Or, where the f---- are my goddamn cat ass-hes? :(

Got this in the mail, it really depressed me, and provoked another bout of crying on the toilet (click for morbid details):

WTF? They're all passive-aggressive...like, if bitch don't have my moneh, Imagonna hole' her cat ass RANSOM.

And then, they send of course a brochure copy of The Rainbow Bridge. Uh, yeah, real nice. Damn capitalistic hippies.

Anyway, I already paid. Hell, it's been almost a month. I already got a cheap facsimile, for crissake. Am now just wondering how damn long it takes for him to be done. (Calling crematory...hello, is my CAT DONE YET?!!)

Christ. He's not a bundt cake.
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So, I had to request my medical records from the hospital for my lawyer. Unfortunately for you, I made the error of reading them, because I was curious.

Big mistake. And I thought that being knocked out of my shoes and having my pants fall down in traffic, hearing the police talk about my "flank" and "extensive front-end damage," and then being cut out of my clothes by a team of cute firemen/paramedics was embarrassing...actually, that was kind of enjoyable by comparison.

There is such a thing as too goddamned much information, and I'm going to give it to you now, so if you are easily barfed out, and/or, say, a male cousin of mine, you might want to stop reading HERE. I will tell you when you can resume looking.

You know, I was kind of wondering if the scans could see certain, embarrassing things, and I was right...they can see EVERYTHING.

Horrified, I read off the radiology report:

Rectal tone (!!!) showed normal tone and normal sensation (uh, I was screaming my head off, and laughing hysterically, while the ER doctor said, "and THAT'S so you don't come back to the hospital-!" after putting his finger up my butt in front of about 10 people, but okay...)

More posterior in the subcutaneous tissue there is stranding of the subcutaneous fat (EW!!! STOP LOOKING AT MY SUBCUTANEOUS FAT-!)

There is mildly increased stool in the colon
OKAY, you guys see TOO DAMN MUCH. I keel you now-!

And most horrifying of all...
Gas in the vagina most likely represents a tampon.

GAS IN THE VAGINA?!!! What else would it be...? Queefs?! Ben Wa balls? Balloons filled with cocaine? Hamsters?!? Is THAT where Bin Laden has been...?!?

Scratch that, I don't want to know.

OK, MATT, YOU CAN START READING AGAIN NOW-!

Uh...

The End.
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Car vs. Bike, my ass.

No, really. My ass:

(Also my face, legs, thigh, knees, two broken transverse spinal processes, and feet).

Know what...?

Chickenbutt.

Know why...?

Chickenthigh.

I take it back, that's a helluva lot bigger than a chicken's. Do chickens every have thighs...? (Oh, yeah.)

And just in case there was any question, re: Car vs. Bike: I think my bike lost:


Wear a helmet, kids.

Asshelmet.

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Oh, bother, spit, and vexation.

I haven't decided what to do (other than move, eventually), but have I told you lately that I HATE my neighbor...? Yeah, and I'm on interesting medication, even.

She seems to be having some sort of family reunion/office waiting room area outside my frickin' KITCHEN. She has Astroturf and a coffee table and windchimes and plastic chairs and an ashtray (they smoke, which comes into my apt., because she doesn't want that smell in hers, natch), a HUGE silk ficus and even a damn Kleenex box and sometimes trash out there...I don't know who died and told her she could take over the balcony. This shit is in front of MY windows. There are people talking and clucking to my kitties and peering into my apartment at all hours of the day; a guy with one of those annoying tweeter-phones (WHY do people have those damned chirping phones?! So we all have to know how popular they are?!) was pacing up and down outside my BATHROOM this a.m. while I was trying to have a private function.

There is a whole parade of these thug-like types. I hate them but am afraid to complain lest they retaliate about the # of my kitties, but maybe if they STOPPED WALKING INCESSANTLY OUTSIDE MY APT. (do they EVER use the front door?) they wouldn't even know that; I'd black out my windows, but I like the light; Jesus Christ.

This morning there was a guy there when I was trying to change out of my bathrobe, though it'd serve them RIGHT to see the horror of me naked. Plus HOW MANY FUCKING PEOPLE are living there, anyway?! They are loud and obnoxious, there all the time, and THEY NEVER SHUT UP. I have zero privacy, and it is seriously interfering with my right to quiet enjoyment of the place...

Is she running a business from her damn back do' or what?!

This crack 'ho makes me wistful for my old neighbors, Stampy and Slammy. Or Chucky and F*cky, the militant lesbians. Or even the dead guy. Now HE was considerate.

Except for the smell.
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After all that has happened, one would think I would no longer be annoyed by petty, superficial b.s. like television commercials.

Sadly, this is not the case.

I am really bothered by those Yaris (probably Latin for "Annoying, Zippy Little Car Driven by Dickless Pig-Men") commercials, because they are mean. Cute little robotic spider things and piggy banks do not deserve to be plonked on the head, vivisected, and smushed by mean old bad stupid cars I've never heard of, anyway.

Likewise with those Volkswagen spots where the unsuspecting passengers are deeply involved in stupid, meaningless conversations which were obviously improvised rather than scripted and then, Rrrrrrrt...! get slammed into by a car. Probably because I recently got slammed into by a car. And I'm sure I said a few choice words, but I'm pretty sure "holy..." was not one of them. Who almost dies, and all they have to say about it is, "holy..."?! SHIT. COME ON OUT AND SAY IT. SHiiiiiiiiiiiiT. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.

Carl's, Jr., who can't not seem to make a commercial that is either intensely annoying (Paris Hilton), sexist (Paris Hilton), or just gross (Paris Hilton), has rolled out a doozy with a white trash trucker chick eating taco salad with her legs spread. I guess we are supposed to think that is hot somehow. Is it? I am confused. I feel dirty, like a truck stop hooker, er, lot lizard, not sexy. I just feel like I've been to Texas.

Somebody up my meds, please.
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1) No, I do not care that my password is going to expire in 14 days, and no, I do not want to change it now. Why would I want to change it now?! It doesn't have to be changed for two weeks, and I am running out of barnyard animals.

2) I do not get my mother sometimes. She refuses to e-mail, scan, or fax anything other than for business purposes. So, thinking that she has sent me some old pictures of my dearly departed husband, I rip open her card only to find:

a) A color printout of a picture of a kitten which slightly resembles, but is, in fact, NOT her actual kitten, and

b) A bad Xerox of a copy of a newspaper clipping of a wedding announcement for a girl who has inexplicably hated me since the fourth grade, and therefore did not invite me to her wedding.

She means well, she really does. At least this mailing was mercifully bereft of Cathy cartoons, because even that fat, shoe-shopping bitch has managed to haul off and get her ass married. And me, a widow.

Ack.
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Near-deadly combination: missing my Zippy terribly while listening to KOST 103.5 "Love Songs on the KOST". Results in hazardous changing of lyrics accordingly:

Kitty, you're my knight in shining armor and I love you
You have made me what I am and I am yours

My love, there’s so many ways I want to say I love you
Let me hold you in my arms forever more...

You have gone
and made me such a fool
I’m so lost without your love
And oh, we belong together
Won’t you believe in my song?

Zippy, for so many years I thought I’d never find you
You have come into my life and made me whole
Forever let me wake to see you each and every morning...

Let me hear you whapping softly at my ear



In my eyes I see no one else but you
There’s no other love like our love
And yes, oh yes, I’ll always want you near me
I’ve waited for you for so long

Zippy, your love’s the only love I need
And beside me is where I want you to be
’cause, my love, there’s somethin’ I want you to know
You’re the love of my life, you’re my kitty.


ZIPPER 1989?-2006
BELOVED CAT/HUSBAND
-lyrics ©Lionel Richie (as sung by Kenny Rogers?!) as corrupted by me.
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There is nothing more pathetic than crying on the toilet.**

Okay, maybe crying while eating on the toilet.

*As opposed to old new low(s).
**Vicodin will do that to you.
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