These days, man. I just don’t know. These days I feel like I bring nothing to the table. Except more chairs.
And maybe some ugly pea-green crocheted place mats I bought at a yard sale for $1.25 that smell just a little like moth balls and cat pee. Sigh. These days.
So you know when children reach that age when they want to know where babies come from? And their parents give them some bullshit answer that goes something like this: "Well, Jimmy, it takes a mommy and a daddy who love each other very much to make a baby." Most insipid parents stop there, knowing full well they didn’t answer JACK DIDDLY!! But others will elaborate by telling little Johnny that "the daddy gives the mommy a seed that she can grow into a baby."
Yeah. Okay. Now don’t be surprised when precious little Billy thinks that babies come from dirt and runs to his teacher with whimsical stories like: "My daddy is going to give me his seed so I can make a little brother!" Oh, Bobby – you adorable little mistake! I mean scamp! Adorable little SCAMP!
Yup. Poor Timmy. He fell victim to one hell of a communication cluster-fuck. Although, I have to admit, the seed explanation is a somewhat better game plan than blaming a large, clumsy, pointy white bird for the Curse That is Children. But it still isn’t a very good explanation. It’s also saccharine and coddling and it makes me want to puke.
I think it would be funnier (and indeed, far more helpful) if, when a kid asks where babies come from, you bust out the charts and the anatomy books. Oh, and don’t forget the laser pointer. The kid’s education isn’t complete until it can successfully locate the epididymis, the salpinges, and provide an acceptable definition of the word "ovulate."
I wondered about a lot of crap when I was a kid. But, oddly enough, never cared about babies or their origins. It didn’t really occur to me that anyone was born AFTER the year 1983 until about the year 2000.
I’m kidding, of course! It was actually more like 2002.
However, as a child, I didn’t quite understand why people closed their eyes when they kissed. When I closed my eyes, it was because I was tired or I was scared. So I therefore deduced that kissing must be incredibly boring, or incredibly scary. I decided I would try my best to avoid it in the future. I never claimed that I was a bright child.
But anyway, to get back to the dreaded Sex Talk and how parents seem to bungle the whole affair, what’s up with that "Birds and the Bees" speech? I never fully understood that one. I sort of get the Bee part – what with pollinating and all. But if you’re going to explain boinking (ahem, excuse me, Making Love) to your kids, at least pick animals that are constantly fucking (oh sorry, Bumping Uglies) and ALWAYS seem to get pregnant. Like the obvious example of rabbits. Or gerbils. Or white trash. KIDDING!
.....But not really.
Birds’ mating habits are pretty common and aren’t all that amazing. They have a mating season in which they do their best to look and sound good, they find a mate, they do it, and they poop out some eggs. Done deal. They’re not randy little fuckers. In fact, many species are monogamous, or at least seasonally monogamous.
When I think of animals that epitomize the word SEX, I think more along the lines of a female cat in heat getting gang-banged by 15 males rather than the frigging till-death-do-we-part, I’ll-never-let-go,-Jack, You-had-me-at-hello blue jays. Fucking blue jays are making us look bad, by the way. Damn them and their fidelity!
So yes! I think we should change the saying altogether. Screw that "Birds and the Bees" crap! It should be "Gerbils and the Bees" or "Female Cat in Heat and the Bees." So when little Tommy comes asking, tell him you’re going to have the "Female Cat in Heat and the Bees" talk with him, then bust out the creepy anatomy charts with the exposed muscles (you know the ones I mean) and have that laser pointer ready. Trust me, you won’t confuse the ever-loving fuck out of him. Nor will you traumatize him horribly in any way.....
And that’s all I have to say about that.
Your best good friend,
The Cage.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
That's Never Going to Heal if You Don't Stop Picking at It
Once upon a time, what specific "time" it was is something of a mystery, and by "mystery," I mean way back when I was still dwelling in a small cinder block cell (or college dorm room, if you will), I knew three young gentlemen who insisted upon calling all name-brand merchandise by its lesser-known generic name, or a generic equivalent.
For example, they never called Frisbees Frisbees. They called Frisbees "novelty flying disks." Yeah....
Q-tips were always "cotton swabs," Kleenex was always "facial tissue," and I'm sure Cheetos were always "cheese flavored corn crisps." I'm not joking. They actually did this. I frequently asked why they did this, but I was never presented with any logical or practical reason. I think mainly it was because they wanted to be different. Or amusing. Or both.
This is not to say that I required a logical or practical reason – I rarely make such frivolous and futile demands on people. If they had told me it was part of the requirements for their Unholy Cult of the Latter Day Satan's Helpers, or if they were doing it because of some sort of obscure foreign holiday, I would have understood completely.
So needless to say, out of these three gentlemen, I was really only good friends with one of them. Nice guy, very Irish. And I'm sure one of the other two has since won the World's Biggest Yuppie Douche Award – 3 years running! And if he hasn't won that infamous and prestigious award, I'm sure he will soon. He is destined for it, trust me.
And as for the last fellow, well.... I don't know. I just don't know. I'll say this much, though: I hope he stopped wearing those tight-fitting denim high-waters. Otherwise, at this point, he's definitely as sterile as an unopened Band-aid. Oh, I'm sorry – as sterile as an unopened "compact adhesive bandage." And hopefully he has figured out that there is more to life than getting blow-jobs from strange women. Granted, there's not much more, but there's still more.
In any case, they were an interesting bunch. Not as interesting as, say, the creepy, foul-smelling derelicts who seem to be omnipresent in the world of public transportation. They are on EVERY bus at EVERY time. Explain that to me!!!!! They lurk and they loom, always muttering to themselves and occasionally displaying some of the more savory symptoms of THE DREADED TOURETTE'S SYNDROME.
Yeah, no one comes close to that lot. They're the best of the best of the best, SIR! With honors! No one is nearly as interesting. Or as malodorous. And the more normal you appear to be, the more they hone in on you. They feast upon the Average Joe and the Mind-My-Own-Business types like maggots on an old leathery steak. The best course of action, and the course frequently employed by my cousin, is to behave even more inappropriately than they do: random clapping, raucous guffaws, mindless humming, things of that ilk.
I had to take a bus out of Providence once – Providence to Pawtucket, so you know there's going to be a number of Exceptionals on that one. It was raining heavily that day and many of the roads were flooded. And of course there was a cataclysmically stoned guy sitting near the front, occasionally laughing at nothing and rubbing his droopy, red-rimmed eyes. He was probably in his mid to late 20's, though it was hard to tell. It's always hard to tell with druggies. Anyway, we got to one flooded road and the bus almost got stuck. The guy immediately burst out with, "Ohmygod!! Ohmygod!! This is just like that movie, "Alive"!! Did you guys see that movie??? Wow! This is just like that movie! You know that movie, "Alive"?? I want you all to know that if we get stuck here forever, you all can eat my bum. I'm kinda skinny, so it'll sorta be like eating a pigeon. But you can have it! I'm giving it to you!"
Then he proceeded to give everyone on the bus "bad-ass" nicknames. I don't remember all of them, but I remember that my sister and I were lovingly labeled "9 Millimeter and Baby 9" respectively. Then he rubbed his eyes, coughed a few times, and looked around like he had no idea where he was or who all these people were.
Ah, memories. I liked that guy. He was cool. He didn't use generic names or wear tight high-water pants. I'm actually impressed that he was wearing pants at all, come to think of it. Go him!! So good luck to you, Raving Derelict, wherever you are! I sincerely hope you didn't offer to let people eat your bum too frequently. You never know who might take you up on it.
I'm cold and there are wolves after me,
The Cage.
For example, they never called Frisbees Frisbees. They called Frisbees "novelty flying disks." Yeah....
Q-tips were always "cotton swabs," Kleenex was always "facial tissue," and I'm sure Cheetos were always "cheese flavored corn crisps." I'm not joking. They actually did this. I frequently asked why they did this, but I was never presented with any logical or practical reason. I think mainly it was because they wanted to be different. Or amusing. Or both.
This is not to say that I required a logical or practical reason – I rarely make such frivolous and futile demands on people. If they had told me it was part of the requirements for their Unholy Cult of the Latter Day Satan's Helpers, or if they were doing it because of some sort of obscure foreign holiday, I would have understood completely.
So needless to say, out of these three gentlemen, I was really only good friends with one of them. Nice guy, very Irish. And I'm sure one of the other two has since won the World's Biggest Yuppie Douche Award – 3 years running! And if he hasn't won that infamous and prestigious award, I'm sure he will soon. He is destined for it, trust me.
And as for the last fellow, well.... I don't know. I just don't know. I'll say this much, though: I hope he stopped wearing those tight-fitting denim high-waters. Otherwise, at this point, he's definitely as sterile as an unopened Band-aid. Oh, I'm sorry – as sterile as an unopened "compact adhesive bandage." And hopefully he has figured out that there is more to life than getting blow-jobs from strange women. Granted, there's not much more, but there's still more.
In any case, they were an interesting bunch. Not as interesting as, say, the creepy, foul-smelling derelicts who seem to be omnipresent in the world of public transportation. They are on EVERY bus at EVERY time. Explain that to me!!!!! They lurk and they loom, always muttering to themselves and occasionally displaying some of the more savory symptoms of THE DREADED TOURETTE'S SYNDROME.
Yeah, no one comes close to that lot. They're the best of the best of the best, SIR! With honors! No one is nearly as interesting. Or as malodorous. And the more normal you appear to be, the more they hone in on you. They feast upon the Average Joe and the Mind-My-Own-Business types like maggots on an old leathery steak. The best course of action, and the course frequently employed by my cousin, is to behave even more inappropriately than they do: random clapping, raucous guffaws, mindless humming, things of that ilk.
I had to take a bus out of Providence once – Providence to Pawtucket, so you know there's going to be a number of Exceptionals on that one. It was raining heavily that day and many of the roads were flooded. And of course there was a cataclysmically stoned guy sitting near the front, occasionally laughing at nothing and rubbing his droopy, red-rimmed eyes. He was probably in his mid to late 20's, though it was hard to tell. It's always hard to tell with druggies. Anyway, we got to one flooded road and the bus almost got stuck. The guy immediately burst out with, "Ohmygod!! Ohmygod!! This is just like that movie, "Alive"!! Did you guys see that movie??? Wow! This is just like that movie! You know that movie, "Alive"?? I want you all to know that if we get stuck here forever, you all can eat my bum. I'm kinda skinny, so it'll sorta be like eating a pigeon. But you can have it! I'm giving it to you!"
Then he proceeded to give everyone on the bus "bad-ass" nicknames. I don't remember all of them, but I remember that my sister and I were lovingly labeled "9 Millimeter and Baby 9" respectively. Then he rubbed his eyes, coughed a few times, and looked around like he had no idea where he was or who all these people were.
Ah, memories. I liked that guy. He was cool. He didn't use generic names or wear tight high-water pants. I'm actually impressed that he was wearing pants at all, come to think of it. Go him!! So good luck to you, Raving Derelict, wherever you are! I sincerely hope you didn't offer to let people eat your bum too frequently. You never know who might take you up on it.
I'm cold and there are wolves after me,
The Cage.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Do You Like the Taut Roundness That Exercise Brings to the Buttocks?
(*Side Note: This blog was originally written and posted on June 27, 2007 - before "Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull" or whatever it was called came out. In hindsight, I would have preferred to see old Indy drive a huge Volvo into an outdoor market.*)
I'm a fun-loving person. I enjoy penny-whistles and moon pies as much as the next short guy. Or girl, rather. Or.....ummm.....robot. That reminds me – Get Robot Insurance. Contact your local Sam Waterston for further information. Residency restrictions may apply. Must be 18 or older to order. Women who are, or may become pregnant should not obtain Robot Insurance, nor should they speak to Sam Waterston.
So I have mixed feeling when it comes to the elderly. They're kind of cute when they think that touch-tone phones are cutting edge. And when they still try to force purse-candy on you even when you're pushing 30. Purse-candy = root beer barrels, cinnamon discs, and star mints - all sticky with age, complete with pieces of pink tissue stuck to them.
But, you know, they're not so cute when they spontaneously forget that they're behind the wheel of a gigantic Volvo and go careening into family picnics and outdoor markets. Or when they try to get on the highway by traveling UP an off-ramp, despite the huge, red DO NOT ENTER signs. And not-so-cute when they think they can get away with being rude and repugnant simply because they're a little closer to looking like The Mummy than the rest of us.
Yet it's very cute when they get away with shoplifting. I love that!
Old people. Yup.
So let's talk about Harrison Ford. The man is old. O – L – D. He was once very dapper, but now he's getting warty and saggy because that's what happens when you get old. Yet they're making another Indiana Jones movie...? Don't get me wrong, I LOVE the Illinois Smith, I mean Indiana Jones movies. I have fond memories of not being allowed to watch the Nazi Face-Melt Fiesta at the end of "Raiders of the Lost Ark." And I was also told to cover my eyes when the Nazi collaborator drinks from the wrong Jesus Cup and rapidly degrades into a desiccated husk towards the end of "The Last Crusade."
Ah....good times. Nazi face melts, ersatz Jesus Cup that causes advanced husk-age, and Molaram Sularam Hoodeedoo Jabooty Flipflop ripping out still-beating hearts. Those were some magic Hollywood moments, right there.
Great movies. Great leading man. But now he is OLD. What's the title of this new Jones film going to be? "Indiana Jones and the Lost Secret of the AARP"? "Indiana Jones and The Escape From Shady Acres Retirement Home"? "Indiana Jones and The Search For A Country Kitchen Buffet"? "Indiana Jones and The Huge Fuck-Off Volvo That He'll Drive Into Oncoming Traffic When He Suddenly Becomes Disoriented"?
Actually, I'd pay to see all of those movies, so I guess the joke is on me.
Let's keep in mind, however, that not only is Harrison Ford OLD, but he is also married to the illegitimate offspring of Gollum and Twiggy. Not too many people know this, but Gollum and Twiggy had a "thing" back in the Swingin' 60's. It was damn good times for a while, but then Gollum's increasing drug use and violent mood swings eventually led to disaster. Tragically, on the day Twiggy finally got up the nerve to leave Gollum, she was struck by a toddler riding a Big Wheel, and was instantly crushed on impact.
It was a wake-up call for Gollum, who legally changed his name to Sméagol, and he suddenly became dedicated to raising their infant child, Calista, in a good stable environment.
Those were some great years for father and daughter, but true to his nature, Sméagol fell back into old habits once Calista left for college. Eventually, he went quite mad and fell into a colossal fiery mountain precipice while fighting with a cute muffin-faced short guy who may or may not have been part of Sméagol's drug-induced hallucination. Or maybe it was that kid from "Flipper"....
Everyone said it was the burning hot lava that killed him, but 'twas truly the drugs that did him in. Or maybe it was the magma. Who among us can really say? But if he had only loved Twiggy enough, it never would've happened! Why Sméagol??!! WHY?!!!
But on a happier note, Calista went on to star in an annoyingly quirky T.V. lawyer show where she routinely had strange mood swings and frequent hallucinations (sound familiar?). After one too many spear-chucking, opaque, dancing baby hallucinations, and an incredible upstaging by Lucy Liu, "Quirky T.V. Lawyer Show" was canceled.
But Calista moved on. She starred, or rather was part of a large ensemble cast, in many.... or a few.....ummm.....one decent movie. Then, soon after, she married a man older than Gandalf. Sméagol would've been so happy for her. As for Twiggy, I believe it was scientifically proven that she was too thin to express emotion, so she would've been happy on the inside. Awwww!
Where was I? Oh right. Stay in school.
With Sincerest Sincerity,
-The Cage.
I'm a fun-loving person. I enjoy penny-whistles and moon pies as much as the next short guy. Or girl, rather. Or.....ummm.....robot. That reminds me – Get Robot Insurance. Contact your local Sam Waterston for further information. Residency restrictions may apply. Must be 18 or older to order. Women who are, or may become pregnant should not obtain Robot Insurance, nor should they speak to Sam Waterston.
So I have mixed feeling when it comes to the elderly. They're kind of cute when they think that touch-tone phones are cutting edge. And when they still try to force purse-candy on you even when you're pushing 30. Purse-candy = root beer barrels, cinnamon discs, and star mints - all sticky with age, complete with pieces of pink tissue stuck to them.
But, you know, they're not so cute when they spontaneously forget that they're behind the wheel of a gigantic Volvo and go careening into family picnics and outdoor markets. Or when they try to get on the highway by traveling UP an off-ramp, despite the huge, red DO NOT ENTER signs. And not-so-cute when they think they can get away with being rude and repugnant simply because they're a little closer to looking like The Mummy than the rest of us.
Yet it's very cute when they get away with shoplifting. I love that!
Old people. Yup.
So let's talk about Harrison Ford. The man is old. O – L – D. He was once very dapper, but now he's getting warty and saggy because that's what happens when you get old. Yet they're making another Indiana Jones movie...? Don't get me wrong, I LOVE the Illinois Smith, I mean Indiana Jones movies. I have fond memories of not being allowed to watch the Nazi Face-Melt Fiesta at the end of "Raiders of the Lost Ark." And I was also told to cover my eyes when the Nazi collaborator drinks from the wrong Jesus Cup and rapidly degrades into a desiccated husk towards the end of "The Last Crusade."
Ah....good times. Nazi face melts, ersatz Jesus Cup that causes advanced husk-age, and Molaram Sularam Hoodeedoo Jabooty Flipflop ripping out still-beating hearts. Those were some magic Hollywood moments, right there.
Great movies. Great leading man. But now he is OLD. What's the title of this new Jones film going to be? "Indiana Jones and the Lost Secret of the AARP"? "Indiana Jones and The Escape From Shady Acres Retirement Home"? "Indiana Jones and The Search For A Country Kitchen Buffet"? "Indiana Jones and The Huge Fuck-Off Volvo That He'll Drive Into Oncoming Traffic When He Suddenly Becomes Disoriented"?
Actually, I'd pay to see all of those movies, so I guess the joke is on me.
Let's keep in mind, however, that not only is Harrison Ford OLD, but he is also married to the illegitimate offspring of Gollum and Twiggy. Not too many people know this, but Gollum and Twiggy had a "thing" back in the Swingin' 60's. It was damn good times for a while, but then Gollum's increasing drug use and violent mood swings eventually led to disaster. Tragically, on the day Twiggy finally got up the nerve to leave Gollum, she was struck by a toddler riding a Big Wheel, and was instantly crushed on impact.
It was a wake-up call for Gollum, who legally changed his name to Sméagol, and he suddenly became dedicated to raising their infant child, Calista, in a good stable environment.
Those were some great years for father and daughter, but true to his nature, Sméagol fell back into old habits once Calista left for college. Eventually, he went quite mad and fell into a colossal fiery mountain precipice while fighting with a cute muffin-faced short guy who may or may not have been part of Sméagol's drug-induced hallucination. Or maybe it was that kid from "Flipper"....
Everyone said it was the burning hot lava that killed him, but 'twas truly the drugs that did him in. Or maybe it was the magma. Who among us can really say? But if he had only loved Twiggy enough, it never would've happened! Why Sméagol??!! WHY?!!!
But on a happier note, Calista went on to star in an annoyingly quirky T.V. lawyer show where she routinely had strange mood swings and frequent hallucinations (sound familiar?). After one too many spear-chucking, opaque, dancing baby hallucinations, and an incredible upstaging by Lucy Liu, "Quirky T.V. Lawyer Show" was canceled.
But Calista moved on. She starred, or rather was part of a large ensemble cast, in many.... or a few.....ummm.....one decent movie. Then, soon after, she married a man older than Gandalf. Sméagol would've been so happy for her. As for Twiggy, I believe it was scientifically proven that she was too thin to express emotion, so she would've been happy on the inside. Awwww!
Where was I? Oh right. Stay in school.
With Sincerest Sincerity,
-The Cage.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
No!! I wanna holler the loud funny words!!
(In a quick side note, I'd just like to state that this blog was originally written in February of 2007. At that time, Jerry Falwell was, unfortunately, still alive. Trust me, this actually does relate to the following blog...)
"I'd like to be under the sea
In an octopus's garden in the shade
He'd let us in, knows where we've been
In his octopus's garden in the shade..."
Yeah. The Beatles weren't smoking insane amounts of pot when they wrote that or anything. I once saw a guy eat a live baby octopus. Apparently you eat them head first. The thing clung to this guy's face for dear life. He actually had to peel its pathetic little tentacles off his cheeks in order to swallow it. Then he sucked it down like so much shpa-gett.
I felt sad after seeing that. A general sort of malaise. Sort of like the time I "accidentally" poked that chipmunk with a twig.
But I like animals as a rule. I'm a big fan of foxes and dogs and basically anything canine-related. I care a great deal for rodents as well - though naked mole rats make me want to puke, vomit, spew, hurl, toss my cookies, and other synonyms as well. I'm tempted to step on their wrinkly, pink, shriveled, trembling little bodies - but I never really would. That's just mean.....
I'm not the biggest fan of cats, I have to admit. I find them lazy, smelly, at times violently unstable, and generally rather useless. They kind of just wander around aimlessly and gain weight. And occasionally they'll cough up fur-logs that, at first glance, I always mistake for scat or a dead mouse. Out of those three possibilities, I'd be hard-pressed to say which is the worst case scenario.
Unfortunately, I have a cat. She's an odious, psychotic, venomous, she-bitch straight from the ninth circle of HELL. Yeah, that's right - the NINTH circle of hell. She and Judas Iscariot hang out every other Thursday to watch re-runs of "Dharma and Greg."
She refuses to catch mice and I refuse to lay traps because I find it nauseating. So I have to rely on my dog (who's practically perfect in every way, mind you) to hear them, sniff them out, then point to them, which - AMAZINGLY! - she does! Then I can corner it, catch it (usually by the tail), bring it over to my neighbor's property, and finally set it free....... if it hasn't already had a heart attack by that point.
Then it gets into my neighbor's house and it's their problem. I just hope they have a cat who is not a complete waste of space. But, in any case, I'm still stuck with the reincarnation of Jezebel for a cat.
But whatever hatred I have for my cat, it pales in comparison with my almighty hatred of turkeys. Turkeys are the only animal I think I'd not only have a single problem killing, but would probably revel in the act of killing. They are, by a cataclysmically high percentage (and I've looked into it, by the way - the data is perfectly cromulent) , the ugliest, stupidest, goofiest, most abysmally retarded animal ever to walk god's green earth (which is decidedly more blue than green).
One year there was a turkey epidemic (I swear it was literally an epidemic) in the southern part of Rhode Island, where I went to college. These little fuckers (who aren't really all that little) made me late for class on no less than three and no more than five occasions, because - get this - they will NOT cross the street in groups. They feel the need to cross the street in a single, slow-moving line. One-by-one they waddle across, looking all huge and clumsy and vacuous. I swear I should have just mowed them down with my car, then sped away, cackling madly while flipping them off - exactly like I plan to do to Jerry Falwell and Jimmy Kimmel, both of whom are remarkably similar to turkeys.
On one occasion, a turkey desperately wanted to cross the road, so, like an idiot, I slowed down. It started to walk across, then it was suddenly struck by a random fear that I would change my mind and run it over. So it started to run at full speed. Turkeys are not built for "full speeds." So it tripped, stumbled, landed on its head while its momentum caused its body to skid - so its neck just collapsed and folded under its body. I could have sworn this thing had just broken its own neck! This would be enough to kill any other bird, but not a turkey. It recovered, stood up, and continuued on its way - while I was left dumbfounded, unable to laugh or cry or swear.
And have you ever seen one try to "fly"? They look like Hefty garbage bags gracelessly billowing in the air. Uusally they land on their face, or sometimes their back.
Fucking turkeys. Good thing they're delicious.
And now I'm all upset. My blood pressure has sky-rocketed and I need to go to the bathroom. Do me a favor and go eat a turkey. The more we kill and consume, the better I'll feel.
In a quick side-note, I do not feel this way about all large, clumsy birds. I like penguins and emus and albatroses. The difference being that these birds never made me LATE, and they're not fucking retarded.
Happy hunting.
Your ex-lover,
The Cage.
"I'd like to be under the sea
In an octopus's garden in the shade
He'd let us in, knows where we've been
In his octopus's garden in the shade..."
Yeah. The Beatles weren't smoking insane amounts of pot when they wrote that or anything. I once saw a guy eat a live baby octopus. Apparently you eat them head first. The thing clung to this guy's face for dear life. He actually had to peel its pathetic little tentacles off his cheeks in order to swallow it. Then he sucked it down like so much shpa-gett.
I felt sad after seeing that. A general sort of malaise. Sort of like the time I "accidentally" poked that chipmunk with a twig.
But I like animals as a rule. I'm a big fan of foxes and dogs and basically anything canine-related. I care a great deal for rodents as well - though naked mole rats make me want to puke, vomit, spew, hurl, toss my cookies, and other synonyms as well. I'm tempted to step on their wrinkly, pink, shriveled, trembling little bodies - but I never really would. That's just mean.....
I'm not the biggest fan of cats, I have to admit. I find them lazy, smelly, at times violently unstable, and generally rather useless. They kind of just wander around aimlessly and gain weight. And occasionally they'll cough up fur-logs that, at first glance, I always mistake for scat or a dead mouse. Out of those three possibilities, I'd be hard-pressed to say which is the worst case scenario.
Unfortunately, I have a cat. She's an odious, psychotic, venomous, she-bitch straight from the ninth circle of HELL. Yeah, that's right - the NINTH circle of hell. She and Judas Iscariot hang out every other Thursday to watch re-runs of "Dharma and Greg."
She refuses to catch mice and I refuse to lay traps because I find it nauseating. So I have to rely on my dog (who's practically perfect in every way, mind you) to hear them, sniff them out, then point to them, which - AMAZINGLY! - she does! Then I can corner it, catch it (usually by the tail), bring it over to my neighbor's property, and finally set it free....... if it hasn't already had a heart attack by that point.
Then it gets into my neighbor's house and it's their problem. I just hope they have a cat who is not a complete waste of space. But, in any case, I'm still stuck with the reincarnation of Jezebel for a cat.
But whatever hatred I have for my cat, it pales in comparison with my almighty hatred of turkeys. Turkeys are the only animal I think I'd not only have a single problem killing, but would probably revel in the act of killing. They are, by a cataclysmically high percentage (and I've looked into it, by the way - the data is perfectly cromulent) , the ugliest, stupidest, goofiest, most abysmally retarded animal ever to walk god's green earth (which is decidedly more blue than green).
One year there was a turkey epidemic (I swear it was literally an epidemic) in the southern part of Rhode Island, where I went to college. These little fuckers (who aren't really all that little) made me late for class on no less than three and no more than five occasions, because - get this - they will NOT cross the street in groups. They feel the need to cross the street in a single, slow-moving line. One-by-one they waddle across, looking all huge and clumsy and vacuous. I swear I should have just mowed them down with my car, then sped away, cackling madly while flipping them off - exactly like I plan to do to Jerry Falwell and Jimmy Kimmel, both of whom are remarkably similar to turkeys.
On one occasion, a turkey desperately wanted to cross the road, so, like an idiot, I slowed down. It started to walk across, then it was suddenly struck by a random fear that I would change my mind and run it over. So it started to run at full speed. Turkeys are not built for "full speeds." So it tripped, stumbled, landed on its head while its momentum caused its body to skid - so its neck just collapsed and folded under its body. I could have sworn this thing had just broken its own neck! This would be enough to kill any other bird, but not a turkey. It recovered, stood up, and continuued on its way - while I was left dumbfounded, unable to laugh or cry or swear.
And have you ever seen one try to "fly"? They look like Hefty garbage bags gracelessly billowing in the air. Uusally they land on their face, or sometimes their back.
Fucking turkeys. Good thing they're delicious.
And now I'm all upset. My blood pressure has sky-rocketed and I need to go to the bathroom. Do me a favor and go eat a turkey. The more we kill and consume, the better I'll feel.
In a quick side-note, I do not feel this way about all large, clumsy birds. I like penguins and emus and albatroses. The difference being that these birds never made me LATE, and they're not fucking retarded.
Happy hunting.
Your ex-lover,
The Cage.
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