So I don’t go completely, utterly, crazy donkeyshit blackeyed insane, I like to pretend that the forces in my house are working with me, instead of against me.

I have this game I play. My house is the Underworld and I am a modern Don Corleone.

If I need something broken, I give it to Little Frannie.

“Eh, Frannie, take care of this, whydontcha? I need this really ugly vase I got for Christmas taken care of.”

“Yes, Don Asshole,” she says, and throws it down the stairs.

If I need something eaten, I give it to the Chicken Mob. Whenever I open the kitchen window to toss out the extra rice or tomato butts, I say, “Eh, Chicken Mob, take care of these whydontcha. These apple peels are sleeping with the fishes tonight.” I like to imagine I have put little cement shoes on the bread heels before I hand them over.

“Yes, Don Asshole,” the Chicken Mob bocks.

The cats are my whack squad.

“Eh, Hank, I need a favor, whydontcha whack that moth for me, it’s interfering with my business.”

“Yes, Don Asshole,” Hank says, and springs to action.

If I need to pass on some secret information, I tell Mr. Husband.

“Eh, c’mere kid,” I say to him. I lean in and kiss each cheek. I whisper: “You have a dentist appointment on Monday.” He walks away and I am confident our secret converstation will go no further, since he has already forgotten what I said.

“Doo dum dum doo-doo,” sings Mr. Husband.

In Other News

The beginning of the take-over: scroll down halfway to “The results of the officer elections.” Bwahahaha. Fools!