Monthly Archives: July 2006
JUST TO REACH YEW!
Tori Spelling, overcome with confusion and sadness relating to her estrangement from her mother, broke into my house last night and attempted to assault poor Companion.
I caught them just as he was succumbing to her succubus-like embrace, Chihuahua eyes bugging out and stick arms enfolding him. To his credit, I think he only gave in after she said “This will hurt less if you don’t fight me.” Fortunately for him, I’ve been keeping a can of Spelling-B-Gon under the bed.
Get Yo Wone Check Stub
Chapter One: Dyeing in Haste; Repenting in Leisure
I walked into my local punk rock barber shop to get some more dye and bleach to do away with these dag-assed two inch roots I was rocking, and I discovered they were out of bleach. How much to do my roots, I wondered to the stylists, who were sitting around bored on a slow Sunday.
“Fifty dollars,” said the colorist in residence. Holy shit. That’s a lot of lettuce. But I was pretty desperate. And I hadn’t had any color work done for like, ten, years, so I felt like I would give it a try. I made arrangements with my Companion to take the little Mitten away with him to finish errands and pick me up in an hour. Sweet. Just me and a magazine.
My friend Supa has been doing my hair for so long that I am completely spoiled. This woman took twice as long as Supa does, and does not appreciate the importance of the hairline. Bleach freaks want a fresh start with a completely Draco Malfoy-ed hairline.
Figure 1: This will haunt my anal-retentive dreams.
So I guess I won’t be doing that again. I paid fifty clams for a sloppy bleach job, and twenty dolla for two bottles of dye. Normally I pay the twenty for dye and then ten for a box of DIY bleach kit, for a forty dollar savings.
The advantage was that she used volume 20 bleach, so my scalp doesn’t feel burned today. I should have had her dab on a little more up front as I was leaving, for the road. Ah well. It turned out fine with color on it, as you can see below.
Figure 2: I just had an itch! An itch!
PNW’ed 15
This episode of PNW’ed is brought to you by the threat “I will put my FOOT in your ASS!” and is marginally related to this PNW’ed here.
PNW’ed 15 FOR JERKS BY SEVERUS SNAPE
Now that they’ve finally got me off baby duty, they put me on cleaning. It’s all right with me, really. Them babies is hard to keep track of, especially with the fairies around and all.
My first job…it nearly scared the pudding outta me. Go muck out the big cats, they says. Didn’t know what it meant til I got down there with my mop and all.
Samus chased the cats out with something that smelled like it might have been fish three weeks ago, and I set to work. I forgot what it is you don’t want to mix with bleach until it was too late.
Mixing it with the ammonia in the cat piss nearly killed me straight off. I could feel myself going back, back, slipping out. My lungs was seized with a cold iron hand and I think I hit my head on something with a sharp edge.
When I woke up it was all black. My eyes strained to see through the darkness. “Helloooo,” I called. “Am I dead, then?”
The lights switched on and it was coming from the creature in front of me. If the big cats in their cages were bad, this was worse–an owl were before me, the mortal enemy of all mouses. She spoke and I stared at the light what was coming out of her head.
“Hold fast, Friend,” she said, and I had to look to see that she was talking to me. “I have duties for you.”
To be continued next Friday.
Hello Nasty, How You Been
As per usual, our personal heads here at the Offices of I, Asshole have been firmly planted up the respective owner’s asses. In other words, I’ve been busy.
On Friday, Captain Vimes went in for his ballectomy, which was a success!!! Unfortunately, having him de-balled now makes no difference about whether or not he will pee in the house in places other than his designated poopidor (not to be confused with a humidor, though some cigars have reminded me of cat pee). When we went to Oregon last weekend, we closed every door in the house, except the door to the basement, which leads to his poopidors. So while we were gone, the Captain developed the charming habit of peeing down the heating vent in the kitchen. HORRORS.
Our resident ol’ lady cat-grump is partly to blame, because I happen to know she’s often in his way, growling at him. I think the other part of it is laziness and convenience. To combat this problem, I laid a piece of cardboard about the size of a record over the corner where the vent is, and covered it with loops of sticky packing tape, which of course most cats will never walk on, let alone pop a squat on. We have not had another accident, and I take him downstairs if I see him looking sniffy. Most the time he’s just sniffy, but occasionally he’s like, oh yeah, I gotta potty.
The shaved area around the incision makes his junk look extra-protuberant, just like a porno actor with shaved pubes to add that critical extra inch. Good times. I have to say, the Seattle Pound was mighty affordable, although I’m 95% certain they gave him a case of ear mites. Our other cat doesn’t have them, and doesn’t come near enough to him to transmit them anyway, and he’s still an indoor cat. So, hooray, another thing for my to-do list.