thepissedkitty

I am currently experiencing multiple crises on multiple levels, so instead of fixing my life, I spent the evening watching television.

In between hating how every show on FOX has adopted House’s visual of CGI-zooming inside/outside/to the molecular level/under/back/forward in time, just because they can, and/or their writers are too lazy to explain what really happened by, oh, I don’t know - writing? - drove me up the wall (especially during Bones - don’t think they did that last season, and now it’s just weird), I got my irritation on with the car commercials. Yeah, it’s a hobby.

In Texas, it’s the truck commercials. There is a whole slew of “Just the Good Ole’ Boys”-themed giant-ass unnecessary pickup spots on at all times, with country lyrics changed accordingly to sing the praises of your Chevy or Ford.

Not so out West…uh, Left. The commercials are most decidedly metrosexual-bordering-on-all-out-gay.

I was still reeling from estrogen-heavy spots like the Nissan Whatsit (Infinity?) driving through what appears to be a CGI forest of menstrual blood…oh, wait. I get it. It’s supposed to be the Red Sea parting for this car. Big whoop. I still don’t want to buy it. As if I were in the market for any such commodity.

Now there’s this obnoxious-assed Ford commercial featuring the guy from American Idol. Yeah, I get it. He has gray hair. While I am semi-happy that Whatshisnuts won over another Britney clone, I am not thrilled that he is now singing some dumbass corporate-dick rock song called “Possibilities” (wtf?) while shaking his finger, naughty, naughty, naughty, in my face. Didn’t his mama ever tole’ him that it’s rude to point…?

Sheezus cripes.

Then there’s Honda’s “Mr. Opportunity,” who is slightly effeminate and has very long, slender fingers which he uses often to gesture at the cars with as much grace and charm as a geisha in the Miss Universe of Handjobs pageant. Dude creeps me out.

As if The Car Mascot Wars could get any worse, there is now the thoroughly unlikable “Dr. Z“. What with the German accent so thick it is practically unintelligible, the thick, stupid moustache (what is it with guys his age and their mustaches?) and his general lack of social skills, I am finding it hard to understand what there is to like about this guy. Dr. Z is a prick. Although I do prefer him to that guy with the (let’s pray that it’s a wig) mullet and no lips who keeps yelling “HEMI®” and “fuel-saving MDS!” I hate that white-trash guy, he reminds me of what would happen if my family kept inbreeding.

At least, since they’re still running the Volks commercials with the stunt drivers/inane conversation/real car crash, I have learned to anticipate, hell. I enjoy those annoying chipmunk-cheeked, “like”-overusing people getting smashed now. I look forward to it.

This is the least they deserved for the stupidity of the banter they were having when they should have been driving. Besides, what kind of shitty driver turns and looks at the person next to them when their eyes should be on the road?

The thing that makes me sad now is when they don’t die.

Click to be able to see a damn thing. And then you’ll probably have to click again ‘cuz you still can’t see shit.

!@#$$!.

From me: I have coined a new term. My pop always calls me/my grandparents/anyone he thinks isn’t as smart as he is, which is practically everyone extant, a “space cadet”. Therefore, I have decided to call people who spend too much time, which is any, on MySpace “MySpace cadets”. Please feel free to use and pass it on.

I fucking hate MySpace.

From a casting person, about gay caricature in film: …he’s walking away, he’s swishing…HE’S NOT SWISHING ENOUGH.

From an engineer, supervising contractors doing wiring (thx,Killy!): Don’t push too hard, or we’re going to have to pull out again…then we’ll have to go to Plan B.

Well, yeah…and, out of curiosity, what was Plan A?

Up the Ass?

1) NPR, which I had previously though was radio for halfway intelligent people, really let me down last night when they let some stupid hetero-housewife busybody twunt from Washington state go on talking about a “gang” of killer raccoons and the pet owners who hate them. What she failed to mention was, trapping does not solve the problem - racs are territorial; you take an older, dominant critter out, you get five juvenile delinquent ‘coons in. The key is:
a) not to feed them and/or leave pet food outside if you don’t want them around, and
b) TO KEEP YOUR ANIMALS, especially cats and smaller dogs, INSIDE. Dumbass.

Why this simple solution never occurred to her, I don’t know. Sure, your cat may love being outside; what he does not love is being infected with feline leukemia/AIDS, getting into an altercation with a wild animal (which can’t just go to Ricky Raccoon’s Quick Stop for its food; they’re just tryin’ to make a living, going about their raccoon business, assholes), and turned into a Kitty flavored Eggo by a car…and how come NPR doesn’t let people go on the air yammering about Stupid Evil CARS when they kill your cat while they were just going about their car business? Probably because a car didn’t kill your cat; YOU killed your cat by letting it run free outside. Stupid WASPy BITCH.

2) This morning on Adam Carolla’s show, the guy who run’s the Megan’s Law site informed us that child molesters may not register their real address, but that of their parents. They may be living right next to you and you will have no way of knowing about it. Also, if it was a case of incest, they are not registered as a sex offender, ‘cuz, you know. It’s a private family matter. Gee, I guess incest really is best-!

3) Paris Hilton…is.

4) Reality shows still are, also. Here’s one my dear friend Ejo mentioned about a water park near my hometown. Its name is Schlitterbahn. This is German, I think, for “floating turd in a swimming pool.” Hmph. What next, a reality show about jizz moppers?

5) This useless, faceless, blogless, sexless fuckhole who has the gall to pick a fight with me and then ask for an autographed crotch shot. Apparently it is his/her/its quest in life to go around critiquing other people’s stuff…troll. Shouldn’t they be living under a bridge somewhere, frightening little children? And d’ya ever notice how people who aren’t especially pretty call themselves “Pretty McPrettyPants”, those with micro-manmeat go by “Long Don Johnson”, and people who aren’t particularly witty pick “Slappy McFierce”?!

6) WHAT IN GOD’S BALLS IS THIS?! A Stick-Up for your crotch?!

Chafes my hide…literally.

Just in case that didn’t scare you away…how about THIS?!

Yeah, we’re getting ‘em snipped soon…all four of ‘em!

Er…I’ve decided to stop burdening you all with my crazy cat lady-ness, so I’ve started a new blog: Gratuitous Kittens!

Thank you, drive thru.

Real Mature Monday -

Ever notice how everything is funnier this way…?:

Four score and seven years a-FART
I have a dream…fart.
Ask not what your country can doo for you…fart!
Give me liberty, or give me FART!
The only thing we have to fear is fart, itself-!
JEREMIAH WAS A BULL-FART!
Read my lips: no new farts.
I did not have sexual relations with that fart.
Rosebud…fart.
‘Tis a far, far better fart you do than you have ever done before…
It was the best of farts, it was the worst of farts.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy fart.
I’VE HAD IT WITH THESE MOTHERFARTING FARTS ON THIS MOTHERFARTING PLANE.

Now you do one-!

P.S. Help Barkley…fart.

You know, I am way too senti-fucking-mental sometimes.

Cases in point:

1) My toenail polish is purplish-green (Wacky Khaki Tobaccy?) on top of pinkish-red (Raspberry Poot?) on top of Fire-Engine Slut Red, because last time I painted them properly, Zippy was still alive. So I won’t remove the bottom coat, but am letting it grow out. HEY, I’M IN MOURNING, GODDAMNIT-!…er, I do realize that toenail polish has nothing to do with my dead cat. Except there’s maybe some of his hair stuck in it. Probably.

2) Speaking of cats and hairs, Beeker really needs his ball-ectomy soon. I mean, really, really soon. He keeps shimmying up my leg in the night and marking me as his own, and I’m running out of sheets. No, I did not save the pee…but I wouldn’t mind keeping his balls in a jar (get it?)on my desk. a) They are cute and PERKY! b) Hell…I’m paying for his operation, why can’t I have ‘em back? Biohazard, shmiohazard. They’re OUR balls! We paid for them. c) I’ll bet that would keep annoying co-workers the hell away from my damn desk.

3) Too much crap is retained in my purse/closet/car, including stubs from tickets from movies which I hated because I saw them with a Certain Special Someone, even if we both hated it and/or had a fight about going to see it and/or *I* hated it and he didn’t (V for Vendetta), or I slept through it (Star Wars: Episode III) or, he insisted upon seeing (Wild Wild West); we fought, he won, we ended up seeing it, he ended up hating it, I found it halfway tolerable, and then we got on a plane to Hawaii, and guess what was the in-flight movie? So…yeah. Stupid.

Also, there’s the fact that everything eventually ends up on the floor, where it composts and/or is decoratively sprinkled with urine by the cat. So eventually is thrown out, anyway. Eventually.

4) Speaking of which, I should really chunk all love letters (ew)*, photos, etc. of ex-boyfriends, or cut out the half of the picture with them in it and not glorious me, being stupid, totally oblivious to the fact that he’s simultaneously playing grab-ass with six other girls who are standing out of frame. Although then it would be harder to make fun of them in my dotage. Heh, heh, eh, sonny?

4) …I forgot what I was saying. Oh, well.

5) I won’t throw away shit. And by shit, I really mean shit. When I lost Zippy almost three months ago, he had a little…accidente on the floor and I won’t finish cleaning it up…because HE made it! It’s all I have left of him…POO!Well, that and the ashes.

*I used to save worse things from boys, in my stupid youth. No, I will not tell you what. Except…biohazard.

Ick.

Inspired by a post from Arthist99 in Macon, GA…go help Barkley! If my boss ever decides to pay me, I’m going to. I wuv him very much even though he is infested with heartworms…

Good morning…
…Beaker.

So my well-meaning friend who does animal rescue sent me this (scroll down to the Persian). The minute she sent me the link, I knew whose it was.

A couple of years ago, this idiot I used to call my friend decided she just had to have this cat. The cat was one of 50 Universal “ordered” and used to make Stuart Little. They flew all these damn chinchilla Persians over from the UK with the papers and everything and then adopted out the ones they rejected for the film to the white trash theme park workers. Of course, Twitty the Wonder Twat couldn’t have a normal cat from a shelter, noooo. She wanted one in show business (herself being a failed actress) which originally cost umpteen hundred dollars and was a silver-point (whatever) “chinchilla” Persian (herself being Persian). I blame her Armenian bullshit sense of materialism, snob appeal and so forth. (Everything in her parents’ house had that gilded Rococo look….frankly I’m surprised she didn’t gild the cat.)

This douchebag works/worked for Universal, and I give not a shit if she finds this. She is a worthless cunt and waste of human life. And she has, of course, decided it was necessary to reproduce herself. You know, because she was really SO wonderful, there should be more of her. Bitch was so neurotic, she couldn’t even poop half the time, except for when she got upset, which was often. Then she couldn’t stop going. Sexy.

You can tell this is a charming individual. The only thing that really surprises me is that she was able to carry a child to term, because bitch would sooner throw herself down a flight of stairs than consume anything with a fat content.

I feel really sorry for their offspring as it is probably so traumatized by its mother’s neuroses, it won’t be potty trained until age 10, and will probably wet the bed until it’s 30.

Well, at the time, I mistakenly thought her idiosyncrasies were lovable. But, at the time, I also found it acceptable for a drunk/stoned model boy to knock on my door at 4 a.m. and attempt to fuck me up the ass with no condom (sorry, family), but you get the idea of my piss-poor mental state at the time.

Aherm.

At this time, Beaker and I would like to issue the following PSA, just in case we are not being clear on our pro-adoption, anti-breeder, anti-baby/-booting-pet-because-of-evil-spawn-usurper stance.

IF YOU EVER, EVER, FOR ANY REASON, INCLUDING YOUR UNBORN OFFSPRING’S ALLERGIES, WHICH ARE PROBABLY ONLY FABRICATED BY YOU, BECAUSE YOU ARE A NEUROTIC, BRAINLESS TWUNT, WOULD CONSIDER GIVING AN ANIMAL UP, AWAY, OR PUTTING IT TO SLEEP FOR ANY REASON OTHER THAN ENDING ITS PAIN AND SUFFERING (other than that caused by you), THEN DON’T GET IT. You will be doing both yourself and the animal and society at large a HUGE favor.

To paraphrase Birdy’s ad, NO EXCEPTIONS.

If your overweening ego still can’t resist the urge to “practice” mothering on something, then take an animal on a foster basis (but actively try to get it adopted, take it to adoption fairs every weekend, etc. Although any agency worth its salt will probably not even let your flakey ass have the animal for any amount of time. They can see right through your bullshit I-have-so-much-love-to-give, I-can-hardly-stand-myself act, and know you will drop the poor fuzz muffin like a hot rock the minute you find some unsuspecting dumbass to poach your half-witted rotten eggs).

AN ANIMAL IS NOT ‘PRACTICE’ FOR A HUMAN BABY, only to be discarded the minute your retarded yolk looks at it cross-eyed and says “ba” to it.

And by the way, don’t give us that crap about how “heartbroken” you are or how “picky” you’ll be about who you give it to, you maggot-infested excrement. If you really cared about them at all, you wouldn’t be putting them in this abysmal situation. It’s not anyone else’s fault but YOURS so stop pretending to be sad.

No one will want a 9 year-old animal that is so inbred, it poops on its own head. If that still isn’t clear, then read this (thanks to Avatar for the link).

Beaker, for one, would like to don a gerbil body condom and crawl up her hummus-smelling cootch, rip out her uterus, and yank it out her a**hole (along with her stupid head), then package and send it to Ken L. Ration to be made into crabby snax for pound puppies and kittens everywhere…feed the woooorrrld…let them know it’s Christmastime…!

I am now going to write an irate letter to the bastards at Universal to thank them for contributing to the unwanted animal population. Nice screening process, assholes.

I was gonna write about TERROR IN THE SKIES, but this is more important.*

PARIS HILTON WAS BIT (BITED/BITEYED/BITTEN) BY A KINKAJOU! AGAIN-!

A kinkajou (Potos flavus) is a tree-dwelling mammal native to Central and South America, and may appear tame-ish and curious, but still a wild animal which is NOT a pet and is also illegal to own in Los Angeles (unless you are a rich stupid useless waste of human life and filthy rich, and just…filthy…for some reason).

Its turn-ons are: trees, fruit, insects, the occasional bird’s egg omelette, living in its native rainforests, PANAMA! (not Van Halen; the country), biting, clawing, hiding in tree holes and being left the f—- alone.

Its turn-offs: being awake during the day, the fox, tayra, Tyra Banks, the margay, jaguar, ocelot, and the jaguarundi; noise, sudden movements, Los Angeles, shopping, and Paris Hilton.

You see, the kinkajou is just like you and me. Let it be, let it be.

I agree with this guy…by “owning” a wild animal, Paris is making a desperate, last-ditch bid for attention/various and sundry cock. Ooh, look at me, look at what I have, an exotic animal. See how unique and special and pretty it is, and it’s mine. I have it. PAY ATTENTION TO ME!! LOOK!!! IT IS ON MY…ow!!!

Yep, attempting to keep wild animals in captivity makes people feel special when THERE IS NOTHING SPECIAL ABOUT THEM AT ALL. PARIS: THIS MEANS YOU.

And so, to commemorate this righteous biting, I will now name my firstborn “Baby Luv,” but that is a fucking stupid name, which is probably also why it bit Paris…therefore, my future son, daughter, or pet Paris-biting dog will be called, “Kinkajou”.

Kinkajous…reeeal American HERRROEEES!

Also, dude says that if he was given the choice of having Paris Hilton anywhere, anytime, anyhow, or hitting her repeatedly with an aluminum baseball bat? His answer would be, “BATTER UP!” That is why he is allowed to be my friend. And also kinkajous.

The End.
*See, like Paris and her exotic animal trade, I am part of the problem, not part of the solution….by paying any attention whatsoever to her…at all. Muttering I really don’t see why can’t we just send her to Iraq/Iran/Lebanon, as a peace offering - she is the physical embodiment of everything that is wrong with Western civilization. They blow her up, kinkajou goes free (if he hasn’t already had his head sliced off for rabies testing)…everybody’s happy…! G.W.: THINK ABOUT IT.

1) If you were attempting to fly today with a child that did not come out of your own Personal Region, and you needed to carry breast milk that wasn’t yours on the plane in order to feed said infink, would Security make you taste it, anyway? Because, if so, pleeggggh.

Plus, exploding lipgloss!

Because I am an asshole, I would be freaking out without my lotion, because black girls get ashy…but, sniffer dogs!

2) If a tabloid claims a celebrity is with child, and takes pictures of them with their “bump” circled and arrows pointing to their midsection in an accusatory manner, and they are not actually pregnant, but merely, say, happy, so they ate, say, a carb, or gorged on buttercream frosting samples for their upcoming nuptials…don’t they get pissed? I know I would.

…oh, wait. Celebrities aren’t ever not pregnant. Silly me.