CAT OF GOOD FORTUNE: A 100-WORD STORY

[Another Guest Post - this one a 100-word birthday tribute to Hakuna by long-time admirer Rahel.]

Somewhere in eastern North America is a cat the color of mocha, chocolate, and café-au-lait. The legend goes that those who stroke her fur and hear her purr shall have good fortune.

But – it is said – this cat does not let just anyone approach. Only a lucky few may come close, extend a hand for sniffing, and then, in fear and trembling, offer her the tribute of a skritch.

The line extends eastward, over an ocean and beyond a sea, to a woman at the edge of a desert.

She gazes at the screen, into the blue eyes...

and waits.

[Happy birthday, Hakuna!]

THE OATH: A 100-WORD SPECULATIVE TALE

[The following is a 100-word Guest Post by Houston Steve - and his first-ever 100-word story.]

In 2021 I was a 14 year old immigrant; carried my green card everywhere. No telling when a policeman would reasonably suspect I was illegal.

I envied the Americans. When we entered a building, they weren’t questioned, but someone would always demand to see my “papers.” I looked like them; talked like them. Texans sounded more out of place here in Massachusetts.

In 2026 I took the oath. Afterwards a syringe was inserted behind my right ear. It was injected.

Those doorpost flags were readers, not American mezuzahs. Now I was like my friends, and I had my American citizenchip.

A FAIRY TALE FOR OUR TIME

I normally don’t post a whole lot of material on the topics of Politics and Economics, but this piece by Houston Steve was irresistible. Enjoy...and read into it whatever you like.

A Fairy Tale for Our Time
(with apologies to George Orwell)
by Houston Steve

Once upon a time there was a co-operative that had a pig farm. The farm had been running for some time with mostly good results - the occasional banner year and the occasional downer - but mostly it was generating a decent return for the co-op members. One day the manager, who had been working the farm for about eight years, said he had to leave. The co-op shopped around for a new manager, and they found a man who had some new, bold ideas about how to accelerate the rate of return the co-op members got on their pigs.

It seems that pigs will fatten up very rapidly if you let them eat to their heart’s content, but if they eat too much they get overweight and sick; therefore, they are much easier to control if you feed them a steady diet. To that end the co-op had devised a series of food dispensers that put out enough food to allow the pigs to fatten up without getting sick. The new manager pointed out that the dispensers were expensive to maintain, so the co-op could save money if they turned them off (and he could give that money – the co-op members’ hard earned money - directly back to the members), and the manager promised that he would keep an eye on the pigs so they wouldn’t get out of control. And “Oh, by the way,” the manager said, “This breed of pigs really knows how to control themselves without the food dispensers anyway.” So the co-op members had some misgivings, but they went along with the new manager.

Shortly after the decision was made to turn off the food dispensers, a coyote managed to get into the chicken coop, which was kept on the opposite side of the farm, well away from the pig pens. The manager was furious, so he dropped everything and went hunting for the coyote. He looked and looked, but couldn’t find him anywhere. Then he heard that two counties over there was a den where some bears were hibernating. He knew that bears don’t eat chickens, but everyone knew bears were dangerous anyway, and he could easily kill them while they were asleep. Besides, he was sure the co-op members would be impressed if he made sure that the bears would never pose any danger in the future. So he went to the bear’s den and killed them. But he didn’t know that there was another bear den just over the hill, and when they heard the gunfire it woke them up. The bears came out and starting chasing the manager all over the place. Pretty soon the manager ran out of bullets for his gun, but the bears were getting tired of all the running around since they hadn’t eaten anything for months, so they decided to go grazing for a while.

The manager pounded his chest and said he had defeated the bears! But then he got word that the coyote got back into the chicken coop, so he ran back to the farm.

On the way to the farm he suddenly remembered the pigs. He hoped they hadn’t eaten too much, but of course they had. In fact, they had eaten so much that they couldn’t fit into the truck, and there was no way to get them to market. So he had to call a meeting and explain to the co-op members that there were a few problems.

“There’s a problem with the pigs,” he said.

As he explained it, it was going to be necessary to keep the pigs on the farm for a while longer until he could figure out a way for the co-op to buy a bigger truck to take the overgrown pigs to market. In the meantime they were going to have to continue feeding the pigs or they would starve to death and the co-op would lose all the money they had spent raising the pigs. And because the food dispensers were turned off, all the food was gone... so they were going to have to buy some more, even though they were already over budget on the food expenditures.

“Well then,” they said, “let’s go ahead and sell some of the chickens so we can buy the pig feed with the proceeds, and we’ll eat chicken for a while!” But the manager had to remind them that the coyote was back in the chicken coop and since he had no bullets, it really wasn’t safe to go over there to get eggs or chickens (assuming there were any left). They were just going to have to find some money for him or their pigs would all die.

“So what are we supposed to do for our own food in the meantime?” they asked.

“Well,” the manager said, “We have all this pig shit around here, and it’s nutritious for the plants, so you are just going to have to eat shit sandwiches for a while.”

“But people can’t eat shit sandwiches!” they cried. “It’s not healthy!”

“Well,” he said, “you have a point there, but look at it this way. If you don’t eat the shit sandwiches you know you are going to starve to death. And if you do eat them and you don’t get sick, you’ll get through this.”

“Well, then, how about we eat some of the pig food?”

“Can’t do that,” he said. “If the pigs don’t get enough to eat for their current weight they get cranky and they might run away.”

“Hey,” one of the members said, “remember all that corn we put in storage? We can eat some of that!”

“No can do,” the manager said. We used the surplus that didn’t go into the pig feed to make ethanol for the generators. You know, the ones we used to run the heaters that keep the pigs warm so they eat better. No, you guys are going to have to make a decision pretty quick here. If we don’t get the pigs back to the trough they are going to scatter, and you will lose everything. By the way, the shit sandwiches are in pretty short supply and the price is going up by the minute. Anyone ready to buy a few?”

[©2008 Houston Steve. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.]

Ode to a smear of yellowish pus I found on the toilet paper after wiping my ass this morning.

I sat, half awake, stunned
By my inability to complete BoxWorld puzzle number 17
Pushing boxes around
And depositing the last
Of yesterday’s chicken wings
I leaned forward, with a wad of wipe, and made my first scrape;
A smooth and easy cleanse, needing
Only a second to make sure
So I dropped, and
Wrapped three sheets (two ply) around my palm
Before taking the sachet of bumwipe
And daubing carefully
And felt a curious pain
I don’t often buy
The best asswipe on earth
But slivers? There seemed to be something amiss,
And as I retrieved the pad from my nether regions
Noted a slimy trail of pus
Next to the bacon strip I’d made there
Twin racing stripes of yellow and brown
Like Wyoming’s School Colors
On a field of white
No sliver had pierced my tender taint,
I caught a stray wild hair
And pulled it like a ripcord on a zit
And schmeared the goo on the paper
I moved to the shower to wash,
Cleaning and rinsing, with exploratory squeezing, to
Make sure the magic moment had passed
All gone, a drop of blood confirmed the worst was over
I washed and rinsed and dried,
Placed a dab of neosporin
Hoped you’d not mind if I
Didn’t take pictures.

With apologies to Doug Adams and Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz.

Roughneck crapblogging

A long time ago, I spent a week or two helping a guy set up a cable tool rig.

A cable tool, for the uninitiated, is a way of getting oil out of the ground that is about as old as it gets. A drill bit is hung on the end of a cable, and the tool is lifted and dropped over and over again, cutting through the rock. A special tool then gets dropped into the ground every so often to clear the debris. Setting and using a cable tool rig is not for the weak of spirit or back, and I worked my ass off.

Anyway, my employer, who I’ll call Mr. Brown, had rented this rig on a ride - in other words, the guy he rented it from got a quarter of a percent of anything he hauled up out of the ground. Mr. Brown was a dowser, and claimed he could find oil as easily as water. So confident was he of his skill that he set this cable tool rig up in his yard.

He hired me to help him and tried to get me to do the work for a 1/8 point ride, but I needed cash, so he paid me $2.75 an hour. And he fed me lunch.

We worked from around six AM to about nine PM, with an hour for lunch. Mrs. Brown would come out and stop us, and we’d go into the house and wash up. Lunch was usually chicken fried something, with lots of gravy and mashed potatoes.

After several days of this, Mr. Brown (who was a Southern Baptist and wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful) started to walk away from the rig once in a while, and the percussive nature of his walk let me know he was going away to fart.

I was glad for the break myself, because the chicken and gravy was giving me epic gas. Anyway, we had gone about forty feet, three or four feet at a time, and we got the bailer stuck in the wellhead, right in the pit.

So he and I are in the pit, at the bottom of the rig, wrenches and safety chains all over while we try to knock loose the jammed bailer.

And I felt the fart coming.

I pinched my cheeks together so hard I gave myself a buttocks-Charlie horse. And it didn’t help. That fart was coming out, and it was coming out now.

So I farted. It wasn’t loud, but it was vile. And there were two men and a fart in a hole barely big enough for two men.

He climbed up out of the hole after dropping his tools, and reached down to give me a hand up. We sat on the edge of the pit for fully five minutes, not talking. The fart, still down in the pit, had no comment either.

Mr. Brown looked at me and simply said “I gotta get the wife to back off the spices in that gravy.” I figured I’d been fired, but I kept on working for several more days. Mr Brown never went in the pit with me again. And the only gas ever to come out of that dry old hole was the fart I let. I think Mr. Brown went on to sell insurance.

Crossposted at Neanderpundit.

Russell Flint

Were I a wealthy, stylish, hedonistic, Man About Town, I would decorate the walls of my home entirely with William Russell Flint originals. The furniture would be Mackintosh, but I didn't need to tell you that, right? I am sure that you all would have guessed it having known my flair for the debonair.

So, who be Mr. Flint? Well, that happens to be a very good question, dear readers. The answer: why, he’s a relatively famous Scottish watercolorist and noted Royal Academician, of course!

Oh, and he was a big fan of painting buxom, scantily clad French & Mediterranean lasses fetching pails of water, taking baths, wistfully looking at sunrises, walking the seashore, etc. And though he is long ago dead - and by now completely musty and not very open to conversation - every time I see one of his watercolors I am overwhelmed with an urge to buy the old fellow an adult beverage. I mean, just check out this beautiful piece.



My goodness, isn’t Cecilia just grand? The Silver Frock is definitely a keeper.

And what about this one? Honestly, what else could one wish for in a painting? You’ve got mountains, a river, shoreline, beautiful clouds, and a topless brunette with her skirt tastefully tussled all squeezed onto the same artful canvas.

I may not be an artist, but I can definitely appreciate it.

Peace.... 3 years ago this spring.....

... I had the windows open last night, most of the lights turned down.... I was enjoying the smell of the damp forest entering the house.. springtime is mild here in Tennessee, and an evening of rain had created the perfect night... a night for letting the sounds and smells of a new season creep into my home... I turned off the television, and began reading a book in the blogroom... The Wife was reclining on the sofa quietly devouring her latest booty - courtesy of the McMinn County library... and after a few minutes of quiet, we both became acutely aware of the outside noises... whippoorwills calling in the distance... the wind in the dogwood trees... even the dripping of rainwater from the damp leaves...

... the whole aspect was calming.. therapeutic... even the breeze was full of perfume.. and then, without warning, something changed...

... a true silence descended in an instant.. I am sure that the other noises actually continued... but something close - and almost unheard - drew the focus of my hearing away from all other sounds.. a steady feeling of dread and a whisper of something outside my window... close... and dangerous... as my ears strained to gather more facts, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand-up.. part of me knew this feeling well... I have felt it before while hunting predators.. luring hungry coyotes with a screaming rabbit... if you let yourself go, you can hear the panic... the terror in the pleas of the prey... and you, as you watch the prowler come close, understand that you are being hunted....

... I eased out of my chair, and approached the open window... leaning forward for a better view into the darkness... just then, the neighbor's Labrador gave a mighty bark from across the road... and from just below my open window, I heard the familiar yelp of a coyote as it bounded back into the woods...

... the call of the coyote echoed through the house, and the Wife appeared at the door of the blogroom... "Eric?.... What in the Hell was that?", she said.. open book still in hand....

... "Nothing, dear... just the dog from across the street... are the cats in the garage?"...

... "uh huh... they are both in"... she shifted her weight, and walked over to the window... "what a beautiful night"...

... "it sure is, babe", I said as I found my way back to my chair... "let's open a bottle of wine"...

Balancing Act

Japanese commodes
instead of sitting pretty
squatting on two feet

Passover In Japan

Passover is this week having begun at sundown yesterday. I live in Palm Beach County, which believe it or not, has the largest Jewish population in the United States. I know, y’all are shaking your head and saying, “NO! It’s NYC!”, but according to the statistics last year, which may have changed, it is down here at the end of the peninsula state.

I’ve put on my blog a number of times the GREAT benefit of having such a large population of Jews. I think, personally, the biggest benefit is the opportunity to immerse one’s self in another’s religion. In college when I had decided to become Episcopal, as I went through our night classes to study the religion, our priest used to say to us, “And remember, to be a good Christian, first and foremost, you should be a good Jew.”

Many of my friends are Jewish and I’ve had the wonderful pleasures of attending weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, Bat Mitzvahs, Orthodox and not, and every time I attend, I promise you, there is not a person there enjoying themselves more than I.

I remember when my husband’s best friend got married and his family is Orthodox. We attended everything and our friend’s mother and father took me under their wing explaining EVERYTHING to me. An entire weekend, from Friday night until Sunday night, I was immersed and fascinated. As the bride and groom opened some of their gifts there were mezuzahs. I looked at my husband, understanding the meaning as the groom’s father had spent an hour with me giving me some historical lessons, and I said, “Hunhead. We need these for our doors at home. It is a reminder.”

My husband rolled his eyes and said, “Hun. We are not Jewish. I am Catholic. You are Episcopal. It is not part of our heritage.”

Point taken. I understood what he was saying (and to know my husband is to know he is not a jerk or meant any disrespect to anyone), but honestly, one day he will come home and we will have a mezuzah. That conversation may have taken place 16 years ago, but I have not forgotten. The long memory of a woman… and all that. Heh.

I love that my children are starting to fully understand the roots of their religion. I remember sitting at dinner with a friend of my husband’s whose children are grown. He is Conservative Jew, if I recall. Anyway, we were discussing the plight of the schools here as in… they all suck and what are we to do come high school?

He said to us, “When my daughters were of high school age, I went to all the high schools in the area, private and public. I stopped at the local private Catholic high school and I met with the priests. They told me, that they would never push Catholicism upon my children, but I would find, that when they graduated they would be better Jews than when they started. I chose that school and every Jewish holiday, they called my home to talk to my children. They spoke about the meaning. It was the best education my children could have received and I never regretted it. And yes, they are better Jews, having come to truly understand their religion. The priests and nuns saw to that.”

That is where I know my eldest is going to school. Next year you should see a ramp up in my work hours! Gah! It’s not free...

And before I continue, another great thing about having such a large Jewish community is the fantastic food we have! Gah! The delis and the desserts and the… wow. I remember when we thought my middle son had an allergy to dairy and we had to take him off anything with dairy… including dairy protein. Luckily I had a plethora of bread choices as Kosher bread has no dairy. I was definitely doing the happy dance that we lived where we lived.

Anyway, I have been thinking about how Elisson and his daughter spent their seder dinner. My internet research shows there are only about 1000 Japanese Jews. (That could be wrong as it did come from Wikipedia, whose facts I question mostly.) Spread over an island, the probability of Elisson meeting a Japanese of Jewish faith seems somewhat remote.

So I’m excited to see how they passed this first evening of Passover. Elisson always finds interesting things to do, immersing himself in his surroundings and life. I was happy to see that SWMBO did not spend it alone. In my opinion, it is not a holiday to spend alone and SWMBO and Elisson, they are cut from the same cloth in my opinion. They are people who DO. They don’t sit around and wait for life to come to them.

But now, I want to know... what did the other half do?

A seasonal haiku

sfardi Elisson
while abroad for Passover
rice is kitniot

Holy.....

.... ’tis a beautiful day here on The Compound.... a day made all the more beautiful by the fact that the Garden Pixies spent most of the afternoon ministering tenderly to my little corner of Tennessee..... and that always makes me happy....

.... when I first moved here, the back yard was immediately named Hell’s Half acre.... for while the front lawn was grassy and civilized, the area behind my home was an evil antithesis mixture of weeds, bushes, briars, and wily forest beasts.....

... if they keep this up every week - the mowing, weeding, watering, feeding, edging, lopping, and trimming - I suspect that I’ll have to finally knuckle-down and think up a new name for my back yard pretty soon.... perhaps Cockaigne..... or Xanadu..... Camelot seems a bit of a push, but who knows?.... El Dorado is too much of a mouthful...... either way, those sweaty gentlemen are working miracles for fifty bucks a week..... I say it’s money well spent....

.... of course, having laborers who are so conscientious also affords one the opportunity to sit out under the umbrella on the patio and explore more polished and gentlemanly pursuits.... indeed, just today, as the weed-whackers whirred, I leafed through one of Elisson’s most precious possessions.... a 1959 copy of “The Fireside Book of Humorous Poetry”..... it is an absolute gem.... 502 pages of some of the most insanely clever stuff you’ll ever read.... new, old, classic, eclectic, American, British.... it’s got something for everyone....

.... actually, I feel quite honored that Elisson offered to let me be Custodian of The Book for a while..... especially when he said that "he’d had the book from the time that he was just a ‘snot-nosed kid’.... and that somehow this thick, dust-jacketed tome had helped turn him into the Man That He Is Today"... heavy stuff, no?..... now honestly, how could anyone shoulder such an august privilege with anything less than an Ultimate Solemnity And Honor?.... and on top of that, there is an inscription on the first page that reads thusly.... “Property of Elisson. Attempts to abscond with this book will be dealt with SEVERELY!”.....

... woe betide the stealer of Elisson’s book of humorous poetry, ladies and gentlemen.....

.... but anyway, yes, I was leafing through his book this afternoon while pondering a gin and tonic, and I found this beautiful little parody of one of Robert Herrick’s poems..... the funny thing is that I had posted a few days ago - quoting Herrick myself - and a commenter had reminded me of the lusty, bawdy, sexy, just-plain-naughty little things that Herrick used to write back in the 1600’s about his “Julia”.... for whom he had developed a SERIOUS case of wannado....

...... so here’s an example of Robert Herrick lusting after his ‘Julia’.... behold......

UPON JULIA’S UNLACING HERSELF, by Robert Herrick

Tell, if thou canst, and truly, whence doth come
This camphire, storax, spikenard, galbanum,
These musks, these ambers, and those other smells
Sweet as the Vestry of the Oracles.
I’ll tell thee: - while my Julia did unlace
Her silken bodice but a breathing space,
The passive air such odour then assumed
As when to Jove great Juno goes perfumed,
Whose pure immortal body doth transmit
A scent that fills both heaven and earth with it.

.... nice, eh?..... and how about this one?

UPON THE NIPPLES OF JULIA’S BREASTS, by Robert Herrick

Have ye beheld (with much delight)
A red rose peeping through a white?
Or else a cherry (double graced)
Within a lily? Centre placed?
Or ever marked the pretty beam
A strawberry shows half drowned in cream?
Or seen rich rubies blushing through
A pure smooth pearl, and orient too?
So like to this, nay all the rest,
Is each neat niplet of her breast.

..... for more interesting poems written by Mr. Herrick to his ‘Julia,’ you can look right here.........

.... but all of this, of course, IS actually winding its way back to the original point, I think.....

..... which is that the first page I opened to in Elisson’s book today, was a spoof of this poem by Mr. Herrick....

UPON JULIA’S CLOTHES, by Robert Herrick

WHENAS in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.
Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free;
O how that glittering taketh me!

.... sure, sure, it is pretty tame when compared to the other ‘Julia’ poems..... but what says The Book that practically raised our young Elisson as a child?.... The Book that shaped & molded our beloved Elisson into the blogger extraordinaire that we all know and love?.....

.... well, I have a feeling that this post - while long, rambling, and uninteresting - might shed a little more light on the inner-workings of our intrepid traveler’s mind than y’all might have thought....... I mean, just check this out.....

(Robert Herrick)

WHENAS IN JEANS, by Paul Dehn

Whenas in jeans my Julia crams
Her vasty hips and mammoth hams,
And zips-up all her diaphragms,
then, then, methinks, how quaintly shows
(Vermilion-painted as the rose)
The lacquefaction of her toes.

..... yowza.... the "lacquefaction of her toes"..... mercy, folks, that’s just hardcore literary something-or-other...... and I can now see why our esteemed Elisson emblazoned such a ‘warning to absconders’ on the inside of His Treasure.... His Precious.....

... indeed, if words were religion, then this book would be Holy to all who read..... and I suspect that if anyone were to read the book in its entirety, one would either go completely mad.... or would end up sitting in a room with a colander on his head writing 100 word stories....

... I'm off to read it and find out.....

Elisson Visits Hiroshi's Deli.

Elisson: Good morning, good sir! I’d like six of your finest bagels, please. Two salted, two poppy-seed and two pumpernickel.

Hiroshi: Is dat corander on yoo head?

Elisson: Excuse me, sir. I didn’t quite get that.

Hiroshi: You head! Is dat corander on yoo head?

Elisson: Ohhhhh, a colander! Why, yes it is, as a matter of fact.

Hiroshi: Why you weah corander on yoo head?

Elisson: I am Elisson, a well-known blogger and the author of a book of 100-word stories. Would you like to hear one ?

Hiroshi: I like to heah why yoo weah corander on yoo head.

Elisson: It’s my trademark. Everyone knows me as the blogger who wears a colander on his head.

Hiroshi: Seem sirry you weah corander on head. What you want? I forget.

Elisson: Oh, yes. Six of your finest bagels, please. Two salted, two poppy-seed and two pumpernickel.

Hiroshi: Bagers?

Elisson: Yes, six bagels, please.

Hiroshi: No bagers.

Elisson: No bagers? … I mean bagels … This is supposed to be a deli.

Hiroshi: Yoo want noodle?

Elisson: No bagels?

Hiroshi: Noodle.

Elisson: OK, noodles then.

Hiroshi’s Wife: (shouts from back room of the store) Hiroshi! Who yoo talk to for so long?

Hiroshi: Crazy guy wear corander on head.

Hiroshi’s Wife: I told you stay away from sake!

Hiroshi: Oy.

Colander Girl

I see we are slowly crawling out from under our rocks, exposing ourselves to Elisson’s unsuspecting readers.

When Elisson asked me if I’d like to take this baby for a ride whilst he was in Japan, I was flattered, but completely horrified at first. Good Lord. Elisson is the epitome of creativity.

I write what I see. Usually it pertains to the absurdity of the life that is mine. Lately it seems to have been mostly about dog poop. Lovely.

But I said yes. I figured, ‘What the hell, live on the edge!’

And then I thought… blogwise… what do we have in common? He writes great short stories, comes up with witty posts and poems, and has a pretty well versed way about him.

I write about my absurd life, dog poop, boy antics and… well… that’s it.

And then it came to me! Something we have in common! The blog Gods were shining upon me as it came to me!

Elisson and I… are you ready? Elisson and I… own the same colander!

I can be the colander girl for his blog while he sups on sushi and sips on sake. I’ve never been the pin up type… just your average girl next door… but hells bells, I can be a colander girl!

.

And for Bob, I’ll test the Whip It Out…
Another Colander picture or two… I crack myself up sometimes. (I am bound and determined to understand this extended entry stuff. Take one failed...)

Whip It Out if You've Got it

Bing! Bing! Bing! I got it!! Whoo hooo!

EVERYTHING EWES’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT ELISSON BUT WERE AFRAID TO ASK

Once upon a time, my mother introduced me to the illustrious filmography of one Woody Allen, a man who, for reasons I’m sure we’re all aware, achieved an unwelcome wave of notoriety in the late ’90s for comporting himself according to a questionable moral code, but who is also, unquestionably, a veritabobble™ comic genius.

In fact, Woody Allen supports my personal theory of a rare genius gene, commonly found in the DNA of most Jews born in Brooklyn on December 1, but that’s neither here nor there. All it took was one viewing of “Sleeper,” a futuristic slapstick comedy, and I was hooked. After that, at a mere 22-23 years of age, I took it upon myself to watch as much of Allen’s body of work as I possibly could.

After having seen the staples — “Annie Hall,” “Manhattan,” “Bananas,” and “Take the Money & Run” — and most of the dramas (i.e., “Interiors” — don’t waste your time), I sheepishly rented “Everything You’ve Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask,” something I’m not sure I wanted my mother to even know I rented, and, if I know me, I probably also asked the store owner if I could please have a dark plastic bag with which to conceal the suggestive title as I walked home, lest I get ‘looks’ on the way.

Once inside the front door, I secured the locks, shuttered the blinds, and popped the tape in the VCR. I plopped down on the couch and began to watch the film, which was a series of seven vignettes based on the popular Dr. David Reuben sexual self-help book of the 1970s. All was going swimmingly until one vignette, about a sheep, which I found…alarming.

Gene Wilder portrayed a respectable Jewish psychiatrist named Doug Ross (surely the future influence for George Clooney’s “ER” character) whose life changes when a man enters his office in search of his help for having what he considers an unhealthy sexual attachment to his pet sheep.

WTF?

At 22-23 years-old, I was as pure as the driven snow and naïve to such sordid mating practices. In fact, I was downright shocked (shocked!) and never even considered that the fabled sheep scene was any more than a single isolated gag, generated exclusively for that film. I mean, how could anyone DO such a thing?

Why a sheep, I asked myself? That’s so gross! Are there really men who have experienced and acted upon these longings? I couldn’t come to terms with the idea…my mind raced, but, I put the issue to rest once I returned the tape to the video store, and prayed I’d be spared from further exposure to such debauchery in my life.

And then, 10 years later, I — just an innocent young’n, looking to play a friendly game of Half-Rubber, and knock back a few adult bevies — attended Blogtoberfest in Helen, Georgia and, alas, it was there that the vile practice of sheep heiney humping again reared its sordid ugliness. Behold:

Some people drive Miles to generate smiles and Perverse Sheepish Forms of Amusement
By bringing devices that call to mind Vices and various types of Self-Abusement.

Funny, that…’twas not advertised as a bacchanal, where grown men wore dirndls, and passed around from one person to the next the inflatable Love Ewe, that each may have his or her way with the pasty, vinyl “inflatable barnyard date.”

Of some, I almost expected to see such deviance…but of my pal Elisson, the clean-living, heimishe big brother I always wanted, the Contented Family Man, who loves his wife, two girls, and drives a smart Honda Element…no, Gawd Dammit, no! Perish the thought…never happen, not my Big E.

So nu, you could imagine my horror when I turned around, and saw this**.

Oy, a shandeh! The horror!

**Photo Credit to Richard of Shadowscope.

BE AFRAID, PEEPS D’ELISSON

…be very afraid…

Do not attempt to adjust your dials…all Elisson’s Wayback Machines are belong to us.

Checking For Bugs... Got Raid?

Just seeing if this sucker works...

Short post here *Take 2* Hmmm... guess that was supposed to go away.

*Take 3* I am thinking I remember how much more I liked blogger than the stuff I use for my blog. Note to self: Why in the hell did I leave blogger?

Extended post here *Take 4* Crap. Where in the hell did that come from? That needs to go too...

*Take 5* Well damn. Look at that. According to blogger, I can blog in my native Indic script. Hindi anyone? I'm starting to feel at home... all stupid with the blog!

For Shit Sure.

Treppenwitz speculates below about some of the posts we might see from Elisson while he is schlepping around in Japan. I think he may have left out a couple sure shits shots:

• Toidy usage in Tokyo and its environs
• Toidy paper in Tokyo and its environs
• Toidy paper technique in Tokyo and its environs

About this, I have no doubt.

Is he gone yet?

You know the old saw about the difference between Jews and Gentiles?

Gentiles leave but don’t say good-bye... while Jews say good-bye but never seem to leave!

Q.E. frikkin’ D that long teary wave good-bye from Elisson hisself from the hotel in D.C.

I mean seriously, the guy is in a (presumably) decent hotel with hot and cold running room service and two steps out the door to Asia with his daughter, and does he enjoy the moment?

Nooooo.

He'd rather pay double for in-room WiFi what he would have spent on an armful of the stoner-food from the ‘honor bar’ in his room!

So, do you think he’s really gone?

My money's on at least two more posts from airport lounges in transit. Oh, and I’m guessing that since he’s going to the land of the rising microchip, the chances of him stumbling on an Internet Cafe or three are fairly high.

I feel another prediction coming on... bear with me...

Yes, at least three posts devoted to local victuals... with two of them discussing Sushi (the Japanese word for ‘bait’), and the remaining post about consuming vast quantities of Saki (the Japanese word for ‘urine’).

I’m not a betting man, but if anyone wants to pit their oracle against mine, I’m taking action. :-)

Taking Chances

How often do you take chances? Are you a risk-taker? Do you think about things long and hard before you try something new or do you fly by the seat of your pants? In terms of psychology’s “big five” personality traits, the personality trait most associated with risk-taking is known as “Openness to Experience.” I’m finding that, quite often, people aren’t so open, they take the safe route in life, in case something unfortunate might happen. No, I’m not just using this as another way to study for a psych class; I got to thinking about chances and risk when I read about this story yesterday via LL, a sad reminder that sometimes taking a chance does indeed end up disastrous.

I think of myself as a fairly open person. I met my husband via a BBS back in the day, before the Internet was as popular and widespread as it is today (does that make me “open” or just a geek??) At 32, I enrolled in University for the first time and although it was a bit scary at first, I absolutely love it now. I like trying new foods, new activities, traveling, and yes, even going on scary thrill rides.

Another one of my favourite things to do is meet new people. I love everything about people: meeting them, talking to them, getting to know them, figuring out what makes them tick, or even just watching them when I’m in a public place (no, I’m not a voyeur and even if I was, this is Elisson’s pad and I'm trying to keep it clean here). I’m not what you would call shy in any respect. My mother recalls me, as a child, going up to complete strangers when we would go camping and saying, “Hi, I’m ‘Chickie,’ want to be friends?”

So, it was that love of meeting people that led me to a new friendship in the summer of last year. I’d been reading these “Jawja bloggers” for a while - basically, these were the only blogs I read. I really don’t know how I ended up getting addicted to reading a bunch of cats from the southern US, it just kind of happened. When I decided to start my own blog, many of those same writers I’d been reading started to read and comment on mine as well. I believe it was early June when, through the magic of blogging, I found out that Elisson himself was coming to my fair city. Were I the tentative type, I might have been too nervous to venture out to a bar at 10:30 at night to meet someone I’d only known electronically, this Jewish dude from Atlanta who blogged one minute about fine cuisine and the next (and quite frequently) about excrement.

Everything turned out just fine, of course; we had a great time chatting over a couple of drinks and we even had the opportunity to spend some more time together later in the summer. Taking another chance, I decided to schlep my butt onto a plane and fly a mere 2500 kilometres to attend my first-ever blogmeet. A bit nervous? Sure I was, but it was worth it, I was welcomed right into the fold of the Blown-Eyes and was treated like family by E and SWMBO.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that, unlike the poor girl in the story I linked at the top, I’ve taken plenty of chances in my life and so far, they’ve all turned out pretty darn great. While I don’t advocate being completely foolhardy when making decisions, I think it is a good thing to be able to trust yourself enough to try new things, even if they seem a little scary or risky at first. You never know what wonderful new experiences (or people) are waiting around the corner.

TRAPPED LIKE A RAT

Me, guarding the back staircase.

Sometimes it’s not a Good Thing to have a shy and retiring personality. Just ask me. Hakuna, one of the Kitties d’Elisson. (I’m the good-looking one.)

I love my sister Matata, and she loves me. I think. We’re (adoptive) sisters, and like sisters, we can be sweet to each other one minute, prickly the next. Our personalities are complementary: Matata is the Alpha Female, queen of all she surveys, while I tend to be quiet, maybe even a little skittish. But I yam what I yam, as Popeye was wont to say.

The Bifurcated Gods (that’s what Matata and I call Elisson and SWMBO) were away all last week. We had no idea where they were going, but we both knew something was in the wind when they started packing their valises. Matata even tried to get packed up in one, fer cryin’ out loud. As usual, they had arranged for someone to come in to feed and water us (their Hairy Children) twice a day while they were...wherever the hell it is they go. And I heard SWMBO explaining to the Cat-Sitter on the phone that I like to make myself scarce: If you don’t see Hakuna every day, it’s no reason to be worried. When Unfamilar People come to visit, like as not, I’ll take up residence inside the box spring of the bed in Elder Daughter’s room. Hey, you never know!

Wednesday, when the cleaning people came, I followed my usual practice, secreting myself in my Box-Spring Haven. But this time it almost proved to be my undoing...because the cleaning people closed the door behind them, unknowingly shutting me up in the room. I was trapped like a rat.

The worst part was, I had no idea when Elisson and SWMBO would be back. Would it be a day? A week? Forever? More than a few days, and I’d be toast: There was, of course, no food or water in my prison, nor were there toilet facilities. I (like most cats) pride myself on my hygiene, and the idea of crapping or whizzing without a litter box appalled me...but after most of a day had gone by, well, a cat’s gotta do what a cat’s gotta do. I was ashamed...but, hey, it really wasn’t my fault. And I tried to keep matters, ahhh, all in one place, as it were. An easy task, ’cause you don’t need to pee without you have something to drink. Gaaaah!

When the Bifurcated Ones arrived Saturday evening - a full three days later - they didn’t see me at first. But they could hear me, mewling piteously, as they wended their way upstairs. I was meowing in (mostly) sheer gratitude and relief at that point...with a little self pity, and I’ll confess, more than just a little fear.

Well, Elisson and SWMBO were horrorstricken when they realized that I had been locked up all that time. I think they were amazed that I was still alive, and, in fact, not too much the worse for wear once I had got a little food and water in me. I continued to bitch and moan for the rest of the evening and all through the night, just to make sure they knew how pitiful I was.

Matata? That twat. You’d think she’d pull a Lassie to rescue her sister, dragging the cat-sitter upstairs by the teeth, or tapping out a message in Morse code: “Timmy Hakuna is in trouble!” Aw, hell no. She was too busy enjoying Double Rations. Bitch.

I heard Elisson saying that future Cat-Sitter instructions will be amended to ensure that our presence - both of us - is confirmed visually. And meanwhile, I’m OK. Hey, without me, who would guard the back stairs?