December 08, 2003
bejus! not right before bedtime!
Here are some things that make me go "aw," too.
Right before I puke.
You hate cats. You will obviously do whatever it takes to ingratiate yourself here.
I admire that in a person.
I can't believe it. Acidman turning down pussy.
Next thing you know, Al Gore will be endorsing Dean. Yeah, and pigs'll fly, too.
........OUCH, DAMN! those flying pigs fuckin' HURT!!!!!!
(rob, check your "parody" entry) *heh*
Sloop New Dawn
The check blanket makes the target stand out.
I'm saving up a bunch of adorable pictures just for you.
Here's the unedited commentary I made to that gal's blog. Nothing worse than a damn cat-lover: She prob'ly collects Hummel-figurines, too:
I suppose you'll need a minority report here, if only for the color.
I hate cats. Here's my favorite tale:
Some years ago, I used to raise peafowl. Birds are my thing. Big ones. I also love eagles, but that's quite another story.
In the springtime, "Spot" (the alpha male) had just participated in the creation of six pretty little peachicks (his mate, "Jenny", had something to do with it) - but this was Dad's brood, and he made sure the area-varmints knew it.
Not so, Fluffy.
Fluffy was the ill-tempered cat belonging to Monica, the overindulged ten-year-old that lived with her parents one farm over. Turned out Fluffy made the decision one afternoon to hunt peachicks.
I actually had the handicam ready, because I thought I was going to see some "Funniest Varmint Video" material. Fluffy approached the flock cautiously, all the while looking at Spot, who was by now paying close attention to Fluffy, who continued her stalking.
Spot raised his tail, and shook his feathers in a rather menacing hiss, all the while stamping his feet.
Fluffy thought he could rush the chicks and drag off a quick meal before Spot could do anything about it. Perhaps it's a complete lack of brains (something the feline-species seem to all have in common) -- but Fluffy made a rush. This is where Spot stepped in.
Spot quickly lowered his tail, stepped in front of Fluffy, who stopped and arched her back (an act just about as useless as rearranging the deck-chairs on the Titanic, when faced with a mature peacock).
Spot was tired of this game. He reached out and grabbed Fluffy by the neck, and before I could say "Handicam!", had blinded Fluffy with two deft jabs of his large beak, and snapped Fluffy's neck like a dry twig.
It crossed my mind that people of substance in India keep peacocks to kill the cobras. It further crossed my mind that if a peacock could kill a cobra, the average house-pussy was not a match at all.
Fluffy, to paraphrase Kipling, "slept out and far that night", having been unceremoniously dumped in a shallow hole.
I was damn proud of Spot.