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.

It Is Bring Bella to Work Day to Share Her Fucking Preciousness and Lighten the Darkened Lives of My Co-Workers

Today is Bring Bella to Work Day. SB had to fucking spread the kitten preciousness around. I even forced Bella's ass to wear her damn purple bling collar with the tinkle bell and rhinestones THAT SHE FUCKING HATES.

I thought about calling a few close friends here and inviting them to COME LOOK AT MY PUSSY, but if you can believe it, that shit is not considered business appropriate! You can't have any fun in a business office, motherfuckers.

One time, when I was a supervisor (I got layed off from that gig, if you can believe that shit!), I ordered a mini-trampoline and had it delivered to my office, which had a glass window out front. Of course I had to assemble that fucker and test it out. You should have seen the looks on the faces of the motherfuckers passing by the window! So actually you CAN have fun in a business office, but they may lay your ass off for it.

I was telling a male friend on break, when I was petting my pussy, that my pussy is really clean and smells good. Then he wanted to pet my pussy, too!

[The Moms is going to be REALLY MAD when she reads this post. She doesn't like me discussing my pussy in a public forum.]

Possible NEW Crackhead Nose-Picking Neighbors

The kids next door are moving out. SB chased their asses off in record time. Just kidding. Actually, they found a house in a neighbouring town--the town where SB grew up. Think corn and tractors and FFA, motherfuckers. That's my home town. That's where I come from.

NOTE: FFA stands for Future Farmers of America, but I used to call them Future Fuckers of America, because that shit is immature, and SB still thinks that shit is funny, because it is.

Anyhoo, people have been stopping by to inquire about the For Rent sign out front. Last night, a lady and a few straggly mangy-looking kids and her boyfriend, who I shit you not, picked his nose (but did not eat it, thank Christ), knocked on my door. The lady had sores on her face (methhead), and then I remembered seeing her and the nose-picking boyfriend coming out of a house close by, where I suspect drugs may be sold. Neato.

This lady asked whether my ass got booted for having the yard sale FROM HELL. [She thought it was my half of the house that was for rent!] The monstrosity, the SHEER PHYSICAL FUCKING SPECTACLE, of this fucking sale IS THAT BAD. If it was Christmas time, I'd just throw some X-mas lights up on that shit and it would look like some sort of LOOMING MODERN CHRISTMAS SCULPTURE, and my ass could sell bottled water and charge admission to look at that shit. Surely the local news would feature our house, and we'd win some sort of shitty Chinese-wang local prize.

If I had a damn cell phone, I'd take a damn photo and post that shit, and then all you motherfuckers could collectively gasp. You would gasp, too! Count on that shit. But SB is a good non-complaining neighbour and that shit just amuses the fuck out of me. The yard literally looks like LITTLE KENTUCKY. Ohioans always pick on Kentuckians. We have to be superior to somebody, motherfuckers.

Now, I have to worry about methheads moving in to the other half of the damn house and burning that shit down or poisoning the pets and my ass. CAN YOU SAY METH LAB EXPLOSION, MOTHERFUCKERS? It's a distinct damn possibility. I watch COPS. I know how that shit works. The po-pos have to wear masks when they go into the damn meth labs. And I have a kitten! I have a NEW and FRAGILE fucking life to worry about, people!

And, no, before you ask--this is a small rural Ohio town--it is not typically filled with druggies and low-life sorts--just my particular nitch in the town. Lucky me!

It is raining here today, and SB feels like shithell. Bella, the new kitten, makes more noise than the bloody fires of blooming hell because she is HIGHLY NOCTURNAL, and SB's dumb ass made the mistake of buying her a rhinestone-studded purple tinkle collar with a bell. Did I mention the new collar HAS A BELL and that it tinkles almost CONSTANTLY? Little sleep, peeps. Little sleep.

I finally got up and removed that shit (Bella hates the fucking tinkle collar anyway and kept trying to get it off her own neck frantically--it was quality entertainment), but by then it was 4:30 a.m. so a fucking LOT of good that shit did.

When I left for work this morning, both Mercer and Ginger were in their beds SLEEPING. Those young bitches will wear an old motherfucking ass out. If I teach you motherfuckers nothing else, let it be that shit right there--I repeat: Young bitches will wear your ass out! And well you know it.

SB Is Back but Still Sick as Fuck

Kiddies,
SB is back today, after missing work yesterday and half a damn day today. I sound like Froggy from the fucking Little Rascals, and I think I am running a damn temperature still, but I am here. Let no man (or broad) call SB a damn wimp.

My window at the house is still covered over by yard sale fucking items because the kids decided to extend the fucking sale through next weekend, too. Whatever. I'm easy going for a bastard. The kids and their three kids visit my doddering ass and that shit is like a hurricane descending and LEAVING GREAT AND VAST PEACE in its wake, but I sort of enjoy the temporary chaos MAYBE BECAUSE IT'S TEMPORARY.

Anyhoo, SB has also adopted the kitten the kids rescued from the highway. She is black and medium-haired and sweet and three months old. I've named her Bella. Mercer and Ginger (the Diarrhectic Wunderkind) are tolerating her nicely because they are cranky old farts like me, and change is not their bag. In fact, Bella got tired of Ginger smelling on her and took a whack at Ginger. She may wind up ruling the whole damn roost because Mercer could give a shit. She has the personality of Jerry Garcia. Her ass is LAID BACK, motherfuckers.

Well, there's your update. I'm still alive, just barely. I got in a fight over the campfire with my conservative cousin, Chris, over the weekend, but that shit is another story for another day. We weren't rolling around on the ground or anything. IT WAS A VERBAL CONFRONTATION. Just say Bush or Cheney around me and my ass goes BALLISTIC! It is also good not to ask SB, "What about all those lives Bush saved by going into Iraq?" Excuse fucking me. Say whaaaaaaa?

My love to all you motherfuckers. Hope all is swell.