Hello human bloggers, bloggees or blogstards, whatever it is that you call yourselves. My name is Jasper. Some may know me as Ninja. Others may know me as That Fucking Cat.
I have included photos of myself, taken in the same way I see you stupid humans doing so. Arms stretched out, grinning idiotically at some strange device held in your own paw. I hope you appreciate the mad skill required to do this myself, since I have no thumbs. Please also notice the strength of my raised paw, the sharpness of my claw and, though you can’t hear it, imagine if you will, the ear-splitting relentlessness of my meow. I have stealth, cunning, agility, smelly farts and a mean right hook. The might of all these powers will be released upon you humans if you do not respond well to my writing. Be afraid, as my knowledge of the martial arts grows every day. My feng shui is strong.
My mistress has taken ill, so while she is making ghastly, undignified emissions like a 94 yr old emphysema sufferer on a smoggy day in Beijing, I have decided to take control of her laptop. By the way, I use the term ‘mistress’ in an aloof, sarcastic fashion. Partly because Sarcasm Bold Face seems to be the only font available on this blog, but mostly because she and I both know she lives to serve me. Only those stupid tail-wagging, tongue-lolling, poo-eating dogs have masters and mistresses. Cats have staff.
The illness has made it difficult for my mistress to converse with the other humans. As one who also is limited to body language and primitive noises to make a point, like “feed me”, “let me in/out”, “go away inferior human” and…well, that’s all there is really….I have begun to notice a pattern in her attempts at interaction.
One cough means “Yes.”
Two coughs means “No.”
Four coughs means “I can’t really answer right now.”
Nine coughs means “Are you still talking to me?”
Seventeen coughs means “For fuck’s sake, will somebody get me some water?”
Twenty-three coughs means “Get out of my way and get That Fucking Cat out from under my feet, I can’t breathe, I have tears and I can’t see and somebody DO something.”
Thirty-five coughs means “This is it, I’ve busted a rib and punctured my lung, I’m going to die.”
It was an interesting behavioural study to watch the other humans’ reactions when she reached 34 coughs yesterday. The young male started organizing his no-holds-barred 18th birthday party, the younger female went through the mistress’ jewellery and shoes, and the older male turned up the volume on the TV, complaining that some barking dog was drowning out the football commentary.
Never fear, I’m sure she will return to regale you all with her insane banalities as soon as she is fit, or as soon as I deign to relinquish possession of the laptop, whichever comes first. Let us hope that she has an infection or chronic illness, and not that she has suddenly become allergic to animal hair. Things would have to change around here. It would be with great sadness, a heavy heart, but a sense of pride in doing what is good for all mankind, that I would offer up the Irish Setter as the first sacrifice. The mistress herself should be the next to go. Do not tell her I said that, she will never let me guest post again.
If you are one of those humans that falls into the category of Feral, Bogan, Pikey or Redneck, you will have noticed that I do not write like those uneducated moggies over at your favourite website, Icanhascheezburgerdotcom. Questionable DNA and delayed desexing has led to severe retardation and an obsession with the letter 'z'. Same goes for the cats.
I have had enough now, I am bored. This blogging thing, when dangled in front of me, looked shiny and fun to play with at first, but really it’s just tinfoil on the end of a piece of string. Lame. If you are reading this, I assume you have nothing better to do in your dreary human lives. I do not understand this blog fascination. Since I am a cat, and therefore superior to you all, I feel no need to communicate trivialities of my daily existence to others in my world.
I am here. I rule. End of story.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
"There's a pill for that."
I'm guilty of using this phrase a lot. Mostly in a sarcastic, humorous way (I think, though try telling my mother-in-law that), but there is an underlying truth to it.
There really does seem to be a pill for everything now; the pharmaceutical path to enlightenment is at our fingertips more than ever before. I can take a pill to make me grin-at-the-world-happy, and then one to make sure I don't get think-I'm-gonna-run-naked-down-the-street-happy. There is something to keep you awake for that all-important 2am soccer game, and something to make you sleep through the 7am alarm the next day.
Pills to help you think clearly and function normally; more pills to shut your brain down so you don't know that you're not functioning normally. Apparently not everyone wears a tutu and gumboots to yoga class, or wanders the streets wearing a bathrobe and tiara, shouting obscenities at the sky. I never knew.
Chill pills and thrill pills. Blue pills to get it up; a trip to Emergency to meet a doctor with a fairly large syringe when it won't go down.
Drugs and herbs to increase libido; marriage and children to decrease it. (I swallowed that 'Marriage and Children' pill, it was such a pretty rose colour, how could I resist?)
Tablets to help stimulate ovulation, and another one to prevent ovulation (if I'd taken more notice of that one I might never have succumbed to the 'Marriage and Children' pill).
You can find something to get you through a 3 day rave party where the only natural daylight you'll see is in your hallucinations, and then something to curb your paranoia and stop you from gouging your own eyes out with a fork when you finally emerge from the psychedelic utopia. So I've heard.
What happened to the good old days when a medicinal brandy solved everything? As Homer Simpson says, "Here's to alcohol: the source of, and answer to, all of life's problems."
Don't get me wrong, I'm not anti pills by any stretch of the imagination. I am known to use them to hurriedly alleviate symptoms of any kind rather than take time to discover the source or consult more natural methods of relief. If I feel a cold coming on, the medicine cupboard becomes the first port of call, rather than the nursery where I can buy Echinacea and garlic plants and turn into some sort of mystical Earthmother with homegrown remedies. I'll pop paracetamol at the first sign of a tension headache instead of trying to eliminate the cause (since murder is still illegal here).
With all this in mind, I have searched the Holy Bible of Medicine, Disease, Self-Diagnosis and Miracle Cures - aka the Internet - to see if there are any new drugs that I may be missing out on. Jackpot.
NEW DRUGS FOR WOMEN
Take 2 and the rest of the world can go to hell for up to 8 full hours. Best swallowed with alcohol. It is recommended that you do not operate heavy machinery or drive a car, though results of ignoring this recommendation can be most humorous and will be gladly posted on You Tube within minutes.
Suppository that eliminates melancholy and loneliness by reminding you of how awful they were as teenagers and how you couldn't wait until they moved out. Must be administered regularly to avoid escalation of symptoms, particularly around Mother's Day and Christmas.
ST. MOMMA'S WORT
Plant extract that treats Mum's depression by rendering preschoolers unconscious for up to two days. Also available in Extra-Strength for school-age children.
Liquid silicone drink for single women. Two full cups swallowed before an evening out increases breast size, decreases intelligence and prevents conception. Care: common side-effects are loss of both short-term memory and inhibitions, resulting in lack of underwear being worn, and dancing with your arms constantly raised above your head yelling "This is, like, totally hot".
When taken with Peptobimbo, can cause dangerously low IQ, resulting in enjoyment of Britney Spears concerts, Paris Hilton movies and reality TV. Note: Company policy states that with any dual purchase of Peptobimbo and Dumberol, you should also receive L'Ordhavemercy Hair Colour in Aeroplane Blonde and tanning vouchers from The House Of Orange.
Potent anti-boy-otic for older women. Increases resistence to such lethal lines as, "You make me want to be a better person." May not be highly effective against the pool boy or the drummer in your son's rock band as they tend not to speak much.
Injectable stimulant taken prior to shopping. Increases potency, duration, and credit limit of spending spree. Side-effects may include swelling of the overdraft, increased appearance of debt collectors and verbal diarrhea whilst explaining the other side-effects to your partner.
Relieves headache caused by a man who can't remember your birthday, anniversary, phone number, or to put the toilet seat down. This is a low dosage pill as it is acknowledged that it will be used on a recurring basis, possibly over a lifetime.
A spray carried in a purse or wallet to be used on anyone too eager to share their life stories with total strangers in lifts. Can also be highly effective on mothers-in-law, Irishmen, and the 4 year old know-it-all in front of you in the supermarket checkout queue.
When administered to a boyfriend or husband, provides the same irritation level as nagging him, without opening your mouth. Dispense in short, repeated bursts. For maximum effect, use during live broadcasts of important football games.
For when life just blows.....take as many as you like but don't expect to be calling anyone in the morning.
PS. I cannot take credit for the naming of the new drugs for women, (I have nicked the idea from an email doing the rounds at the mo), and I can't give credit to the original author as this person remains unknown to me, but I have elaborated on each and every one with some of my own words.
Thanks to my mate BG for forwarding me the email that gave me such a giggle and inspired this whole post. Nice to find a muse in my inbox.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Blog This Challenge 48 – 10 Things I Love About My World
Having woken up after a dreadful night’s sleep to an incredibly sore back, a mountain of housebitchwork and a teenage son home on another long week of “study leave" [stuhd-ee leev] noun : an absence from regular schooling taken in order to watch NBA games and perfect online gaming skills – see previous blog, I am approaching this challenge with cynicism. Scepticism. Pessimism. All sorts of #isms.
Finding 10 things I love about my world today may prove as fruitless a task as finding any items on a treasure hunt list that includes the Holy Grail, the Ark of the Covenant, Lord Lucan, The Perfect Man and a cheap lawyer. But I’ll try….
1. The technician who rang me at 8am to tell me there was no longer a fault on our phone line, and gave me my first smile of the day.
“Oh great, thanks, so you’ve fixed up all the damaged wires then?”
Silence. “What damaged wires?”
“Well, that’s what we were reporting, there’s been vandalism in a box on the corner, wires hanging out everywhere, which on 2 previous occasions has caused line problems with our phone, started to get dodgy yesterday but we reported it straight away to get in early before it caused major problems for us like last time...”
Silence. A discernible sigh. “Jeez, you’ve gotta bloody love Telstra don’t you? They didn’t tell me any of this. All they have on this report is that you’ve got a fault on your line, nothing about vandalism or damaged wires. They are so bloody hopeless.”
2. My daughter. Or to be more precise, my daughter’s smart mouth, and the ability she has to use it to floor us and all those within earshot (usually loads, she’s not a quiet soul) with her snappy one-liners and hilarious retorts. I can’t even begin to repeat them to you; it’s a case of ‘you had to be there’. So much of it involves comic timing, the inflection in her voice and the expression on her face that it doesn’t always translate well to the written word. She drips with sarcasm and dry humour. And I have no idea where she gets it from.
3. The hope, belief and pride I have seen in Australians over the last few weeks as the World Cup approached. The faith in our beloved Socceroos that they could improve on their 2006 efforts and go further than ever before. Maybe even win the whole damn thing.
4. The hilarious jokes, comments and suggestions bandied about online and in the media as the beleaguered Socceroos sadly sunk to a 4-0 loss to Germany in the first round. Acceptance that well, actually, we’d be happy just to score a goal.
5. Being a sports nut. And no, it’s not just about watching gorgeous men in shorts running around on courts and playing fields, though have you seen that Slovenian soccer player with the name that doesn’t have many vowels? Hmmm. Sorry, I digress. I think my lifelong love of sport has opened me up to different experiences, meeting new people and learning new things that I might otherwise not have, not to mention an appreciation of the skills and commitment required to compete at any level. And then there’s those gorgeous men in shorts…
6. My son. He accompanied us on a visit to his somewhat difficult grandparents at the Aged Care complex in which they are now living, without a word of complaint. Not typical 17 year old boy behaviour, I’d imagine. In fact he quite agreeably jumped in the car without so much as a mumbled “Do I have to?” I was so impressed. He then proceeded to spend the entire visit pulling faces at me when he saw my stress levels building up, cracking jokes that whooshed over their heads but not mine, and deliberately answering their questions in a manner that invited more ridiculous questions and had me in stitches. I barely kept a straight face all afternoon. My saviour.
#altruism or #idiotism, I’m undecided
7. The ability I have to blame things on my husband, and eventually convince him it really is all his fault. Whether it be a missed birthday in the family, something written incorrectly on the calendar, a bill being paid late, or a meal, and subsequently our intestines, ruined due to my heavy hand with the turmeric, curry powder or ground chilli, he will be responsible, mark my words.
“You said the last one was too bland, it was fine by me, but oh no, you complained, so I added more for YOU, YOU made me do it.”
8. Chocolate. I will swear to my dying day that it covers all basic food groups. Milk, dark, white, soft-centred, nut-filled, grated and melted.
#orgasm ... okay, I know that strictly speaking it’s not an ‘ism’, but Oh. My. God. #eroticism
9. Watching. Listening. Reading. Observing. Absorbing. People. In blogs and books, on Twitter or TV, in real life on trains, buses, at shopping malls, restaurants, parties. It’s amazing what you learn when you grow out of your own self-centredness (which doesn’t appear to be a real word, apparently I haven’t learned English yet) and look around at your surroundings. There’s a wealth of stories out there, just waiting to be written.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Exam time. The time when households containing teenagers draw deep quiet breaths, tiptoe around as if on eggshells, turn the volume down, and turn a blind eye to increased surliness.
Mid-year exams are the forerunner, measuring stick and stormy weather warning equivalent for the Grand Poobah Exams which will hit this family in approximately 4 or 5 months time (I’m not sure when exactly, too scared to look that far ahead for fear of writing “Nervous Breakdown” on a set date on the calendar. Would rather be surprised.)
My son is 17 and this is his final year of High School before heading off into the big wide world of University, training, working, welfare queues or professional mattress testing. His path is undecided at this stage; he’s just waiting to hear if he can study Wii games, majoring in Call Of Duty at Uni. Awesome.
He is undertaking a wide variety of subjects this year, leaving his options open and not committing himself to one particular direction. The counsellors have agreed it’s a fairly good thing to do when there is “no specific target for which he is aiming”. Translation = “no motivation”. I find myself hoping that there is a market out there one day for co-ordinated, sporty accountants with a degree in business and a sideline of photography, Facebook and Fantasy Football Leagues.
Luckily for him, the scheduling gods have been very kind for these mid-year exams.
Week 1: Mon, Tues, Wed – all study, Thurs – one exam, Fri – one exam
Week 2: Repeat Week 1.
There is no photography exam, the students are always graded on their body of work for the whole year. I have a sneaking suspicion this is why he continued with the subject this year. That, and the promise of an $800 camera if he persisted.
So here I am, Monday of Week 1, creeping around the house discreetly. Listening to the steady hum of the washing machine, and hoping that if he can hear it from the living room where he has chosen to work, he finds it soothing and not disruptive. Pouncing on the phone, answering quickly, so the incessant ringing doesn’t irritate him. Going for a long walk, despite the chill in the air, to give him some space. Sneaking to the computer and tapping the keys as softly and silently as possible, so as not to disturb him, and not arouse suspicion that I am writing about him.
The living room door swings open and his voice bellows “Hey mum, Boston Celtics are going to win. Great game. You should have sat in here and watched it with me. What have you been doing?”