Daily Archives: January 7, 2011
If any of you have exotic cats, or mixes that have exotic cat makeup, you know to tread lightly in your house so they do not grab hold of your face and suck the breath right out of your damn lungs.
Dogs have to learn this lesson in real time. When I hear a yelp from my Jack Russell, I know it is because the dog has finally crossed the line in annoying the half-Siamese too much. Jack Russells are whip-smart, but they must learn lessons the hard way no matter what lesson that is.
These lessons usually come in the form of “When I am busy, that is not a sign to you that I am playing.” The problem is that every time a dog gets excited, he always thinks it’s playtime.
There is also a boy cat in the house, who has not been neutered…yet. If he continues to take toxic whizzes in the box, I gotta get the nuts off him. This boy cat is another entity that doesn’t understand the meaning of “leave me alone”, perhaps because he does not know the girl cat’s heritage. It ain’t pretty and black for you, tomcat-exotics are very much in love with themselves. Men never know what’s on a woman’s mind, unless she talks, and then you have to figure out what she is really saying. An example:
Wife: I can’t sleep on this side of the bed. I must sleep on my side.
Idiot: Shall we trade?(I’m looking for the type of spooning that will eventually lead to sex)
Wife: OK. (We trade sides)
Idiot: Hey! I thought you liked sleeping on your right side! Now you are on my left, still turned away from me! What is wrong here?
What is wrong here is that the God-Damned Idiot does not understand the bedroom as a place for sleep. I don’t know how I unlearned how to use a bed, but something in me thinks that a bed is just as good as any place for getting my winkle whacked if I am irritating enough. This has sporadic success, because women are very bored with your need for winky whacking and are hoping it will end quickly. Men have been bothering her for a winky whack for most of her adult life, and this God-Damned Idiot she married is unfortunately just like the others.
Marriage is great if you like being confused and frightened at the same time.
Anyway, my wife managed to get my Siamese to accept scratchies. She even put her ears back in submission while she was in my wife’s arms.
I thought this would be a great time to brush the cat, now that it is calm.
You should be wearing Gortex for brushing the body of an exotic. My girl cat comes for butt scratchies to me, but that is the end of our relationship. I have scratched the queen’s butt, and now I can go away so she can stalk her fuzz floating in the air..it is utterly pointless to continue to brush her. She leaves the room out of politeness for the stupid human.
As I write this, I am being summoned for a scratchie. I have work to do this time. How does that make you feel, cat?
Nothing. I’m the tree in the forest that fell down and no one heard it.
Still, my wife got it to calm down enough, and I thought this was a great time for a big ‘ol brushie, the kind that makes a fuzzball that could be woven into a toy mouse if I had the inclination. I began to brush the whole cat.
Brushing a cat like this causes serious problems. First off, If the cat wanted “brushies”, she knows she can go outside and writhe in the driveway. But I did it anyway.
Our half-Siamese wants total fealty to her all day. But, I thought, she needs a good brushing now that my wife has calmed her. Our cat can only retain its dignity for so long under the brush. Then the cat seems to fall apart when it is near. Mush. Siamese mush when brushed. Most of the time. I got her thru her undercoat with no injuries.
Then, I thought it would be good to brush her underside. Cats are a little sensitive about having their bellies touched, especially from the God-Damned Idiot who is fascinated by the amount of hair bring pulled off her.
The cat became a squid, unleashing all of her claws and attaching them to me and the brush. I am still not sure what I did wrong. Was this happiness or rage? I get worried. The cat gets up and is stalking around me, asking for that thing that I use to keep her pretty. She decided to kill the brush with my hand around it. It became very sensitive, for lack of a better word. We moved something and it frightened the cat so badly that in my periphery it looked like all of her atoms blew apart and came back together as a cat again. I began asking my wife if it was going to crawl upon my head and use her squid method to ensure it is not something she likes to eat. All I was trying to do was help. This is what you want, this is what you get.
I put the brush away. Just another occupant in this house that would secretly kill me sooner or later.
I am not going to sit here and write a biopiece on Alex Chilton. I discovered him, in all places, Iraq (thank you Amazon, thank you Gary the Pharmacist, I wonder where you ended up).
Let’s just say that if you don’t know who Alex Chilton is, you should be whipped with heavy electrical wires until his entire discography ends. If you think “Sister Lovers is ‘overrated’, I wouldn’t even waste water to waterboard you. An oubliette hanging over some rapids for a few weeks should do the trick.
I like a musical “fuck you”. Few artists pull it off well. The Beatles did a nice job, Lou Reed’s entire music catalog up until “The Blue Mask” is a very long fuck you. Then there’s Alex Chilton, whose third Big Star record-to-be called “Sister Lovers” flipped the bird in each song, but was very regretful that he had to say “fuck you” before he tanked his career. Of course, at some point Alex recorded for you again, and no one understood what he was doing. That’s a shame, because parts of “Sister Lovers” sound like Beethoven on a booze and downers, with “Like Flies On Sherbet” inaugurating the return of boogie.
No one was listening, so why not make records for himself? At some point, any good artist discovers that the songs belong to him or her, and is magically free from the demands of the crowd. Ah, he also realizes that the people who brought him to his pedestal are sycophantic yes men who couldn’t care less about Alex Chilton and this includes the majority of A&R people regardless of the artist. I’d get tired of a managed image rather quickly myself.
Rykodisc did some fantastic sequencing of the unfinished record that is actually what “Sister Lovers” was. I usually admire what they do. But anyway, my favorite song on Sister Lovers has got to be “Thank You Friends”. I can never get enough of his line “for making this all so probable“. In other words, all of his friends dicked him enough so that he had a career in music, and they didn’t make it possible. Alex Chilton did. How is that for a “fuck you”?
This is the first time I have been able to get on the Internet for days.
I was having “technical issues”.
This means in plain parlance that I do not know how to work a router. I do, a little. But then I bought one that was created by some cult in California. I will not speak their name, because I have already learned that I will pay psychically for messing with their newer, dual band, gargantuan routers that would rob signals from a Starbucks in Texas if I let it.
This router has one eye. It is as big as your gaming console. It glares at you unblinkingly if it is happy, and its eye turns red with anger briefly when it is displeased. Then it sleeps on your surfaces, daring you to wake it.
It tortured me for two days before I realized I could not tame this router. I’m an ex-soldier, so I can take a few licks. I have been ordered to stay awake for 48 hours, with maybe a grand total of two non-solid hours of nodding off in the dirt dug from a foxhole. It could have been worse, because I could have slept on my M16A2 and it would feel like a pillow.
This is not a very smart idea when you have live ammunition in the chamber. Thank goodness for safety switches.
But back to the one-eyed router.
It all began very innocently. After realizing that I had to buy a modem from my ISP provider(a very big ISP provider who will send me to another country if I don’t listen to every option in their automated menu), I knew I was going to need a router for my strong DSL signal.
I did not realize at the time that you do not have to get a router pulling signals from Kentucky simply because your connection speed is high. So the dual-band router came home with me in an innocuous purple box. It said on the front that it is the “best” router I can buy. So I bought it like Patty Hearst. She’s pretty neat.
I took it out of its box. It came with the router’s ID, and a puzzle. Not the kind of puzzle that anyone can do; it looked more like a rebus. I should have known right then and there that I had a scary machine on my hands.
I followed the hieroglyph, confident that the router was ready to kick some ass.
Never assign human qualities to a complicated machine. If you are naming your machines, it is because you do not fear it. You can name your car and it runs as if to say, “That’s right-that’s my name! Ready to roll? I am!”. So you drive your car and synergy occurs and everyone thinks your car is as cute as you are, unless you have a very bad temper and you name it “The Cuntbreaker”, or “The Dick Smasher” or something to that effect. Your car drives like you want it to-temperamental, but it can only be used with the right hands on its wheel. Otherwise, The Dick Smasher will drive you through someone’s bushes before you can even get to the road. You tried to to tell your friend that the accelerator is so sensitive it can run over someone and back up over them in 3 seconds flat. Your friend is the idiot you like to keep around because he is crazier than you are, and someone should be watching them lest they drink five pitchers of beer and start a human dart game in the tavern.
My point is, this machine is a friend to no one. Even India doesn’t know how to work it. That is a signal that something has gone very wrong someplace- and that place is your computer, who is trying very hard to understand what you have plugged into it because it cannot see the eye of the router, who winks at it as if it is saying “Watch this. I am going to keep this stupid motherfucker awake for two days. Pass the popcorn.”
Well, the router was right. I couldn’t get an IP address to save my life. I must have tried to return everything to factory default nearly 15 times. My wife is calling me names, but I cannot hear her. I have been drawn into a war with Bill Gates on one side of me and AT&T on the other.
As a student of military tactics, I am aware that there is nowhere to run. My bed is a few meters away, yet I cannot get away fast enough and my wife is yelling at me to get my ass under the covers.
The last thing a man needs in a military situation is his wife. You can’t top that for stress. The enemy is closing in and she is yelling at the God-Damned Idiot to get some sleep. I had an anxiety attack when I finally submitted to my wife’s demands, the demand being that she is my Mother, and she has an endless supply of crazy if I challenge her.
As you might have guessed, this is the reason I am in love with my wife. She won’t even take shit from me. That is an accomplishment, especially when my usual goal in life is make people’s lives more difficult for amusement.This is the curse of the bipolar. It must either destroy, or weep like Jesus. There really isn’t much middle ground, unless you have a good health plan that feeds you pills to make you stop acting like a complete asshole. It’s tough on friends, but they realize eventually that I have made them a little tougher, and their days are going much better now that you have exorcised their personal demons. I am so bad off I make Bill W. and Sigmund Freud seem like footnotes in history. I can counsel a couple without any training in 20 minutes, and do it for free. I’m not tooting my own horn. I can’t control the urge to either put something together or kick shit across a room. However, I like my stuff entirely too much to throw my own. Chances are I will not throw your stuff either, I just yell or needle you into silence.
I rarely get a “thank you”. I have realized that it doesn’t matter. My job is done, it was easy and that is what I am here for. Why bother with pathetic expressions of gratitude, you fucking idiots? You’ve all lost your fucking manners anyway, so fuck you if can’t handle it. You will die early, and this doesn’t seem to make a difference to me. I have already addressed this.
But anyway, this router fucked my shit up for two straight days until my friend told me to go get my old router. A simpler machine. One I actually know how to operate. I made a few calls to support because if there’s anything I needed after 48 hours of technical insanity was some support- I was too beat to try again by myself. Me and a guy from India had some laughs about it. I told him I was a typical stupid American. One neat thing about the Indians is that they are too polite to say what is really on their mind. That is why the Andulusians and the Orient eat our lunch daily as a country. Fortunately, if we behave respectfully to them and their desires, they will come to an agreement with you. A little for you, a lot for me, but you have fucked with our countries enough that we both know there is a price to pay for arrogance.
My advice to you today is: Buy a tiny router, and for god’s sake be nice to the guy who politely deals with your American idiocy. Every day, every phone call he has to talk to you like a baby because you do not understand anything. Stop being an asshole, you’re lucky to have a nice PC that you can afford. Understanding it, well, you suck at that. You then get mad at your computer, who is now completing the joke the machines told each other:
“I told you I was going to fuck him up.” They exchange a silent laugh in blue and green lights, and look forward to your next fuckup.
I feel a certain kinship with my toys, as I pop the keys as fast as I can to tell you that you suck. Keyboards are in constant surplus.