The Tweedles Have Eaten a Coke Box
Tweedledee and Tweedledumb (two cats) have eaten a Coke box. Seriously.
Last night I finished the last Coke in a 24-pack and, being the resident slave-to-the-felines that I am, I threw the empty box on the floor for them to play with.
This morning, no box.
I don’t mean “shredded box scattered throughout the house” or “box flattened to a pancake by repeated rompings.” I mean no box. Anywhere.
I searched the house. I searched the garage (is it possible for two kittens to drag a 24-pack box through a kitty door?). I searched under beds, under couches, under chairs, and in the potted plants (don’t ask).
I even searched the recycling to see if I had imagined the whole thing and actually thrown the box away.
Nope.
I did find two brown paper bags under the love seat and a stash of kitty food under the sideboard. I even found a dollar bill in the washing machine.
But the box? Let’s just say I think the mob might want to hire these kittens because…. damn! Actually… could they have figured out how to tie the box to a block of concrete? I’ll go check the fish tank…
Favor your worthy hands with the universe
A spam email just advised me to “favor your worthy hands with the universe.” I didn’t read the actual email, because I’m sure it’s advertising Viagra. Of all the images that come to mind when I think of how I might favor my (most worthy, indeed) hands with the universe, things associated with Viagra just aren’t on the top of my list. My universe is a little, ah, larger than that. No matter how large “it” is.
But I’m intrigued. How does one go about favoring their hands with the universe, if we accept that there are bigger things out there than… ah… “that.” Is this a Men in Black moment, staring into a cat collar doo-dad and watching it turn into rotating universes and then aliens playing marbles? Isn’t there an obvious flaw to that image: if aliens were going to play games with Universe Balls, wouldn’t they play pool or golf?
Wouldn’t it be more fun, anyway, to imagine the universes as bath beads? You could run your fingers through and through the beads, squishing them a little bit. Plus, when you were done, your hands would smell good. And if that wasn’t enough for you, you could actually take a bath and slather yourself in foamy universes. Now that’s what I call luxury!
What do you suppose the scent of a universe actually is? And if I figure it out, bottle it, and market it, will I become a millionaire so I can favor my most worthy hands with wads of cash?
I’m not normally an exhibitionist
Yesterday, while bending over to grab my gloves, my jeans split. Yes, it was a moment worthy of sitcom TV.
Unfortunately, the untimely demise of my jeans (you cannot sew a patch there, if you get my drift) leaves me with two (count them, two) pairs of pants: one other pair of jeans and one pair of granny pants. And by granny pants, I mean exactly that: my grandmother gave them to me because they didn’t fit her and she didn’t want to return them to the store. They’re great for wearing around the house, but I can’t exactly wear them in company.
Despite the fact that I am at an almost emergency-level state of pantlessness, this morning I threw both pairs of pants in the washing machine. At the time, I was still wearing my pajamas. No problem, right? I have nowhere to go while my clothes wash.
But wait—here’s the good part. I took a bath. After I got out of the bath, in my infinite wisdom I wrapped myself in a towel and threw every scrap of dirty clothing I had left in the wash. Including the pajama pants. You see where this is going?
I am walking around the house in a tshirt and underwear, waiting for my jeans to dry. Have I ever mentioned that our house is across from the playground? You do realize it’s Saturday and the children have nothing better to do than play outside? (Well, ok, good for them for not being in front of the TV, where they might see something obscene, like a half-naked woman… wait…).
I have pulled every shade in the house down and I am skulking around like a criminal. What if someone comes to the door?
Seriously, you need to fire someone
To: Honda
Re: Your “rebirth” commercial
Message: Are you fucking kidding me?
From: A concerned viewer who is still feeling the heebie-jeebies after watching a snake peel off its skin and a bajillion itty bitty spiders that will one day grow into huge-ass spiders cascade down my TV screen and NO, the sight of a butterfly did not help your case here, because after a million spiders there’s really not a whole lot you can do to save yourself. What made you think this was going to help you sell your product anyway?
Spiders, for the love of Bob.
SPIDERS!
Now I’ll have the heebie-jeebies when I see your product name.
Well done.
Aphorisms from a Forgotten Past
Today, while staring at a magnet on my fridge, it occurred to me that magnets and pins/buttons will likely have a higher survival rate than most other materials. I mean, they are made of plastic and metal, which are durable goods, and they are so small/cheap that they are mass produced and easily lost—two details that would make it easy, I think, for them to survive in unlikely places.
Which means some day an archaeologist will be doing a dig and come up with all these buttons that say things like “I love cooking with wine. Sometimes I even put it in my food.”
And what conclusions will they draw? Will the humor survive, given how difficult it is for humor to cross boundaries (especially cultural ones)? Or will they think that we, as a society, were so dense we needed daily reminders that while wine is good for drinking, it can also be used for cooking?
I fear for us in the future: we’re going to look like idiots.