Enough About Me ...

My cat shits outside the box. I originally thought it was some form of encopresis, but that was me and the DSM-IV having a go at variations on psychosis. Ah to be a young bird with a cognitive psychology degree. It turns out she is top cat. Top cat to other feline in her pride means that she will not cover her stool for it is majestic and worthy of others to olfactor in its glory. She is queen and you will cover while she will not. Could be the makings for a new romantic comedy. Madelyn and Jack meet by the litter box. Madelyn shits and doesn't cover, Jack covers and doesn't shit. Jack meows platonically. Despite that twinkle in their eyes obvious to the audience, Jack trots off to see if the pork was left out. Madelyn licks her butt hole. After various comic scenes involving walking downstairs to eat then upstairs to sit then downstairs to eat again, the two realize they've been laying around for hours on the same coat that was tossed on the couch subsequently pouncing them into purfect love.

… and tres good. I really love his work and only now did I realize that his song about dictators over the years does not begin "She's so POPular." But it really worked for me. He goes on to say, "she's a knock out," big music, "if looks could kill, they probably will," yadda, yadda, yadda. How is this song not about the trials and tribulations of widening your perceived I.Q. equity as a young, pretty woman in today's primary school. Trying to play games without frontiers, but the continual whistling by Mr. Gabriel or shall we say "the man," belittling the games as silly causing goons to piss in the jungle only because nothing else seemed to rhyme with baboon except goon. Dictator? I think not. This is a song about a little girl's quest who is albatrossed by her popularity and good looks. This could very well be a shout out to the Hillarys, George Eliots and Vigdís Finnbogadóttirs of the world. You go girls! Hoot. Hoot.

There's this sensor in my head that detects catchy phrases. Those high in catch are inserted in a storage unit flagged with receptors. Life ensues. As phrases fly around, don't count your chickens, need your vpat asap for the ppmt, mmm this spinakopitta tastes great DING a receptor is hit forcing you to recite, "Tastes great, less filling. Tastes great, less filling." I have dozens of these inserted in my storage unit, most of them by marketing. Some are pop songs. I feel like someone owes me money. Though I believe in crystal light and I believe in me, I'm after the taste of a new generation. Not the other white meat either. Where's the beef in that? Yeah sure, they plump when you cook 'em, but let's fill it to the brim. Sure, I left my exes in Texas. Sometimes you feel like a nut so have it your way. Because it's two, two two mints in one! Thank you for your support. Can you hear me now?

an aside, there's a cute slogan generator for those needed more catch.

I have this sneaky suspicion that Tylenol was put out by the man. I've never been a drug taker (dream maker love teach you not to mess around wit me). My reality is so wild and full of context switches (that was for the geeks in the hizouse. Hoop hoop) that suppressing my inhibitions or enhancing the taste of Starburst never quite suited my orita. My super hunky husband drinks this medicinal crap like Chartreuse and Benedictine which was used by the monks as an *elixir* OOooooOoo. So I think I'm going to pay homage to the monk times and use elixir to help with the colds. Granted, if I have a bad fever, I'm not sure the monks quite solved that issue and the man did, so I'll drop a capsule of T. But hear me now and believe me latah, there is something to be said about monks, Chinese and hippie medicine. Not exactly sure what that something is good tasting, less filling. However, I am doubtful that the monks have a warning label stating alarm if you eat the man and drink more than a glass or so of alcohol a day because your liver does not have room to process the man's toxins and your splash of scotch. This year's cold season brought to you by Sambucol and Benedictine. Cheers, mate!

I'm watching "Extras" a new britcom delivered from the dudes who did "The Office." I was fondly reminded of the days when we discovered that 5,318,008 on a calculator spelled "BOOBIES" when shown upside down. Oh the fun that ensued as it cascaded around the classroom. It was like watching a human simulation of emailing a somewhat funny JPEG around to friends.

It was when I watched my nine month old choose the glass lid to drop on the linoleum floor over the flimsy steel lid due to noise factor and pure potential that I realized this monster truck business was bound to happen. It probably already occurred back in gladiator days. Those people could erect giant columns and bath houses, curious why they didn't pile up some of that rubble and mud to see which chariot could drive over it. Or did they and the placing people in a ring with lions generated more air play. The romullet was in the same social circles, but didn't quite make it in the history books. Here we are many years later and fans continue to pay for the whole seat even though they only need the edge.

There's this street musician who hangs in front of PCC, our local hippi mart, and does his show. Though I enjoy the snippet of a guitarist and his lament as I walk from A to B, this guy is a nutcase. He is neither lamenting nor reflecting. He down right taunts. Everyone who walks by suddenly appears in his lyrics. I've seen this tactic done on a candid camera tom green like show. That was funny. He is not. He's mean. I'm not sure the free range, wheatless, lactose intolerant customers can handle it. You go in for some neat loaf and exit the store to angry, hairy man saying you don't listen to his crappy music and why don't you people notice me? I'll tell you busker, it's because you should be singing about your dog that done did you wrong or the calla lilies should be pink pink pink like the colour of her skin. Accosting your audience won't put another nickel your guitar box, baby. You want fame? Well fame costs and right here is where you start paying, in poetry.