thepissedkitty

Sorry I’ve been remiss. The power went out again.

This resulted in another edition of Get to Know Your Co-Workers.

I have since learned the following:

*At the Playboy Jazz Festival, an unknown couple might just drive up on the hill, strip down, and proceed to go at it, resulting in much applause (which the band erroneously thinks is for them). Then, they get up, bow, and drive away. Personally, I’d throw rocks.

*Scientologists will run out of strip malls and coerce you to be hooked up to “two tin cans” so they can “test your personality”. Fortunately, I do not need to do this as I already know my personality is crap.

*People used to wear white polyester (excellent for retaining odor) pants called “angel wings” with wide legs that were both low-rise and so tight, you only had room for your money and one (1) key (and a coke spoon, I’m sure). The ass was rather…revealing as there were no pockets on the butt, it was just…bare. There were no g-strings then. Enjoy that visual.

*Then, they would do a dance called “The Bump”, which involved not only butts bumping, but…other things.

Now picture the pasty, mustachioed geekboy elder pre-vert who was describing much of the above. Now, look in the mirror. Notice the horrified expression on your face. That is what I saw on many of my co-workers yesterday. Now, file your sexual harassment suit accordingly.

Enjoy.

Really, I do. I love my teacher but hate her class.

Almost all of the women, save for one or two, are amoral little (sounds like…) twits who are either sleeping with married men and rationalizing like hell, or doing something else really ill-advised, like being involved with a notoriously crusty C-list celebrity and then wondering why she only sees him on alternate Tuesdays; or living with a man who also has a girlfriend somewhere in South America and says it is an “open relationship.” Yeah, right, Braniac. I’m sure.

They all remind me of Autumn’s angels-flew-up-my-vagina woman.

Here is just a little sampling of what goes on in there:

“I need as much cushioning as possible…herpes flare-up.”
“Me, too…!”

“We are in love.” Much smug grinning, spacey look.

The next week - “Things with me and Jiminez are just not working!” Huh! Why could that be…? Could it be because, as a large black man named Jiminez, he is confused much of the time…?

My teacher - “I want to f—k Mickey Mouse! I have the whole outfit. I wanted my ex to wear the hands, and…like you know, I was the only one he would cheat on Minnie with, but he wouldn’t do it.”

Little twit (replace the letter “i” with “a”) who is f—ing very ill-advised musician and C-list actor - “the smell of jasmine reminds me of my LOVAH. I could almost have an ORGASM just by smelling it.” Errr…

“We’ve ‘traveled’ together during sex.” Yes, she thinks they time-traveled, past life regressions, etc. Uhhhkay.

“He doesn’t believe in chakras…I don’t know if this is going to work out.”

“I read twenty horoscopes a day!”

“My life has been SO changed since I had my numerology done…!”

“He was angry. The feng shui was bad.”

It is not so much a writing class as a big herpes flare-up estrogen-induced hippie bullshit love-fest.

Blah.

I don’t get these summer blockbusters. It may be I’m none too swift; it may be I just don’t care, but either way, I don’t get it.

Sure, I’m very impressed by the special effects. I didn’t fall asleep, that’s for sure. I mean, FOUR LIGHT SABERS, EXPLOSIONS GALORE, and FIGHTS SO FRANTIC I CAN’T TELL WHO IS HITTING WHO?!? But there are some other points of confusion I would just like to mention. Is it just me, or:

(Star Wars)
Why are there giant hamster wheel-mobiles in space…?

Who is that clunky-walking guy? Where did he come from? Do you fanboys even care, or are you just like, “cooOOOOooool”?

Why are they fighting in HELL? Was that really such a good place to build a place, what with the spewing molten lava, etc.?

Why won’t that giant yawping lizard shut up?! Don’t you know there will be a video game with a giant, yawping lizard, if there isn’t already?! Do you think you will be able to turn the sound on and off so that the yawping is optional…?!

(Batman Begins)
Why is it not okay to kill one criminal, but it is okay to blow up a place containing three dozen people…? Is it because he didn’t kill them, he just didn’t save them…?

What’s with the mask? Wouldn’t that compromise his peripheral vision? And is it just me, or do the ears keep getting pointier?

What’s with Katie Holmes’ head? I think the doctor pinched her too hard with the forceps when she was coming out, and kind of squished her skull and one of her eyes. Which would also explain a lot of things.

Ahem.

I think that from these two fine films we can draw several conclusions about our future in space.

1) In THE FUTURE, everything is shiny. Preferably silver, black, or white.
2) In THE FUTURE, people will get knocked up even though war is waging in their damn house. Perhaps space contraceptives are hard to come by. Can’t you just have a douchedroid suck out the spooge…?
3) In THE FUTURE, there will be black and white, but few Asian people, that I can tell. And apparently, the Mexicans have not taken over the Earth, as I had previously envisioned. I’m just talking numbers here.
4) In THE FUTURE, your droid’s ass will make strange whistling noises that humans, for some reason, can understand even though it just sounds like a deranged budgerigar to me.
5) In the FUTURE, Dick Cheney will have cryogenically suspended his head and torso, so he is still around and more of a Dick than ever.
6) In THE FUTURE, there are still plenty of sluts who dress like Xtina Aguileralalalala, even though it is very cold.
7) In the FUTURE, people will talk to each other in weird, affected voices with obviously faked sincerity.
In the FUTURE, people will wear unflattering headgear, and women will have giant heads they will emphasize with bizarre hairdos. (Apparently, in the FUTURE, having a weird head and/or a wonky eye is considered a mark of great beauty.)

Count me out unless I get a giant, yawping lizard and a bouncy rubber Bat butt and a lollipop and a pony and that crazy guy with the sack on his head and…and…a vibrating droid with six “light sabers” that can also be used to perform partial electrolysis on Chewbacca. He is hot and he never gives you any crap except, “whuuuuuuugh.” I like dumb boys.

Together, we will take out all the weird-headed, funky hairdo’ed women and rule over Gotham with an iron hairball.

Whoops, wrong movie.

I hate it when my underwear are more well-traveled than I am.

In other news, I recently purchased a Batman Commemorative Sugar Cookie™ from my esteemed neighborhood 7-11.

When said purchase came up on the card slider dealie, it was listed as “Batman Ass.”

I am sad to say that when the receipt printed out, they threw the “t” on there.

Well, bat dicks to them. Anyway, I am sure Batman Ass is very firm, black, and rubbery and resilient, and I will think about it with lust while lovingly breaking a tooth on their rock-hard bat spooge-frosted sugar cookie.

That’s Six Feet Under, not Shut the Fuck Up, in case anyone was offended. Although I’m beginning to think that they should be one and the same.

If you do not watch, then I apologize. Consider this your validation.

Cranky hates this show. I think it’s because, unlike Deadwood, no one is usually telling anyone they have seven kinds of cockbreath while simultaneously shooting them in the head and stealing their husband. Or like The Sopranos, where people are cheating on their wife while snorting cocaine and bashing someone’s face into the bar at the same time. It’s just not exciting enough for him.

I prefer less as opposed to more killings in my disturbing television experience, even though this is a show about death.

What I don’t like is all the sex between ugly people. I’ve gone blind nine times already. And they do it with no warning, as they nearly never show the foreplay. They just abruptly cut to…BAM, bumping uglies. Agh…!

The writers of SFU especially like to depict intercourse between Brenda, who looks like the large-nosed offspring of a mule and an ostrich, and Nate, who is just, uh. Nate. With or without Nate’s toddler watching, this is just gross and uncalled for.

Then there is Claire. I like Claire. She is very attractive when she doesn’t open her mouth. But she has very bad taste in men. When she wasn’t fucking some schizoid tattooed junkie; slimy, spineless, girly Russell, or an actual girl (Mena “Giant, Bulbous Forehead” Suvari), she was bitching and moaning and being a big honking potheaded baby. Shut the Fuck Up, Claire. Yeah, that should be the title of the impending spin-off.

But now she is buggering Brenda’s Brother Billy. Which means we get to enjoy his sexy armpit hair, which is long and luxurious, tidy whities, and pasty ass. Wonderful.

At least I get to see gay men having sex on occasion. HOORAY FOR TWO GUYS KISSING…! Fuck you, Paris Hilton, if you don’t like it. You insecure skeezoid attention-whoring hammer-toed crotch-flasher…! Cranky is yelling “no, NO!” while I am cheering them on, “yes, YES…!” David and Keith are #1! HOTTT…!

I just hope they don’t show Ruth humping Geriatric George again, but I wouldn’t put it past them.

Sorry, didn’t mean to quote Debbie Gibson.

I lost my phone this weekend. Looked all over. Couldn’t find it anywhere. Called it. No ring. Nothing. _______.

Went a whole day without it. Didn’t think about it. Went back to Cranky’s and he said: it was on the car seat, under your butt the whole time.

I’ve gone into a shame spiral. Agh! The numb, unfeeling meat of my rump roast-! Am I really big enough to be losing things in my ass?! I’m like that woman from The Far Side with the small dog wedged in her crack. I didn’t even feel that. And it’s not the smallest phone ever made. What’s next…the cat?!

I am so humiliated. Horrors.

I’m thinking of writing a horror movie about my ass, called THE ASSBYSS.
But then again, no.

I’ve always hated Father’s Day, because it makes you feel like crap if your father is:
a) dead
b) AWOL
c) an asshole
d) all of the above.

Mine is only b) and c), but needless to say, I have never found any of the typical, “You’re a Great Dad! Here, Have Some Golf Balls-!” cards very appropriate. So I’ve had to make my own.

Here is one I made this year depicting some of his dislikes, which are many.

I don’t expect you to understand it in any way, but other than that, do you think it’s too harsh…?

Heh.

Happy F.D. to those of you who are the happy recipients of sperm cells, and who are not a,b, or c. Your daughter will thank you someday, hopefully by not being such a skank.

This is my last cat entry for a while, lest you think I’m turning into a ca…a ca…a cat blogger. Gah…!

Actually, dogs are welcome to participate in this one, too. Also iguanas, if they make any noise. I’m not sure.

Animals have different voices. I’ve been noticing this, especially since cat-sitting up to four extra cats at a time (excess pussy).

Most people think cats just say, “meow”. This is not the case. For example…

My cats
ZIPPY: Mrowr…wrrowr…OWR! Loud, booming. This is extremely annoying.
KATINA: Meep. …eep! Eh…?
IDDY BIDDY: Prrrp…prrrp? PrrrMEEEYOW-! Causes ringing in ears. Jeez.
JOE: Meeeeeeeeeeeeh. Whiny.

Cranky’s cats (not their real names)
FATTIE: Mrowr…? Meow-wow…?
SPARKY: Meeew. Mewrr. Yeehhh…! Bratty.

Neighbor cats
ZELDA, THE STOOPID KITTY: Me-! Me-! ME!!! (at 7:00 a.m., in my ear, every. goddamned. morning.) She’s my little alarm clock. That shits.
BOOTS: MREH-!!!
SIMON: Mawr! Mawr-! Bill Maher…! Just kidding.
MONTY: __________. *mwhawk*…________. *pukes*
DEPO: rrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRROOOOOOWWWWWRRRR! Someone should really record him for stock sound fx.

What about yours…?

And don’t go telling me your dog says, “Mama” or, “I love you, now please scoop my massive, throbbing poop.”

We salute you, but I’m fine.

Yes, I felt the earthquake. It went a little something like this:

BOSSMAN: Blah de blah, seminar, blah de blah, edit blah…
DOOR: Rattle, rattle, rattle.
BM: Is that an earthquake…?
ME: Looking at coffee sloshing Uh, yep.
BM: Huh…
ME: Huh?
BM: Huh.
ME: Huh.

And that was the end of that.

I don’t want to be smug, or tempt fate, or have the television fall over on my cat (though how much damage could a 12″ TV/VCR combo do…?) but I kind of enjoy ‘em.

Honestly, the only other one I noticed was back in the SuperCrap Bowl year of 2001-ish. It happened like this:

BED: Shake, shake, shake.
ME: Huh?! It’s 3 AM. Why is my bed on the ocean…?
EARTH: (…)
ME: Zzzzzzz.
EARTH: Shakitty shaky shake. Shake your booty. Shake your BOOTY-!
ME: Huh?! It’s 3:22 AM! FINE! I’ll go stand in the doorway.
EARTH: (…)
ME: Zzzzzzing standing up.
EARTH: Boogie on down, down, boogie on down.
ME:*…why am I on a surfboard…?

God: dude. Okay, I get it. I feel You. Your awesome power, etc. etc. Now please. Knock it off. You’re freaking out the cat.

Thank You. And you can stop calling now, Mom.

So I was going to do a play on skunkafunkaskinkadinkydoo today, but instead, the skunk showed up on my doorstep.

(That’s what I get for giving shout-outs to animal totems, right Vamp and Mange?)

This morning, I was running late already because of Zippy and The Squirts. This is not a band; it is my cat’s old man problem.

I was late due to scrubbing cat diarrhea off all four cat boxes. (By the way, the hardest substance known to man is NOT diamonds, but cat diarrhea. Soon, people will start giving each other engagement rings made out of it, just you wait. It will be all the rage.) I had to wash Katina’s little blue box because it is the only one she will go in. If the little blue box is befouled or unavailable, she resorts to using the curtains. Nice.

So I was ready to rocket out the front door when…SHIT!

Homeless guy on my stoop.

I slammed the door closed and locked all the locks. Then I realized that I couldn’t lock the deadbolts because then I wouldn’t be able to get back in. So I unlocked 2 of the locks, but didn’t want to re-open the door to check because the smell was already wafting in. GREAT. I pay $808/mo. for this kind of crap.

After standing there, fiddling with the locks for another five minutes, I started feeling bad. He looked all pathetic. Maybe I should have given him something. But then, he might start knocking on my door at all hours because HE KNOWS WHERE I LIVE. F—ing great. I should have put him in a box and shipped him to Nancy Reagan.

Instead, I crept out the back window and shimmied down the drainpipe.

Then I had to run only to catch the WRONG! bus to work. I got off as soon as I could (Highland) but there are NO buses on Highland, at least not from Wilshire to Fountain, so I had to walk. On the way, I stepped on a snail (I love snails!) almost got run off the sidewalk by a painting crew, and got soaked by someone’s sprinkler system.

You’d think I would take the hint and get the F. out of Los Angeles.