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.