The Well-Fed Mouser



Pray tell, fat cat, sprawled on my bed, what is that scritch, scritch, scratching I hear in the attic, overhead? Do you think that maybe… do you think you might… get up to investigate before we run plum out of night? Or is that too much bother, with your belly so round? Is it easier to ignore such a mouselike sound? And wait for me to get up and in a huff say, “Crap! Don’t worry yourself! I’ll go set a trap!”     

The Upside of Upgrades

My new computer is a custom job, all crazy, kid-cool. Its face is about as sleek, I think, as a box with an on-off button could be: black with just a hint of chrome—very Bauhaus, though I’m guessing that’s not the appropriate term. You turn the corner and one side is almost perfectly clear, they say, so I can see that the fans, of which it has three, are running, although, I’m kind of thinking that it’s more so computer people can show of their handiwork to other computer people, who might actually know what computer bling looks like. For me it’s just another woodland diorama, with wire and soldered doo-dads for branches, in which I will forever be searching for a hidden tree frog. But how could I possibly care about all that cool stuff, when in the center of said clear panel, with two laser-cut, black metal swooshes, thin as paper, radiating from it as if it were the very wind source of a cat-five hurricane, is the chromiest chrome fan ever, which, when doing its business, lights up and turns the dark underside of my desk into a discothèque, worthy of a younger and thinner and Angel Flight-wearinger John Travolta? How can I? I ask. How? I can’t. I’m mesmerized. I’m hypnotized. My feets are on the floor. And… Oh dear god! Am I doing it?  Yes! Yes I am! I’m, ‘Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Staying alive, Staying alive…’ Because that, after all, is how old cats roll. Cha-ching.  

Merry Christmas to Me...

 

One of six gifts. All of which I plan on opening. 

On a whim, I wished Siri… my phone… a Merry Christmas. “You could un-scrooge Scrooge,” she replied, as if I had been the only one on earth so considerate. “Merry Christmas to you too, Steven.”


It’s a wondrous world we live in, kids. Fill every inch of it with love.

Computer's Acting Up...

... so I figured I'd better wish ya'll a Merry Christmas before it croaked entirely.

                                                     Merry Christmas!



The Sum of It

Maybe you have a dog. Or a cat. And maybe you have showered it with affection and watched as it lay there content as can be, and thought to yourself how you loved it as much, if not more, than anything you could think of on earth, or otherwise, and that, from the looks of it, the animal was thinking the very same thoughts as you. But then your dog or cat stood up and walked off, plopping itself back down three feet away from your bewildered heart.

This is what it is like to love the one I love.

 



Here's What I Do...



I cut wood, because, after all, I am that much of a man, wink wink, and I don’t wear my boots, and the chainsaw spews chips onto and into my low-topped shoes where they fix themselves by the thousands in my socks, which I then throw into the washer, who, magically displaces the chips from my socks into my underwear—a tedious task I’m guessing—but nonetheless this is why I itch sometimes… down there… in case you wondered.  


            

If You Can't Say Anything Nice...

You’re trying, so very, very hard, to just let people look the way they look and not to comment in any way shape or form about their odd shapes and forms. You’ve done it your entire speaking life and you worry now that it has righteously screwed your Karma. Not that you ever said anything aloud, to anybodies face—that’s just plain rude. But isn’t thinking just as bad as doing? It was with adultery. Anyway, you’re hoping that this new leaf of kindness you’re trying so desperately to turn over will set things right with the Universe, and that the sunshine of success might finally warm your weary backside. Then the teller at your bank looks like this…

                                               

 

…only, with makeup, and the strong possibility of being related to Fernando Valenzuela.

     How in the hell can you ignore this?

     You can’t!

     You won’t!

     Fuck Karma! You say, handing the teller your deposit. This woman looks exactly like Mr. Toad, for god’s sake!

     You go on, as Mrs. Toad processes your transaction, scrutinizing the details of her downturned mouth, bulbous eyes and complete lack of neck, trying to convince yourself that it’s your job… sort of… to notice things like this, your duty, for crying out loud, to write about it. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, you tell yourself. Take advantage of it! You don’t have to mention any names, you say. It will make people laugh! And laughter, after all, is the best medicine! I can heal the World’s woes with my satire! You exclaim, almost out loud. Karma should be grateful!

     “Can I do anything else for you today?” the teller asks, and you find yourself wishing for a juicy, green fly to circle her head, once, twice, three times, but that’s as good as looking a gift-horse in the mouth, now isn’t it, so you stop this greedy thinking and say, “No… no… that’s all,” and you thank her, because after all, she has made you very rich indeed.



Baker's Ray-Gun Mouth



Baker got into a cat fight and then disappeared for two days, and apparently didn't eat even a mouse the whole while, because when he came home he was starved and ate so fast and furiously that bits of his feed were shooting out of his mouth like sparks from one of those Japanese ray guns you used to be able to get when I was a kid. Those guns were cool.

I wish there was an app for sparks. My phone needs sparks.