The Masked Bandit of Chinatown

I do not dread the Dread Pirate Roberts. I'm funny that way.

I do not dread the Dread Pirate Roberts. I'm funny that way.

Is a sexy masked bandit/cat burglar too much to ask for? Really, Universe? REALLY? Just one of these, just ONE in the rat’s nest of banditry that is My Neighborhood?

Faces of Meth

Faces of Meth

Guess not, eh?

Well, let me tell you about the cat burglar/bandit who broke into my apartment recently. S/he/it looked nothing like any of the above, at least as far as I could tell from the mask, but there were some general features that reminded me of a previous invader with whom we have had words.

I have, you may recall (if you are one of the eight people I’ve let into my apartment in the last five years) a large patio that overlooks a bunch of trees, some of which are tall enough that I overlook SOME of them, say the first 20 feet, and the rest of the tree overlooks me, and the whole assemblage of trees and I look down into a triangular area which is fenced off to a height of ten feet with razor sharp razor wire (did I mention it’s razorish?) and thus rather secure.

Or so I thought.

A few years ago I developed the habit of freezing water overnight in a huge steel mixing bowl and plopping it into a baby-sized inflatable pool, for optimium foot-danglage while working on the laptop on the patio, and most pleasant indeed it is. Very pleasant. But it means that said baby pool sits out on the patio overnight, as I am freezing some more water for the next day’s refreshing paddlage. And one evening, as I was ensconced indoors (for I like to be equal-opportunity in my apartment enjoyment, and not all Outdoor Snob etc, in case the living room gets its feelings hurt) I heard a strange sound coming from outside.

Splash, splash, splashy splash.

Now, that’s not that strange a sound to be coming from a wading pool, only it was 2 in the morning and the patio was as far as I was aware, entirely empty of life forms except for the moss and the pot of mint for the mojitos. And they don’t splash around much, even during the full moon.

So I looked out, and there in my baby pool were babies a-plenty: masked bandit babies, and masked bandit parents, splooshing and splashing and looking up at me with a big, “What? What’s your fucking problem? Can we get a little privacy?” look on their faces, every last one of them.

So I gave it to them. Privacy, that is.

And I shouted over my shoulder “Just don’t put a claw through it” as it was inflatable and thus rather delicate, and the next thing I hear is POP, pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffft…

Raccoons: passive-aggressive bitches.

A couple of hours later I hear a strange sound, even stranger than a family of hot-tubbing Procyonae. A dragging sound, as if a corpse of small or possibly median size were being dragged across my patio; being the curious type, and not the fearful, Woody Allen Character type (as you may have guessed from a few wasted lifetimes reading this blog) I flick on the patio light and see one of the Raccoonerie attempting to make off with the pool.

Yes, they were trying to drag a hot pink, deflated baby bathtub into a pine tree. I think at least one of the brood must have been a gay decorator.

So I yelled, “Drop the pool, bitch!”

Yes. I did that.

And s/he looked at me, all like, whatevs, you expect me to really drop this? you’re making a display of yourself; why don’t you just go back inside and we’ll both pretend this little episode never happened, that you never tried to face down a wild creature of the woods, here on your patio in Chinatown.

“Drop the pool, bitch! YOU HEARD ME!”

and s/he did, gave me the full one-shoulder shrug, and waddled off into the darkness.

So that was Episode the First.

Episode the Second occurred not too long after that, a number of weeks or maybe a couple of months, but it was still warm enough for the patio door to be open. And as I was typing away, I heard again a strange sound.

A dragging sound.

I sat. I thought. I even stopped typing. And I heard it again, inside the apartment.

The sounds are coming from inside the apartment!

And I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a movement. Movement of an inanimate object: the Turkish trunk I used as a coffee table, upon which my stereo rested. And I thought “It’s fucking X Files in here tonight” and I yelled,

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” not knowing who was the YOU who was doing whatever IT was.

And IT peeped out from behind the stereo, for lo IT had been dragging the trunk backwards, towards the open patio door, with the obvious aim of stealing both my handmade Turkish trunk and my stereo, and IT looked like this:

This Raccoon thinks he can tapdance around the law!

This Raccoon thinks he can tapdance around the law!

A half-face, masked, peeked out, sneered visibly, and retreated, in Super Slow Motion Approved James Bond Villain Style, back behind the trunk. A moment’s silence, a pause as the universe held its breath.

And then the dragging began again, as my stereo and coffee table made their inexorable way towards the patio and the trees just outside.


A sigh. A half-peep. And a waddle away, empty-handed.

Only to return another day…

Samurai Raccoon. We're so fucked.

Samurai Raccoon. We're so fucked.

Wednesday, in fact.

Last Wednesday I was minding my own business, which at that moment consisted of trying to fall asleep, when I heard it. No, not a dragging sound. A falling sound, and a thunk as of a heavy body hitting the floor.

Inside the apartment.

Because, bitchez!

Because, bitchez!

And, being me, I looked around, noted the location of the riding crop, picked up a candlestick (not heavy, but glass and hence dangerous if used all pokey-pokey style) and yelled “What the fuck are you doing in my apartment, you demented motherfucker, because you must be one fucking stupid-ass motherfucker to break into MY apartment. You want me to open an industrial sized tin of whoopass on your sorry mother fucking ass?”

…because I was raised to be a lady…

and when I got out to the living room I saw nothing but (yes) the wide-open patio door just as I’d left it. But wait…wait…there was something on the patio….

my grey jacket.

And when I went out to pick it up from where it lay, just about where the baby pool had been oh these two years ago now, I stepped on something in my living room, something in the dark, something unidentifiable, something that sort of squished. And then I saw The Other.

This Raccoon thinks he can tapdance around the law!

This Raccoon thinks he can tapdance around the law!

S/he was out on the patio, giving me the stink-eye and being all, “what, what’s your fuckin’ problem, bitch? You talkin’ to me? You talking to ME?”

and of course I was, and I continued to do so until it got the hell out of Dodge or at least my tiny corner of Chinatown.

And then I went back in and switched the light on and faced the unpleasant truth of what it was exactly that I’d stepped on.

Now, if I may be excused for a slight digression, timewise, for the previous several weeks I’d been looking for a particular necklace of mine. I have a lot of junk jewelry and a lot of sub-junk, like the orange macrame owl I made in school crafts period in about 1976, but I do have one necklace that is worth the better part of a thousand bucks, and it’s the one I hadn’t been able to find it in ages.

And there, in the middle of my floor, was a pile of necklaces my Masked Bandit had obviously been attempting to pilfer. And suddenly, I knew that some pine tree somewhere was swagged with even blingier bling than normal.

I sighed heavily, as one does on these occasions, picked up the necklaces (a pink frosted plastic bead choker I’d had since I was in school and a turquoise draped multi-chain number that my mother wore in the Sixties; raccoons have terrible taste) and went to put them back on the dresser with a resigned slump of the shoulders.

And there, where said tacky beads and chains had been, was The Necklace.

So, thanks?

But don’t do it again, bitch! PS: are we entirely sure raccoons aren’t related to meerkats? I mean, think it over…

The Truth About the Great Pumpkin

A (very) graphic novel in three chapters.

Linus and Sally wait for the great pumpkin.

Linus and Sally await the Great Pumpkin

Waiting for the Great Pumpkin, by Samuel Beckett

They wait eternally, in vain. Why? I think I know…

Meerkats attack the Great Pumpkin! and his kin! Fucking Meerkats

Meerkats attack the Great Pumpkin! and his kin! Fucking Meerkats.

Linus, the Everyman, waits for the Great Pumpkin still. He waits in vain, forever.

THEY have taken Him.

Meerluk the Marauder revels in his bloody triumph

Meerluk the Marauder revels in his bloody triumph

RIP Paul the Psychic Octopus

Paul the Octopus had his troubles with the paparazzi

Paul the Octopus had his troubles with the paparazzi

Oh, Paul, we hardly knew ye. Let’s toast the Great One‘s memory with an Octopus’s Garden (otherwise known as an un-dry 3:1 Gin Martini with an Octopus and Olive garnish) and join in a rousing chorus of “Paul the Octopus.”

A planet mourns.

Before the World Cup, Paul’s powers were already known in Germany because he had correctly predicted four out of Germany’s five matches in the 2008 European Championship. But his clean sheet this year has made him immortal.

He helped to make the World Cup memorable. Just like everyone will remember the 2006 tournament in Germany for Zinedine Zidane’s astounding head butt, and the 1986 one in Mexico for Maradona’s “Hand of God” goal against England, South Africa will forever be associated with an octopus.

If he really was born in 2008, then Paul was nearing the end of his natural life. Octopuses only live three years on average and he was never going to be around for the next European Championship in 2012, let alone the World Cup in Brazil in 2014.But here is some comfort for football fans. “Behind the scenes, a young Paul is already acclimatizing himself, he was meant to be trained by Paul the First in the coming weeks,” aquarium officials said.

Fellow sea creatures will also benefit from his immortality in future. Oberhausen said it plans to donate some of its income from the sale of commercial rights relating to Paul — he adorns a clothes brand and adverts for a supermarket chain, for example — to help finance a rescue station for endangered turtles on the Greek island of Zakynthos.


In related news, file this necronautical cephalopod under “People who have (or had) way better jobs than you.” According to PopBitch, he was getting $80,000 per appearance at the time he died. In fact, he’s got a better job than Lindsay Lohan even though he’s dead: she lost her clothing line, and he’s still got his!

In related to related news, ain’t no way Germans are as smart as Wiartonians; when Wiarton Willie died, Wiarton just hushed it up in best Small Town Shirley Jackson Unspeakable Truth fashion and got themselves a new albino groundhog on the black albino groundhog market. If Germany had gone out and gotten a new octopsychic, very few people on the planet would have known the difference. I’m just sayin’, next time they should hire me as their cephalostrategic consultant.

In related to related to related news, who really thinks that a nine-year-old, healthy, coddled octopus with no prior history of ill-health suddenly kicks the bukkit? Not me, and probably not you either, if you’re a smartie, and I think you are because: look! you’re here! Do I sense the sneaky padding of meerkat paws behind the assassination? Did they test Pulpo Paul for Polonium?

Stitch a Squid (via Stitch London Blog)

In a shockingly unreported event which has doubtless been suppressed by the Meerkat Media Hegemony, we have just discovered that on August 27, Squid invaded the London Natural History Museum. Here’s the report from the fearless Stitch London Blog.

Stitch a Squid at the Natural History Museum: in pictures Stitch London hit the main hall of London’s Natural History Museum on 27 August in an attempt to bring a shoal of stitched squid to life. Amongst the dinosaur bones, stuffed beasts and birds, and fine fossils the stitched squid storm raged. We witnessed the safe capture of the Stitched Sealife Six. Read More

via Stitch London Blog

Fairy Photo: Proof of Skeletal Undead Fairies!

skeletal fairies torturing a cranefly

Once again, this blog is on the very forefront of fairy science as we reveal this shocking photo evidence that, as alluded to in the Victorian document known as “Peter Pan,” fairies are not only quite real (which the cognoscenti have known all along) but can actually die! This photo makes explicit what the timid author Barrie dared not even hint: that they can return to a hideous kind of animation after death, becoming zombie or skeleton fairies, consumed by malevolence and driven neither by hunger nor thirst, but only by the relentless, perverted need to kill, and kill again.

O cursed is the world that contains such abominations! Undead skeletal fairies, roaming the forest in search of innocent victims to torture! What unspeakable evil could have dreamed such perversion? Who can be behind this eldritch and unnameable madness?

Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

Meerkat Mafia

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