Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Slow Down, Enjoy It!

During a meditation class this summer, we were taught to slow down and enjoy all aspects of life, both negative and positive. While I agree with certain principles from the class, when it comes to nightmares, I do not believe this is what Buddha meant.

I've been plagued by nightmares lately and these damn things suck.

In the last week, I've woken up in the middle of the night soaking in sweat twice, punching the air violently once and swearing through a disoriented dream/not-really-a-dream haze more times than not.

Whether it's stress, too many pretzels, too little meat, the change of the season, too much dust from the raked leaves, the mating habits of ducks or just regular insanity, my sleep has been the equivalent of a roller coaster armed with hobos throwing handfuls of shattered glass at its' riders and another set of hobos throwing handfuls of salt.

My skin hurts, my neck hurts, my mind is scrambled and I'm beginning to question whether I wouldn't be better off in some type of good ole fashioned insomnia trance. Just like the good old days where I stayed up way too late and didn't dream because I never had enough time to slip into REM sleep.

But that shit doesn't work either. It just causes me to end up jittery, disconnected and dazed. It also causes wicked diarrhea, cramps, mood swings, bloating, gigantism, bread making, increased levels of swearing and a propensity to sing only Randy Travis songs.

I've had nightmares in the past, but this is the longest stretch I've experienced. It's like being trapped in the entire seven season run of Designing Women—it's just awful, humorless and it smells like an Aquanet convention. Yes, my dreams smell.

Maybe I need to go back to the Peddler's Mall and buy this dreamcatcher to rid myself of these nightmares.

(Seriously, I took this picture at a Peddler's Mall)

And while I usually dream in color, I don't dream about people of color. (Sorry. Please don't take offense, this is actually, probably a good thing.) Knowing I dream of only white people would probably make the Ku Klux Klan member who made this dreamcatcher very happy.

Ultimately, I'm not sure what this dreamcatcher is supposed to catch, but at this point I'll employee any member of any organization that can make whatever demon is tap dancing inside my skull at night stop. I wouldn't join their organization, but I'd at least sit through one of their "Free Timeshare" meetings if they can make this shit stop.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012


Today's photo comes courtesy of Tha Funky Headhunter, Matthew Hornyak.

As we round the corner and head for Thanksgiving, I question why we still celebrate this holiday.

It's the same damn thing year after year.

Same turkey.
Same pies.
Same vegetables.
Same horrific dish brought by that one Aunt who is 99% smell deaf.
Same conversations.

It's like watching reruns of Gilligan's Island for 35 years straight.

Shouldn't we do something to make this holiday fun? Something that makes this Thanksgiving one to remember, something that busts up the regular, mundane bullshit?

Here's my list of things we should all attempt:

  1. Yell, "Swallow My Kids Bitch" at Grandma.
  2. Bake an old pair of underwear into a green bean casserole. 
  3. Include a pants down Penis Windmill as part of your victory touchdown dance when your team scores.
  4. Call your aunt, Hitler. But not not in a normal voice, in the kind of voice you would talk to an infant or a dog to, "Ooooohhhh look at your new purse you cute little Hitler."
  5. Shot for shot White Rain contest with Uncle Mitch.
  6. Start complaining that your right arm has been numb for three days then replace your normal glass with a dribble glass.
  7. Give yourself pink eye then touch your eye before you put your finger in the middle of every dish.
  8. Wear a raincoat. That's it. Don't remove it. Just wear a raincoat.
  9. Fill your plate with nothing but butter. Refuse to share it with anybody.
  10. Upon arrival, turn on the sprinkler or hose. Upon leaving do donuts in the front yard.

Friday, November 2, 2012

Cat. I hate you.

Anybody who knows me, knows I have an fat cat. Appropriately named Fatty.

He actually is a former fat cat.

He is a secondhand cat and when I got him this obese bastard weighed 36 pounds. That's right, he was bigger than most 3 year old humans. He now weighs 13 pounds. (The Cat-kins Diet worked for him!)

Right off the bat this fucker was a nightmare.

First week I had him, he shit yellow diarrhea all over my condo. The second week I had him I thought he escaped the condo and had fled to the streets of Chicago. I came home late one night and thought I saw a frightened, morbidly obese pile of orange hair meowing underneath a Hummer with a Gay Pride Mickey Mouse bumper sticker.

When I pulled him out, he scratched the shit out of my face, my ears and my back.

He then ran off. This left me in the streets screaming, "Fine, you fat fuck, fuck you, have fun living in the streets! I hope a rat eats your eyes!"

A half hour later, as I was peroxiding my wounds, a giant fluffy orange mess emerged from under my bed. Seems there was another fat fucking orange cat in the neighborhood I had picked up that destroyed my northern torso. Or this fat fuck has a time machine or invisibility or some kind of ability to walk through walls.

Then, the second month I had him, his bladder got blocked from eating too many carbs. So they roto-rootered his pee hole out and charged me $1100.

Since then he has been on special food, which most days, costs more than human food costs.

He has shit on furniture. Peed on the carpet. Puked on everything. Destroyed the carpet on my stairs, which I won't replace until he dies—and they are threadbare at this point.

One time I watched him have what I like to call "Instant Oil Barron Diarrhea". For example, in "There Will Be Blood", there's a moment when oil erupts from the ground and there's a look in Daniel Day-Lewis' eyes that says, "I'm rich bitch!" Replace the ground with my cat's asshole and the look in my eye with one of impeding vomit and there you have "Instant Oil Barron Diarrhea".

His newest thing is a cross between insomnia mixed with dementia. I have the insomnia, he has the dementia. Most nights I have to get up, stumble to the basement and reassure him he is not lost which usually quails the screaming, bloody, cat raping murder tones he's fond of making, usually at a blank wall.

This will be the last cat.

He is too daffy, too needy and way too much of an asshole for me to want another.

Sure he has his sweet moments like when he jumps on my chest and claws my nipples. Or when he goes apeshit and scratches the dog for no reason. Or when he poops outside the box. But this is it. No mas gatos.

Fuck. I need sleep. Hopefully tonight will be caterwauling, cat rape scream free.

Fuck you Fatty.