Bob Marley, Defiant Kittens, and Automatic Litter Boxes

SB is crabby again today. Surprise! My ass is hungover, and I have a perpetual headache I can't seem to dislodge, even with the help of fucking Advil AND Excedrin. Maybe it was the Magic fucking Bullet lime dacquiris or maybe it was the red wine or maybe it was the Red Stripe. Who the fuck knows.

Half the people here at work today are off (the parking lot looked like a ghost town), and it's a beautiful motherfucking day, and I don't want to be here. But I do look stylish in my new Bob Marley ringer t-shirt and Jamaican soccer jacket. You dig, mon?

I have decided to become a Rastafarian like my hero, Bob, and his fine son, Ziggy, so I am dressing the part on casual Fridays. I may grow some dreads, mon. I ain't decided.

SB recently purchased a new self-cleaning litter box for the cats--it has a conveyer belt that removes the turds and clumps from the box after the cats go wee and poo--and it works pretty damn good. However, Bella (the new kitten) is into flipping her shit out of the box and rolling it around on the carpet like some sort of crazed David Beckham. When I squirt her ass with water, Bella just looks at me like: Is that all you've got, motherfucker? Bring it on! She is the most stubborn little fucker I have ever raised, and I've raised my share of moggys.

Also, Ginger the shit eater, considers the new auto-poo box a sort of revolving sushi buffet, and her ass came downstairs this morning with cat litter all stuck to her nose. I love her, but she is dumber than shit. No pun intended. The canine species as a whole have really notched down, in SB's opinion, in the old intelligence department since Ginger has come into my life. You just ain't very bright when you consider shit a delicacy. That's an empirical truth, motherfuckers. Also, every time I let that bitch out, she runs over to the neighbor's side of the house to try and eat the cat food they have set out for their outdoor cats.

In the middle of the goddamn night, SB, who is semi-coherent at best when awakened, must run over to the neighbor's side of the house, in the dark, in my damn boxer shorts and yell at Ginger to get her fucking ass back to her side of the yard. Yes, the neighbours love me. And so does Jesus. THIS I KNOW.