Everyone needs a fleet of flying monkeys to rip the stuffing out of the annoying people in their lives
— Laura
The other day one of my neighbors invited me over for a barbecue. Yeah, apparently I hadn’t scared them all off by running down the road like a loon when I thought my cats had escaped. They told me I didn’t have to bring anything, but because I’m mannerly and shit, I figured the polite thing to do was to bring something. And since I didn’t know if they drank, beer and liquor were out. But I remembered seeing one of those fancy little cupcake shops that have sprung up everywhere (thank you, Food Network’s Cupcake Wars) in my new small town. I bought a variety pack of six, thinking it was plenty. I set them on the counter, but it wasn’t long before they were calling to me.
First Cupcake: Denial. “I didn’t eat that. Nobody saw me. No one can prove a thing.”
Second Cupcake: Anger. “Damn those fancy bakers for making cupcakes this delicious.”
Third Cupcake: Bargaining. “I will eat this and run an extra mile tomorrow.
Fourth Cupcake: Acceptance. “Fuck it. They said I didn’t have to bring anything. They’re all mine.”
Needless to say, shortly after I fell into an honest to God lose-your-foot-type diabetic coma, regaining consciousness only when Jack was licking icing off of my chin. I did make it to the barbecue. Empty-handed. And everyone commented on how I eat like a bird. A little, tiny delicate bird. *Belch*
This is an actual ad that was in the local newspaper here. THIS is why I live in the South.
Nothing says “I love you, Mommy” better than training and arming her to the teeth against intruders, hobos, and the French. Seriously. That is, unless she has dementia or Alzheimer’s. Then get her a nice robe and flowers. Or just tell her that you did. She won’t remember.
Two young men riding bikes in white shirts and ties knocked on my door the other day to invite me to their church. Yes, Mormons. It was nice to take a break from the unpacking so I listened to their opening spiel and then I said “Let me ask you two a few questions.”
“If I convert to your Mormonism does this quarantee I can sing in the Mormon Tabernacle Church Choir?”
“No.”
“If I convert to your Mormonism can I have multiple husbands?”
“No.”
“Well, tell me I at least get a pair of magical underwear, right?”
“No.”
I frowned and folded my arms and told them salvation and all was nice, but I had to wait to see who else was going to visit and invite me to their church and see what they had to offer. They looked at each other all befuddled, gave me their card, and got back on their bikes and left.
Damn, I really wanted a pair of magical underwear.
I'm not. Not without some wizardry panties anyway.
So last month I packed up all my stuff, with most of it going into storage and I moved myself and my animals to a small town into a studio. This is what I call it, a studio, though it’s two big rooms and by, say New York City standards of a studio apartment, this is a mansion. After settling a few days, I had the cable company come out and install Internet, because I was going through withdrawals from watching midget porn from scientifical Google researching. Anyway, so the guy was running a cable or whatever from the outside and I was all busy doing stuff in the other room. I had Jack in his kennel and I was unpacking when I walked into the other room and saw the doors were completely open. I was all “Oh shit! The cats!” I immediately started looking for them under furniture and in cabinets and THEY WEREN’T THERE! Oh shit. So I went flying out the door, past the cable guy screaming “MY CATS! YOU LEFT THE DOOR OPEN! FUCK! THEY’RE GOING TO DIE OUT THERE! DIE I TELL YOU!” and I took off down the driveway, then the road, screaming their names over and over. “TINKS!! THELMA!!”
As I was calling them I kept thinking there was no way in hell they were going to come to me and I pictured them on the roads trying to make their way “home” to Columbia and getting run over by a car, or attacked by a bear, or raped by a hobo. Fucking hobos, man. I started crying and running faster, all the while screaming their names like a lunatic as I imagined them getting squashed by car tires, mauled by a bear, or raped by a goddamn hobo. Oh, their sweet widdle kitty faces wondering “Where’s my mommy? Why isn’t she here to save me? WHERE’S MY MOMMY, KITTY GOD? WHERE?!!?” And because I know y’all have missed my renderings, here is a rendering of what I looked like:
This went on for about an hour, me screaming and crying up and down the roads, until I resigned myself to the fact that they were either road pancakes, bear piñatas, and/or SVU hobo-raped victims and I was doing nothing except scaring my neighbors. So I went back to the studio to start printing “Lost” posters and when I sat down at the computer, I looked through the French doors and lo and behold, there sat Thelma and Tinks sunning themselves by the pool. And it looked like they were smiling. Smug kitty cat smiles. Motherfuckers.
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