Okay, "Joe Mama," I am calling you out.

I don't remember who started it, but someone sent someone else a Charmin potty training kit, and then me and "Joe" both signed Cranky up for free samples of rectal pads.*

All I know for sure is that last week in the mail, we got a free issue of Parenting magazine addressed as follows:

Could have been worse...it could have been Barely Legal.

*although, Lord knows, he could use 'em. But I find it slightly offensive that the "FREE RecPad!" fliers were distributed mainly in the proximity of our friendly neighborhood gay bar.**

**NOT "a cleaner clean that you can get behind."

Little does he know, I am ordering him a free extender.

Read into that what you will.

"Less is more," my ass.
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When Syringes Go Bad.

I guess the vet techs weren't kidding about this. While attempting to push the air out of the syringe before I stuck it in the stomach tube to feed Iddy Biddy, the plunger stuck, and then skipped, and the warm, liquefied uck in there ended hitting the ceiling and raining down all over me and the cat, like a Japanese sh*t shower.

(Well, I'm sure they have them over there somewhere, in special tea houses frequented only by wealthy businessmen.) Real therapeutic.

Then, like a turkey, I just sat there thinking, duh? while the viscous poo gathered, slowly and insidiously, into drops and then splatted again onto my head.

Yeah, I had to take a second shower before coming to work this morning. But I'm pretty sure there is still some feline high-calorie formula in my hair somewhere, looking every bit like fecal matter. Charming.

There's got to be a better way.
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Many of you have asked about my widdle Iddy. For this, I am very appreciative. However, there is a small problem...

Iddy getting ready to go to the desert on a horse with no name.

...um, yeah. He is all jacked up on prescription meds.

Every morning, I find him this way, with a tourniquet around hims widdle chicken neck, syringe in paw, whiskers fluffed, waiting expectantly for me to shoot him up.

Are there kitty methadone clinics...?

The other problem is, I guess from the withdrawal, or whatever, he has the SHITS. Yesterday morning, seeming much brighter from his rock star blood transfusion, he was doing the junkie shuffle on my face. Then we decided, hey! Big adventure! Let's go to the cat box-! So I carried him into the bathroom, but not wanting him to get Feline Pine all up in his widdle pinhole, I said, "wait a minute, Biddy, let me just dump this."

But he couldn't wait, and when I returned 30 seconds later, there was a lovely brown puddle on the floor and Iddy's tail was swishing, as cats' tails do when they're really teed off.

The problem was, it was swishing in the poo, like a hairy windshield wiper, and the more I pleaded, "NOOOOOOOO...!", the faster it swished. Damn. So now my bathroom has been redecorated in Cat Hole Brown, using his tail as a paintbrush.

This morning, I woke up when Iddy flopped over on my face, attempting to insert his stomach tube into my mouth while purring as if to say, suck my colostomy bag, b*tch. YOU DID THIS TO ME.

Please send Listerine and a ball gag for me to wear when I sleep. It's going to be a rocky night.
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What I am, apparently. At least...


Gay men like my shoes.


Zippy and I were both driven to drink. You know, out of worry. For Iddy Biddy. Um, erm, yeaaaah. That's the ticket.


Yeah, this pretty much sums it up.
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Send me your wallet.

(Do you believe Paris Hilton is remaking that song? This is all her fault.)

(Also, the cat herpes.)

Iddy Biddy's in the hospital. This is my baby, and is severely distressing to me.

However.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee....!:


Lookit his widdle face-! And his widdle paws! And his widdle Hellraiser-stitchie thing-!

And his widdle feeding tube-!

Even his purple IV-diddy is cute.



It is very possible I am sicker than he is.

ED: So your cat is in the hospital...
ME: Yeah.
ED: ...with liver problems, and a tube in his nose, and a needle in his arm, and a lampshade on his head, and herpes?
ME: Yeah.
ED: Your cat didn't go to the vet.
ME: No?
ED: Your cat went to Vegas.
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Hattie Cupcake posing with Mr. Squeeky Tentacles & Mr. Bitey PEZ Dispenser

Yes, my editor friend and I have officially lost our tiny little pea-brains up in here. For some reason? We IM like we hef Russian Jew heccent (I am a Texas Jew; she is Israeli). F*ck spellcheck:

pissah : I got potholders whut look like matzoh!
k_dawg : WHAT?
pissah : I got potholders whut look like matzoh!
k_dawg : noice!

Translation: we are excited about Passover. Also the Easter cupcakes in the kitchen. And, I got us present(s)-! For Easter-! For Jew-!!! Hint: IZ PEZ DEESPENSER(S)!!! EXPENSIVE GIFT, luxury item, not to mention useful-!

pissah : I hef prrresent for your desk, you peeck.
k_dawg : I no peeck!
pissah : No, ees ON my desk...you peeck!
k_dawg : I NO PEECK!!!
k_dawg : ...
k_dawg : Well... does it have a hat?
pissah : Sorta.
k_dawg : is it a cupcake with a hat on? because those just creep me out. I saw a couple of them out in the kitchen.
pissah : Eet ees NOT beeger than a breadbox
pissah : I wanna goddamn cupcake-!
k_dawg : you want i should bring you hattie cupcake?
k_dawg : oops, sorry. a goddamn cupcake?
pissah : YES I WANNA GODDAMN HATTIE CUPCAKE!!!
k_dawg : hokay, i bring you hattie cupcake
k_dawg : hold you horses.

And...HERE IT IS! Wait for it, wait for...oh. You've already seen it. Fuck.


And her "present" (don't ask me what this thing is)....she send me peecture! With fone-!


And now in profile-!

Floating head = noice, very Op Art-!

AAAAH! IT'S COMIN' TO GET ME-!

...but I GET HER BACK...!!!


GETTING KLOSER...!


Then, I leave it outside her door, and ni...uh, knock and RUN AWAY.

She see me anyway and say, "tard". And claimed that I had interrupted a v. important photo shoot.

Then, things went rapidly south...

"The love that dare not speek it's name... I TOLD you I was in de meedle of a wary important photo shoot!"
Ha-HA! Mine were even vorse-!
Gettin' ready fo' to pimp-slap de ho.


pissah : Still haven't eaten cupcake; am staring at it in bewildered awe...
pissah : I put some PEZ!
pissah : spare tire in there, toO
pissah : ALso some hair I find on floOr!
k_dawg : EW
k_dawg : WAS IT KRUSTY?
k_dawg : I can't believe you still haven't eaten it-!

Oh no-!, HERE COMES MISTER LEEZARD-!

CUPCAKE GOOOOOOD!!!

But I showed heem...

Goddamn leezard, tryin' to eat my goddamn hattie cupcake...

Goddamn pilot season...this is all its fault.

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Thok, thok, thok...OWIE, OW OW!!!

Okay, this Good Friday/Easter business is going overboard.

People have themselves nailed?! to crosses?! on purpose?!

Hell, I wouldn't even wash anyone's else's feet. You couldn't pay me, even.

When in Rome...uh, no.
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More kissass apologizing, due to the fact that my brain has been like a sieve whose holes have been shot full of additional holes by some redneck with a pellet gun.

I shore could use some whiskey. D'hyuk.

The proverbial sh*t has been hitting the fan (at work), and you know what they say re: the sh*t, when it hits the fan, not being evenly distributed? Well, I hope you do, because I can't remember sh*t right now.

Probably because of all the sh*t clogging my ears. And sh*t.

Yep.

Well, I look forward to catching up on all your blogs, when I'm not taking a meeting with sh*t, or interviewing for other sh*t, or listening to recruiters tell me about sh*t, and why I can't do sh*t, unless it's sh*t I've already been doing, which I don't want to do any more, because I've already done that sh*t. Or just talking sh*t about other sh*t.

(Thankfully, I have not heard back from my stepmoster. I don't think I could handle that sh*t.)

Something is going on which I am not at liberty to discuss at present, but let's just say things around my orifice have been tense, to say the least.

To blow off steam, I'm reading The Devil Wears Prada. So far, I highly recommend. Go read it, or at least, read as much as you can before Amazon kicks you off for exceeding your maximum page views, or just wait for the movie.

And while you're at it, why don't you tell me about your Worst. Boss. Ever. ...?

I'll go first.

There once was a man from Nantucket...
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I owe you all an apology. I've been too preoccupied to post.

Reasons to follow:

Disastrous job interview. The guy actually kept me for over two hours, I think just to torture me. Sadistic bastid.

My boss? Forgot I had an interview. Even after I specifically notified him in the following e-mail:

Boss,

I have an interview tomorrow at 3:00 -
with your OK, Prissy says she can
cover. I could take it as my lunch
so she can get all of her [blah]
taken care of.

Please let me know.
Thanks,
TPK

His response:

fine

FINE?!!!!! I haven't heard that since the 80's. As in, oh, Mickey, you're so-. Anyway, he forgot, and was bellowing, "where is she?!!" while I was gone. !@#$!!!

Then I got the following e-mail from the Recruiter:

Hi Pisser,

I wanted to thank you for interviewing with Sadistic Bastid today. He did decide to continue to look at other candidates as he is looking for someone with stronger financial analysis and math skills.

Uh, yeah, I kind of realized that when he kept laughing and pointing at me, and I wanted to crawl under a rock, and fukkin' DIE, thanks.

It gets worse, but I'm not going there, for now, out of concern for my own personal health and well-being, and for the nest of cobras that seem to be inhabiting my stomach of late.

The capper was the following series of e-mails from/to my Douchebag Hosebeast of a Stepmonster, below. Like I needed this right now. Please note that she cannot seem to fathom why I could possibly be acting "weird" or "distant" due to the fact that my father has come to L.A. twice in recent history, and didn't even call me during the visit(s) - not even for coffee. Not even in between whatever Very Important Mystery Thing he was doing, which I suspect, was merely visiting his Douchebag Cousins Who Are Not Very Impressed with Me Because They, Having Money, Have Never Had to Work, and Cannot Understand Why I Don't Go Back to School Full Time. Like that's an excuse:

A DOUCHEBAG HOSEBEAST STEPMONSTER SAYS:

Hey Pisser,
How are you? We would love to hear from you.

I Honestly don't know why everybody has been so distant and weird. It seems the Pissed Kitty family is at maximun [sic] disfunction [sic!]. It will pass i guess.[Your father] and [Douchey Cousin] went to [Hell, TX] for [Grandpa's] birthday several weeks ago.

We are working, [Sister Who Could Give a Fuck] going to school and working. [Sperm Donor Dad] same o. [<---?!?!!] How about you?

Hugs,
D.H.S.

My response:

You're right.
Next time my father's in Los Angeles,
why don't you have him give me a call?

Her scathing retort:

You were in San Antonio for 5 days during Christmas and never came to see us. [Note: it is an hour and a half away; I did not have a car, and had just found out about his not one, but two trips to L.A. during which he not only didn't call me? But solicited other family members not to tell me he was visiting. NICE. Anyway, I'm no chump.]

We were disappointed but not angry Pisser. [Hells YES, I'm angry-! Bitch.] (Sister Who Could Give a Fuck) was looking forward to seeing you. [Bullshit - she could give a fuck. She usually leaves to be with her friends when I do visit.]

You might want to ask [Sperm Donor Dad] why he did not call you last time.

D.H.S.

My Bullshit Detector goes off:

He came once before that and didn't call then, either.

By the way, my grandfather died.
I appreciated the call for that, also.

Oh, and I should have, but forgot to put:

P.S. Happy birthday, Bitch.

She's so clueless, it's fucking PATHETIC. I love my job/boss/werk/fambly-! They are GREAT!!! FINE!!! SUPER FANTASTIC-!!!

So yeah, week/-end not exactly idyllic.

How was yours...? FINE?!!!
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I have been unable to post due to an odd mixture of Full Moon Fever (even if there was no full moon), work-related bad juju, and the shits.

I am only kidding about the last part, but yeah. Busy. Busy like a fox. With distemper.

Everyone here was in a snit on Friday. I thought either a catfight would break out, or one of the bosses would pee on me as a display of dominance. Either way, not good. Well, kinda, but not unless you're either German or a Japanese businessman.

All of this had to do with a bunch of scripts I had to copy for a certain cable network, whose amazing rise from a channel o' sex and boobies to, well, a channel of sex and boobies, has earned my begrudging respect. Never mind that they warped my young mind by showing movies such as:

Fast Times at Ridgemont High (wettitty!)
Scream for Help (her best friend? With the titties? Gets run over.)
Porky's (chock full o' titty)
Little Darlings (considerably less titty, but Matt Dillon - hooboy)
Weird Science BIGGER and BIGGER titty(ies)-! And CHET-!

...when I was in a very impressionable pre-adolescence, and would sneak up at night to watch said filth when my mother was very audibly sawing logs. And so my budding sexuality was permanently corrupted. Thanks, H(airy) B(utt) O(dor), as my 8th grade friends enjoyed calling you, for teaching me about the ways of the world (titty!) and !@#$!@, !@@#$@#3, and @$@&*%^...!

Now we have The Sopranos, Deadwood, and my new favorite, Big Love, which should really be used as a drinking game, where we take a shot every time we see little Billy Paxton (CHET!)'s tidy whitied ass humpin' away on one of his three wives, two of which are rather attractive, and one who is straight fugly.

Yeah, our shit would be fuhhhed up.

But honestly. I think one out of every three words on every other show is an expletive, or possibly "boobies". And still, to this day, my mind is warped by my furtive late-night HBOing-oing-oing, especially Little Darlings, and Matt Dillon's character, and his pretty, pretty lips, and his darkly brooding-with-teen-angst eyes; who shared used chewing gum with his potential lovers, which pre-pubescent adolescent me thought was dead sexy, and what he had to put on from that brown paper bag in order to eff Kristy McNichol (what was that in there, anyway? I didn't know about condoms at the time, so I thought he had to wear a brown paper bag on his...thingy. And then later? She was mad, so he had to eff Miss Mousie, instead. Which really screwed with my head. Then, later still? In a bizarre twist of fate, I semi-met the writer of this coming-of-age masterpiece, and, by darn, she runs a chihuahua rescue-!), and titties, and big, floppin' titties, and flyin', wet titties, and suntanned-everything-except-for-the-titties, and expandable, computer titties, and geeks who wear bras on their heads. And, whew. I should really stop thinking about this kind of crap while ovulating and chewing somebody else's used gum.

It's no wonder I am now such a conflicted individual.
I blame H.B.O. for my sexual dysfunction, not to mention my phobia of brown paper bags.

Excuse me, I'm going to wear my bra on my head now, and see how long it takes me to get fired.
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