Once a year, I get called up for jury duty, and I always get tossed because the defense and state agree I’m a whack-job who thinks for himself.
The judge calls it “Talk And Walk.”
And, boy, can I talk.
I used to celebrate my freedom by heading to Cabo’s bar and grill for a margarita and a fish taco, but Cabo’s closed down last year.
And sitting six hours on a hard bench really hurt my back.
I limp to the park, put down a pile of treats, and watch the feral cats eat.
The only truly innocent Downtown.
Tag: personal
When I’m dead
I can’t decide.
Do I want to be buried and get a tombstone with “THIS SIDE UP” engraved on the bottom?
Do I want to be cremated with dozens of firecrackers shoved up my ass?
Do I want my lifeless corpse tossed to the carnivorous animals at the zoo?
I came up with a list of all kinds of interesting things I’d want done to my corpse.
Then, I had myself cloned.
Not so I can live on, mind you. What’s the point of that?
It’s so I can have all of these things done to me after I’m dead!
The Spice Of Lifeless
I used to like spicy and hot foods.
Adding a bit of Tabasco to the ranch dressing dip for carrots and celery kicked things up
The problem is, spicy foods don’t like me anymore.
It doesn’t take much for me to blast out half of my intestinal tract in a disgusting, bloody, and smelly mess.
So, I started a food diary, and measured my reactions to various things.
Tabasco…gone.
Picante… gone.
Vietnamese pepper sauce… gone.
The refrigerator got emptier and emptier.
Pretty soon, it was just romaine lettuce, yogurt and cottage cheese.
I think I’ll go drink drain cleaner now.
Pampered
I had two cats.
She had two cats.
When we got married, that made four.
They all lived happy lives.
One died.
Then another.
And so did a third.
Their ashes are in nice velvet bags on the shelf.
When the fourth finally died, he came back in a nice box, with his name stamped on a shiny metal plate.
My wife asked the pet cemetery staff if we could get the others their own boxes and names stamped on shiny metal plates.
You know. Upgrades.
Even after they’re dead, we still pamper and spend money on these little guys.
The Bowl
We use a large wide clear glass bowl as a water bowl for the cats.
If I lay on the floor next to it, I can watch them drink, their tongues curling and flicking water into their mouths. Stopping, glancing at me over the side, recognition, ear twitching, wary.
And starting again, drinking, not looking at me at all.
Then, finished, a drip of water still on their chin, licked away, a head shake, turn to me, staring, an ear tilted back, then both, confused, ears forward, tail up, and walking away down the hall away away away and gone.
Sonnet 18
I see him, wrestling through would-be Plaths, Frosts and Burkowskis at the coffeeshop:
It’s Open Mike Night, and, like a schoolchild, he’ll recite Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 from memory.
Dreadful.
From the stage’s barstool, he’s downright singsongy, ruining the verse, digging up Shakespeare’s grave, skullfucking the corpse…
Enough! I shout. I would rather be beaten across the face and chest with a volume of Shakespeare’s work than hear you open it and read from it!
The crowd is stunned. Shakespeare’s torturer stares blankly.
Reciting from memory, he has no volume to beat me with.
But he’s got the barstool.
I run.
Kolaches For Cats
While heading to work, I stop by the park and give treats to the feral cats who live in a maintenance shed under a bridge.
Other people give them food, too, but they really like the treats. They’ll stop eating from their plates and come out to grab treats.
I feel bad when I forget the treats, so I stop by the donut shop and pick up a kolache, tear out the rolled-up strip of turkey from it, and toss pieces to the cats.
They chase down the bits of meat and eat happily.
And then I head into work.
Black Cats
Most black cats I’ve known get named Midnight or Blackie. Or Shadow.
We named ours Bruwyn and Myst.
Bruwyn is short for Bruce Wayne, because his ears are pointy and tall like Batman’s cowl.
Myst was called Michelle, but we don’t like Obama much in our house, so she got renamed Myst because she likes to hide and she’s easily missed.
Well, when I say we named our cats, I really mean my wife.
She got naming rights on both of these cats.
I call them Boo Boo and Baby.
Or “Get in here, you little shits!” when it’s dinnertime.
Reach
Imagination is like a magical place of ideas and stories.
Reach in, and pull something out… that’s creativity.
In between you and that place is the world, with all its problems and stresses and frustrations, clouding your vision and making it hard to pull anything from there, blocking you.
But every now and then, when you hear something strange, or something looks kinda weird, the world glimmers and gives way, letting imagination peek through.
Reach through quickly!
Grab on to it!
Pull it out!
Grab it!
Missed!
Keep trying. Keep at it.
Don’t stop looking.
Don’t give up the search.
Barf
Cats throw up now and then.
As they get older, they throw up more often.
And they sometimes miss the litterbox.
But if they’re pooping, at least it means they’re keeping some food down, right?
Either way, I’m the one who gets to pick up the mess, scrub the carpet, and then spray a cloud of deodorizer.
Kittens should come with a warning label:
WARNING
One day, this kitten will become a cat.
And that cat will become an old cat.
And old cats make a lot of nasty, smelly messes.
But, in spite of that, you’ll still love it.