thepissedkitty

I think this would be a good name for a children’s book, don’t you…? Either that, or the next Harry Potter.

I say Musky Butt Joe (”a cat named Joe, from Mexico” - The Coasters) but really I don’t know who’s doing it. I do suspect Joe, but it could also be Katina…the shifty-eyed little minx.

Well, whomever it is is turding. Turding on the bathroom floor.

FX: Robert Plant singing, (instead of “swinging on the gallows pole”):

Thank you, Robert.

And it isn’t any ordinary turd.

I said, THANK YOU, ROBERT…!

*ahem*

…it isn’t any ordinary turd. It is…
FX: The ‘X’ Files theme
…THE TURD OF ANGER.

*thunder* *lightning* *cymbals crash* *a gong*

Uh, guys? Knock it off. *ahem*

…THE TURD OF ANGER!

Need I describe its consistency? No.

Well, if you must know, it is long. And brown. And firm. And cold. And calculated. It is…A PREMEDITATED TURD.

Put a sock in it, Robert.

It might as well spell out “fuck you” in turd-nugget Braille.

The Turd of Anger only seems to appear when I’m not home for 8 hours or more at a time. And yet, when I am home all day, The Turd is conspicuously absent.

But when I’m working hard all day, and I bring it on home to you, mama (Robert, I’m warning you…)…uh, when I do get home, and the cat (for the sake of anonymity, I’ll call them “Kitty”) perhaps realizes that I only left in order to earn money to exchange for kibble and veterinary services…they attempt to cover The Turd. With the bath-

*beating Robert to death with his own donkey-dick*

Aaaah. Yes. That’s better.*

*and yet strangely arousing.

They try to get rid of the evidence by covering it with the floor, which doesn’t work no matter how hard you dig. The walls don’t work too well, either. Why don’t cats understand this concept…? No, Kitty! You can’t do that! Unless you’re a homeless person - then all the world’s your toilet paper…!

And so The Turd of Anger goes into the toilet to be flushed away to Hankyville only to mysteriously reappear the next day on the same patch of tile.

And so, since Robert is indisposed:

THE TURDING by Edgar Allan Joe

And the turding, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid tile of Pisser just above my bathroom floor;
And its links have all the steaming
of a demon that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er it streaming
throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow
that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

(Better use some Clorox.)

This is some spooky-ass shit. And I, I am fearful. Fearful of The Turd. Largely because I am working a lot of overtime lately, and I suspect it will be back to haunt me. I must know whose it is! And yet, I fear…

If someone doesn’t ‘fess up soon, I’m going to have to assume it was YOU.

I just found out I have high cholesterol! Yay, me! How did I do it you ask?! Well, it was easy! You too can have high cholesterol! Here’s how! - PK

I attempted to make chocolate bowls for our Valentine’s Day dessert, and they came out looking like they were from post-WWII Nuremberg. This made me realize that not only was I getting too ambitious, but I almost OD’ed on sugar. Perhaps I should stick to less challenging concoctions when I need to feed…people.

That is to say, here are some convenience foods which I have done my damnedest to f—- up, but which, despite my best efforts, still came out tasting reasonably okay.

For some real cookery, go here.

Enjoy.

1) Asian Dinner (for white people who can’t cook): Annie Chun’s. I dig these meal kits with everything you need to make Asian noodles. Love the Garlic and Black Bean Sauce but would avoid the Pad Thai. I haven’t had Pad Thai in a box that wasn’t gawdawful.

2) Best Greek Salad Ever: Elisa’s. If you have them in your state, get thee to a Ralph’s. Prepackaged near the service deli. WARNING: Kalamata olives may contain pits. Oooch.

3) Trader Joe’s, Trader Joe’s, Trader Joe’s. If you don’t have these in your state, you should complain to the governor! I love their fresh goat cheese pizza, smoked string cheese, veggie gyoza potstickers, frozen rock shrimp, curried chicken salad, cheap wine, and even Zippy loves their own Tongol Crab and Tuna cat food to the point where he’ll roll in the garbage to get to the can. P.U. However, other than the shiitake mushroom rolls, their sushi is to be avoided.

I also dig Whole Foods, (started in my hometown of Austin, TX) but there’s a reason why they call it Whole Paycheck. Plus the Californians have wrecked it, and the checkers here are rude foreign a-holes, not nice, gentle purple-haired & pierced hippies.

If you must go, try the barbecued chicken salad, spring rolls, or pick up a hippie granola ice cream sandwich from the frozen section. (The ones with the moons, don’t know what they’re called.)

4) Indian yum-yums - try this line. They’re even ready to boil in their own space-baggie.

5) Schlotsky’s. Delicious. I love their bubbly muffuletta (perv) -type bread. Of course, there aren’t any out here. Grrr.

6) Thundercloud Subs. Also tasty and doesn’t have that yeasty bread-funk smell of Subway. Best turkey-avocado sandwich ever, although like Whole Foods, the cashier may be surly. Also not available in these here parts. Grrr. Grrrrr.

7) Domino’s Doublemelt Pizza: Do not, under any circumstances, order this pizza, as it is extremely nasty. I thought, ooh! It’s got an extra layer of cheese inside!, thinking it was the same kind of cheese they put on top of the pizza, but no. It is like that Laughing Cow spreadable process cheese “food” product ick. I spent most of the time I would have spent eating wiping that shit off on the box. Not even Zippy would eat it. Two thumbs (and four paws) down, Domino’s.

Any further culinary suggestions will be entertained. My cholesterol thanks you.

Having just filed my taxes and finding that I owe, I find this article to be just what the cat’s ass ordered.

Phew. How refreshing. After facing a virtual assault of commercials, print ads, and even those damn pop-ups insisting I must buy, no, need things I haven’t even heard of before, this is a breath of fresh non-ass smelling air.

Ahhhh.

It seems like everything - even essential toiletries, such as jock itch cream - costs at least $7 now, and t-shirts are $40 all of the sudden. What the hell? When did this happen?! Was I asleep…?! Or am I just getting old?

Ehh, sonny…in my day, we used to buy girly goop and foofoo bullshit for $5 at Drug Emporium, and penny candy was…what the hell was penny candy?! Anyway, my Afro Disco™ Barbie cost only $8.95, and she came with her own pick…!

I refuse to pay the premiums for this crap I don’t even need, and would never even have heard about, to know that I need want it if I wasn’t watching crap TV, getting crap pop-ups, and reading crap magazines.

And now, in direct contradiction to what I just said, here is what I should have bought for Valentine’s Day (as seen in JANE magazine - they didn’t publish my story = no link!) I think my binkies need a $50 box to shit in, don’t you…?

I hate three day weekends. Yes, I am a freak, I know. But for some reason, me and Cranky always get into it on long weekends. Little too much togetherness? I think so. All I know is, by the time it’s over, I’d usually have rather just come to work.

First of all, we had to go to Burbank. I freaking hate Burbank. It was like the entire Midwest had been instantaneously transported there for the day just to make my life hell. And I hate IKEA even worse. It looks like the set of a bad Devo video in there and it smells like Swedish meatballs, which just smell like regular balls to me. It gives me a headache. Oh, and almost every woman we saw was pregnant. What the hell do they put in the water out there? Live spermatozoa?! Are all their women douching with it nine times a day…? Apparently.

CRANKY: Don’t glare at them. They haven’t done anything to you.
ME: Oh, yes they have.
CRANKY: ???!
ME: It’s not just me. People hate pregnant women. That’s why they keep getting killed.

So fucking shoot me and put me out of my misery if you want. It’s the damned truth. You can’t handle the truth? Go to hell. I mean, Burbank.

Or it could have been the continuation of this idiocy. My bed has been on the floor now for nine months, during which I have been trying to get the replacement parts for the hunk of junk considering that I can’t just go down to the local ferreteria to buy the crappy Swedish doodads. Meanwhile, these kött-sucking assclowns continue to give me the runaround. I’ve wasted hours on the phone with them, during which they lied like their butt-ugly rugs, I think, just to get me to hang up. They said I had to have a receipt in order to purchase said doodads. Huh? Why?! Were they afraid I was going to build a SPACE SHIP with their crappy parts, so that I could blast off and put a weird plastic something-or-the-other on Mars, where it belongs?! Were they afraid I hadn’t actually bought the bed, and had stolen all 3000 lbs. of it, and, during the burglary, had dropped some screws, and was now wasting my valuable furniture-stealing time by calling them on the phone and offering to pay for them?! What kind of criminal would that make me?! A bad one, that’s what.

Uh…I told them I might not have the receipt since I bought the damned thing in 1999. They said, but you have to have the receipt. Then, just to call their bluff, I actually found the receipt. They contended that this was still no good; it was no longer in their system. And even if it were, they were not allowed to take payment over the phone. I repeat, huh?!? You can buy their schlock over the phone - why can’t you buy parts of the schlock…? Ugh.

I was assured that all would be set right if I went to the store in person. So I had Cranky drag my ass down there, which gave him a hernia, and it turns out the customer so-called service rep. had given me the following lines ‘o crap:

1) I should see someone called the Spare Parts Manager. There was no such individual.2) They still carried the freaking fuckwad of a bed. Of course they didn’t. 3) They wanted to know what parts I needed. I said, don’t you know? YOU made the stupid (bane of my existence, piece of overpriced, partially digested woodchuck crap) bed. They said, no.

= total waste of my damn time. Happy President’s Day!

At this point, I want to ship the whole hunk of a behemoth of a lumber pile of a bed to the IKEA headquarters, in I don’t know…the underground Nazi state (because I’m sure that’s where they are), and torch the whole thing, because it’s of no use to me now.

Do yourself a favor and don’t buy anything from them unless you intend to either throw it away or eventually set it on fire.

Just don’t breathe the fumes.

There was a smokin’ hot young actor here but he’s on my damn nerves. Dude, that door doesn’t open, go around. He’s tried it like 32 times already and you can’t get here from there. Despite all his rage, he is still just a rat in a cage. Somebody call Pavlov’s dog to replace this guy ‘cuz I think he just flunked the test. Dingalingaling. That’s not the way you go to get to the cheese, moron. Now shut up and take off your shirt.

Not so easy on the eyeball was this actress here today to dub…she brought not only her spawn-ette, but a nadyanking breast pump to use between takes: rrrrrrrrrr. And she gets on the phone and complains loudly that she is “leaking”. Nice.*

Then I almost sprayed a big-time director with Windex while I was cleaning seagull shit off the front door. He was very nice about it, so maybe he will remember me next time he needs someone to clean seagull shit off one of his films.

Fuck, I hate OllywoO.

*If you think that’s bad, ask our friend in wardrobe about the actress who refused to wear underwear, so they had to scrape the crust off her outfit with a nail file. Apparently, someone came in and tried to use said nail file, and the dressers were all, “NOOOO! DON’T…!”

I was remiss and forgot to enlighten you all on these lovely practices (thanks, Anne!) which I can only hope are the stuff of urban myth. However, if you have ever engaged in either of these “variations”, please do drop us a line, as I would like to include you in the Crotch Monkey Hall of Shame (see below). Inquiring pervs want to know.

Now in further crotch-monkeydom comes a discussion I was having with the lovely Avatar concerning all sorts of nasty shit and the people who do ‘em.

THE CROTCH MONKEY HALL OF SHAME

Flagrant Violator #1 was a director’s assistant who decided it was a good idea to clip his fingernails in our facility.

Now, I have seen this happen on the bus, but I expect it of people who are on the bus. I did not expect to see this crap happening in my place of work, which isn’t exactly a lowest-common denominator type of place (except for me.)

I mean, who does these things?!

I was too offended for words, other than you’ve GOT to be f*#%ing kidding me, but aside from profanity, words failed me.

If people don’t even know what they’re doing wrong, I can’t help them.

Flagrant Violator #2 came along as I watched a friend of mine filming a show which happened to have a live, studio audience, some of whom were paid. Not well, mind you, so you got a lot of hoi polloi from off the street. Which was the case with the man in front of me. I guess a cameraman must have noticed him and hit him with a spotlight to investigate further, then reported the offender to my friend via headset, because next thing I knew, he came over the mic and asked (with audible disgust), “Sir, have you taken off your sock and are picking at your foot?!”

He had. In front of a live, studio audience, no less. Some people have no couth.

Which brings to mind Flagrant Violator #3: my ex-thing…for the sake of anonymity, we’ll call him Bluto, the Crotch Monster.

Bluto had this problem with touching his equipment repeatedly. He would perform this covert crotch-fondling at all hours, in broad daylight, in front of mixed company and apparently thought that no one saw him do it. I don’t know if he even knew he was doing it. Every time he would move his hand to rearrange his three-piece set, my friend wanted to scream STOP DOING THAT!!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! IS YOUR THING BOTHERING YOU OR SOMETHING?! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?! OH JESUS, MARY, JOSEPH, GEORGE, PAUL, RINGO, AND JOHN - MAKE IT STOP…!!! But how do you tell a crotch monkey that he is, indeed, a crotch monkey, if he doesn’t already know…?

I mean, if I were going to do any such thing, I would at least warn people Excuse me! I am now going to diddle my own particulars! Hope you don’t mind…ha, ha! But no warning. Nothing.

I was so infatuated with Bluto, the Crotch Monster (probably because it was quite impressive, which is maybe why it was bothering him so much)…that I didn’t see it. At first. But when he started cheating on me with Fifi, the Dancing Freaking Ragdoll in the Rugrats show (whoops, there goes her cover) it became all too clear. I started noticing all his annoying little crotch monkey-shines.

And I, too, wanted to scream at him, STOP DOING THAT!!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! IS YOUR THING BOTHERING YOU OR SOMETHING?! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?! OH JESUS, MARY, JOSEPH, GEORGE, PAUL, RINGO, AND JOHN - MAKE IT STOP…!!!

But alas, I could not.

Bluto, the Crotch Monster, was even in a show which required him to wear white pants. He touched himself so much that a spot near the crotch turned a dirty, dirty brown. Bluto seemed oblivious: “how did that get there…?” Aggggh! How is it even possible that he didn’t know what he was doing with his own hand…?!?

I discussed this with a male friend and he volunteered to anonymously call the guy and say STOP DOING THAT!!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! IS YOUR THING BOTHERING YOU OR SOMETHING?! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?! EVERYBODY’S TALKING ABOUT IT…! EVEN JESUS, MARY, JOSEPH, GEORGE, PAUL, RINGO, AND JOHN…! Etc.

I thanked the friend, but declined his generous offer.

Why should I go and make things any easier for Fifi, the Dancing Freaking Ragdoll…? She was already unfairly benefiting from the fact that I’d finally gotten him to stop wearing a leather fanny pack. Which he sported on backwards, so that the “fanny” part was resting firmly upon his persnickety package (maybe he thought it was hiding the fact that his hand was there like 32 times a day…?) Insanity.

I hope he embarrasses Fifi by tinkering with his man-tool often, and in front of her family. And then clips his nails over Sunday dinner with the ‘rents.

Crotch-monkey fuckers deserve what’s coming to them.

Answer me three:

1) Why do I feel, against my better judgment, like I kind of want to see BECAUSE OF WINN-DIXIE?!

2) Why do macho-ho “tough guy” actors seem to feel like they must do a KINDERGARTEN COP-type movie? Ahhnold? Sly? And now Vin Diesel, for crissake…?!

3) Why does the running time of an increasing number of flicks seem to be creeping insidiously beyond two hours…?

I can’t hold my pee that long.

Thank you.

In the tradition of Valentine’s Day (it was very nice, thank you, and beat the hell out of last year’s) I give you bad porn as viewed by a dear friend who wishes to remain anonymous.

Stealth porn-ing. It’s like watching porn through a keyhole through a door to a room that goes into a peep show without having to pay the ($_.__ - insert cost of peep show here as I really wouldn’t know.)

As you may know, I have several specific problems with porn, especially so-called lesbian porn, and it is funny to hear some of them corroborated from a male point of view.

This is what he discovered while rifling through some lesbians’ porn stash one fine evening.

Enjoy.

Here’s your guide to what [nationality removed to protect the “innocent” - Ed.] lesbians watch for porn:

There was a tape called Forced Entry - preceded by a long self-justifying intro from the CEO of some adult video company explaining that this was just a fantasy for sexual entertainment, it used real actors and that he thought PBS were his friends before they broadcast a documentary slamming said company. Then what followed was a fairly nasty (although no weapons) forced-entry/burglary/rape scenario in an oddly sparse Hollywood-esque mansion.

A nameless tape had two women entwined in rope bondage - one tied to the ceiling, bound and gagged and another one tied to her and eating her out. The scene then suddenly moved to the gagged one tied to the head of a kitchen table, the other woman tied down on said kitchen table and eating the other one out semi reluctantly.[Heh heh! I’m channeling Margaret Cho’s I’m-eating-pussy-but-I’d rather-be-having-a-burrito-face! - PK] Then a guy in a skull mask came in, wearing a T-shirt and shorts with some kind of long tapered thing that was oozing stuff on the end. He applied said oozing stuff (presumably lubricant) then slid the long tapered thing into her ass. Why the skull mask, is what I want to know…

Another tape was called Double Entry and seemed to be a compilation of the best bits from an adult video company’s range of multiple-entry fucking. The tape disconcertingly kept concentrating on the facial expressions of the men as opposed to the women. If I had a woman with long sharp red fingernails playing around with my crown jewels, I’d be yelping for different reasons.

And another tape (I was getting oddly bored at this point) had another masked man being given head by a doe-eyed blonde. [She ain’t so purty no more, ain’t she?! - Ed.]

I tell you, pornography is getting decidedly weird these days. Nothing made me want to disappear into the bathroom for five minutes. Putting aside the danger of long red fingernails, how many male consumers want to watch the faces of men coming? [Agreed - I always want to scream WHY ARE THEY SHOWING THEIR FACES?!- PK] How many women get really excited by the notion of sliding a long red fingernail up their ass? [Or a long TOENAIL, as I’ve had the extreme misfortune of seeing in girl-on-girl scenes along with sniffing each other’s shoes. WHY?! Retch.]

Oh. It’s been a while.

[Understandable. Seeing crap like that is enough to send you here. - PK]

Happy VD!

Furthermore, “Mr. X” gave me some very good advice when I expressed fear of accidentally confusing my borrowed copy of AUSCHWITZ: INSIDE THE NAZI STATE with my personal video of MEN, WOMEN, AND STRAP-ONS and mistakenly returning the wrong tape to my co-worker, a sweet man in his 60’s who enjoys sailing and classical music. Eeep!

“Mr. X” counseled:

Quarantine all your porn in a separate box. That’s what I do.

Clever boy.

In the tradition of questionably paired people bitchin’ about Venereal Disease, I mean Valentine’s Day, here is my contribution to making people who are all alone, so alone feel like they’re not missing anything.

So yesterday I was sitting on the toilet, pondering my conundrum, i.e. whether or not to give Cranky the Valentine I had bought him, which is v. romantic and a big secret! which consists of booze and fried food. Then, as I sat there crying on the crapper, and evil spawn-child walked in on me. So I have now scarred a youth for life with my unsightly ass. Way to make my day.

Rule No. 1: Always lock the door, even if there is no apparent lock. Shove a chair up against it if you have to.

Rule No. 2: Always frickin’ knock, people. Repeated harrumphing or clearing of your throat to signal occupancy doesn’t always work, especially against clueless spawn.

Now a young child will have to live with this horrendous memory forever and will probably turn out gay.

Well, perhaps it’s for the best. Maybe he’ll actually remember to buy his mother a card once in a while.

Men claim not to remember, or else actively resist the evil Hallmark holiday. How they can “forget” is beyond me, especially when there are big honkin’ signs everywhere…maybe they’re still in their Super Bowl stupor. They shouldn’t put the game so close to the dang pantywad holiday. Isn’t it bad enough that the game causes domestic abuse? Or maybe it’s the impending bitchfest that provokes it. Yeah, that must be it.

And speaking of big honking signs, there is now a Godzilla-sized display of balloons and flowers in the card shop directly across the street from where Cranky works. I’ll bet he is totally oblivious. Ah, to be a man…

What I really want? Is a penis. (Not for my own personal use, mind you…just as hormonal therapy, so I can forget stupid fluffy girl things, like makeup and Valentine’s Day.) Maybe just some testicles.

Fittingly, last year, Cranky gave me meat. Meat. Pretty nice considering I’m a lapsed vegetarian.

However, after further review by a panel of non-bitchy women experts, it was been decreed that said meat was a nice, nay, generous gift.

And I’m not such a material girl anyway. I find both fur and diamonds repugnant and unethical. Flowers would be eaten by my cats, and then thrown up - or else we’d be off to the vet’s again. Any chocolate left in the vicinity would be immediately consumed by our resident sugar fiend, Mr. Timpson, so that is also out of the question. What’s the poor guy to do…? I guess meat was the only traditional gift he had left.

This year, I’ll be lucky to get half a cocktail weenie and a kick in the pants for bad behavior. Actually, if asked, I would say hell…I’m between paychecks. A bag of kibble and a sack of kitty litter would more than do, ‘cuz I’m all out. Some homemade fried cheese would also be lovely, thank you.

Oh yeah, and a lock for the bathroom door.

They seemed like the perfect solution.

I hate bending over to get dressed, and I could take them off to throw at people I don’t like. Except then I wouldn’t have any shoes.

They are ugly, but it’s a long way down for me and I’m nearsighted so I can’t really see them anyway.

So I resigned myself to wearing clogs, but now I’ve twisted my ankle because the sides aren’t high enough and there’s no backs and I fall out of them unexpectedly all the time.

Is anyone else uncoordinated enough to go plummeting off their own shoe(s)?!

I don’t think so.