Cat Scratch Fever: The 9th Day of Giftmas 2009

Cat Scratch Fever: The 9th Day of Giftmas 2009

If wearing my kitten's collar as a bracelet to remind me of her while she gets her kitty surgery makes me less of a man, well then I don't want to be right.

Poe is fine. And I did wear her collar around all day, partly as a reminder, but almost entirely for the sake of telling this story to people. I’ve given away all my man cards already, no point in hiding my hand. And as I found out when I went to pick her up, she learned how to hiss at no extra charge.

I had this same surgery done with Clementine, my Ohio cat. And the greatest part of it was seeing her wake from her anesthetic-induced haze. She pushed open the rest of the kitty door, wobbled the 7 inches to the kitty box I had placed in front of her, and laid down with her head and one paw in the sand and the rest of her, complete with newly shaved belly, on the rug, tail still in the cage. After fighting with gravity for a few minutes , she then regained her balance and, much like a sorority girl in heels after a couple Water Towers at Brick Street on a Thursday night, fell back the other way. Like the good father I was, I made sure she didn’t hit anything as she fell and managed to take a lot of pictures of the event to eventually show to her boyfriends when she brought them back to the house to watch a movie in her room with the door open. This continued with varying levels of pleasure for me for a couple hours.

However, this time Poe was kept to be monitored overnight, depriving me of the one minor pleasure that came out of shelling out $200 and admitting to myself and the cute girl at the counter, who noticed my collar/bracelet, that I was now a cat owner. That sucked. They wouldn’t even take pictures for me. And when I showed up to pick her up, they said that Poe was “being fussy” and I would have to take her hospital collar off when I got home because they refused to do it. This wasn’t a good sign. The next sign that wasn’t good was the one where the first thing Poe said to me when I got her back, was “HHHHHHHH.” I don’t know how to spell the violent, cobra-esque hiss that came out of her mouth for the first time ever, but that’s how it sounded.

I felt horrible. I’d just taken away her spirit. Not to mention her woman parts. I wanted to assure her that we were going back home to mommy and the fat kitty, but sticking my hands in that cage seemed to have the same effect of that time I managed to take the safeguard off the pencil sharpener back in 5th grade. So I put on her favorite CD, the Bangles. Not even that made her feel better. I told her how sexy the lead singer was, but then I figured she probably didn’t even like girls. Or humans. Or sex. So I put on Air Supply, the most asexual band I had. Same disgruntled meow. I started to realize it had nothing to do with the musical selection. After about 20 minutes of meowing, she started at the cage like the wood-chipper again. At least this was a familiar response. Maybe she’d go back to her old Poeness after all.

And it now appears as though she has. She’s back up on the counter breaking wine glasses and Sweetie is shitting on the rug again. Poe, it’s good to have you back. Kinda.

Karaoke & Tramp Stamps

Karaoke & Tramp Stamps

Yes Sis Fish (my actual sister), there was a time in which the quote rant was a lead-in to the quote quote. And no, the giggle blink girl had nothing to do with the guy who hurt his ankle. I could make something up and I think I will from now on just to create a segue of continuity, but you are correct. I have too much to tell all of you and I don't want to be handcuffed to whatever I deem funny enough to be the quote of the day. I actually don't want to be handcuffed to anything other than Jessica Simpson's nightstand. And even then, I don't know that I'd enjoy it. She'd probably only be doing it to restrain me. Probably because I'd have broken in there. (I just reread this joke and don't like it, but also don't want to go back and type anything else)

Speaking of Jessica Simpson, I actually broke my promise of never going back to Brick Street. A buddy came back into town and he wanted to go uptown. By 12:30, Steinkellers was down to their last staff member, Skippers and 45 East were closed and Balcony was on fire again (that's a lie). So anyway, we wound up at Brick Street. But it was different this time. It was apparently karaoke night. And there was this hot chick up there doing a heck of a Dusty Springfield. Turns out I actually knew who she was. I talked to her and found out that there was a $100 prize that night. So I figured what the hell. I've make an ass out of myself many times before for free, why not do it to the tune of a possible C-note (that's what us gangstas call a hundred bucks). And so I got up there and screamed a shitty ass version of Keep Your Hands to Yourself and during the instrumental part, I did the jump split thing made popular in Ferg's and Milkman's apartment back in college. Picture Footloose at Aaron's wedding without Big Mike throwing me all over creation. So at the end of the night, it turns out I caught one of the judge's eyes (the guy, go figure) and actually won the main prize. Sadly enough, that is more than I made the entire day of work when I calculated it out. And thus, I have decided to give up my dream to be the best wiffleball tournament commissioner ever and tour the country going to bars doing good enough renditions of Georgia Satellites greatest hits. At least until my groin gives out mid-split. But for the moment, I am the King of Karaoke Night at Brick Street. Which happens to be the bar that most closely represents my personal seventh circle of Dante's hell. To be surrounded by hot young tattooed foxes and me without my snappy snare.

Speaking of tattooed chicks (how you like that, Actual Sis?), I got into the conversation with a few friends about a month ago talking about girls that have a tattoo on the small of their spine. Sure, we all heard Vince Vaughn say that it might as well be a bulls eye in Wedding Crashers (which will actually segue into my next message), but I just found out that they are also called "tramp stamps." It's not a flattering name, but I don't think it was intended to be. And so, I made a joke to the effect of "well, no wonder all my exes have them" which is barely funny and also a complete lie. But it begat this, which was worth the self degradation…

Quote of the Day 10/2/06

"I didn't think you were allowed to get tattoos until you were 18."

-E Hersh


That is what we in the business call a "cherry." It completes the joke sequence. Nothing can possibly go on top of the sundae after you put the cherry on it. And if any of our group of friends ruined that joke by trying to piggyback on it or "rejoke," we are required to squirt them with hot fudge and kick them in the chopped nuts.


Still Standing Right Here...

I Hate Fuckin Brick Street

I Hate Fuckin Brick Street

I hate fuckin Brick Street. If any of you out there are really my friends, you won't make me go back there again. Like next time I'm at a party and somebody says "let's go to Brick Street," I'm just gonna go jogging or something. Something healthy. First of all, don't ever anyone try to defend going there by saying "I want to go dancing." Because that's not dancing. I've seen dancing and that's not it. That is holding a bottle of beer and spinning around. And those are just the classy people. The majority of the "dancers" there do what is closer to an erect form of lap dance (yes, I'm aware of the double meaning). It's not dancing. It's a mating ritual. And I can't stand guys that do this gay ass dance probably started by a movie with Vince Vaughn and/or Will Ferrell. The one where they grab their foot with one hand and the back of their head with the other and gyrate back and forth as if they're getting punched in the stomach and subsequently hit in the spine with a baseball bat over and over very quickly. This is probably closer to dancing than those girls who put their hands on their knees and move their booty around in concentric circles, but at least they give me something to look at. Does anybody out there see a guy do this dance and go "Sweet! That guy is cool!" Because I can't picture anybody I know who wouldn't want to hit the guy in the knee with a 4 iron. I just wanted to go up to this guy and just shove him. If it didn't knock him over and hurt him, at least he'd have to break form and stop doing that. There was this girl who was kind of attractive that I was thinking about going over to talk to since we shared the commonality of having friends out there who were "dancing" while we were sitting in booths wondering if we should just walk all the way home again or wait and hope that maybe somebody we know might leave soon and end this debacle. Then this guy comes over and does that retarded seizure dance and actually starts talking to the girl. And then they started making out. God, I hope he knew her because if that shit worked, I'm packing and leaving this stupid town tomorrow cause I don't have a shot. I mean I can do the seizure shuffle (this is the dance's new name), but I will never stoop to those tactics. I have too much pride in whatever actual ability I have to dance. So in case you have never been there, Brick Street is one straight up grindfest. And normally I'm too annoyed, sober or outnumbered to spin my game while there. I think I actually may be passed the days where going to clubs and grinding on college girls is the thing for me to do. Or maybe I'm passed the days where they'll let me. Either way, I think I'm passed the days. If you just look at the crowd from the upper level, it's like one organism. One giant horny organism. And I liken the chicks that go there to bees. They go from flower to flower, never satisfied with just one, until they get drunk enough to let the flower they pass out in to take her home and play with her stinger (too far?). Next time I go there (in case I don't have running shoes with me), I'm covering myself in pollen. I think that's my best shot. If nothing else, it will be something to remember the night by. Other than me walking home alone in the pouring rain writing this little diatribe in my head. Maybe the next day I'll run into some girl who will be like "Hey, you're that guy from Brick Street who covered himself in pollen, right? Cool." They say there's no such thing as bad publicity. I'll prove them wrong.

Where the hell was I? Ah, fuck it.

Quote of the Day 8/14/06

"Being single is like Bridge, no one knows how to play and old people are always giving you some skewed version based on what they think they remember."

-Sisfish (the real one)

Somebody call me if you want to go watch a movie Friday night. Or sit down and have an actual intelligent conversation.

Boycotting fun for a week,

Pollen Man.

Still Standing Right Here…