with guest blogger “Fluffy”
Hey, sup dudes. This is Fluffy, a.k.a. Ruler of My World! Ace Blogger! Night Wailer! and Eater of Small, Tasty, Furry Things!
Alright, not so much eat, more “gnaw their legs off and then give them to you as a gift.” Here’s a cute, headless robin torso and an embryonic baby bunny, reduced to a furry, bloody pulp! That was SO FUN!!
Jeez, dudes, stop screaming! You must truly hate life if you can’t enjoy a little instinctual torment of something smaller and more helpless than yourselves. Remind me to stick with bringing once-adorable-but-now-hideously-mutilated-and-possibly-not-even-dead-yet small, helpless creatures exclusively to Progressive Conservatives, who will appreciate them better, now that they’ve made tormenting the helpless part of their “mandate.” Or “catdate.”
And so much for the epithetical part of this guest blogging session. Let’s keep things simple. Just refer to me as “He Who Feigns Delight in Your Presence, The Better to Feast on your Most Delicate Body Parts Should You Choke to Death, Alone, on a Chicken Bone!”
Just remember to get on your knees first.
So Big TomCat with the Weird Smell has “tasked” me with blogging while he does something that sounded like “lie in a dark room with his head covered by a damp bed sheet until his life gets better”.
I’m not sure I totally understood the concept of “life gets better”.
I mean, you sleep. You get up. You stretch. You get fed. You get stroked. You stretch.
Kind of thing.
Occasionally you do the ingratiating, arched-back, rub-against-his-leg doo-dad, and I like to up-sell this one with the optional purr, preferably #48: low-and-sultry. But—not so much that he starts to depend on it.
This is the expectations management portion of the gig, dudes!
You get fed. You get stroked. You purr, you stretch. He lets you out. Idiot! He lets you in.
Occasionally you get some pussy. But always somehow right on cue.
What’s to get better? Weirdness, right?
I mean, true, he never learned to meow properly. And he sleeps maybe 10, 14 hours a day. That’s not nearly enough! I’ve never seen him gnaw the legs off anyone, like where are the simple pleasures?
Maybe better means he won’t have water running down his face all the time. I hope so! Freaks me out, dude! Fix the friggin’ leak in your face!
Oh….Oh wait… Ohhh yes…..
ABSOLUTELY MUST LICK MY ASS WITH ONE LEG POINTING STRAIGHT UPPPPPP — NOW!!
OK, so first off I have to write a sonnet, CHECK, then Big Human Cat with the Weird Smell suggested I take some of his Facebook posts and “fog you off”?
Fog? Did I get that right?
The fog comes in on little cat feet. Did you know that?
OK, NOW LET ME OUT. ABSOLUTELY MUST GO OUTTTTTT — NOW!!
LET ME OUT!!
MEOW MEOW! LET ME IN, YOU IDIOT!!
You know, cute cats invented the Internet. It’s true. With enough propagation of enough flickery cat pics, we will never die.
PRAISE FOR ALL TIME TO THE GODDESS! GIVER OF NINE LIVES, KEEPER OF THE OINTMENT JAR! PRAISE TO BASTET!
We’ll never die! But you guys will! Yummmmm! Purrrrrrrr….
—Fluffy of Cabbagetown,
Ruler of My World.
followed by the fobbing-off.
“ … Off-fob us, then, with words of rare delight,
Full-honeyed, toasted, served,
like the suggestion,
To thou, O big-racked Muses.
And no question
That we shall cry
Throughout the blasted night:
“Off-fobbèd thus we be with lame excuses …! ”
“The Old Off-Fobber“,
from “The T is silent, as in Marlowe: Gratefully Forgotten Sonnets, Vol. 73”
The fobbing off:
Just who was it who invented the password system whereby you must:
—come up with a unique combination of at least 8 characters, including UC and lc, plus a couple of ancient Sumerian glyphs, which combination you will forever be prevented from using again
—with the keyboard bravura of Vladimir Ashkenazy and the can-do attitude of Little Orphan Annie, type the whole thing BLIND as black dots – TWICE?
Because when I find out who it is, trust me when I say there is going to be a “conversation“.
Social media ate my brain this morning. And it wasn’t much to begin with: Just an amuse-gueules, really, daubs of poached brain, collapsed in a pool of confusion reduction on a vast white plate…
WOULD the person who keeps MOVING all the keys on my computer please DKT_P?
I wonder, if Donald orders a hooker, does that make her a strumpet?
Speaking of Helen Keller, last time she dropped by I couldn’t help noticing how the left side of her face was marked with an angry, red grid and covered with maple syrup.
Apparently she got confused and answered the waffle iron. Seriously.
Yep. A stampede of feral bunnies. What is it you must never, ever forget about how [- – – -] I am to you?
I did this weird thing last night.
I turned out all the lights, and went to bed.
Bed, with bedclothes that you slip under and
pull over. And then I slept from around midnight until 9 AM.
I don’t necessarily recommend it.
Read this story about a scientist who made yogurt using her vaginal flora. And some folks were disgusted, but not me.
I admire anyone who can “think outside the box”.
If a tree falls in the forest, let’s hope Donald’s underneath it.
Making two-ingredient pancakes the same way I make my two-ingredient relationships: with Love and Incompetence.
Ugallery.com just rejected my [photographic art] work.
“We have decided not to show your work.”
Not just “sell your work.” SHOW your work. That seemed unduly blunt, like they couldn’t be responsible for what might happen if someone saw it.
I can’t understand it. I paid the five bucks and everything! But I guess if everyone liked my work, I’d be worried.
What am I saying??? If everyone liked my work, I’d be rich! And I’m not so totally conflicted about “rich” as I may have led you to believe.
This is the problem with needing constant validation. Where the fuck did I leave my “internal locus of control”? And for that matter, my house keys?
They’re both supposed to hang on that nail I punched into the soft bit in the wall using the heel of my boot, the disintegrating, mildewed stoma which is probably where the roaches and the mice find their way in so they can dance their mad tarantella of delight on my crushed, beaten-down soul.
But never fear. I’ll be back when I’ve figured out how to leverage this disaster by deploying my incomparable skills in emotional manipulation, thus playing, as Isaac Stern might a priceless Stradivarius, on your tendency to get all nurturing and shield me from life’s harsh-yet-somehow-still-heartwarming little set-backs.
OK, then. Later, dudes. I’m going to make some lentil soup with my last onion.
If you like my writing—to be clear, “like” can include anything from “usually forget that it exists and please stop reminding me”, to “I’ll read it if you pay me to”—then why not consider sending me money each month through a recurring charge that you will forget about until you examine your VISA bill so I can sit around all day and do nothing?
HOW THIS WORKS: Send me money and I’ll start doing nothing immediately. That’s right! No tedious waiting for me to do diddley-squat! ALL nothing, ALL the time, guaranteed.
Like, fuck all.
So please send me money, and if you decided against it, don’t get upset. I will understand.
P.S. But please reconsider and, like, send the money.
† Image by Gunkarta - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18165087