house-sitting: a paradigm shift

It must be said that house-sitting is more attractive as a gig when you live, as I do, in a leaky, damp, cold, mushroom-sprouting festerment on the heart of the Downtown EastSide rather than, say, a $25million-dollar oceanfront mansion on the North Shore. Although I still bet I get more seawater than they do: I sea it dribbling down the walls, for god’s sake.

In any case, there is nothing I enjoy so much as the vicarious pleasure of having, if only for the moment, two homes. It’s not quite “should we open the Rio house this weekend?” but it’s getting there.

After cleaning out the fridge, the greatest pleasure is turning their animals. You left thinking Fluffy would never forget you. If you engaged me as a house-sitter, trust me, Fluffy has long since forgotten you, figuring that she’s traded up. Whatever her species (other than fish. Live fish are simply pre-sushi in my worldview) Fluffy now loves me more than she loves you. I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but it’s better you know now than later. The current Fluffy-incumbent at Lydia‘s house not only worships me, she thinks I can make the six inches of snow we are currently enjoying go away; in other words, she thinks I am a god. Is it any wonder I enjoy pet-sitting?

Seriously, though, this poor cat. She’s more disappointed in her god than anyone in history.  Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthami . Every 45 minutes (her internal timer is extremely accurate; either that or she can tell time, and those Orientals are like, way smart) she runs to the door and causes a fuss, so I obligingly open said door, saying “Dude, it’s still Canada out there” and she looks out, looks up at me with a “well, what are you going to do about it” look, and then gives up. As so many of us, faced with the greater questions of faith and causality, do.

But it is fun to convert a “she doesn’t take to strangers” animal into a lap-purring cuddle machine inside of three hours. If only I had that knack with people…

Sandra Bullock said that the key to success with men is to do the little hair toss thingy and follow it up with “I have three million dollars in my checking account.” I shall practice in front of a mirror for future use and report back on my success.

how cocaine is produced

The subtitles while the coke peasants at lunch are the most interesting part of this fascinating video from Defamer (unless you actually use coke, in which case the whole thing is a paranoid can’t-tear-yourself-away fantasy trainwreck; I wonder how many OCD-related suicides will result from viewing this video).

“Do you do drugs?”
[laughter] “No, the guerrillas don’t allow it.”

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Christmas on acid

Normally, I don’t like Christmas stuff before December 1st, but this year and particularly this Fall have just been so spectacularly crappy that I feel the need. I’ve gotta have a hit of the beautiful freakery that is the Vestibules‘ song Christmas on Acid, accompanied by bizarre out-takes of classic Christmas cartoons. My only regret is that this video is 100% Davy and Goliath-free.

Christmas on Acid
A family gathering with presents and fun
Another Christmas and this one’s wonderful
Presents and cheer, candy canes and gingerbread men

But wait, the gingerbread men have come alive
They’re moving round the room and now they’re on fire
They’re moving round the room and now they’re on fire

Why do I see these things?
It’s not the rum and egg nog
It’s not the holiday fun
It’s Chrismas on acid
Christmas on acid

My stocking’s full of spiders and snakes
My little cousins have become walking talking fruitcakes
The whole family’s looking at me cause I’ve got the shakes

Why do I see these things?
It’s not the rum and egg nog
It’s not the holiday fun
It’s Chrismas on acid
Christmas on acid

The turkey’s dancing on grandma’s head
And her eyes are a devil red
Santa’s dead, oh Santas dead

Why do I see these things?
It’s not the rum and egg nog
It’s not the holiday fun
It’s Chrismas on acid
Christmas on acid

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Bloom County on the endangered liberal

We are a rare breed indeed.

The endangered liberal

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welcome to the panIHOPticon

The Spatula of Total Information Awareness 

Would you like some surveillance with those flapjacks? How about a side of identity theft? Can I top up your presumption of guilt before offering you what we’ve got in the way of closed curcuit television monitoring, hot off the griddle? Here’s our daily special, fresh from the Department of Homeland Insecurity.

In response to a media inquiry, a Quincy, Massachusetts International House of Pancakes has ended its somewhat over-the-top dine-and-dash prevention policy of requiring its customers to not only show, but also relinquish, their driver’s licenses while enjoying the tasty breakfasts for which the chain is renowned.

Those who would trade liberty for security of pancakes deserve neither liberty nor pancakes!

The PanIHOPticon policy was overturned when one John Russo, would-be breakfaster, refused to comply with the policy, citing fears of identity theft. Media reports quote Russo as saying,

“‘You want my license? I’m going for pancakes, I’m not buying the Hope diamond,’ and they refused to seat us…Identity theft is rampant. I wouldn’t want to give my license, with my address or Social Security number to anyone that I’m not familiar with. I’m going just for breakfast.”

There are no reports of Russo attempting to use the library, pray, or take flying lessons while at the IHOP.

Would you like a cavity search with that maple syrup?

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