Parental Advisory

It has recently come to my attention that I am no longer spelling C.apeshit's name in the less-offensive, Andy-Capp-Coming-Home-From-A-Bender-And Running-Into-The-Sofa, form. For that, sensitive readers, I apologize and hereby swear to only list her as C.apesh*t. I suppose said concerned reader is right; I shouldn't be using such adult language. I'm only five, after all.

In honor of this purtianical re-Christening, here's a kickass video that C.apesh*t turned us on to. Though totally unrelated to this post, it's a total must-see:

They Shoulda Stuck with "Where's the Beef."

I suppose I should mention that T.O.C.E. is away from our bungalow, leaving me here with H.W.D.N.T.B.N., a few pizza boxes, and a lot less black clothing to shed upon. The silence in our house has been glorious. Say what you like about You-Know-Who, he is much quieter than You-Know-Who-Else. Yesterday, she called him and asked him to put the phone up to my ear. When he did so, she billed and cooed and made a whole bunch of saccharine sounds that, in Cat, translate roughly to puke noises. H.W.D.N.T.B.N. said that I was kissing the phone when I heard said wretched (retched) sounds, but really, I was biting it. Ah, the furry rage polka that is my life.

However, my cat spidey sense does allow (read; force) me to glean what ol' T.O.C.E. is up to in some place called Soup Cat-owhin-a, or something. She is sore from waterskiing and has been eating lots of peaches. In the mornings, she goes to a coffee shop and listens to streaming live radio, and, today, a pop-up ad invited her to try out "Baconator Radio," in honor of some new 87-pound bacon-burger.

Here are the bands/artists that some Wendy's-obsessed culture monkey (no, not Joe Wenderoth) decided best fit the art of using meat as a condiment:

1) Broken Social Scene
2) John Cougar Mellencamp
3) Lenny Kravitz (used in The One Called Footface's Gap-ad)
4) Wolfmother (first good song of the stream)
5) Nirvana (a dirgy and ultimately forgettable b-side from, like, 1990)
6) Tool (Tool? getting queasy...)
7) Smashing Pumpkins (another sort-of B-side...couldn't these people pay for hits?)
8) OKGO (want to get on treadmills, not eat burger)
9) THIRD EYE BLIND! ONE OF THOSE FALSETTO ONES!
10) EVANESCENCE!! AAAAUGH! SLIT WRISTS! NO EAT BURGER!!

If someone could, in 1000 words or less, write a response essay on how those songs have anything to do with bacon, I'll give them a bag of Advanced Weight and Hairball Mgmt.

Now here is a much more appropriate set list for selling bacon-burger products:

1) "Little Piggies" by the Beatles
2) "I Am the Swine" by Frank Zappa
3) "Eat the Rich" by Motorhead
4) "Anarchy Burger" by the Vandals
5) "HIS Cheeseburger" by Veggie Tales (a throwback from T.O.C.E.'s babysitting days)
6) "Everyone Knows its Wendy" [sic] by the association
7) One Song of that Album by Kevin Bacon and his Broseph
8) "Milkshake" by Kelis (to wash it down)
9) "The Humpty Dance" by Digital Underground (just for the middle finger of first eating at Wendy's. then going to a BK bathroom to "get busy")
10) "Favorite Workout Plan" by Kanye West (bacon burger= 830 Calories, 51g fat, 1920g sodium)

You're Welcome. All of you.

Not Exactly a Cary Grant/ Audrey Hepburn Movie

On to other lame things that happened to T.O.C.E. when I was on Blogging Strike:

5) T.O.C.E. and her human posse threw a sort-of going away suprise party for C.apeshit. I say sort of because a) C.apeshit wasn't leaving until August and b) the element of suprise was a little half-hearted. Part of this might stem from the fact that they recently threw the girl a suprise birthday party, one that shocked her so much she nearly had a seizure, or peed, or both. So, The Purple Rose of Hemlock invited C.apeshit over for an evening of fizzy water, booze and their fave TV show. When C.apeshit arrived, she went straight to the kitchen, where a sumptuous pot luck for seven was set up. "Wha?" she wondered audibly. Then she walked into the living room, where all the merry revelers were just sitting there, not hiding, and they all sort of went "yaaaaaaay." Like in Bullwinkle cartoons. After snarfing down food and drinking from The World's Largest Bottle of Syrrah (donated by the not-present H.W.D.N.T.B.N.) they decided to play MFA Charades, which is sort of like regular charades, only with lots of grumpiness, over-analysis and (in the case of The One Called Riley) rage. Several things made T.O.C.E. laugh until her throat was sore. Like when C.apeshit tried to convince everyone that, by just rolling up one pant leg, she was giving her team a foolproof clue to the phrase "Punky Brewster." Or, even better, when she spent about 15 minutes miming hacking off her own ankles, then doing something like a sun salutation, ending the gesture with a classic Captain Morgan Pose. She was shocked when nobody could guess what she was doing. All those gestures were to mimic George Washington, committer of that famous cherry tree "fib"-- which sounds like the second syllable of her word, "amphibian." Obviously.

More hilarity tomorrow!

Yeah, Yeah, I Know. Shut Up.

Word on the street is that C.apeshit, the sole faithful reader of this blog, is passed out on on some Iowa City avenue, tongue lolling in rage at the lack of respect I displayed in not blogging for 52 days. Yes, I am aware that several wars have been fought in shorter timespans. 52 generations of mayflies could've lived and died. Gestation periods of several species take less time. What can I say? I am a cat, a member of a crue known for being lazy. More importantly, I learned my writing regimen from T.O.C.E., the laziest writer of them all.
Some things that have happened since last we spoke:

1) A few humans have reproduced, but none with results as cool as this:

I mean, look at that kid. So tiny! So (pun intended) rosy! Such a confection! She also has a very long name that sounds neither like "Charlene is Awesome" nor "Advanced Weight and Hairball Management," so I already forgot it. Still, nice job, Liu Humans! Way to breed.

2) T.O.C.E. spent another summer blowing off her thesis and doing stupid theatre. Great for me, because she was out of the house 10-12 hours of the day, but also bad for me, because I had to listen to her practicing her stupid human speeches. One of the plays required her to speak with a Boston accent. The results were disastrous; eardrums exploded. The other play required her to walk in heels; lives were lost. Both plays were set in the past, and required her to wear two decades' worth of very interesting underpants. Said underpants apparently attracted the attention of a creepy sexagenarian admirer, who sent her an unsolicited (and punctuationally offensive) email praising her butt. Lookout, The Other. Scarybaldhuman is comintagetcha.

3) These boyz stopped by Iowa City for a visit, and regailed T.O.C.E. and The Other with their tales of "the road" and also of Lawrence Kansas. When not involved in regailing, they played a show at the Mill and/or made up ridiculous lies (see: the meteorological fact of "death winds," the fact that Jack Nicholson movie titles appear in all their ditties, etc) that gullible-ass T.O.C.E. believed without question. Very cool. They left a puddle of CDs and Records of their music (plus one frighteningly kick-ass t-shirt) and, after several listens, I highly recommend them. Well done, hombres. Sorry I hid under the bed the whole time you were here.

4) T.O.C.E. turned The Other into an addict. In honor of his newfound habit (he spent all of sunday on the bed, reading and eating pizza and chicken wings), I hereby rechristen The Other He Who Decided Not to Be Named (H.W.D.N.T.B.N.)

More tomorrow re: charades among writers, South Carolina barbecue versus South Carolina peaches, indigestion, and an upcoming roadtrip.

I promise, C.apeshit. Same cat time; same cat channel.