Cats And Technology

Cats can learn about technology, but do you know what it takes to teach them?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hey there Albert Ninestein!  Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you.  So you wanna teach your cat about technology, do ya’?  Good luck.  I don’t think you have the capacity or the interpersonal skills to manipulate scientific information well enough for a cat to understand.  However, if you think that you can teach a cat, there is a way.  You’ll need to follow closely if you’re going to teach your cat anything.  First, you have to get a cat.  Got one?  Six.  Wow.  That’s a lot.  Well, pick one and get the others some tuna, they’re gonna wanna watch this.  Next, take the lucky winner and sit him down in an inexpensive, steel-framed computer chair.  You might use duct tape to keep his paws strapped down and his eye lids peeled open (don’t worry, cats can’t feel and he’s really gonna wanna see this).  Once the monster is firmly locked down, grab a burlap sack and quickly slip it over the chair.  Hurry, there isn’t much time.  Flip the chair upside down and pull the bag as far up as you can.  Get ready to close the bag, but before you do, round up the other five tuna lovers and throw them in the bag too.  Tie off the end using a twine rope.  Next, throw the cat sack in the trunk of your car.  Make sure that you throw it hard enough to silence any terrified meowers; you don’t want to have to answer any silly questions about the “cat noises coming from your trunk” should you happen to get pulled over.  Don’t worry too much if you didn’t quiet them all on the first throw, the exhaust fumes that go into the trunk when you drive off should put those little buggers out in a heartbeat.  Now, drive.  Find a secluded spot in a forest where a river runs deep.  Remove the cats from the trunk and shake the bag.  Wake them up.  Are they riled?  Good.  Now, toss the whole sack into the river.  The chair will help sink the bag as the cats try to claw their way out.  There.  That oughta teach ’em.

Dead Rabbits

Tookie is my cat and we live on the third story of a condominium building.  He is extraordinary in every way.  He is cute and fun like a small human.  He bites hard and sleeps well.  Even the way his huge craps stink is immaculate.  Unfortunately for him, he is an outdoor cat trapped inside a indoor cat’s house.  Sometimes, however, he is allowed out when I leave the house and the neighbors are gone.  And this is where one of his best features kicks in.  In order to get back into the condo after I let him outside, he doesn’t just wait at the front door making a scene for no one to hear like all the other idiot cats out there.  No, he’s better than that.  Using pure prowess and power, grace and skill, he scales the back side of our building with his cat-like claws and incredible strength.  He jumps on our back porch and comes in through a dog door I paid for with my mother’s retirement money.  This morning, I let Tookie outside a little earlier than usual so that he could exercise his handsome feline features.  Which he did.

Tookie sometimes reminds me just how close to nature we actually live.  We are a mere 20 yards from open space and, because of this Tookie and I have an agreement:  He may only take memories and leave only footprints.  Today he violated that agreement.  He caught, maimed, killed, carried up the building, sat down on my kitchen floor with, and devoured the head of a baby rabbit (otherwise known as a cutie or a babbit).  It’s pretty incredible what my cat is capable of.  It’s even more incredible how much he can just kill an innocent creature with no remorse only minutes after I fed him.  But I’m not even mad; I’m actually a little proud.  Look what he can do!  Commit murder?  The thing is I just don’t want to clean up his pukes.  Maybe if I leave it, my lover, JDubs, will clean it up with a trash sack and spare me the trouble.

Tookie eats rabbits like a man juggles; with balls

One Of My Favorite Quotes

You may wonder, how? The real question is how not?

“A man needs a woman like a fish needs a bicycle” is one of the best analogies I have ever heard.  Not only is this statement completely incomprehensible but it’s also misinformed.  I will explain why, for that very reason, this sentence is fantastic!  First of all, fish don’t need bikes, they’ve got their own means of conveyance.  It’s called current.  Also, fish need water to live.  Have you ever gotten your bike wet?  Good luck getting upstream with a rusty chain.  Attention all wannabe bipedal fish: If a rust bucket paperweight is your dream, you might as well absorb all the mercury you can and turn belly up.  Pathetic. 

Conversely, it is a true fact that every man needs a woman.  Guys are pigs.  They’re gross.  They eat gruel and fart and stir up trouble.  Women are clean and well-mannered.  Women are the world’s great equalizers.  When dudes are rowdy, chicks calm them down.  When the fellas are just kicking it and chillin, the ladies come into the room screaming.  If it were up to men, nothing would get done.  Lawns would go unmowed; gifts would go unwrapped, TVs would be watched.  If it were up to women, well, I don’t want to think about that.

To be perfectly honest, the only reason I’m writing this is because a woman is standing behind me with her finger on the trigger of a very sawed off shotgun.  Women take life seriously.  They’ve got things to do and people to do and guns to point.  And that’s ok with me.  If I didn’t have a strong motivational woman behind telling me to get up and get going, I probably wouldn’t.  What kind of life would that be?  That would be like a fish with a bicycle and that’s no good for everybody.  Regardless of what the statement says, I still like it.

World’s Greatest Insult

The reason for the lake is to have a place you can drown yourself after you lose all of your money

I went to Lake Tahoe a few months ago for my buddy, Goldie’s, bachelor party.  In addition to the sick ski resort and water sport activities that can be had at Tahoe, there is also legalized gaming.  I’m not talking Monopoly or Galloping Pigs.  I’m talking about the provocative, self degrading gambling games like keno and craps.  These are the kind of games that you either win some or lose big.  Of course, when I lose, which is always, I get pissed.  “What a waste of money?!” I’ll say.  Every time one of my friends tell me that they’re up for the trip or that they’re breaking even, I tense up.  I’m pretty sure that winning or at least keeping money in a casino is impossible.  Apparently, they’ve all read Mensa’s Guide To Gambling and had great success; something I’m still getting around to.  Anyway, I ended up with my last $100 to piss away in one of six classy casinos and I sat down at a Black Jack table next to my other friend, Teddy. With a $10 minimum on the table, I knew that this would either make or break me.  The dealer was a middle-aged woman and my perception of her was that she seemed friendly enough, that is, until she started taking my money.  Now, usually, I can hang at the Black Jack table (it starts off well, I build a bank roll, then the money fades away, and I leave knowing I played a good long game).  Not this time.  The game gods were not on my side that night.  I feel that if you approach a situation with a good attitude and good things to say, you will enjoy the process and even come out happy at the end.  This was not the case.  Like I said, I was pissed; down to my last hundo.  Within a matter of minutes of sitting down, I played through 9 hands without a single push or win.  $90 just like that.  After some casual banter with the dealer about how poorly the game was going for me, I looked her in the face and with the most sincere disposition told her, “It’s not that I wish you were dead, it’s just that I wish your parents would have died before you were born.”  You take $90, I steal your soul.  The most Jewish act of my life.  She asked me to leave the table.  I wandered around some and played my last ten spot all the while contemplating what had come over me.  Who knows?  Frustration, maybe.  Whatever it was I’m pretty sure I dished out the world’s greatest insult.

The Last Time I Crapped My Pants

Yeah, I shard.  So what?  If you ask me, it smells like most everyone else does, too.  Have you ever been on a bus?  This isn’t about that.  This is a story.  And it begins now….The last time I really crapped my pants, I was about 5 years old.  It was just after lunch on a sunny summer afternoon.  I finished a bowl of grape nuts and an apple.  At that point, I had just recently become a graduate of Pull-Ups for Young Adults Diapers.  I was proud then.  It wasn’t much before that day that I had become mature enough to don a freshly minted pair of Mighty Mouse underoos.  They were equipped with a fancy flap that, given the right circumstances of jarring and bouncing, could expose my dinger to a slew of people.  I thought I was becoming a man, a feeling that I wouldn’t realize again until late into my twenties.

My neighborhood was filled with all sorts of kids around my age.  During the summer we would play baseball in the defunkity cul-de-sac in front of my house.  There were usually enough kids on the block to get a full field of fielders and a batter or two.  We never needed outfielders.  Not only were all the kids too weak and gay to power the ball into any kind of outer field, but where the outfield existed, stood a house.  Like I said, it was a defunkity sac.  We played a version of homerun derby that may have been cooked up in a South American guerilla camp.  There was a lot of running and yelling and kidnapping, but never any fun.  Actually, it was a lot of fun.  Later on in my youth, I would become an incredible slugger; able to rock a tennis ball with a rake handle across the sac and over the neighbor’s house on any day of the week.

At the bright eyed age of five, filled with fiber and milk, I stumbled out of my house to find a gathering of minors and their colleagues.  They had organized a game that we all knew well.  We got on to playing.  As the game started, I began to notice some of the early warning signs inside my body of a poop trying to make its escape out of my anus.  I had a terrible case of the bubble guts and mud butt.  Upset stomach paired with a sweaty ass.  It was coming on slow but steady.  I knew that I would soon need to make use of the latrine nearly 50 yards away.

So, like most people do, I weighed my options.  I either had to stop having fun and sit inside for 10 minutes while I made good on the toilet or I’d continue to have fun and not worry about the consequences.  Well the grumbling continued and I felt terrible until I was called up to bat.  It’s like you can kick a kid in the face and insult him until he cries but the minute you give him a piece of candy, everything is all right.  For the moment, everything seemed to be gravy.  I said to myself, “just one quick swing of the bat and a trot around the bases and I would be on my way.  After all, the bathroom was just beyond home plate.”

I got up to bat ready to crush the perfect pitch.  So, I sat on a pitch.  And another.  And another.  And as I waited for which pitch I wanted to rock into tomorrow, I began to realize that I was not going to make it that far.  The pitch came and I took a cut.  It was at that point my procrastination caught up with me.  Working in perfect unison, my gut and butt squeezed and pushed.  The bat went flying and I ran towards the house only to feel a bread size loaf fill my pants.  As I jogged, holding my ass, I felt what seemed to be a warm, freshly baked muffin trickle out of my shorts and down my leg onto the concrete.  I did it.  I crapped my pants.  And the driveway, too, apparently.

Vixen Takes a Lickin’

Since some of my day is spent in the car, it seems appropriate that some of my posts are about that time in the car.  I hate traffic.  It’s one of the reasons I don’t sleep at night.  Sitting in traffic is good for one thing, however.  It allows drivers like myself to take their eyes off the road for minutes at a time and focus on the pristine nature reserves that have been built into medians and in between on-ramps and freeways.  The irony is that no matter how well preserved they are, they accumulate enough trash each day to completely nullify their purity.  So, anyway, I was scooting along the other day during one of the many daily rush hours when I was shaken from a non-traffic related day dream.  Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a fox running through one of these tender embankments enclosed by the freeway on one side, an on ramp opposite of that, and an overpass connecting the two.  He was dashing and darting through and around the sanctuary’s many fickle bushes and native trash heaps.  He was running because directly behind him was a female fox, the vixen.  She was chasing him.  I felt truly happy.  In the middle of trash and smog seemingly cut off from any real nature, these two wild animals found love and, what would seem to be, the preliminaries for sexual activity.  I gleamed at the sight of the chase.  The male fox cut right then left and then ducked behind some shrubbery.  The vixen, however, did not follow suit and cut back away from the embankment towards the traffic jam.  She quickly bobbed and weaved through the stopped cars on the outside lane like she knew they were permanently stopped.  It was apparent that she was beckoning the other fox to join her in a game of tag or hide-and-g0-seek.  But the male fox seemed frightened and failed to raise his head from the bush he was hiding in.  In the outer most two lanes of the highway, all of the passers by were enthralled at the display and had completely stopped to watch.  She was fancy freewheeling and high living until WHAP!  The vixen traveled just beyond the stoppage into the third lane where traffic had begun to move quickly around the blockade the “right-laners” created.  Realizing the misstep she’d made, she bounced up and over trying to get off the road.  Just as she reached the zenith of her jump, she was creamed by a truck.  Unfortunately, it didn’t kill her initially.  The impact decimated her hind parts but left her conscious and panicked.  At that point she attempted to crawl back into the safety of the embankment using just her front legs.  Frantically clawing across the black top, an SUV fully equipped with chrome wheels and a soccer team got the best of her.   The vixen had become apart of the asphalt just as her refuge was apart of the interstate scenery.  As I turned back to see the fox in the bush, I noticed that he too had witnessed his lover’s demise.  From the bush I could see that his head drooped and his tail sagged between his legs as he hovered over some pups.  It seemed that no sooner did nature’s dance of love begin that it ended.  It was by far one of the quickest mood changes I’d ever made from sad to happy to sad again.  It was a black day indeed.

Broken Foot

I am telling you that I’m lying when I say that I broke my foot.  In actuality, I sprained my ankle and it hurts.  But guess what?  I’m playing it off like it’s broke in half.   The Urgent Care clinic made me buy a bulky ass boot which, despite not wanting or liking how hot it makes me, I’m going to wear it.  I like the attention.  A guy at Home Depot asked me today what happened to my leg?  “What’s with the boot,” he says.  Oh wouldn’t he like to know.  I told him that I was at home with his wife and her actual husband came home and chased me over the railing of their third story balcony.  It would’ve been funny, too, if he had a sense of humor and wasn’t such an intrusive f*ggot.  They gave me drugs and I like the way they make me feel when I get rich selling them to minors.  I am going to carry on as if I am exceedingly hurt.  And since no one I know is reading this right now or ever, that means that none of my friends can call me out on my fraud.  Since they can’t call me out, they can kiss my ass.  Go f*ck yourself, Ted.

That black and blue you see is mascara, the swelling is botox

You Kissed Your Step-Brother’s Sister?

It's Complicated. You wouldn't understand.

You’re 15.  You’re horny.  Your life is complicated.  Your mom says, “Hey, I know your father left because he loves his cheap trick whores better than this family, but I’m over it! Liberated!  This is your new step-father Rick or Tom or Gary or something similar sounding! and this is his son and daughter, the twins.”  This is what your mom says.  So you’re forced to move in with these douche bags.  You get the bedroom in the over sized laundry room near the water heater and cat litter box.  Your mom always barges in to do half a load of Rick’s softball uniform right when you’re about to jerk off.  That effin cat always ass dumps two pounds of post processed Friskies in the litter box at two in the morning and it smells like death.  You hate it.  Your mom doesn’t understand.  It’s complicated.  And that’s when you realize there are two other people your age living in the house.  “Finally,” you say, “someone to relate to.”  So you try to work it out with the twins, Skyler and Sophia.  It must also be complicated for them.  Skyler is cold.  Sophia is hot.  Smokin’ hot.  If only she weren’t your sister.  But technically, she’s not.  Physically, she’s developing nicely and evenly like a loaf of delicious 15 year old bread.  You learn over several short encounters she’s actually quite charismatic.  You start to fall for her.  You make every effort to talk to her and assist her and watch her shower.  You’re 15.  And in her young charming naivety, she begins to watch you and talk to you and fall for you, too.  Things are awkward for a while but she’s just as curious as you.  Then one night, after the cat dumps, she sneaks down to your room and confesses her confusion.  Your pants get tight.  She leans in and kisses you, hard.  It’s the seductive sh*t that the one porn you’ve ever seen that you stole out of Rick’s closet is made of.   Your relationship blossoms secretively as do Sophia’s young tender boobs (which you’ve touched).  You kids are hanging out and laughing and loving and touching and tonguing.  Everyone is getting along.  Mom and Rick seem to think everything is so healthy and the focus turns away from you to why Skyler is not bonding.  Rick thinks he’s gay.  Your mom thinks he’s a nice boy.  Unbeknown to you Skyler has been covertly watching your love charade.  He’s jealous.  That’s his sister your kissing…he wants that.  He tells your Mom.  Mom tells Rick.  Rick hits you.  Mom freaks out.  Restraining order.  Divorce.  With your pants still tight, it ends.  No more Sophia.  No more love.  Wow.