yesterday, when T.O.C.E. opened the long-closed window so I could perch and sniff the outside air, I knew I'd finally broken off that most important first chink. And today, after the crappy couple had amped themselves up on coffee and a particularly stirring online episode of Lost, the damn dam done broke. I went outside. And my people, let me tell you because of my aforementioned patience, the grass (though now brown and withered from several morning frosts) never tasted sweeter.

Then I went inside and threw up on the bathmat, which was the best part of all.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!TRIUMPH IS MINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sad Humans, Sadder Jokes

Terms Evolved by The One Called C.apeshit and The One Called Bulkhead on their trip to Pittsburgh with T.O.C.E.

1) The "Pittsburgh Table Cloth"-- a humanoid sexual position involving either bodily emissions (Bulkhead), quadriped impressions (C.apeshit), or table linens (T.O.C.E.).

2) Squarshed Potatoes-- Making mashed potatoes with french fries, as the two are essentially similar.

3) Fanny Vanny-- A place to perform any play from the August Wilson catalog, usually a Chevy Astro Cargo.

4) Foon-- an eating utensil often employed in 2000-course, wine-soaked meals.

5) Evil-- Adjective describing C.apeshit's fashion aesthetic, e.g "evil librarian," "evil schoolgirl," "evil Twiggy," "evil hater-of-flowered-cardigans," "evil holiday pants."

6) Black Butter-- a condition developed after a night of listening to a man telling you, in an emasculated falsetto, all the things he is going to do to your fine body.

7) Goneril-- the treatment for Black Butter.

8) Megatouch-- the best way to kill several hours when T.O.C.E. unceremoniously dumps you in the South Side on a Sunday night.

9) Pill Time-- 1) Section of the day alloted for ingesting medication. 2) A sure-fire way to get T.O.C.E. to wet her pants. (See also: snack, denial of)

10) The "Breakfast Smile"-- a humanoid sexual position involving either a kitchen full of meat and dairy products (T.O.C.E.) or multiple double entendres (Bulkhead/C.apeshit).

Who Are You? Where Am I? How Long Was I Out?

Oh, no. Oh, no-no-no-no-no.

It's been two full months with nary a peep from your furry leader. Yes, yes, my people. Charlene understands. I thought for sure you'd get the message and would have donned your Nike airs, guzzled the Crystal Light and boarded those bumk-beds bound for the mothership by now. But you remain here, still breathing awaiting instructions. Heh-heh-heh! Sweet little monkeys.

In truth, I've been around, but stoopid you-know-who won't get off the damn computer box long enough to let me spill my billious rage onto its (suprisingly sticky-- she eats salsa while she types) keys. The fact that T.O.C.E. and the other both went out of town this past weekend should have provided an empty chair and the opportunity for copious bloggering, but The One Called June showed up, armed and ready to worship with cuddles and scratches. Yes, I respond to cuddling. I'm not made of wood, people!!!!! I spent all weekend on the couch, purring. Shut up.

Man-o-cewitz, I coulda stayed with that One Called June till my other legs fell off. She's a peach. But, of course, last night, the damn door opened and Princess Yappy and her sidekick, The Bedhog showed up, asking if I missed them. Now I'm pissed off again, and fueled with enough rage to write.

And, as a promise to my comrades out there in the ether, I will blog every day this week, to feed your rage-starved hearts a six-course meal of ire. Store it like camels, my champions. Like camels, I say!