Something's Fishy!

Since I brought another cat into my household a few fateful months ago, my life has been turned upside down. Not only did I sprout fungal growths all over my body, but I had to cash in my 401k to pay for Percy's medical bills and was forced to give BJ's in order to procure his medication. In the five months that this little shit has been a part of the family, I have spent more money on cat food and clitty litter than any one person should in their lifetime. I'm considering going on WIC (Women, Infants and CATS) to subsidise my cats' extravagant lifestyle.

So since becoming a two cat household, I've found myself running out of cat food on an increasingly regular basis. Back in the olden days when Oscar was my only fur child, I would simply substitute his usual Iams dry food for a can or two of Fancy Feast pate, a handful of cotton candy and a plate of ketchup. And before you judge me, you should know that Oscar would sooner eat arsenic laced cotton candy than he would Fancy Feast salmon pate served in a crystal goblet. He loves cotton candy THAT MUCH. But now that Oscar shares the food supply with his new little brother, the rations seem to be in short supply all the time. I have one of those giant troughs which holds at least 5 pounds of food in its tank, yet somehow I'm refilling it nearly every day. It's like the two of them have a cat food eating contest every day, and from the looks of it, Percy is the defending champion. It seems that every time I come home, the food tray is empty and the cats have knocked it to the ground, clawed it to shreds and pissed all over it in their extreme anger and insufferable starvation.

A couple of weeks ago, I was doing a little "spring cleaning" and decided to change the water in which our two Betta fish, Silly and Billy, reside. Because I accidentally dropped one of the plastic wall hanging half-bowls that they lived in, I had to transfer them to two tall glass vases, for which I have no better use since being sent flowers is a romantic notion that is actually laughable at this point in my life. So, I took Silly and his vase down from the mantle and went through the process of taking him out, cleaning the vase and rocks, prepping the new water and replacing the fish. During this process I realized that I needed to hastily run a few errands before the stores closed, so I dashed out the door, leaving Silly and his vase resting on the kitchen counter. I know that Oscar is quite familiar with fish and is less than amused by them; while Percy, on the other hand, wants to kill anything that has a face. Knowing this, I placed the vase at the back of the counter, away from the edge, and assumed that since the mouth of the vase is rather narrow, there would be no way Percy could get his fat head or his fat paw inside to pester my fish.

Fast forward an hour or two. My roommate arrives home from work and calls me from the house, panic in her voice.

"Did you leave all of this glass and water all over the kitchen floor?"

"Holy shit. You're kidding me."

"I think the cats just had some sushi."

I raced home to a monumental disaster. Shards of glass, rocks and water were strewn about the kitchen. And there was no sign of my fish. Not a single fin, gill, scale or eyelash was left behind. I have no doubt who the guilty party is; Percy that fat bastard was seeking revenge for not getting fed his requisite $240 worth of cat food for the day. So he pushed my vase off of the counter and ATE MY FUCKING FISH.

Owning two cats is way more work than I anticipated. I got Oscar a friend in hopes of keeping him entertained and active. The reality is, the only place those fucking lard asses run to is their freshly filled food bowl. Next feline medical expense: gastric bypass surgery.


These Are the Days of Our Lives...

Roommate: So I saw this homeless dude begging for change on Voss yesterday, and he was fucking HOT! A hot homeless guy!

Me: HA! You should have written your phone number on a dollar bill.

Roommate: Yeah, so he could give me a call from his tin can telephone? Anyway, I was afraid he wouldn't know how to read.

Seriously, you have enough trouble trying to find a boyfriend who doesn't still live at home and work at the mall; dating a homeless guy would be a step in the wrong direction. Plus, if you're worried about the dude you're dating NOW being skinnier than you are, then hungry and homeless probably isn't going to be much of an improvement.

Roommate: Yeah, and he'd always have a better tan than me, too.


Start Spreading the News, Nessa's Friends are All Gay.

So this weekend I allowed fellow blogger Nessa to coerce me into joining her at a (and I use this term loosely) "concert", upon the promise of sushi, booze and hot, single men. One of her colleagues in the business world happens to be a professional musician of Broadway acclaim, and was hosting a (and I can't really say this without bursting into peals of laughter) "concert" at a local jazz venue in a happenin' area for young professionals such as ourselves.

"He's cute, he's successful, he's single, he's nice, and he's an incredible singer," I seem to recall Nessa boasting, in her attempt to convince me that going out on a worknight was a good idea. "C'mon, you LOVE Broadway," she implored.

"I also love hot, single men," I reminded her.

"Well, tonight might just be your lucky night," she lied.

After getting off work, I literally had five minutes to primp and prepare myself for all of the sulky, beatnik jazz daddies I planned on meeting at this swanky nightclub located in one of the trendiest parts of town. Nessa showed up as I was stepping out of the shower, and within 30 seconds we were walking out the door; me with rollers falling out of my hair, wrinkled pants, mismatched shoes, and indentations on my legs from the granny support socks I wear to work, and Nessa with flawless makeup, shiny hair, and and a brand new sequined strapless dress. We were short on time, but we decided to stop at the sushi place across the street from my house for a quick bite, where Nessa proceeded to discuss breast feeding, loose skin, vaginal birth and urinary incontinence. Shortly after hearing her describe the difference between pre-pregnancy boobs and post-pregnancy boobs, I flung my body on top of the sushi bar and begged the chefs to use their ginsu knives to sever my fallopian tubes and tie them in a double fisherman's knot, because NO FUCKING WAY AM I GOING TO PISS MY OWN PANTS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE BECAUSE OF A GOD DAMN FETUS.

Once they had me sewn back up, I returned to the table to enjoy our dinner of wine and raw fish (okay, so it was mostly wine.) As we were finishing our food, I noticed Nessa jabbing and prodding at the inside of one of her sushi rolls, forcibly removing its innards with her FINGERS. Then I watched in horror as she lifted her plate to her face and, in a $200 Ann Taylor sequined dress, SLURPED THE CONTENTS OF HER PLATE INTO HER MOUTH. Thus began our evening.

After Nessa hoovered up the rest of her sushi with her industrial strength vacuum lips, we left for the (and what I'm about to say should really be illegal) "concert". We stopped at a gas station along the way, and when I went inside, Nessa honked at me from the car, where she was miming some kind of urgent, wordless communique. She was repeatedly throwing her head back and holding her hand up to her mouth, and it took me no more than a second to realize that that hand was holding an imaginary 40 oz. bottle of malt liquor. So I bought a 40, wrapped it in a paper bag, hopped in the car, and we continued on our way.

15 minutes and 40 ounces later, we arrived at our destination. Not knowing the exact location of this particular night club, Nessa parked somewhere in the general vicinity and we had to hoof it the rest of the way. Scrambling to keep up with Nessa's retarded giraffe legs, I encountered great difficulty traversing the broken, pot-hole riddled street due to both my inebriation and my poor judgement in footwear. The result was me, sprawled out on the concrete, bleeding from the leg, while Nessa looked on and laughed. Hey, that's okay though, because about ten of us have seen the intricate workings of Nessa's female anatomy, and it would take a mere phone call to produce the pictures that prove it. I have a lifetime of blackmail material on you, sister. LOOK WHO'S LAUGHING NOW!

After the bleeding slowed to a steady drip, I managed to hobble into the club, dragging my mangled leg behind me like so much useless flesh. Looking around, I realized the "stage" was a cheap piece of square particle board, and the "stadium seating" consisted of a couple of folding card tables and a few chairs filled with somber looking elderly couples. Upstairs was a balcony where the bar was located, which Nessa's alcoholic instincts hastily guided us towards. As we approached, I noticed the bartender, who was borderline cute in that unkempt, shaggy, potentially homeless kind of way. After mentioning this to Nessa, she proceeded to try to identify who the dude reminded her of.

"Um, he kind of looks like Quasimodo... you know, the Disney version? No, no, wait. Maybe the Phantom of the Opera. No, I know who he looks like! The elephant man! You know, the guy with the bone disorder?" Thus ended any romantic fantasies I had previously entertained about myself and young Joseph.

Looking around, I realized that not only were the pickings slim, but that the Hobo of Notre Dame was the only straight, single, and relatively cute male under the age of 65 in the building. The nearby retirement home must have bussed in their finest residents exclusively for this (and this word could be more appropriately used to describe Meatloaf singing karaoke at an outdoor barbecue) "concert". The audience was chock full of blue haired, depends wearing, hot toddy drinking, shuffle board playing, certifiably senile GEEZERS. And, just to make things that much more interesting, most of them were gay.

But wait, there's more! Nessa's colleague- you know, the cute, successful, single one?- HE'S GAY TOO. What tipped me off, you ask? I'm pretty sure it was his mildly disturbing rendition of "Stand by Your Man". And if his jazz hands and glass-shattering falsetto weren't enough, then I'm pretty sure his impressive montage of the complete musical repertoire of Judy Garland and Dionne Warwick pretty much eradicated whatever stray heterosexual genes might have escaped the genocidal ambush of the gay genes. The zodiac symbol tuxedo vest? Just icing on the gay cake. And the cherries on top of the icing on the gay cake was his (and may God strike me dead for my inappropriate use of this word) "band"- otherwise known as Old White Dude playing the piano with his FEET, on which he wore boldly colored, striped TOE SOCKS. I could go on and on here, but I think I'll let the toe socks speak for themselves.

As it turns out, dude's a pretty good singer. His musical renditions of the best of the "oldies, standards, and Broadway" were rather impressive. Actually, it's quite possible that I was drunk enough that William Hung belting out the hit classics from 42nd Street would sound good to me. Either way, the night was full of so many humorous moments that I intensely regret walking out of the house without my camera. I assure you that I will not make the same mistake NEXT weekend, which is guaranteed to involve lingerie, booze, phallic-shaped pastries, strippers, blow-up dolls and a limo. Stay tuned.


A Murder of One (I'm Talking About You, Danny.)

So, my blogging idol, Dad Gone Mad, tagged me with a fucking meme. Anyone else would have woken up with a scythe in their frontal lobe for expecting me to participate in what quite honestly amounts to nothing more than a blog-based chain letter, but because it's DGM, and because reposting this meme guarantees that I'll meet, fall in love with, and mount the love of my life within the next eight minutes, I'll go ahead and comply.

My highly addictive personality, paired with a few well-known psychological acronyms such as ADD and OCD, has left me prone to a lifetime of fleeting and unrealistic infatuations. These obsessions define who I am; they are what make my parents proud of the only remaining child for whom a flickering light of hope still remains. If that doesn't scare the ever-loving shit out of you, then maybe my top ten list will.

1. Michael Jackson. The King of Pop is my all time #1 obsession. My parents actually met him on their honeymoon, and since, true to our white trash heritage, my mom was already knocked up at the time, I can honestly say that I was present for that encounter. The memory's a little fuzzy, but I'm pretty sure I recall doing the moonwalk in my amniotic fluid.

2. Smartees. I think my roommates and I once tried to calculate how many pounds of Smartees I ate during finals week my junior year of college, and the number was well into the double digits.

3. Strangers with Candy, the greatest show ever aired on television. Jerri Blank is what I think I could possibly be like had I allowed my addictive personality to guide me towards crack-cocaine, prostitution and a really bad hairdresser. What the hell, it's never too late to live your dream, right? "CLEARLY, she's retarded!"

4. Todd Anderson. I don't care if he had a nose job at 16, I used to skip band practice to walk by his locker every fucking day. Once my elbow brushed up against his sleeve and I haven't washed it since.

5. "I Miss You" by Incubus. My college anthem. I've listened to this song so many times that I think the band should start paying ME royalties.

6. Jakob Dylan of The Wallflowers. The reason why I could never be a lesbian. That, and the fact that I like penis.

7. eBay. I'm currently seeking outpatient rehabilitation for this particular addiction.

8. Scooby Doo. I've had this unhealthy infatuation with Scooby Doo since I was very young. I'm not sure what it is that continually draws me to this juvenile cartoon. Maybe it's the familial connection! Shaggy is my brother, Daphne is my sister, Velma is myself, and Fred is every guy I've ever dated. My Scooby Doo memorabilia include pajamas, slippers, panties, shirts, cups, magnets, bathing suits, and jewelry. If they make Scooby Doo bongs, it's quite possible that at one point in my life I would have paid good money to own one. It's also quite possible that if I did own one, my brother would have stolen it by now.

9. Listening to, writing down, memorizing and reciting angsty song lyrics as a teen. This was a daily activity for Fats and myself as youngsters. Whereas most kids were locking themselves in their rooms after school to experiment with sex, drugs, self-mutilation or heavy eye makeup, Fats and I were intently listening to the lyrics of Live, Smashing Pumpkins, No Doubt, Nirvana, Alanis Morisette, The Offspring and Celine Dion, arguing over whether Kurt was saying "Hello" or "Hell no." Sadly, our parents never questioned this unhealthy, antisocial behavior, which is why I now blame them for everything that's gone wrong in my life.

10. Danny Evans in a dress. The hottest shit since Kevin Bacon did that nudie scene in Wild Things.

Tell me your top ten obsessions in the comments. Or you can post it to your blog if you're so inclined. Danny has promised to show his tits to everyone who participates.

Slighty Inebriated Phone Conversation with My Brother.

"Shea, did you drink all of my vodka while we were in Mississippi?"

"What? NO! What are you talking about?"

"I had a full bottle of vodka in the fridge and now there's only backwash left in there."

"Deja, I don't like vodka, you should know that. I had a bad experience two years back."


"Honestly, I didn't even know you had vodka in the fridge, otherwise I probably would have drank some."

"Oh, just like you didn't know that somehow, a mysterious cannabis plant sprouted itself on mom's balcony? I hear they're indiginous to this area and the locals use the leaves for baking brownies. 'Honestly mom, I don't even like marijuana! But since it was right there on your balcony, I went ahead and smoked some...'"

"Whatever, shut up."

Did you have sex in [my roommate]'s bed?"

"Deja, you're drunk."

"That means yes! Just clean up after yourself next time, freak. Do you have your car payment?"

"No, I still don't have a job."

"Stop smoking so much moonshine pot and go get a job, you lazy fuck. Call me when you have some money."



Operation: Get Megan the Mental Help She Needs, Quickly Before She Kills Someone. Namely Me.

Via text message:

Megan: Road trip suicide is on the horizon.

Me: Take pictures and post them to flickr before you go!

You cunt. You didn't even try to talk me down.

Because I look good in black.

Via email:

"Did you choke on a chicken bone last night, or what? I waited until 3:00 am
for you to sign on to yahoo. I didn't even get out of my chair to use the
bathroom, I just soiled myself at my desk. I didn't want to miss you. Now
I'm calling in sick to work, because I'm exhausted from stalking you. I've
been paying [your roommate] a monthly stipend this entire time. The reason she's your 'wife' is because I've been putting a little spending money in an account of
hers over in Germany. She keeps tabs on you, and I put franks in her
pocket. Now that I've told you this, I guess that one of us is going to
have to kill you. Enjoy your LAST DAY AT WORK MY FRIEND.

I love you. I've always loved you. Why did you make me do it?


via text message:

Megan: Still at work?

Me: Waiting for the bus to take me to my sauna- I mean, car.

Megan: God forbid you suffocate.

Me: Why, so you can claim my corpse and burn it in some sort of pagan lesbian love ceremony? I think not.

Megan: No, I just want to kiss you all over.

Me: That's fucking sick you necrophiliac. Your place or mine?

Megan: Mine. [Your roommate] won't be there.

Me: She might be. She'll probably cuff herself to my lifeless cadaver in her extreme grief. You'll have to work around her.

Megan: I'll wait for her to pass out and cut you loose and then we'll ride off into the sunset, ok, Louise?

Me: I'm not committing a double suicide with you until you get me a promise ring, or at least a convertible.

Megan: How's a promise pod sound? It's either that or a hickey.

Me: I'll take the hickey.





Future Baby Daddy

Dear Dr. J,

I want to marry you and have 16 of your hot Brazilian chirrens, each of whom will be conceived during wild nights of hot, drunken sex on the nude beaches of Rio. You can teach me how to roll my R's, wear a thong bikini with style and gracefully dance the Brazilian Samba. I want to teach you how to say ya'll, wear plaid golf shorts and brown loafers with dress socks, and make the Electric Slide look like an amputee mime being chased by a swarm of yellowjackets. You'll wax my car, and I'll wax your back. I'll eat your frijoles negros and you'll eat my shepherd's pie. We'll be like peas and carrots, Forrest and Jenny. Except I'll never give you the HIV.

After a few years, the married life will start to wear you down. You'll get tired of my nagging, and I'll get tired of being the rich, pampered wife of a doctor. I'll have "headaches" every night; you'll be "on call" every weekend. Even the most raucous of swingers' clubs won't be able to mend the rift that will eventually sever our once indelible adulation. You'll leave me for a young Katie Holmes look alike, and do a stint in a local penitentiary because of your unfamiliarity with state law regarding consentual sex. After all, 17 is practically geriatric in Brazil. Because Kanye West never quite enjoyed the same level of critical acclaim in Brazil as he does in America, you'll be unschooled about the necessity of a prenup, and as a result I'll milk you for whatever savings you have left after that statutory rape conviction. I'll attempt to exercise further revenge by sleeping with your best friend and sending your church pastor incriminating photographic evidence of your propensity for heroin and young Latin boys. You'll never see your children again, and they'll eventually grow to hate you. You will die a lonely and resentful old man, while I will remain forever young thanks to the botox and lipo that your alimony payments afford me.

If any of the above sounds appealing to you, you know where to find me. If not, we can always keep it simple by playing a little one-on-one in the physician's lounge, Brazil vs. US. You can practice aiming your balls at my goal post. Never fear though, I have a really good goalie. He goes by the name of Ortho-tricyclen.

Love, Nurse Spoonleg

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