Charlene's Three-legged Blog

2009-04-22T06:58:00.000-07:00

Feliz Navidon't.

2008-12-16T07:57:00.000-08:00

Hola, Chumps. Long time no Charlene. I know it's been awhile and that, in my absence, many of you have had aneurisms from all the longing and pining for me, but you know what they say: shut up.

Anyway, to make you feel a little bit better, I've written a festive song for your human holidays. If I were you, I'd take off work and read the lyrics several thousand times, making sure that they're memorized in time for Crispmousse or ChakaKhan or whatever the hell you people celebrate in December. So learn these words well and then join hands and sing them around the Jesus Eggs or the Reindeer Pate, or the Holy Candles of Panty Claws, or whatever.

THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHARLENE

written by Charlene M.W. Jackson

produced by Charlene

released on Charlene records

performed by Charlene and the Charlene Charlenes.

ON THE FIRST DAY OF CHARLENE, MY CHARLENE GAVE TO ME...

2008-12-15T08:05:00.000-08:00

...a bath from T.O.C.E.

ON THE SECOND DAY OF CHARLENE, MY CHARLENE GAVE TO ME...

2008-12-14T08:06:00.000-08:00

...TWO total jerks

(and a bath from T.O.C.E.)

ON THE THIRD DAY OF CHARLENE, MY CHARLENE GAVE TO ME...

2008-12-13T08:09:00.000-08:00

...THREE legs a'sleepin

(two total jerks and a bath from T.O.C.E.)

ON THE FOURTH DAY OF CHARLENE, MY CHARLENE GAVE TO ME...

2008-12-12T08:12:00.000-08:00

...FOUR games of Scrabble (which I won, of course)

(three legs a'sleepin',

two total jerks

and a bath from T.O.C.E.)

ON THE FIFTH DAY OF CHARLENE, MY CHARLENE GAVE TO ME...

2008-12-11T08:16:00.000-08:00

LEAVE ME ALONE!!!

(four games of Scrabble (which I won, of course),

three legs a'sleepin',

two total jerks

and a bath from T.O.C.E.)

ON THE SIXTH DAY OF CHARLENE, MY CHARLENE GAVE TO ME...

2008-12-10T08:17:00.000-08:00

...SIX tacos

(LEAVE ME ALONE!

four games of Scrabble (which I won, of course),
three legs a'sleepin',

two total jerks

and a bath from T.O.C.E.)

ON THE SEVENTH DAY OF CHARLENE, MY CHARLENE GAVE TO ME...

2008-12-09T08:23:00.000-08:00

...SEVEN embarrassing photos

(six tacos,

LEAVE ME ALONE!
four games of Scrabble (which I won, of course),

three legs a'sleepin',

two total jerks

and a bath from T.O.C.E.)

ON THE EIGHTH DAY OF CHARLENE, MY CHARLENE GAVE TO ME...

2008-12-08T08:31:00.000-08:00

...EIGHT C.apeshit Shout-Outs

(seven embarrassing photos,

six tacos,

LEAVE ME ALONE!

four games of Scrabble (which I won, of course),
three legs a'sleepin',

two total jerks

and a bath from T.O.C.E.)

ON THE NINTH DAY OF CHARLENE, MY CHARLENE GAVE TO ME...

2008-12-07T08:36:00.000-08:00

...NINE acts of torture

(eight C.apeshit shout-outs,

seven embarrassing photos,

six tacos,

LEAVE ME ALONE!

four games of Scrabble (which I won, of course),
three legs a'sleepin',

two total jerks

and a bath from T.O.C.E.)

ON THE TENTH DAY OF CHARLENE, MY CHARLENE GAVE TO ME...

2008-12-06T08:39:00.000-08:00

... TEN catnip hangovers

(nine acts of torture,

eight C.apeshit shout-outs,

seven embarrassing photos,

six tacos,

LEAVE ME ALONE!
four games of Scrabble (which I won, of course),

three legs a'sleepin',

two total jerks
and a bath from T.O.C.E.)

ON THE ELEVENTH DAY OF CHARLENE, MY CHARLENE GAVE TO ME...

2008-12-05T08:41:00.000-08:00

Holy crap, are you still reading this?!?!?!?!

ON THE TWELFTH DAY OF CHARLENE, MY CHARLENE GAVE TO ME...

2008-12-04T08:43:00.000-08:00

...TWELVE Advanced Weight and Hairball Management Sammiches

eleven holy-crap-are-you-still-reading-this?,

ten catnip hangovers,

nine acts of torture,

eight C.apeshit shout-outs,

seven embarrassing photos,

six tacos,

LEAVE ME ALONE!

four games of Scrabble (which I won, of course),

three legs a'sleepin',

two jerks

AND A BATH....FROM...T.O.C.E.

I'll be waiting for my thank you note.

In Which They Went to Pittsburgh.

2008-09-13T07:38:00.000-07:00

Okay. So this is around a month late in coming, but I've been too busy playing my new cat game, "Almost Chase the Wad of Scrap Paper," to do any serious blogging or photo-uploading. But the Double Decker Moron Sammich that lives with me took a trip to Pittsburgh a few weeks ago, and they didn't even invite me. Which is strange, because, of the three of us, I'm the only one who (maybe) was bornded there.

Anyway, here are a zillion photos that T.O.C.E. took of their various escapades. The only thing these shots prove is that most of her friends are much cuter than she is.

Observe:
This is Pugzly, a lordly overseer and commander of The Ones Called Alexi and Chloe. For some reason, Pugz has made the unlikely decision to enjoy H.W.D.N.T.B.N.'s company. Ah well. We all have our inexplicable missteps. Pugzly is one of three cats in this house, where T.O.C.E. and H.W. Blabbity Blah stayed for their vacation. And by their vacation I mean my own. Thanks for taking 'em off my hands, Pugz.

Here we see H.W. Yaddayadda's arm, The One Called Alexi's sugar gams, Mala the Warden Cat, and the entire lexicon of The One Called William Shakespeare, printed alphabetically on enormous broadsides.

And here are the gams of My Everlasting Torment, flanking the wild gesticulations of The One Called Alexi. He is in the throes of assembling some very ambitious human performance art involving a huge seesaw-like platform, a boat, a million books, and a script written on a million foot long mobius strip of paper, fed into two typewriter reels. That sounds almost as fun as "Almost Chase the Wad of Scrap Paper."

Pittsburghier and Pittsburghier

2008-09-13T06:56:00.000-07:00

Below, the One Called Alexi engages in an ancient Pittsburgh Monday-night ritual known as The Sleaze, where, from 11 o'clock until a million o'clock, a fairly cool organism (for a human) plays several dozen instruments and, for some reason, encourages T.O.C.E.'s histrionic-ass friends to sing into a microphone.

T.O.C.A. is either singing "This is a Man's World" or "Yummy Yummy Yummy" or "Muskrat Love." It all sounds the same to me.

This studmuffin bares the sad shame of once being in a band with T.O.C.E. called "Baby Monkey in a Diaper." Whenever the two of them see eachother, there is much jumping around and bumping into things and breaking of inexpensive sunglasses.

Here he is, being forced to sing the entire Who catalogue. Whenever he assumes his RNR persona, people start breaking chairs. It's quite a sight to behold, especially if you're like me and enjoy destruction. Damn, baby! Howdya get into them jeans?

The One Called Carp, secret musical theatre junkie, sings his signature, "I'm Just a Girl Who Can't Say No." It's funny cause it's true. I mean, look at him! Hussy.

And here is the chairman of evil, The One Called Patio Furniture, trying to get out of singing "Regulator," and failing. The guy next to him is called Cookie, and he loves pretending to be Michael Macdonald. One time Patio Furniture and T.O.C.E. ended up in a hotel room Cookie had rented. It had a hot tub in the middle of it and a whole bunch of women's underthings on the floor. Ah, youth.

T.O.C.E. also sang, which, as always, summoned the law. Everyone got kicked out and then they had to spend the night in jail. Just kidding. Or am I?

X Chomosomey.

2008-09-13T05:26:00.000-07:00

There is a very old and strictly enforced rule in Pittsburgh that women and men must socialize seperately-- see the Sleaze post, above, in which T.O.C.E. had to dress up as a guy (it was very believable) in order to get into the joint. Here, a day after, the Women of Pittsburgh gather to celebrate the birth of one of their finest by eating fancy food and drinking 5 gajillion bottles of wine. Below, she is awarded a medal for existing.

I mean, c'mon. How come I couldn't get a human this hot? Geezoman.

And here is T.O.C.E.'s Bruther from another Muther, who organized the fete, proving to the camera that she knows where Michigan is. She is also inexplicably smokin', as well as a new home owner. Some gals have all the luck.

Behold the group, several bottles in. Shortly after this photo was taken, they all ate dessert, got even tipsier, and started taking pictures of their feet.

I guess it could be worse. They could be singing "Regulator."

Speakeasily.

2008-09-13T04:47:00.000-07:00

Shortly after the Wine Party and Birthday Shoe Show, T.O.C.E. snuck off to an undisclosed part of Pittsburgh, to an underground (yet somehow still outdoor) club in which men and women openly fraternize. Behold the contraband pictures, most of them involving Patio Furniture and The One Called Patio Furniture.

Shameless!

The nerve! And while eating a burrito!

And they smile while they fraternize! The charlatans.

Patio ponders his co-ed transgressions, and wears a stupid hat for penance.

Well at least she's ashamed.

Dispatches from the Front.

2008-09-09T07:38:00.000-07:00

Last night, the Nimrod Twins watched Conan tell jokes about George W. Bush's favorite restaurant being Chuck E. Cheese:

T.O.C.E.: Man, I used to LOVE Chuck E. Cheese! I had a birthday party there. Ha. You probably have no idea what he's talking about.

H.W.D.N.T.B.D.: Yes I do.

T.O.C.E.: You've probably never even been near a Chuck E. Cheese.

H.W.D.N.T.B.D.: Not true. I used to work there.

T.O.C.E.: YOU DID NOT!

H.W.D.N.T.B.D.: Did so. I was the highest paid person in the history of Chuckie Cheese.

T.O.C.E.: I don't believe you.

H.W.D.N.T.B.D.: I was. I was in the band. I was the small woodland creature that played the trombone.

T.O.C.E.: Ha! You just gave yourself away, my friend! Because not only was the trombone-playing woodland creature a GIRL, who dressed as a CHEERLEADER; she wasn't played by a human person. She was animatronic. She was played by a robot.

H.W.D.N.T.B.D.:Maybe when you went there, she was. But when I worked there, Chuckie Cheese let me be whoever I wanted. I was a very valued employee. No human could have ever replaced me.

T.O.C.E.: Shut up. I'm going to do the dishes.

Fifteen minutes later, H.W.D.N.T.B.D. walks into the kitchen.

H.W.D.N.T.B.D.: There was this one time, Chuckie Cheese got drunk, and he dumped a steamin' hot pizza in some kid's lap, and I went to court and I lied on the stand for Chuckie Cheese, I said that Chuckie Cheese never dropped that hot pizza, and that kid's just a spaz. So that's why he loved me so much.

Beckett Only Wishes He Could Write Stuff this Surreal.

2008-08-12T14:35:00.000-07:00

While being forced by T.O.C.E. to dance around to Chromeo:

H.W.D.N.T.B.N.: I could totally teach aerobics to this song (he demonstrates an unintelligible--and decidedly un-aerobic--dance move).

T.O.C.E.: What the hell was that? Shoveling?

H.W.D.N.T.B.N.: That one's called "holding a monkey."

T.O.C.E.: Yeah, that's juuuuust like aerobics.

H.W.D.N.T.B.N.: Right? I'd be like, "Hold the monkey! Now put him down! Now pick him up by his hands! Now become the monkey! Now step on Japan! Now be the lizard that chases the monkey!"

...and people wonder why I spend so much time hiding under the bed.

My Cat-Aunt.

2008-08-10T10:45:00.001-07:00

Behold Mindi, who owns the Humans Called The Ones That Call H.W.D.N.T.B.N. "Son." She's an avid reader of the blog, as all of you should be. Note her excellent computer-hogging skills in the photo below. That evil stare! Those rage-filled ears! That photo of me in the background. Watch and learn, people. This is an organism worth saluting!!!

Dune Looks Like Elena.

2008-08-09T09:51:00.000-07:00

I had a blessed day of solitude this past week when my furless roommates took a day trip up to the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. This just in-- Michigan humans use their right palm as a makeshift map of the state. We live down on the right side of the palm, and the Dunes (named after a very depressing Indian legend) are in the space above the tip of the pinkie. Little known fact: cats can use their paws as a map of Connecticut.

Here is the big, sandy dune that everyone tries to climb. Its an easy trek down to the water, but the climb back up--approximately 1 billion feet-- is pretty arduous. Seriously, dudes. People die.

Here is H.W.D.N.T.B.N., trying to convince Her Spazziness to try the climb. Note that his entreating face makes him look like a sober Colin Farrell. Also note his choice of workout gear.
Here's the happy couple, having just climbed all the way back up in record time. Just kidding. T.O.C.E. took one look at all the exhausted children, panting up the hill (despite their young, pink lungs) and said nowaybeyonce. She staged this photo for fake evidence.

J'accuse, poseur!
Something about these photos make me want to go scratch in my litter box.

2008-08-09T08:56:00.000-07:00

Exhausted from their long afternoon of fake climbing, the happy couple found a sleepy little town with public beach access and a general store that sells moon pies. They decided to take a dip in the ocean--er lake. Seriously, something this huge and blue should not still be called a lake. This monster borders FOUR states. They should come up with a new name for such a body of water...like "schlake" or something. I'm just brainstorming out loud here.

Before this next photo was taken, H.W.D.N.T.B.N. had to be convinced that there was no such thing as lake undertow. Or lake sharks.

Also note the very secluded beach on which these two are frolicking. This means that, thank goodness, no other humans were around to watch them take the following ridiculous photos. Here, T.O.C.E. shows off her repertoire of "picture faces." This one is called "the Bewitched."

This one is "the hubba-hubba."

And this is "the ear-nose-and-throat check-up."

Oh, the humanity.

So they Loaded Up the Truck and they Moved to Michigeee.

2008-08-07T08:41:00.000-07:00

Hullo, folks. No there has not been posting in quite a bit, mostly b/c T.O.C.E. and H.W.blahblah haven't put the interweb into our new home yet. H.W.blahblah has an excuse; he thinks that the interweb is a demon that must be summoned through occult machinations. But T.O.C.E. is just lazy. She shoulda called Comcast weeks ago. Thus, I am forced to blog at a coffeehouse. You have no clue how difficult it is to find a barista who speaks cat, especially in Western Michigan. This one's clientele features an evil-eyed dude in flip flops with two computers going and a Judy-the-Time/Life-Operator headpiece phone into which he only speaks Russian. No poop.

But T.O.C.E. and H.W.yaddayadda have been hard at work, unpacking boxes and buying new furniture, and you can really see the results. Note the warm, rich colors and how they've really taken advantage of the new apartment's high ceilings.

Hahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaa, just kidding. Like that would ever happen. This is for reals...

Here you see the new kitchen. Note how it is such a wreck that the whole room is sideways. Also note how you have to use the kitchen faucet to run the dishwarsher.

Here is the living room. Because H.W.bloopitybloop decided that the brown couch they've had for years would NEVER leave Iowa, this is all the living room furniture they currently own. If T.O.C.E. were resourceful, she would smoosh all that newspaper into some kind of a homesteaders couch. That's what the other bums do. Note that the box of records is filled to capacity. A few days after this was taken, the Idiot Twins found what they say is the world's coolest record store in the middle of nowhere and have since added, like 200 new discs to their collection. This is the place responsible for the fact that I've had to listen to Kraftwerk nonstop for the past six days...

Here I am, lookin' foiiiiiine as usual, gazing warily at the new filing system in the office, which should be used for blogging, but is now just a disco for wayward boxes and receipts. I knocked the whole thing over a few hours after this photog was taken. Gotta do my part.

And this is me, still shaking off the drugs from the move, looking annoyed on the back porch. There's a lot less birds here than at the old place, but there is a squirrel who, swear to Jeebus, does weird interpretive dance off a morning glory bush every day and, behind that fence, there's an amateur boxing ring. So at least there are soothing things to take my mind off the fact that I still bunk with these yahoos. Hurm. Wonder if there are any more of those cat travel drugs left...

Goodbiowa.

2008-08-06T09:17:00.000-07:00

Note to the human race: if you ever find yourself living in Iowa and forced to leave Iowa to go to another human state, burn all of your stuff, put your toothbrush in your back pocket, and book a flight to wherever you need to go.

I can now say this with authority, not only the authority of being authoritarian, but with the authority of experience, having stood shoulder-to-shoulder (or rather, shoulder-to-ankle) with T.O.C.E. and H.W.D.N.T.B.N. as they smooshed all their humanly possesions into a truck and moved us all to Grand Rapids Michigan.

Firstlymostofall, there are only two moving trucks in Iowa, apparently. Last week, one of them was being used by The One Called Koalachick to move to someplace called upstateNewDork. The other truck, as T.O.C.E. found out the day before her move, was 90 miles away in Waterloo, Iowa. So the girl and boy human had to drive waaay outa the way, right in the midst of their packing fury. this was horrendously time-consuming, but not so time consuming that T.O.C.E. wouldn't stop in Brandon Iowa to take a photo of the state's largest frying pan:

Secondmoreoverly, I am no fun to live with when we are moving. I start freaking out right when I see the first box. Hey, that's just my way. Real talk, yo.

So, T.O.C.E. shot me up with some grade-A, fine Columbian cat sedative. Which made me very cute (see photo below)...

...and it also made me even smarter than I already am. You heard me. I was like a triple-decker genius cake with genius icing and a scoop of genius on the side. I was so smart, in fact, that I figured out how to open my cat cage halfway through the trip, which I did, right as T.O.C.E. was speeding down the highway. Now, for some reason, these drugs also make me uncharacteristically affectionate. Put that side effect in the afterschool special, kids. So I spent most of the trip sitting on T.O.C.E.'s lap while she drove. I also made googoo eyes at several truckers.

Once we got to Grand Rapids, I crashed out on the porch and T.O.C.E. and H.W.D.N.T.B.N., who are both about a zillion years old, tried to move everything into the house all by themselves. No, I did not help. This proves that C.apeshit is indeed a more evolved human than either of the yuckapoos I live with, as she had the good sense to hire people to lift all her heavy objects for her.

This is a photo of H.W.D.N.T.B.N after he three large pieces of furniture all by himself, pretty much. Note that, despite the fact that there are three glasses of booze around him (one for each furniture item), he is not happy.

Now here he is having drank said booze:

Yes I am letting him pet me. Yes, I am obviously still on drugs. I went out to a club right after this, danced around with a glow stick, and made out with, like, six strangers.

But though the move was arduous, at least it meant that, as they embark on this new chapter in their lives, all of T.O.C.E. and H.W.D.N.T.B.N.'s treasures surround them, reminding them of their great taste and love of the finer things. Like this duck lamp.

If You Happen to Have the Hiccups...

2008-07-08T21:12:00.001-07:00

Look no further. This should scare 'em right outaya.

2008-07-08T20:18:00.000-07:00

You're welcome.

Abstinence Makes the Fart Go Ponder.

2008-07-02T12:21:00.000-07:00

Oh, you poor, poor Internet. You've never been away from my cloudy disposition this long, have you? How have you bided your time in my absence, my alirophilic army? Spirits? Paint fumes? Cartoon porn? Don't bother answering that; I really don't care. As long as you weren't watching Celebrity Circus of the Starz. That's a choice that would cause even me to worry-- just a little bit.

Interestingly enough, I've chosen one of the more eventful spans of months in my short life to refuse to blog. Eventfulness is so flush around these parts that T.O.C.E. and The Other spend their days pacing the apartment, heads spinning around on their necks, overwhelmed by each shocking new development. "Charlene," why aren't you blogging about this?" They whine. I simply yawn and about-face, prefering to stare at the wall rather than gaze at their pinwheeling mugs. That's just my way, Internet. Don't hate. Scratch that, DO hate. It'll make me like you better.

Anyhoo, of the many things that have been "up" since late April, here's a list of the hugest.

1). I chased a chipmunk underneath a shovel, tried to stake it out for about 4 minutes, then forgot what I was doing.

2). Due to the early summer dawn, T.O.C.E. is now forced to give me my Advanced Weight and Hairball Management at 5AM, instead of 6. I've been biting her elbows to help her adjust to this change.

3). Yesterday, I shed 10,849 Charlene hairs onto the couch. A record!

4). T.O.C.E. received a master's degree.

5). Instead of spending my afternoons lounging on the kitchen chair closest to the fridge, I now lounge on the chair closest to the bookcase.

6). That invisible bug won't stop taunting me.

7). The entire side of the state on which we live was covered by a deluge now known as the "500 year flood," which essentally buried a big town 20 miles north of us, rendered a quarter of the University of Human Iowans campus buildings unusable for the fall semester, and relegated T.O.C.E.'s summer theatre gig to a (sort of) nearby high school, the very same building where the National Guard barracked their deployed troops.

8). I ate some grass.

9). Then I ate that invisible bug.

10). Some nutbags decided to further amp up their nutbagginess and offered T.O.C.E. a job. Someplace far away. Looks like I have at least one drugged-out day in the cat carrier ahead of me.

11). I got a new litter scooper. It is red. Like my rage.

For T.O.C.K.

2008-04-21T22:04:00.001-07:00

Is this what it felt like to carry T.O.C.E.'s hulking frame around all last month, feeding her lines to which she never correctly responded? Don't answer that. I know the answer all too well.

You Simply Cannot Hide From the Ugly Truths.

2008-04-20T23:26:00.000-07:00

This weekend saw the reappearance of a strange and wondrous Iowa occurence: T.O.C.E. and six of her weirdest acquaintances gathered in the panopticon that is The One Called Bird's playhouse, and banged on several poor, unsuspecting inanimate objects for an even poorer and more unsuspectinger group of humans. This is what T.O.C.E. et al call a "cover band."

The banging of objects continued late into the evening, until, at about 3AM, most folks had left. T.O.C.E was attempting a 2-note version of "Summertime" with a random undergraduate in a Jesus T-shirt while a triad of unnamed bike messengers looked on, eating expensive potato chips. Just another night in the Hawkeye state. Behold photographic evidence.

Covering "Heartbeats" by the Knife...

Acoustic nosie rock. Note The One Called Joon's use of a plastic corncob as a rhythm instrument.

2008-04-20T22:17:00.000-07:00

Chick-rock solemnity while covering Joy Division. Also, the best angle of T.O.C.E.'s face.

The One Called Hanick delivers a face-melting solo during his musical cover of"Of Thumbs."

The One Called Sreeni-realdeal, fiddle-covering Matthew Sweet.

T.O.C.J. sings about Christmas trees, her sister, and how to choose the perfect dog.

Purple Rose of Hemlock shows the true meaning of "Thru da window! To da wall!"

2008-04-20T20:45:00.000-07:00

The One Called 'Prill flew her mother in from Cleveland just so she could witness the glory that is the Percussion Basket.

The prettiest banjo-ho there ever was, pickin' the Go-Gos.

Give Me Liberty or Give Me C.apeshit!

2008-04-16T09:20:00.000-07:00

On second thought, Liberty is overrated. The last time I got free, I ended up with 1/4 less legs, living in an animal shelter, forced to go home with tweedledave and tweedledipshit.

JUST GIVE ME C.APESHIT! Within the next 24 hours, please...

THE RAGE WILL RISE AGAIN!!!!

Those of you interested in setting time aside for C.apeshit worship might stop by here at 8pm Friday, for some strange human ritual called "thesis readings." This is, apparently, then followed by one of T.O.C.E.'s favorite rituals, "getting loaded and turning carpentry tools into musical instruments. Contact her for the deets.

Sweet Lord.

2008-04-14T18:58:00.000-07:00

Maybe Russia isn't the motherland for megalomaniacal three-legged cats. Because this most definitely violates most of my core principles. Slide forward to 1:50 to see the borscht really hit the blender:

(T.O.C.E. loves it, though. Natch).

Paging St. Crispin...

2008-04-10T10:22:00.000-07:00

Rat's-eye view of Paul, the wanna-be Yank, marching the streets of London. All Blighty Charlene fans should try to catch these shoes in their native (semi-annual) habitat. Turn up the Trackula, indeed.

Reasons I Haven't Been Posting, Umpteenth Edition

2008-04-07T22:17:00.000-07:00

1) Crippling, Gut-wrenching Capeshit Withdrawl. She better get her angry butt back to the corn, and soon.

2) Because T.O.C.E. lost the plug to her digital camera, thus defeating my resolution to make 2008 The Year of the Three-legged Photo Blog.

3) Global Napping.

4) It's been difficult to sneak in computer time, what with the other blog T.O.C.E. has been commissioned to (read: forced someone to let her) write. It's about some human spectacle she's in (again) and, of course, is riddled with exclamation points.

5) Four Words: Cat Witness Protection Program.

6) The considerable drop in quality between Rock of Love with Bret Michaels I and Rock of Love with Bret Michaels II has left me seriously depressed. As The One Called Hanick says, there aren't enough drunk strippers taking their tops off, then falling down the stairs.

7) Because I've spent most of my free time forming an unlikely alliance with H.W.D.N.T.B.N. As a thank-you for the newfound friendship I've granted him, he's given me a slew of unsavory nicknames: The Littlest Bopper, Pocahontas, Beep Beep, Little Dungarees, and other embarassing monikers. But, alas, he is very, very good at ear-scratching.

8) Eight...I forgot what eight was for.

9) It's been difficult to concentrate on typing, what with all the whining that's been going on around here. Apparently, T.O.C.E. has chosen 2008 as the year to fall apart, suffering from back-wrenchings, shouler-kinkings, toe-sprainings, gout, sinus infections, peruvian rat flu, scurvy, swollen glands, and idiot disease. (Author's note: a few of these diseases are embellishments). Irregardlessably, she's been sick as a dog. "Constitution of an ox," my eye!

10) Because you people just won't stop pissing me off.

Be Still Her Heart.

2008-04-05T22:01:00.000-07:00

Dorkfish nearly dropped her tea on my tail after seeing this newsy tidbit on the Today Show:
Though she does admit that it just ain't the same without the high, high hair that screams 1989:
Welcome back, boys. Apparently, you are the madeline cookie for T.O.C.E.'s temps hairdo.

Whatchu Know 'Bout Me?

2008-02-14T11:54:00.000-08:00

I know that:

1) this song is almost a year old and

2) it is about an adolescent human and not a three-legged megalomaniac,

but still, this song rocks. I haven't sung it's praises sooner because I've been stuck in the chair, watching the vid on repeat and trying to perfect the dance moves.

Best line: The boyz rilly like it/ The girls don't speak/ They rollin' they eyes/ They're lip gloss sheep.

This girl, human tho she may be, totally channels a Charlene-like amount of brattitude. Seriously, doesn't she sorta look like me? If only cats had lips that could be glossed so badassedly...

Cabin Fever.

2008-02-07T21:33:00.000-08:00

Shortly after this photo was taken:

Dumb and Dumbest up there had the following verbal pas des deux:

T.O.C.E.-- I'm hungry.

H.W.D.N.T.B.N.-- All we have to eat is cheese.

T.O.C.E.--I want pizza.

H.W.D.N.T.B.N.-- They don't deliver pizzas in the middle of a blizzard.

T.O.C.E.-- Why is pizza such an inconvenient food? You totally have to rely on other people to make it, drive it over to your house, answert the delivery phones. It sucks. Its always all about their needs, their schedules, the fact that they don't have snow tires.

H.W.D.N.T.B.N.-- We could make a pizza.

T.O.C.E.-- No we couldn't. Pizza is a magical dish that only qualified pizza people know how to make. I wish there was a big rope lever hanging down from the ceiling and, when you pulled it, a piping hot pizza would fall out of the sky and into your lap. That would be awesome.

H.W.D.N.T.B.N.-- We could put some cheese on a record and eat it.

T.O.C.E.-- (baffled blinking)

Ever Seen The Shining?

2008-02-06T15:29:00.000-08:00

Its official: T.O.C.E. and H.W.D.N.T.B.N. are SNOWED IN! Work cancelled, classes cancelled, and the car stuck in the snow so nobody can go nowhere. There's no food in the pantry (unless you consider bourbon to be food-- which , if your name is C.apeshit, you do), and nothing in the fridge. Nothing on TV and T.O.C.E. threw her back out, so she can't a) sit up or b) clean anything.

This is, of course, tragic news for me, who cherishes the precious hours of the day where I have the house to myself. Now, in my present state of torment, the heater is so loud that it drowns out my cries.

Then, just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, it got even worser. It got even more worser than the worstest of the worst.

They discovered that their Cable on Demand had a KARAOKE MACHINE.

And they decided to use it.

FOR A VERY LONG TIME.

Yes, they are using the remote control as a microphone.

This is the kind of insanity I'd expect from Her Spazziness, but not from that other one. In their five years together, he's been admirably immune to T.O.C.E.'s karaoke sickness. That is, until he discovered that Cable Karaoke has "Detroit Rock City" on its playlist:

Insert karaoke air guitar (kairguitar-eoke?) Here.

Other songs included in the Massacre: "Fancy," "Luvenbach, Texas," "This Magic Moment," "Broken Wings," "Rock the Casbah" and, pictured below, "Smooth Criminal.
No, T.O.C.E. and H.W.D.N.T.B.N. Annie is not OK. She's not OK at all.

I hope you'll all join me in praying for a fast thaw.

Suffer the Felines

2008-02-02T16:02:00.000-08:00

Its getting very cold and snowy out here on the prairie. The white stuff has fallen from the sky every day since the semester began, and T.O.C.E. is obviously coming down with a nasty case of Cabin Fever.

In her insanity, she's decided to pass the time until the first thaw (June '08) by entering us in the next season of Dancing With the Stars. I am, of course, the star member of this team. I am also the one who is getting mercilessly tortured.

Behold a recent rehearsal. Insert that Gloria Estefan "Shakeyerbodybabydothaconga" song here:

I think this is me trying to do the Macarena. You can't see my face, but I am looking into her eyes with my Evil Laser Beam Stare. Also note how, even in my state of duress, I execute perfect "jazz hands."

Here, we attempt to do the lift that stumped Baby and Johnny for so many summer afternoons. Unlike Baby, I would certainly rather to be put into a corner than endure this humilliation. As you can see, T.O.C.E. appears to be having a grand old time. Moron.

Apparently, next week we will start practicing with costumes. Kill me now.

Oh Yeah.

2008-01-31T15:30:00.000-08:00

Forgot to mention that, about a month ago, T.O.C.E. trudged a few blocks in negative temps to excercise her rights as an Iowan: she caucused.

While she had fun with her fellow Patriots, all of whom were cramped into an elementary school gym for over two hours, she couldn't help but notice that the Republicans down the hall wrapped up the whole process in, like, a sixth of the time. That said, the long-ass wait to have her vote (unscientifically) counted did give her time to take many blurry photos of...uh...kind of absolutely nothing. I will try to provide captions that are at least a little bit entertaining.

Below is the closest T.O.C.E. could get to a wide shot of the 720 souls crowded into the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Elementary gym. Not-so-interesting fact about Iowa City: many of its quaint little grammar schools are named after famous writers: Twain, Longfellow, Nietzsche. Just kidding about that last one. Speaking of writers, can any of you spot the Pullitzer Prize Winner in this photo? Hint: he's seated in the third row. He was one of the 400-plus caucusers for Obama.

This guy looks a lot like Dennis Kucinich, but he isn't. He's sort of like the Grand Poobah of T.O.C.E.'s Caucus Moose Lodge. According to him, this precinct was the largest Democratic stronghold in all of Iowa in '04, and had increased by 200 people this time around. When he said this, T.O.C.E. began to feel very important. And also very claustrophobic.

And doesn't this guy down here look like Joe Biden? Why Biden is caucusing for Obama, I'll never know. Along with Biden, Kucinich and the Pullitzer guy, T.O.C.E.'s baker, hairdresser, and Pilates teacher were also present.

Note the blue card in fake-Joe-Biden's hand. This is how Iowans caucus, people. Don't let the high-tech Anderson Cooper coverage fool you. Out in the corn, this shiznit is about as organized as a county cakewalk. Everybody got a card with a number from 1-20 on it, then they had to form lines and count themselves by hand. All these numbers were then tabulated by loud yelling.

Okay, so after the first count, the real caucus magic began, when all the supporters candidates who didn't score enough votes (Richardson, Dodd, Me) filed into the gym. Then all of Edwards' (RIP), Clinton's, and Obama's folks tried to steal them.

Since that whole blue card thing ended up not really working, for this second count, caucusers tried to count themselves by raising their hands and going through the room, putting down then hand and yelling out a number in a somewhat orderly fashion. And did I mention that there were 720 PEOPLE DOING THIS?!?! Luckily, some of the Obama constituents started passing out string cheese and little Obama cookies. Needless to say, he took the majority of support. Edwards came in a close second, and Clinton had just enough votes to slide by.

Thoroughly jazzed from her night of down-home politicking, T.O.C.E. came home and told me all about it. I responded by making this face, which trained mimes will tell you means "big frigging whoop."

...aaaaand scene.

Last Night's Party.

2007-12-17T00:49:00.000-08:00

Well, a party three nights ago, to be more exact. Last night's party was a karaoke grudge match that would've yielded much more interesting shots, but I can't figure out how to charge the camera battery. What remains are these candids, from a much calmer night at The Bar Called the Dublin.

Many of you might be asking how I managed to leave the House on Walnut, schlep to the bar, and take photos for this cat blog, when I hate people and cannot turn doorknobs or drive a car. The answer is: I'm not really concerned with logistics and neither should you be! Also, do not doubt my awesomeness. Also, shut up, dagnabit.

This actually looks like it could be from the karaoke party. Here, the One Collectively called Rileydia warble "You Don't Give Me Flowers" in perfect harmony.

The One Called the One With the Same Name as H.W.D.N.T.B.N. decides to walk around the bar sideways. Note the two girls in the background whispering about his overall foxiness.

I think this was an argument over benchpressing. Or maybe the collected works of Joan Didion.

Here, The One Called The Purple Rose of Hemlock puts all other posable humans to shame:

And that's just one shot, ladies and gents!

Maybe, for every T.O.C.T.P.R.O.H. photo I take, I should hold a caption contest, like those ones in the New Yorker that drive the humans wild. Send your thoughtful captions for this pic to the webmaster, if you'd like to brooch the subject. Ha. Human pun.

Lookout, World.

2007-12-13T16:09:00.000-08:00

T.O.C.E.'s father rolled into town last week, leaving many jokes about the weather and $97.50 in blackjack winnings in his guffawing path. I like T.O.C.E.'s pop. I like him so much that, when he came to the house, I even let him look at me for about 30 seconds before I ran away.

But this story of famillial visitation is not all sunshine and roses--oh, no. Because T.O.C.E.'s father bought her a little gift, an item that, though it has existed for many, many years, I've prayed T.O.C.E. would never get her mitts on, as she has no spatial perception, taste, or knowledge of when to quit.

He bought her a digital camera.

While this might be considered a positive by many of my minions, who would never pass up the opportunity to get an eyefull of their favorite elusive cat blogger, and while it might also remove from my metaphorical jock the non-believers, who think a furry blogging entity cannot possibly exist in this mixed-up, crazy world, this new camera leaves me drowning in dread more than hope and excitement.

Case in point: Though the new camera might yield attractive, educational photos like this one, of me hard at work:

It will undoubtedly also yield thousands of kodak moments like this one, where I am mercilessly tortured, Olan-Mills style:

(help me.)

Or worse still, you know they'll be several hundred dozen terrifying stills like this one:

...just in time for the holidays.

Tell Me Why-eee...

2007-10-24T12:45:00.000-07:00

...this is the funniest photo I have ever seen:

This is also suprisingly hilarious. Thanks to The 2004 BuzzardLope Queen for the link.

Cultural Spaghettijunction

2007-09-03T08:41:00.000-07:00

From the International Desk...

2007-09-02T14:43:00.000-07:00

This just in from Manchester's own The One Called Paul, copping a pair of Kanye specs and turning a decidedly insouciant elbow to block one of the most famous buildings du monde as if to say, "My Elbow is, of course, much more interesting." What else would you expect from the mind that gave us the lyrics "I'm so full of sin I'm practically blind," "kids get snatched, you know I won't pay the ransom," and "I'm just a robot that don't need anybody's help." UK tripod fans should check out his new project.

I'm going to go check out the towels in the linen closet. Zzzzzzzzzzz.

Eatin' Good in the Neighborhood.

2007-09-01T14:09:00.000-07:00

Though he might appear the worldiest (or maybe just the oldest) member of the Walnut Street Posse, H.W.D.N.T.B.N. has actually led a quite sheltered life in certain respects. Sure, he's lost nearly all of his hearing thanks to ten years of super-cool Rock and Roll, and sure, he can open a bottle of wine without using his teeth, and sure, he once met Mark Spitz, but there are areas of American life in which H.W.D.N.T.B.N. is quite the hayseed.

For example, H.W.D.N.T.B.N. didn't eat white bread until he was 21. He was well into his adult life before he understood why people thought mustard was yellow, having spent his childhood only in the presence of the expensive brown varities found at high-end deli establishments. He doesn't know the lyrics to any songs by Color Me Badd, Snow, Ugly Kid Joe, or Ace of Base. He cannot name any famous (or marginally famous, or famous only online) Hollywood it-girls, and either calls them all "that JayLows" or interrupts T.O.C.E. while she enjoys her favorite programs by asking "Do I know who that is?"

Luckily, H.W.D.N.T.B.N. has everyone's favorite trash food and media junky at his side to help him, and this morning, like an inverse Galatea, he was shepherded into a new corral of low culture, the likes of which he had never seen before.

T.O.C.E. took him here.

They had intended to go to a breakfast establishment that T.O.C.E. found online, whose logo was a flaming skillet ("They should've named the restaurant 'Oops, Your Food's on Fire,'" H.W.D.N.T.B.N. suggested helpfully). On their way to the breakfast place, however, T.O.C.E.'s car began to overheat (again), and the pair had to pull into the first available parking lot, which happened to house Everyone's Favorite Casual Dining Restaurant. H.W.D.N.T.B.N had been talking about going there ever since he saw that Will Ferrell NASCAR movie. He was shocked to find out that yes, they had these restaurants in Iowa, too.

After dodging dozens of ampled-bodied residents of The City of Five Seasons to get to their booth, H.W.D.N.T.B.N. was silent for several minutes, obviously awed by the panopticon of wall decor, which included an obscure Bob Seger album and about 43 inspirational posters. He was then fascinated by the fact that nearly all of the menu items had pictures accompanying their descriptions, enabling diners to just point to their lunchtime selections and grunt, instead of actually verbalizing an order. He ordered dessert (of course-- the man must consume 6 billion calories a day to maintain his meathead physique) by merely requesting of the waitress "that awesome ice cream picture-dessert thing" and was amazed when she brought him just what he wanted.

When he actually got his language skills back for long enough to ask T.O.C.E. how she found her order, a "Gardenzania Freshenburgerganza," or whateverthehell, she responded, "It kind of tastes like a grocery store."

H.W.D.N.T.B.N. took a bite, and concurred. "It really DOES, doesn't it? That is so cool! I knew I was going to love this place!"

Put away your Blancpain watches and overly-complicated La Perla intimees, girls, and pray that you land yourselves a man this ridiculously easy to sassisfy.

Their car sufficiently cooled, the pair drove home, where the amount of weird crap in their systems caused them both to nearly pass out. And it wasn't even 2pm yet.

Yikes.

2007-08-31T19:37:00.000-07:00

Even Yikes-ier because T.O.C.E. actually knows some of these people. Are we really moving back to a place that harbors wackadoos like this??

Oh, I get it!

2007-08-13T11:56:00.000-07:00

It's installation art! Call LACMA!

C.update

2007-08-08T11:54:00.000-07:00

How's the unpacking going, C.apeshit?

Yeesh. Sorry I asked.

And They're all Full of Ticky Tacky.

2007-08-05T11:50:00.000-07:00

And so, gentle (non-existent) readers, the humans' journey comes to a close. T.O.C.E. is back home, annoying me like she never left. C.apesh*it is all but settled in to her new home. See?

Huh. Well, give her a few days. Maybe she'll settle in. Nice cradle, though.

No Sleep Till Koreatown!

2007-08-04T23:56:00.000-07:00

Steeled by the prospect of not having croaked in the wild and wooly (and by a few hours of air conditioning and hotel cable), the travel-whores decided to try their luck on the dangerous streets of Moab. Many watering holes could've met their needs, but a bar two doors down ultimately won out, thanks to their sign advertising THE COLDEST BEER IN TOWN. The Pacificos were, in fact, nice and cold. Not that our fearless humans have anything to compare them to. They didn't drink anywhere else and were in bed before midnight.

Interesting thing #1 about Utah laws and customs-- Utah bars are all registered as "Private Clubs," and one must be a member to drink there. Or so the Evan Dando-ish bartender (who also served their food AND COOKED IT!) told T.O.C.E. before charging her a $4 "membership fee." She now has her own card, with her name on it. Well, her initials at least-- after three tries at dictating the spelling of "Passarello," Evan-Dando-The WaitChefBartender just scrawled "ElenaP." on the card and threw it at her. Enough to make me wanna bust some grills, but T.O.C.E. just smiled and sat down. Sucka. Well, at least she's a member-- C.apesh*t had to stoop so low as to be her "guest." Fade to black.

* * *

Fade in as rosy-fingered dawn fondles the Virginian-- time to rise, shine, and bid farewell to this house of nil disputes. Well, maybe just one quibble--this sight seems to indicate that eight (count em EIGHT) feet, all of them large enough to fit these mighty, identical pairs of shoes, were staying in a hotel room the size of that in which the two ladies stayed. And that they had been out in the great outdoors, probably sweating. That's a lot of foot odor for such a modest hotel. Mental note-- never stay in the corner room of the Virginian...

The early morning light outside Moab was so lovely that, for nearly a full hour, the pair drove in silence. The fact that T.O.C.E. managed to keep her trap shut for an hour made a swarm of pigs fly around them, only increasing the incredible scenery.

Desperate for coffee, the two-some stop in the miniscule town of Green River, Utah (Ed Bentley, Mayor), which is one of those tracts of a few streets and gas stations right where the river allows plants to grow, while hundreds of miles of burnt-up desert sprawls around it. Seriously, the whole town is about the size of this bug that tried to jump on T.O.C.E.'s foot:

Lord have mercy, look at the size of that motha! C.apesh*t offers her foot as a scale reference. Also pitching in-- a ciggarette butt.

Crossfade to the middle of nowhere. The pair finishes the USA Today crossword in, like, half a minute. Half of the word clues weren't even words: AVS, Sarge, Ops, AandW, Nub, Fro, Fax.

That finished, C.apesh*t entreats T.O.C.E. to play the stupidest game in the whole world, where players simply list names of cars that are also nouns: mustang, golf, fury, etc. C.apesh*t tries to argue that there really is such a thing outside the car industry as an Aerostar. T.O.C.E. responds by listing that the Chevy Mormon was Motortrend's Car of the Year in 1976. Aren't you glad you didn't take a trip with these fools?

2007-08-03T09:32:00.000-07:00

Seriously, you two. Maybe you should just stick to looking out the window.

This is about the time T.O.C.E. read aloud an interview with Kimora Lee Simmons, who, apparently, owns a gold-and-jade toilet. C.apesh*t is baffled by the desire to poop on precious metals.

And this is about the time the camera battery died out, or maybe just got so disgusted by its operators that it decided to play possum. Thus, alas, I can offer you no documentation of the girls' pit stop in Cedar City, Utah, home of a Shakespeare festival, an interesting fast food restaurant, many fat people, an even more interesting condiment, and, for T.O.C.E.'s money, the funniest C.apesh*t quote of the trip: "What the hell is everyone DOING here!?!?!? SERIOUSLY!!!! How the hell are those people PAYING for that ranch house???!?!?!"

And so they beat on, passing an antelope, Las Vegas, the World's largest thermometer, and arrived in LA alarmingly on schedule. C.apesh*t's new apartment is a vintagey, high-ceiling-y bungalow in the up-and-coming St. Andrew's Square. And her neighbors seem very interesting, if a little uninterested in putting all their clothes on before coming outside to mock C.apesh*t as she tries to pull in to her RIDICULOUSLY NARROW PARKING SPACE.

Never the party animals, the girls had to force themselves to stay up past 9pm with a rousing game of UNO. For once, T.O.C.E. won without cheating. Or maybe they just quit the game. Either way, who cares? I for one, am just shocked that they made it at all.

Dirt Instead of a Lizard.

2007-08-02T23:58:00.000-07:00

Lights up on a small hotel outside Denver, where the girls headed west fairly early in the AM. More Colorado radio, which was weird--no sound effects or tags, and every announcer sounded like he was recording his show in a hallway or something. One DJ read a mailbag letter requesting that they never play Amy Winehouse's song, because its message (say "No, No, No" to rehab) was a misguided one.

C.apesh*t's Jeep groaned its way up through the Rockies like a boxy champ. About the time they crossed the Continental Divide, C.apesh*t began employing the adjective "gnarly." Her re-entry into the West Coast had begun...

Day Two of the C.apeshit/T.O.C.E. cross-country trek was just as successful as the first, perhaps even more so because these two human morons actually found something to take pictures of.

Apparently, humans put long planks of wood on their feet and, after snow falls, roll themselves down these large Colorado inclines. Both T.O.C.E. and I think this is an asinine passtime. Interesting side note: C.apesh*t lugged a pair of these items (called "skis") all the way across the country to Iowa from LA, and never used them for the three years she was there.

2007-08-02T23:06:00.000-07:00

Lunchtime found the pair in Fruita, Colorado, where the first stegosarus bones in America were found. Big whoop.

For this reason, the whole town (a haven for mountain bikers) is done up in Dino themes. The girls stop off for a tasty burger in one of these dino-themed diners and T.O.C.E. promptly discovers that she can't find her wallet. Insert panic here.

Ever the life coach, C.apesh*t tries to calm T.O.C.E. down by teaching her to meditate in the booth fo a greasy spoon. I hope that sounds as weird to you humans as it does to me.

The real claim to fame in Fruita should be that Mike the Headless Chicken (whom I've blogged about before) was both born and beheaded here 60 years ago. T.O.C.E. was sure that she'd be able to score much Mike chotchke while in Fruita, but all they found was this statue in the center of town.

It's made of giant farm tools, natch. And speaking of giant tools....

Yeesh.

The girls spending an hour driving around Fruita (which is three blocks long) looking for headless chicken merch. They meet a spacey local girl in the coffee shop, who sends them to City Hall, where a very interestingly coiffed art teacher sends them to the Visitor's Center one town over, where a gerbil of a woman sends them back into Fruita to a sewing shop (note: based on the data they collected, all Fruitans must wear at least one piece of turquoise at all times), where the only Mike item they have to sell is a book. And we all know T.O.C.E. never learned to read.

So they leave Fruita, but not without stopping to buy peaches first.

This is about the time T.O.C.E. found her wallet. It was in C.apesh*t's purse.

2007-08-02T21:19:00.000-07:00

The girls drive out of Colorado and into Utah, which, apparently, is a cause to take more blurry photos:

They check into a charming little hotel in the kickass town of Moab, Utah in the early afternoon. Moab is in the desert, very close to a place where The One Called God decided to use wind and sand and shit to make crazy sculptures out of ginormous rocks. Driving past them, T.O.C.E. starts to understand the reason for the glum tone of all those Western films.

This looks dirty, doesn't it?

Believe it or not, there is a lizard there. Good God, who gave T.O.C.E. the camera?

"Hey," says C.apesh*t. "Let's get out and walk to Delicate Arch!" "I don't hike and I hate nature," says T.O.C.E. "Oh no," reassures C.apesh*t. "It's easy. Babies do it." So they set off in the desert heat, sneakers pointing upward...

2007-08-02T18:28:00.000-07:00

C.apesh*t takes off at what can only be described as a speed-walkers pace, straight up a mountain, with T.O.C.E. gasping behind. No shit-- people on crutches were passing them.

Here is C.apesh*t, threatening to make T.O.C.E. meditate again.

At one point, they drift about 50 feet off the trail and T.O.C.E. thinks she is about to die.

Thirty minutes later, they are approximately one BILLION feet up in the air, shimmying along the world's narrow-ist ledge, adn T.O.C.E. thinks that C.apesh*t has it out for her. She delivers her own last rites, rounds the corner and...

Oh. Oh, wow. Well, that's actually kind of nice. Huh. Almost worth having coronary thrombosis for. No wonder it's on all the Utah license plates.

And what a view! A lunar landscape. So this is why all those people reject The Hills Marathons in favor of, you know, outdoorsy shit.

2007-08-02T07:36:00.000-07:00

Here, T.O.C.E. tries to take a picture of the two of them and the arch, and blocks the arch.

This happens like 18 times, until some nice Scandanavian woman agrees to take the picture for them.

Like Thelma and Louise, Only Without Accents or a Criminal Record.

2007-08-01T23:54:00.000-07:00

Dear Humans--This catblog has been officially hijacked by a pair of humans, possibly the only pair of humans who read the blog in the first place (God help anyone else who finds this rot interesting...). Early this morning, while I was happily diving into a bowl of A.W.A.H.M., T.O.C.E. and C.apesh*t left my driveway (H.W.D.N.T.B.N. waving them off like a faithful farm marm) and headed to some far away land in C.apesh*t's car. Apparently, they've been taking photos the whole trip , which ended for the day in some place near Denver, like the human omelet. Here is a handful of photos from the first leg of their trip, which all prove, among other things, that T.O.C.E. takes horrible pictures.

For starters, here is Big C. herself, bidding farewell to her home of three years with a signature "Take a trip to John's Grocery" wave. Insert the sound of an entire town weeping.

2007-08-01T22:58:00.000-07:00

The pair lands in the tiny town of Dexter, Iowa, which puts its town name on friggin everything.

First pit stop of the trip. Water for T.O.C.E., Gas-station-cold-coffee-beverage for C.apesh*t, gas for the Jeep.

2007-08-01T22:23:00.000-07:00

The first scenic vista of the day is when this car of 15-year-olds holds up a cardboard sign with "SHOW US YOUR TITS" printed on it. When the ladies refused, they flipped the sign over, revealing a weeping frowny face.

T.O.C.E. responded by composing this sign but they sped away before she could display it.

The lads reminded T.O.C.E. of those lonely nights on Georgia Hwy78 that she wiled away by flashing truckers.

2007-08-01T20:32:00.000-07:00

Lunch time found them in beautiful downtown Lincoln, Nebraska, home of this famous-among-like-maybe-four-people book-making industry.
The downtown area very much resembled the Strip District of Pittsburgh, which threw T.O.C.E. for a loop. She even thought she smelled water. Also loopy was the fact that, apparently, all Big Ten Towns are contractually required to have restaurants named "THE MILL," which must sport red awnings.

Attn: IC Mill-- your Nebraska counterpart has wireless access.

Also worth noting-- nearly every resident of Lincoln, NE, resembles T.O.C.E.'s less-than-amorous ex-amour, who purportedly lives in Lincoln. The duo instead opts to eat at a restaurant that serves salsa by the caraffe.

Insert Bruce Springsteen tune here:

"In the town of /Lincoln, Nebraska/two innocent people...had lunch."

2007-08-01T19:33:00.000-07:00

News Flash-- the leg of I-80 between Iowa City and Denver doesn't really offer much in the way of scenic vistas. Here, T.O.C.E. passes the time by tallying all the state license plates they see. Still missing: AL, DE, GA, HI, KY, LA, MA, MS, NV, NH, NJ, NM, ND, RH, VT, WV, and the District of Columbia.

Behold the find of the day-- Alaska. Best vanity plate was a Virginia tag that said BLKLDY, and the frame around it said "BACK THAT THING UP."

This was about the part of the trip where T.O.C.E. started writing her postcards. Only she had very little to say so far, which explains why H.W.D.N.T.B.N. is getting a postcard detailing the overturned Tyson Chicken truck they saw outside of Omaha.

Also: horses.
Also also: air horses .

2007-08-01T16:39:00.000-07:00

Once the pair crosses into Colorado, things get windy and stormy, and, for miles, no stations show up on the radio. The pair stop in a gas-station-slash-collectibles store-slash-beat-to-shite-trailer and T.O.C.E. buys a big pack of feminine hygeine products while three burly trucker types look on. The lady behind the counter doesn't even put them in a bag or nothin'.

Behold the approaching storm:

As the sun went down, the pair tuned into Delilah's inspirational radio program and got very inspired by all the crippled, sick single moms that were out on the North American continent, raising 140 foster kids on a budget and asking only for a dedication of "Wind Beneath My Wings" in return. Biggies C. and E. both found Delilah's choice of "What's Love Got to Do With It" for a 7-year old's shot out to her best buddy a little inappropo.

Here, C.apesh*t frowns outside Denver. Who knows whether its gas prices or 11-hours of T.O.C.E. monologuing that has her down.

Cheer up, big C. Only 72 hours to go!!!!

Parental Advisory

2007-07-26T00:02:00.000-07:00

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."

2007-07-25T05:51:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-24T06:18:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-07-23T07:40:00.000-07:00

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.

Homecoming Toast

2007-06-01T15:46:00.001-07:00

Well, the Other (or the Toast, as certain humans who refuse to embrace my lexicon have deemed him) finally returned after several bajillion weeks away from our happy bungalo, and it couldn't have been better planned. I say this because, after 14 days being T.O.C.E.'s sole living (and conversational) companion, I was about to chew off my remaining three legs just to put myself out of my own misery. Sure, there was plenty of room for me in the bed each night, but the talking! YOI!

I had no idea The Other's presence absorbed so much of T.O.C.E.'s not-so-dulcet tones. The bad news is he's scheduled to go away for nearly two months in the Fall, and who knows how I'll deflect her loggorheic advances for half a season of life. My new tactic is to roll over on my back, paws up, head reclinning, as if to say, "look, lady, I'm a corpse! Your 20-minute diatribe on why Apolo Anton Ohno should win the trophy is falling on literally dead ears." She hasn't picked up on it yet.

During The Other's absence, my only reprieve from her chattiness was when she went out and did something called karaoke, which I think means "Go Get Drunk and Come Back Hoarse and Smoky with an 80's Top 40 Hit in Your Head" in Japanese. Also, if you're C.apeshit, knitting is involved. Speaking of Iowa City's most honored honorary cat, she got T.O.C.E. so drunk on Memorial Day that, when T.O.C.E. finally stumbled home at the ungodly hour of 9pm, she went right to bed and said nary a word to my fluffy ass. That was a very, very good day, and thus WILL, in fact, be memorialed as such.

Donna Martin Graduates...

2007-05-31T20:07:00.000-07:00

T.O.C.C."R.B."C. will be glad to know that, not only am I posting again, but I'm posting a link of her suggestion. I loved this show. Even if I was negative eleven when it aired. I'm cool like that!

Darling, I Love You, But Give Me Park Avenue.

2007-04-24T20:27:00.000-07:00

Bad Theatre

2007-03-09T07:25:00.000-08:00

T.O.C.E.: I've been awake for four hours and I haven't gotten one thing done yet.

The Other (half asleep): That's okay, baby! You're on Spring Break! You should be out in the sunshine with the beer and the showing of the boobs.

T.O.C.E.: But I'm not going anywhere for break. I'm supposed to stay here and get work done.

The Other: You need to go out right now, wreck your car, drink a beer, and get a tattoo in Tijuana. Then come back here and show me your boobs. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Erm...

2007-03-04T08:53:00.000-08:00

All Humans Celebrate!

2007-03-03T08:15:00.000-08:00

He is ONE YEAR OLD TODAY!!!!

God Help Us All.

2007-02-27T06:59:00.000-08:00

Iambs.

2007-02-08T11:41:00.000-08:00

For C.apeshit (and her new BF)

The management of hairball and of weight is crucial; more than fruit and meat and veg. And so much more than pleasing human hearts, or masking my red rage to be polite. For I, a cat, once mangled by a fence, and left one limb short of a quadruped, must keep my cat pipes clear of fibrous fur, and keep my cat butt less than thirteen pounds. I’ve tasted it from day-to-day and, yes, they say the "switch-up" is the spice of life, but knowing what’s in store for you each hour; knowing the scoops that, yes, you can control-- the in-and-out of dish and litter box, the window-nap and black pen top to chase—it’s all a prize; a gift for living through eight lives of choices failed and options felled. I’ve made it to life nine, hooray for me! Albeit not exactly in one piece, but if I take a pellet o’er a thrill; a lazy life of comfort o’er ill-health, then so be it, and who be you to judge? Give me my bland food, then go f**ck yourself.

If I Was Male, British, Human, and a Popstar:

2007-02-03T15:22:00.000-08:00

Roit! Part II

2007-01-27T19:05:00.000-08:00

In the midnight hour, babe!, she cried "More, more, more!"

The Sexiest Man in Popular Culture

2007-01-23T12:10:00.001-08:00

(no, T.O.C.E.'s cousin, it ain't Davy Jones)

One Melancholy Norseman-- (+)

One OlSkool Hoodie (x)

Two Double Knit Pant (\)

Six-and-a-Half Feet of Gangly Moves = Happy T.O.C.E.

2007-01-21T08:47:00.000-08:00

I'm thinking of embarking on a career in hip-hop.

iSuck.

2007-01-20T12:22:00.000-08:00

Cereally, comrades-- one of the reasons that I've left your sadsack hearts in the lurch these past several weeks is because The Other gave you-know-who a very engaging holiday gift. Engaging for humans, that is. Where I would spend the hours rapt in intelligent thought over a gift of, say, Advanced Weight and Hairball Management or a pen top that I can chew, T.O.C.E. is plum obsessed with a tiny, shiny black box with little white strings shooting out of it. I've shunned cat toys that were bigger than this thing. But, for some reason, said shiny box forces her to sit at the 'puter til her back is sore, scrolling around, entering her credit card number at all hours, and occasionally muttering something like "What was the name of that Tigra and Bunny song they used to play at Dazzles Roller rink?" She then pays a human pittance for said songs, and forces me to listen to it while she dances around, nearly stepping on the precious three legs that I have left.

Alas, the black box and its online acoutrements are much smarter than T.O.C.E. For some reason, they keep trying to force a Willie Nelson song on her that she swears she never paid for. Today, she went online to find all her stupid songs missing. Instead of figuring out the problem, she simply started downloading more to her blank account. She then realized that she'd opened a second iloons account under The Other's log-in name, and now can figure out to get whatever the hell today's throwback asshat hits are over to her "playlist."

I swear, it was less annoying when she just walked around the house humming TV show theme songs to herself.

Wait, no it wasn't.

Excuses for Why I haven't Posted in Months

2007-01-19T13:52:00.000-08:00

Pick your favorite one, or mix-n-match, like Grranimals!

1) An unexpected bout of late-onset cat illiteracy
2) And I wouldn't be blogging now, if it weren't for you pesky kids!
3) Even tripods get the blues
4) Global Warming
5) I took a 1200-hour siesta
6) I was breaking in my new cat bed
7) I was bringing sexy back
8) I was conducting a prayer vigil for the cat called BBKing
9) I was in an ire-induced coma
10) I was in training for my new spokesperson gig
11) Jury duty
12) Spontaneous vomiting brought on by T.O.C.E.'s covers of the Dreamgirls soundtrack
13) Shut up
14) The One Called C.apeshit needed to learn the virtue that is patience
15) T.O.C.E. flattened me with a deadly pun.
16) The Bossanova, with its magic spell
17) The Great Blog Drought of Ought-Six
18) The Other accidentally dumped the computer out the window trying to send an attachment
19) This

Ruh-roh.

2006-11-12T08:38:00.000-08:00

I'm Older Than You in Cat Years

2006-11-11T08:04:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-10T07:56:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-09T12:02:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-08T17:33:00.000-08:00

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?

2006-11-07T16:20:00.000-08:00

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!

Roiiit!

2006-09-07T17:14:00.000-07:00

MONDAY'S CHILD IS FULL OF FACE...

TUESDAY'S CHILD IS FULL OF GRACE...

WEDNESDAY'S CHILD IF FULL OF WOE...

THURSDAY'S CHILD HAS FAR TO GO...

FRIDAY'S CHILD IS LOVING AND GIVING...

SATURDAY'S CHILD WORKS HARD FOR HIS LIVING...

AND THE CHILD THAT IS BORN ON THE SABBATH DAY,
IS BONNY AND BLITHE, AND GOOD AND GAY.

For The One Called Ashbut (and always only Ashbut)

2006-09-02T18:15:00.002-07:00

THIS is how one earns such a nickname.

For T.O.C.C."R.B."C.

2006-09-02T18:09:00.000-07:00

Pit-stains in the Spotlight

2006-08-27T09:45:00.000-07:00

We're running out of room over here on Walnut street, what with the massive love being pumped into our respective egos.

First and foremost, I have done my very first celebrity interview. By a real writer, no less, who wows the world with hard-hitting exposes of things like brain disease and hippie footwear. Excuse my while I git that dirt off my shoulder.

Secondly, The Other is, as T.O.C.C."R.B."C. dubbed him "the toast of Pittsburgh" as of press time, as a prominent theatre critic in town (married to the bestest human ever) cited his play as, essentially, kick-ass. He's currently looking into having his name officially changed to "the genius."

Thirdly, T.O.C.E. ... well, nothing much happened to her. But her buddy, The One Called Matte, recently posted two videos from her theatre days that feature her in super-ham form:

In this one, she actually LOOKS like a ham, having donned some winter fat. Its a long-ish vid for a 24-hour play festival that also featured the Other (who wrote a play for this, too, but they couldn't include footage in the vid b/c/ the lead actor refused to sign the film waiver):

And here she is as she was last summer, ho-bagging it up.
Great, Job, The One Called Matte. Anything that encourages people to laugh at T.O.C.E. and make her fall down is aces in my book.

For all you rabid Burgh theatre types, you can view all of his video shorts here .

Very Informative.

2006-08-21T21:15:00.000-07:00

Some freelancer totally earned his paycheck with this one.

p.s.-- keep those quiz entries coming! Two of Charlene's finest human servants are neck-and-neck for the prize of admiration (or at least lessening of disgust).

Better Late Than Canine

2006-08-19T18:46:00.000-07:00

Alles!

I meant to do this a month ago, in celebration of this Cat Blog's One Hundreth Post, but, you know, things got really busy with the whole megalomaniac thing and I don't have to frigging justify myself to any of you yahoos anyway. But here it is, for what it's worth-- a reader appreciation quiz to prove just how much you really do in fact love me, as well as how much I love you, if at all. Scores will be tallied by the good people at Ernst&Younga and the winner will be announced and heavily mocked here, in the coming future.

No cheating, duckies. Turn your test papers over....NOW!

Who's birfday is it?

2006-08-17T06:35:00.000-07:00

Davy Crockett's? Mae West's? Belinda Carlisle's? Antwaan Randle El's? Well, yes, but they're not of whom I am speaking. I speak of Comrade Conrad, patron saint of homeless Pittsburgh ex-pats, the bi-coastal aliurophile and the Mrs. Patrick Campbell to T.O.C.E.'s George Bernard P-Shaw.

T.O.C.E. adores him because their two brains communicate like radio waves, so they're often listening to the same song at the same time in two different states. Also because she once saw him flex his buttocks muscles in a pair of man tights.

I respect him because The One Called Conrad goes out of his way to worship cats. We like him so much that sometimes, we just move in without prodding. Take his two girlfriends, Rod and Stewart, who climbed through the window of his ocean front home just because. Now that's the new world order in motion, people!

So senior, feliz cumpleanos. I didn't buy you anything, and if T.O.C.E. did, I hope its returnable.

They Always Come Back to Mama.

2006-08-07T18:06:00.000-07:00

So sez T.O.C.E., as her wayward troupe of Iowa cohorts stumbles into town from various ports of call. She has been meeting them for drinks and conversations, which all sound pretty much like this...

T.O.C.E.: So tell me about your summer! Was it relaxing?

Grad School Colleague: Not really. I mean, I did get a chance to squeeze in a catnap in the Rekyavik airport when I was waiting to catch the ferry to Hoofrusgfegoe island (I know you've never heard of it) for a little hiking, base jumping, and just enough time to pen a novella before I went and built a hi-rise church in Burkina Faso. After that I accidentally biked the Trans-Siberian railroad line and in July, just, you know, saved a couple litters of baby meerkats from a few burning buildings. Oh! And I got laid by lots of eye-bogglingly hot men, none of whom could speak my language. Languages, I should say. Plural. I speak, five, you know.

T.O.C.E.: Oh.

G.S.C.:How 'bout you?

T.O.C.E.: Well, you know, I hung around here and stuff. It was...uh, cool. Yeah. it was totally awesome, actually. You missed alota totally awesome shiznit. Dude.

G.S.C: Par example??

T.O.C.E. Well, one day, there was this rain storm, and there was this REALLY big lightning bolt, and it made the sky light up like it was 7:00 in the MORNING, even tho it was only, like 6:30.
So there was that. And I got a bug bite.
And David farted once. That was pretty cool.

...aaaaaand SCENE!

Tragic, tragic T.O.C.E. I would comfort her if I gave a rat's ass. Even The One Called Casey has left her for the closed boutiques and Cambodian lentils of gay Paree.

Actually, if she thought a little harder, she could think of a few things to tell the masses about her summer that would make her seem a tad less lame:

1) She saw Miami Vice in Michigan City, Indiana while waiting for her overheated car to cool the f*ck down.

2) Without coaching, she predicted which contestants would be the first to be voted off So You Think You Can Dance based only on how much they annoyed her.

3) She learned how to play several songs on the musical saw, all of which end up sounding like the theme to Star Trek.

4) She learned two new phrases that a) make her laugh every time she says them and b) never make anyone else laugh. Those phrases are "sexy partouze" and "buttfight."

5) She mourned the loss of her beloved tortoise.

6) She cheated on me with two other cats, (Callie and Petey owners of The One Called Bouvier and The One Called June).

7) She broke her finger while trying to dance like an M.I.A. video she watched on The One Called Conrad's cable.

8) She read Jane Eyre 111 times or so.

9) She updated her myspace profile 1111 times or so.

10) She had a very sexy partouze of a dream where she was on a beach and enrolled in a contests that involved stacking dozens of naked bodies (including all her ex-lovers) on top of eachother, only a surfboard separating them. In the dream, she was very pleased that she was in the stack, though still clad in a bikini, and no judge saw her to disqualify her. Like all of her sexy dreams, no actual physical contact occurred.

And now that I come to think about it, even those more worldly colleagues enjoyed their share of the lame while about and abroad. Case in point: this dispatch from The One Called Cowan, underling of Smoky, who was approached in a Spanish nightclub by the three humans below. Their pickup line?

"We practise in mirror for three hours EVERYDAY so you can take our picture."

View said photo below.

2006-08-07T18:05:00.000-07:00

Oh dear.

I'd like to thank all the little people...

2006-07-11T01:12:00.000-07:00

...For stroking my kittycat ego with the ardor that, in all honesty, is just part of their job description as humans. Your cross-species fan mail has been pouring in.

This little piggy has been featured here before (June 2005?)-- and has a penchant for my doppelgangers (photographic evidence of this later).

And this little piggy bore the tremendous burden of spending time with T.O.C.E. during her formative years. Yeeeech and perish the thought.

Both have championed my leonine wit in their not-too-shabby human blogs (1)(2) and I, ever the enlightened despot, hereby return the favor.

And for the rest of you ingrates (didn't your momma teach you how to cat-worship?) here is a picture of The One Called Ill that T.O.C.E. especially likes:

2006-07-11T00:55:00.000-07:00

The One That is the Cousin of T.O.C.E. circa 3/1998