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Here Kitty, kitty, kitty

Being accused of being a burglar is a dicey thing to try to talk your way out of to begin with.

Luckily, I used to make my living on the phone, so talking is something I can do well.

But let me explain how I ended up in this predicament.

First let me say that I am not a cat person.

Never have been, never will be.

I would say that I am a dog person, but I need to be more specific.

I am a big dog person. Little dogs of the kick-em variety make my teeth itch.

But at least they are not cats.

A pet that gets to sleep in the house and gets fed daily has an obligation to protect the house. Kick-em dogs at least try to do their part and yap incessantly at strangers.

Big dogs are friendly, playful, and just might rip the throat out of a burglar on occasion.

Back to cats.

Cats are the mooching welfare recipients of pets. You owe them a living, food, board, toys…etc.

Oh, and then theres catnip.

Cat lovers love to stockpile catnip because, and I quote, “Cats love it.”

Its a drug, dumbass.

So, the welfare recipient of pets has a drug of choice?

Of course they do.

Off on a tangent there.

Cats also have the annoying tenancy to escape on occasion.

And that would explain why I am walking down the street in downtown Sacramento at 7am calling “Here kitty, kitty, kitty!”

I feel like an idiot.

However, one of the main reasons I am out here is to keep the peace.

Its my fiancee’s daughters cat, and the girl is one of those types that views the cats as her children.

I love each and every one of the dogs that I have ever had, and I have buried over a half dozen, but lets not lose sight of the fact that they are pets.

Just pets.

However, a house cat that gets out doesn’t understand about cars.

I figured that, if I cover a lot of local streets and find the cat, smashed flat in the middle of the street, I can at least scrape the poor beast up and dispose of it before she see’s it. She may read this and be pissed at me for this, but its a “Protecting” parent type of move. The last thing she needs is to get it in her head that “I have to see her”. Bad idea for the long term memories.

That way, poor Whiskers was never found and may be living happily somewhere. Certainly not tossed in someones recycling garbage can and sent to the land fill.

And then I see her.

Alive and staring at me a half block away at the entry to an alley.

“Here kitty, kitty, kitty.”

She takes off.

Shit.

I am hoofing it into the alley, fully aware that a chubby man with stubby legs cannot out run a cat in its prime, but I have to make the effort.

The cat is dawdling, about four houses into the alley, staring at me.

I get one house away, and the cat vaults the fence. The fenc e is a wooden one, a solid one despite the rickety one next store.

I am describing the fence in detail because I was eyeing it as I ran at it in an attempt to get over it.

Short men, as a general rule, tend to avoid climbing fences in a hurry. Its the type of thing you really need to take your time at.

Except that I am in a hurry.

The little furball will be gone if I don’t hurry.

I vault the fence and flip over it, land in a three-point stance.

Kitty is across a short yard and three steps up on the back porch.

I walk up slowly, making “It’s ok” sounds.

The cat isn’t having it. She runs up the porch and hides in a corner.

I am on the porch, walking towards a hissing cat thats cowering in a corner, when it hits me.

Wrong cat.

Thats when all hell breaks loose.

Back door creeks.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY CAT?!?!”

Shit.

Some of my slickest fast-talking bullshit comes during moments of extrame stress.

I twisted a masterpiece of BS involving a diabetic cat dying of cancer that desperately needs its meds.

Cat lovers eat this shit up and I have absolutely no shame at the moment.

In short order, I am let out of the side gate so that I will not have to hurt my back again going back over the fence again.

I believe the poor old woman was going to get her shawl so she can go look for poor dying, diabetic, cancer-ridden (I have to stop this shit at some point) Whiskers.

My phone rings.

“I found her! She was hiding in a laundry basket! Isn’t that cute?”

I hang up.

God, I hate cats.

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Posted by on October 11, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Open Seseme…

Oscar the grouch.

Represent, bitches.

Oscar was a grumpy shit way back when. Back when you were young enough to get in trouble for being in a bad mood.

I think it had to do with living in a trash can and being the unspoken homeless guy on the show.

Bert and Ernie had a house and they didn’t seem to have jobs at all. They were either mediocre kids, living without parents or retarded adults who might be gay.

Take your pick.

Back to Oscar.

I seem to end up dealing with the homeless a lot on this blog and I can’t figure out if it is an obsession or just good choices on writing content.

I saw a new Muppet Movie is coming out and it got me thinking about Oscar.

Oscar came at us during a time in our life when we were being bombarded with vanilla, black and white views of life. The cartoons reflected either a good guy or a bad guy. The good guys were always good and the bad guys were always bad.

And then there was Oscar.

Oscar was a good guy that bitched about everything. but everyone seemed to like, and he was just kind of made fun of, but he spoke his mind and was more or less accepted by the majority.

All without getting a time out.

I am seeing scary similarities between myself and Oscar.

And, in a way, I kind of like that.

Oscar pretty much demanded that you accept him and his shitty attitude at face value. He taught us to be pushy and outspoken way before that was allowed by school or our parents.

And never once did he get the recognition.

Hell, some of us have personalities based on it.

Willy the grouch.

Has a nice little ring to it, ay?

When my kids were growing up, I started watching Sesame Street again. I was a little twisted up by it at first.

The Muppets were puppets and never aged, so all my old friends were still vibrant and funny.

But the people changed.

They were older and what was once friendly and helpful was now kind of creepy and moist? and made me afraid to leave my kids alone in the same room with them.

But I got over it and sat with my daughter and clapped and sang. Daddy stuff.

And then your kids grow up and, at least mentally, you put the Muppets on the shelf again.

Until the grand kids show up. Then you can watch again.

And I will still be creeped out by the overly sugary-sweet delivery of the cast of humans then, too.

But the Muppets will still be there.

And, fuzzy pound for fuzzy pound, Kermit the Frog is the elder statesman of childrens television. He kicks the shit out of Spongebob with one thin furry arm held behind his back with a little black stick.

And he will bitch slap Hello Kitty without working up a sweat.

Although, Hello Kitty has a Japanese following that is fanatical and well monied, so maybe that’s a bad comparison.

Getting back to Oscar the Grouch, I like to think he was a roll model for some, if not all of us.

He catered to the inner asshole.

Thank you Oscar.

I would follow you into Muppet hell, you magnificent fuzzy bastard.

 
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Posted by on September 14, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Rearing its ugly head…Some heads are uglier than others

There is a brisk little business going on at Starbucks, and it ain’t coffee.

There is a husky little blonde running a full scale SAT cram group. Let’s call her Blondie.

There are 5 of them, usually at the big table if its available. They are there from 7 to 8.

Blondie runs a tight ship. She barks her orders and the girls march in lock step.

I have no idea what she charges, but if she can whip these dipshits into high SAT scores, she deserves a frickin medal. There are a few girls that I honestly wonder if they attended, much less graduated from, high school.
You always hope girls this dumb either marry well or lose their looks young. Otherwise, they are just a few months away from swinging on a pole for a living.

Pretty good rule of thumb is that is that if your job involves baby oil and glitter, you’ve made a pretty serious vocational error somewhere.

Not to bash strippers. Any girl who is willing to dance for a living, just to pay for college of course, should be commended for their work ethic.

Plus its hard for a man to criticize a woman in a G-string. Its an instinct thing.

But most women hate strippers. I have never been able to understand that, and in a weird way, I don’t really want to know why.

Back to Blondie.

You have to admire the entrepreneurial spirit.

But how does it stack up against old and bitchie?

Let me explain.

The big table at a Starbucks is the only area of the store that customers often have an agenda for sitting there. Business people, students, and those that feel the need to spread out.

And then there’s the Penguins.

The Penguins are a trio of little old ladies who come in every other morning to play cards. They order their tea, bitch unmercifully about the price, and play a card game that looks suspiciously like gin rummy, but I am not sure, because they cover their cards like high stakes poker players.

They look like they are from the old country. Not my old country, but somebodies old country.

I call them Penquins they always dress in dark colors, are kind of thin in the shoulders and broad in the hip.

I first noticed them one morning while walking to work. As I have mentioned previously, I park about a quarter mile from my office and walk down. As we are the last office building before the beach, parking sucks like no place else.

I noticed the three old ladies walking in front of me. They waddled along in a line. As an obstacle got in their way, they would waddle around it, still playing follow the leader.

And then it hit me. Penguins. I would have called them Lemmings, but I was unsure about getting them to walk over a cliff.

Some people have no sense of humor.

They went right into Starbucks. By this time, I was following along, having been unable to get around them without resorting to old school hockey checking.

They got their tea and complained in their little old biddie fashion, and then sat down to play their cards.

That is when the bitching began.

What was amazing was that it almost seemed that they were having 3 separate conversations, each one complaining about different people.

It was like a bitchie support group.

Enough background.

Blondie was mid chastise with one of the girls about her lack of understand of basic algebra, when the Penguins came in.

Blondie didn’t notice, but the Penguins immediately saw that their usual spot was occupied.

The Penguins waited in line, casting ugly looks at the main table.

It was developing nicely, but I think I was the only one that was getting the situation.

I love this.

The Penguins waited until they all got their tea, properly creamed and sugared them, then marched, I say marched damn it, over to the main table.

“You can’t have the whole table.” The head Penguin’s voice was a combination of shrill and crackly. It was an perfect combo of menace and wicked old, like a witch, maybe.

“We were here first.” Blondie didn’t even look up. She was a business woman and I respect that.

“We want to play cards.” The head Penguin tossed her cards onto the table like she was throwing down a gauntlet.

Blondie looked up. “What is it you want me to do about that? We were here, and we’re not done.” She stared for a few seconds more, then looked down at her book.

The girls, the students, were looking back and forth like anxious little animals, just about to bolt at the first sign that this gets out of hand. Its the smart move. Survival, more than algebra, seems to be their skill.

The Penguins were outraged. There are several things that I can see happening.

They might trade blows. I said might, I didn’t say it was the most probable, just might. And it would be the funnest to watch.

The Penguins should leave. They could go to Coffee Bean. Besides, the crowd at Coffee Bean was much closer to their age. Hell, they may even pick up a few more players.

And then, they did the unexpected.

Without saying a word, the Penguins moved as one to an empty small round table right behind Blondie. The little round tables were way too small to play cards on.

But they had no intention of playing cards.

They started complaining.

All three of the Penguins began chastising Blondie, discussing her lack of manners, rudeness in general.

And then it got ugly.

The Penguins got nowhere attacking Blondie’s behavior. The opening salvo was harsh.

“And not a pretty girl.”

5 words was all it took. Blondie kept staring down at her book, but I could see her eyes well up.

In that moment, they broke her.

It was over.

“We’re done for today.” Blondie closed her book, gathered her stuff and got up.

I thought she was going to head straight out, but she hesitated.

Blondie took one quick step and bent, her head about 6 inches from the ear of the head Penguin.

I have no idea what she said. Whatever it was, it was quick. She straightened, then walked out.

The head Penguin sat there for several minutes, saying nothing.

And then they played cards.

But the head Penguin never lost the haunted look.

Blondie’s parting shot messed with her for awhile.

Good.

 
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Posted by on August 21, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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The sound…….of Silence.

There is a vicious, scorched-earth, fully bi-polar argument going in Starbucks right now. Shit is being thrown out there that you should never say to someone you are sleeping with, much less a loved one.

In total silence.

There is a guy at a corner table who is deaf. He has his Iphone propped up against his coffee cup, and if I casually lean over, there is a dark haired woman signing furiously and angrily into her webcam.

I have no clue whats being said other than the expressions, unlike Spanish, which I can sound out. I don’t even know how to sign what day it is.

He has been signing furiously for thirty seconds and now slowly licked several of his fingers and it has seriously pissed off the woman on the phone even more than before. Sign language seems to have newer options for going dirty.

This is absolutely fascinating.

And then its over, he gets up and leaves, in total silence.

He may be deaf, but he still has the same issues we all do. Some more than others.

I couldn’t be deaf, I would go insane. Anger demands noise, that is basic human nature.

But on the same note, being deaf would make me impossible to be around as well. Most deaf people accept it and grow to enjoy it.

Not me.

For me, it would be like having a permanent case of the shits. Always there, always annoying. I would exist in this permanent cloud of pissy that would make me even more unpleasant than I am.

And I can be pretty unpleasant.

But I started wondering why the deaf guy has an Iphone to begin with, its not like he can use it.

And then it hits me like a smack with the big “Hey dumbfuck!” stick.

He is using his phone.

Maybe not how I would, but now everyone can use a phone. The technology has now caught up with the needs of the deaf.

In other words, the people that don’t need phones? They now need phones. And not just any phone, but one of the most expensive, high end phones on the market, with one of the costliest rate plans.

Very clever, AT&T. Or shall I just call you Mr. Jobs?

I can see it all now.

This is world wide conspiracy shit. This is like an Internet grassy knoll, data plan goes back….and to the left, broadband-Da Vinci code type thing.

Chilling.

Should I suddenly meet with some sort of suspicious accident, be aware that “They” had a hand in it.
(And by “Accident” I don’t mean like a child fouling himself. I have only done that once and it involved a lot of grain alcohol.)

I have begun poring over my cell bill, looking for some sort of code. Unfortunately, I think I have a better chance to crack the Beale Cipher, (Google it), than I do of figuring out the AT&T/Apple master plan.

But at least we know there is one.

 
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Posted by on August 18, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Do you realize what you are saying?

  We live in a world where 50% of everyone you see on your way to work is on their cell phone. And with the advent of more communication, more marriages are breaking up due to “Lack of communication.” We are talking more, but hearing less.

  And then theres me. I hear a lot. Certainly not what’s said to me, ask my ex-wife about that one. But I hear what people say to others around me.

  In other words, I listen in.

  There is a guy on his phone in my favorite Starbucks right now, that is talking on his cell phone to a friend, possibly his attorney, about his strategy to F-over his soon to be ex-wife. Loudly, with everyone around able to hear it. At the same time, he is making side comments to a woman I believe he met in line. They are both waiting for they’re coffee creations. She is being polite and I think he imagines himself to be sweetly dangerous with the ladies. I appreciate an asshole attitude on occasion, but this guy is a complete bastard.

  Judging from the expressions of everyone around him, the crowd agrees. I think I just saw the Barrista spit in his latte.

  From the look on his face, his lawyer just tried to call him on his proposed behavior. His only comment?

  “The kids are young, they’ll get over it.”

  Wow.

 
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Posted by on June 24, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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