Thursday, October 25, 2012

The Cat's Meow

Those of you who know me are aware that I live by myself and that I tend to prefer it that way. It gives me the freedom to fart and sing freely without having to be concerned for the safety of others and watch Armageddon as many times as I want in my underwear. But this week I have a new house guest who by some miracle not only is hairier than me but also cares even less about where he poops.

That's right, I am currently living with a cat. His name is Chewie, which I'm assuming is because where you might see my mangled, bloody toes and think, “Ewww,” he thinks, “Mmm lil' smokies!”

Chewie is actually not my cat, but I'm watching him for a little while. Why would I agree to that? Well let's just say his owner may or may not have a cellphone video involving shots of tequila, a mechanical bull and one too many Y chromosomes.

Actually in all seriousness I love cats, so for me this is awesome. A relationship with no long term strings attached! And he can't talk back to me! Plus my cat back home is named Chewy so it's like a little piece of home that follows me around and tries to gnaw off what is left of my toenail.

Now, this is not the first time I've watched this particular cat, so when he came over this time he immediately made himself comfortable. A friend was sleeping over on the couch, and upon noticing this, Chewie jumped up onto my bed, stomped around on my crotch and then gave me a very stern look as if to say, “Hey man, there is some weirdo sleeping on my couch.”

Now like I said I grew up with cats, so none of this is new to me. In fact, we've even settled into a routine.
To demonstrate, let me tell you a story called: 

“Chewie and Mitchell Wake Up in the Morning”

Since his internal clock is apparently in sync with London standard time, at 4 a.m. Chewie decides it is time to wake up and embrace the day from his sleeping perch right above Mitchell's head. Unfortunately, his idiot bunkmate is still sleeping. So after some extensive stretching involving claws, he decides it is time to wake Mitchell up. 

Chewie begins this lengthy process my placing both his paws on Mitchell's face and and nudging in much the same way you might check to see if a person were still alive after drinking an entire bottle of tequila. When that doesn't work, he then begins to shove his mouth in your nose, which seems cute until you remember where his mouth has been.

Awesome, Mitchell is up! That means he can play! This of course means that Chewie can go the living room to retrieve his favorite toy in the world, which is a two-foot long piece of yellow string. But what's this? Mitchell has gone back to sleep! This is unacceptable, and so Chewie will jump onto Mitchell's chest and continue to nudge Mitchell in the face while holding the string in his mouth.

At this point, Mitchell has a cat sitting on his chest and cannot breathe so is forced to wake up. Mitchell then throws the string so Chewie can fetch it, which of course causes him to go skidding across the wooden floor like a drunken Apolo Ohno. (If you have never seen cats on wooden floors, it is literally the most entertaining thing in the world.)

At this point Mitchell tries to walk to the bathroom to fix his hair, which as a result of having a cat sleeping up against it all night, looks like soemthing from an episode of Dragon Ball Z. Unfortunately it is still dark, and Chewie happens to be a black cat who at the moment is weaving in and out of Mitchell's legs with a string. What happens next looks something like this.

Now that Mitchell is lying on the floor tangled up worse than a dolphin in a Japanese tuna net, it's time for Chewie's favorite part of the morning: watching the toilet flush. Seriously, I have never seen any living creature so enamored with running water. He spends more time with his face in a toilet bowl than the Olsen twins.

But enough with with that, it's time to eat! And sure, cat food is great, but that breakfast burrito Mitchell has looks waaay better. So while Mitchell isn't looking, Chewie jumps up on his lap and sticks the face he just had in the toilet bowl into the burrito! But Chewie decides he doesn't want it after all, and judging by how Mitchell is now looking at the burrito he must not want it either.

Now, frankly it's been an exhausting 15 minutes for Chewie what with all that running around, so it is time to take another nap. And where better to take a nap than on Mitchell's work shoes! Of course Mitchell lifts me up and takes the shoes out from under Chewie as he goes to work. Sometimes humans are so inconsiderate of other people's rest...

Monday, October 1, 2012

All the Wrong Calls

So it's obviously been a while since I wrote on this site, but frankly if you've missed it then you have bigger issues to deal with. And besides, it wasn't because I'm a lazy, unmotivated slouch. OK, maybe it's a little bit of that, but it's mainly because I, inspired by the NFL referees, have been on strike.

Why am I on strike you ask, especially considering this is not a job and even if it were I would be my own boss and I don't get paid? Because it's the American thing to do goshdarnit and I am nothing if not a patriot.

Never the less, another strike of almost equal importance has required me to come back and resume writing for all five of you out there who stumble upon these articles while Googling ways to get out of jury duty using well-placed deposits of bodily fluids. Besides, my replacement column writer, Tim Tebow, wasn't exactly getting the job done. I know he said he was willing to fill any role to help me out since he wasn't exactly busy with the New York Jets, but his writing left a lot to be desired:

Yes, OK I get it Timmy, now stop eating your crayons. So I'm back and this weekend also marked the first weekend the real NFL referees, who had been on strike for the first few weeks of the season. Unfortunately, the NFL referees brought in to replace them were not exactly qualified. I mean, one of them got fired as a referee for the Lingerie Football League. I really hope it was for giggling while calling “illegal touching,” on one of the models.

So needless to say, these replacement refs struggled. Refereeing in the NFL requires poise under pressure, quick reaction and at least a basic understanding of how football actually works. The replacement refs were slow with calls, they missed penalties, they let fights get out of control and I'm pretty sure at one point tried to call double-dribbling on a running back before declaring that he had in fact cleared the puck from the fairway.

The final straw came on Monday Night Football, with the Green Bay Packers playing the Seattle Seahawks. On the final play of the game, a Seahawks receiver – in what may have been offensive pass interference – shoved his defender out of the way then shot him with an AK-47 and stabbed him with a prison shank to try and get open. The defender still managed to catch the ball, but by virtue of being in the same area code as the football, the ref gave possession to the Seattle receiver, allowing them to win the game.

Needless to say the outcry began almost immediately. People who wouldn't know the difference between a wide receiver screen and a Broadway showing of Moulin Rouge were up in arms. Players were up in arms, fans were considering boycotting, and Donald Trump accused NFL commissioner Roger Goodell of being born in Nairobi.

Luckily within the next few days the NFL and the referees decided to end the strike. They said something about reaching a fair number, but I'm still Ed Hochuli just started bench pressing his opponents into submission. Just like that, the referees were back out on the field being showered with applause just minutes before fans started raining venomous vitriol back on them for "Oh come on ref that was CLEARLY HOLDING!"

Sorry, I got a little caught up there. Anyway, when this is all said and done and the replacement refs are back to calling powderpuff sorority games and working at Footlocker, I think we will all have learned a valuable lesson. We should never take what we have for granted, because we never truly miss something until we lose it. After all, in a time when our country is more divided than ever, Americans were able to set aside their differences, stand hand in hand, and - in a true show of unity and togetherness - chant "Buls**t on national TV so loud the English could hear it. I love America.