Bathing of the Cats

I woke up at 1 in the afternoon, and realized the starched stiffness of summer's breath blowing in my face. Today was hot. I figured, nobody was home, the landlady was away, I'll go gather up Goldie and Smokey and give them their first flea bath since their birth three months ago. We didn't have fleas until their whoring mother decided that she'd abandon her latest litter to get some good cat cock. Damned landlady doesn't want to get her fixed. The woman's the epitome of all things that makes feminists, even marginal ones at that, retch: She "can't" get dirty, she "shouldn't" have to know how to change a tire, she "isn't" responsible for upkeep of her own properties. I plunked down 130 bucks for a damn weedwhacker because she couldn't understand that a spark plug and petrol containers were to be bought at a hardware store and used to get the lawnmower up and running, even for a pitifully small city backyard. And at 51, she claims she's "old," even though my 64 year old grandma worked the backyard and gardened and fixed up the house up to the day before her death, and with two half-foot steel rods to keep her spine from collapsing. That, folks, is a real woman; one who knows how to gently pluck strawberries off the tender verdant stems, cook up a loving batch of chocolate cookies when you've skinned your knee, and also be able to teach the finer nuances of a right jab. In other words, she could whip up a cake and whip your ass straight, yo. So I've my orange-and-cream cat nibbling himself raw, and my indigo cat going crazy on the floor because they're biting him where he can't scratch himself. I gather up Goldie off the floor, sweet-talk him, put him into the bathroom, run a little warm water, put on some Barry White, and got out the flea shampoo. I undid his collar lovingly, and he began to eye me suspiciously. His back stiffened some, his eyes blazed more yellowishly. I picked him up and tried to gently set him into the bath tub.Bam! This little cat goes ballistic, becomes a streak of gold across the room. I let him frenzy until he's worn out, then try again. Fait accompli. So I pick him up, sweet-talk him again, and hand-ladle water on him. He's staring me into the eye, giving me the svengali look of death, the feline mafioso doom-gaze. I'm wondering if he wants to claw my throat out when I sleep, so I make a mental note to lock my door. After a while I got his shoulders slightly pinned, his hindlegs into a warm pool of water in the sink, and getting the green goop on him. Goldie's sticking his head into my armpit, so I drew him close, and kept shampooing him. A few minutes of watering him down and drying him, He come out tan and rather pissed, shaking his paws and swearing death upon me. One down.I get Smokey, and he's all nonchalant, lying on the floor like he was THE boss, and cradle him, walking upstairs. He passes Goldie, who's still venting, and starts to panic a little. Telepathy rocks. I pour some warm water, play a little De La Soul, light a few candles, and undo his collar. He's looking at me the way a girl looks at me when she thinks I've slept with her roommate, much to the contrary. I get him to touch down on the slightly warmed porcelain, and he goes upwards and over my shoulder. Battle wounds, amigo. This one takes longer; Smokey's Houdini stylings are foiled each time by the closed door, but he incurs a few scratches on me every time he pops, twists, slithers and shake 'n bakes out of my hands. Dispassionate, I get myself wet and lather him up, making my clothes into a soapy mess. After drying and such, he falls asleep in the towel, so I lay him out and return the towel to the landlady's rack. She's awfully ignorant too, so I doubt she would ever notice the smell of flea shampoo on her towel.To earn back their respect, I fill up their milk saucer to the brim. They're pleasantly surprised; the milk saucer is half-filled when it is 8pm, and to get it at 2:30 in the afternoon, just like a kid getting a pint of ice cream for breakfast. My mom walks in from her job, laughing when she sees the two surly, partially soaked cats lapping up milk as the newer litter milled about, crashing into their older brothers and sniffing their legs. Afterwards, Goldie and Smokey let me pet them again, and their coats are very silky and shiny, and neither one has scratched himself lately. I think they understood what I was doing for them, even if it meant getting them wet. Cats.

Death is photogenic [supplement]

Oh, and one more thing related to the Death is photogenic post: charmenders forwarded me an article on why it would have been better to keep the Hussein sons alive: Uday and Qusay: Better Alive Than Dead - Commondreams.orgThanks!

Intellectual ...

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Harbinger

I wrote a short story. In one sitting. Under a hour. I'm overjoyed! Now tell me what you think of this story! And flesh it out, too! :D Harbinger Not too long ago, there were two friends who were university students. One was on his way out the door with a diploma, and the other was muddling around, sampling life and frantically trying to stay in school. Max was a budding philosopher, taking extravagance in the works of Wittgenstein and Russel, while Starky was a jack-of-all-trades, learning about quantum implications of the Big Bang just as he would about which electrical wires to run in for a technocommercial building. Their meeting comes by chance, at a social event before the doors of the university opened for classes. They bump into each other at the keg, and pour drinks and discuss meandering items - who they were, where were they from, and what they were doing that night. After a few cups of cheap beer and some shots of the potency, Max and Starky get into a headslong discussion of philosophy, physics and symbols. Max mentions something about Wittgenstein's power, and desires to have it himself. It appears that, during Wittgenstein's days as a professor, he exerted so much influence that his students were constantly in awe and deep respect of him, even as he babbled and self-proselyzited his ideas. It drew up to one point where, in the throes of his own power, Wittgenstein ordered a heavily admiring student to drop out of school and go work in a cannery. Thus, the student did. Max grinned slightly at the possibility of having such power and broke into a more broad smile. Starky looked slightly perturbed, and warned Max,"You do that, and I'll make sure I set you straight." Both men grinned heartily. A few years later, after getting his dual degrees in Philosophy and Political Science, Max makes a succession of very successful runs at the offices of the alderman,and the mayor, and is poised to run for the Governorship. Starky is nowhere to be found, having dropped out of university not too long after the conversation at the keg took place. Max is smiling and waving to his constituents from an open-top Cadillac, and in the back of his mind, he's pondering the magnititude of his power, and to a lesser extent, what Starky said a few years ago."You do that, and I'll make sure I set you straight." What did he mean? Max put it out of his mind, and thought about the luscious campaign volunteer he had sex with the night before. She was a dirty blonde, very curvaceous, filling out her white blouse and dark slacks. They had rolled around on the couch, and Max thought that she might have stained the couch when she began to shudder violently. His smile grew wider. Then he started to think about her husband. Why would people get married so young, at 20, 22? Her husband was already an important man in the world of law, and had the beginnings of the straits of a well-connected man. Surely he had some suspicions; Powerful men always had them. The Cadillac pulled up not too far from the platform on which Max was to speak. Frosty hands and voices flourished, and he shook and answered as many of them as he could. Thoughts continued to reverbate in his head. His days as an alderman was rather puritanical, focusing on issues of garbage disposal, snow removal and repairs of the parking meters, then a few drinks and some chinese food, then sleeping alone. One chance night, after a bad meeting, he had gone to a bar to get a little of the fire back, and he bumped into a beautiful, waif-like woman, and they struck up a conversation. Within hours, they were having rough sex, and she was screaming like crazy. He couldn't help it. It was so addictive, so thrilling. She had bled quite a bit, but he was satisfied. They met up again and again, him finding out that she was a former run-away who got a break and worked her way up to mid-level management at a nearby company, but a bad relationship left her rather wanting, and in some cases, searching for pain. There was a click between them, and many nights someone would bleed or leave battered and bruised, but satisfied. One night, just after Max had seized the mayor's election in a landslide, they had gone out again, to celebrate. By dawn, he woke up hungover and found her dead, apparently from internal hemmorraging. So he took steps to dispose of the body, eventually interring it into a small patch of ground not far away from the lake, in hopes that when discovered, the body would either be disfigured or wash into the lake and sink. It had begun to snow as he was burying the body, so he took the time to carefully dig up the dirt so she could be buried and the parcel of dirt replaced to show that there had been no disturbance of the soil. As he set foot back in his place, he began to think about the way the body was buried. There was so much purity in how it had been accomplished; The surface was not of a disturbed appearance, but underneath it, there was something decaying. There was a gloss of beauty on the green-and-white ground, even as a nullification was going on only a few feet underneath. He thought about it: This was what she was like. Her life was the null object, and she wasn't happy. She looked for pain to punish herself, and he had willingly taken advantage of it. Max shrugged. It was the cost of things nowadays, he thought. A small amount of scotch splashed its way into his tumbler as he left to start the day at the office. Max made his way up the steps, turning back every now and then to continue greeting his followers. The snow had began to fall gently. As his time in the mayor's office went on, Max began to find himself doing things only dictators would do — illegal detention of dissidents, secretly authorizing police shoot-to-kill orders, and paying bribes to people for support, especially those who wanted to run against him. Later on, there would be extortion attempts made against those people. It was a political machine of the finest kind, and anyone under it was subject to Max's absolute power. A lot of power-fascinated women made sure they had been sampled by Max, and high-pull men would try to curry favor with Max in order to improve their own standing and pull. Oftentimes he would accost the women of those high-profile men, and enjoyed it. Taxes were raised almost on a whim, and policies were established for no reason at all. Max had began to embodify Wittgenstein's power, and was getting hooked to it. The spokesman introduced the challenger to the governor's office, and Max took the steps to begin his talk. It was standard rhetoric, to do better than what the incumbent has done, to promise things that would take longer than his term to accomplish, and to do things that won't be done anyway. As he began to wind down, something struck his left eye. He winced in pain, and people gasped. Rivulets and splotches appeared out of his eye socket, and before long, a bullet pierced his heart. As he lay dying, he began to openly regret every act he had done, and asked for forgivance from the creator. Max shut his eyes and gave up, his last thought on Starky's words. The police converged on the supposed origin of the weapons. All they found was an air rifle, a .22 rifle with a spent casing and one other bullet, and a note."Left eye to wound: To remind of the perils of looking down the wrong path.Heart to kill: To show that no matter what, one is always with a conscience." An officer looked out the window from where the killshot had come, and outside of a grand collection of gawkers and city personnel, a lone figure walked down the street slowly, green-jacketed and knit-capped, and a cigarette emanting from his lips. The officer failed to note that this figure had walked past them as they rushed the building, down into the middle of the street and away from the scene. Starky knew what he had done. The revolution had begun, and he would be the anonymous father of it.

Gro...

Growing up, teachers at my school told me a lot of things about my future: That I was going to a prestigious university and find the answers to the mysteries of the world; Or perhaps at a radically liberal campus, where I would liberate Tibet from their occupiers; Or becoming a student at a respected school that lies outside the borders of the States, and become an innovative thinker. Most of them, however, felt that I was going to enroll in Clown College.So, does Gallaudet fall into that category? :D

Death is photogenic

A few nights ago, I watched Natural Born Killers on HBO for the first time. I know, I'm really behind on my movies; Hollywood cinema doesn't really inspire me, and I think they deaden their viewers with many of their movies (I have the displeasure of knowing some people who think Master of Disguise was a thoroughly entertaining, stimulating and appropriate movie, but that's an extreme instance,) so I stick to foreign films or indies whenever I can. Anyway, I was watching NBK, and I was wondering: In today's age of reality-tv, would the media have denegrated to the point where viewers would be watching a live prison riot on tv, with executions and tortures, all in the name of ratings? I remember a short that was set in the near future, and a killer on death row is released into the desert near his prison, to be pursued by the heavily-armed parents of a woman he killed, as an audience roars and calls in from home. I'm sure that was a send-up to Texas. The reason I bring up this point is because of the overwhelming excitement over the deaths of Uday and Qusay Hussein. I am completely against Saddam Hussein and everything his family and politics stand for, but doesn't celebrating their deaths show the world that the States are willing to stoop down to killing people in order to justify their position? I can understand that the deaths are needed to prove to Iraq that the Hussein rule is now over, and to show the world that the US objectives, other than invading Iraq, is to show that they are attempting to install democracy by removing traces of the previous leadership. Why invasion and conquering is neccessary to establish a democracy strikes me as a direct contradiction, but that is another story. But, having a hour-long special on ABC about how good it is for those men to be dead? I feel that it was crossing the line a bit. The media has shown signs that they are reverting to yellow journalism, and in some cases, extremely bad gonzo journalism. One day, things will end the way it did in NBK: the authority loses their minds and become devoured by the subjects, and the media becomes the news, in the most fatal sense of the word.[add] A CNN.com article discussing release of death-images of Hussein sons; also contains a link to the images themselves.

This is stupid

Whatever happened to giving for the sake of giving?Berkshire Gives Up on Giving - Fortune.com

Monday

What I did Monday. I'm not very articulate today. Got up at 9. Miraculously.Went to my VR meeting at 12:30. I'm going to community college, but I'm also guaranteed support for Gallaudet come springtime. Also have to take up an internship; I'm hoping to find one in either DC, San Francisco, Austin or one of the Pacific Northwest states. I've two weeks to apply to one of two community colleges that's deaf-friendly; but only Wilmington College has anything really related to my as-of-yet undeclared major (English,) though I won't mind learning a few trades at Delaware Tech. Read Proust and put back together the carburetor of a '68 Impala! What would the ladies think?!Got a tan. I don't really need one since I'm already tan, but the Sun does not give a damn. Then again, neither do I.

Hmm...

Does deaf schools hinder deaf students? - A LJer's opinion

The Bunny

I lost my mind when I wrote this. Anywho that knows me, knows how things go when I go bonkers. THE BUNNY(A stupid story) Once upon a fuck-ass time, there was a bunny named Marbles. Marbles was blue with a pink underbelly, and giant stainless steel fangs in place of the ones he lost a few years ago. He lived in the far, far away land of Psychedelphia, deep inside the mind of the author. The author, by the way, doesn't exist, so keep that in mind. Anyways, Marbles lives in Psychedelphia, a magical land full of amazing animals, fabulous flora and fauna, stunning stratospheres and powerfully psychedelic poffballs. It was a land Dr. Seuss visited to derive his cleaner, kinder inspirations for his books. This land was as magical as Wonderland and as gritty as Wonderland. Alice is bisexual. So, this bad-ass blueassed pinkgutted monkey-fucking rabbit with stainless steel fangs and the name of Marbles sat there, on the trial, in the middle of nowhere, puffing on a jimson-weed joint and huffing his seventh can of Scotch-Gard, when this high and mighty trooper turtle named Sam (incidentally, this Sam is not related to that retarded turtle Sam from PBS. Stop retardation of our children!) came over with a bag of smack and two needles. 'Hey.' Marbles hollered. Sam instantly rivedted his blood-shot eyes, retrieved his Glock and ran rivulets of bullets through Marbles' heads, splattering that blue bunny bastard's brains everywhere between Britian and Bangladesh. ''What's up?' Sam wiped his nose with a deaden ear and pissed on Marbles' quivering body as one of Marbles' arms struggled mightily to retrieve what little was left of the feces he called gray matter. 'Nothing much. Whatcha got?' A fire in my underwater underwear underoos. The Marxists sat there and puffed on their high expensive cigars as they discussed the future of Cuba, and Marbles mumbled out six distinctly different dots on the New Jersey map, and Sam ran into all of the folks there and murdered them all with a Denny's Grand Slam meal. 'Uh. A bag of smack, two needles. Want a Coke?' Miami explodes into sixteen different forms of anaphasic glorified hell-balls; Utah is brought to its knees by a maniacal man wielding nothing more than a pen, a pad, an afro an dan angry, self-sustaining beard with sub-atomic capabilities as well as a deep-fryer stuffed deep into the crevasses of his backpack along with the Tottenham Hotspur FC and their supporters. 'Sure. I'll go get the burgers. You want one?' Ramen causes Cancer. Legs cause locomotion. Walking Ramen kills 20, ravages villages in southwestern India; KGB suspected in sexual fiasco involving fermented rice-fish and forty-two thousand Celtic druids resurrected primarily to participate in the X-Games in the Necro Vert and Rot Luge events. Ronald McDonald experiences subliminal rape from Hamburgular and the Cincinnati Bengals defensive line. Wreak Havoc! Wreak Testicle! Wreak Beer! David Hasselhoff must fricassee! 'Aight.' They part. Somewhere during this critical phase in our universe's time-continuum, two vast, foraging alien forces collide between galaxies in an elaborate game of Manatee Chess, and a war erupts in which French-fries are the obvious culprit, and the refrigerators made by Kenmore are used to annihiliate and cleanse the impury lobotomy patients like those sponsored by the 'Save the Children' fund, and etc, etc, etc killed Jack Kerouac. Meanwhile, a poffball comes along. 'Poff,' the poffball says. Suddenly, a powerful riptide rips through the poffball's body, and he explodes into billions and billions of parts, killing everything within a 16-mile radius. Nobody cares. Starbucks, Planet Starbucks. How may we help you drink our coffee, with its beans made by the enslavement of one-armed Mexican men with two teeth and a wino's breath, and endlessly stained shirts and grimacing toes, while the Australians kill and catch (Oui, zee is different. Different!) platypuses to use their skins for exfoliating soap and Tom incites a riot in Jambala, Brazil over the price of Skin-So-Soft and Swank magazines? No point, no point. Mark Twain, stay dead, please! I can take this job seriously! The psychedelic effects are temporary; the poffball has violated the temporal laws of 14th century Japan, and as a result, has commited to the elaborate tea ceremony of self-castration through intricate removal of the testicles through the Islets of Langhorne without sutures, on the eleventh hour of a day hiding a witch's moon while eating two cans of masala-flavored rice off the head of two exact dead replicas of Marilyn Monroe. I lost my mind. Find it. It might crack when you step on it, it looks so much like a contact. Satan is in my underwear again. Sam comes back. He holds two cans of Coke. In 1864, Atlanta burned. In 1992, Los Angeles burned. Christopher Columbus Sailed The Ocean Blue in Fourteen Ninety-Two In His Fuck-Ass Baby Blue Ass Spleunkers While Indians Recited Poetry And Fomented Against The Spainards for Bad Cooking and Bad Art, and The British Perfected Their Hicky, Hinny Hooey-assed Teeths and Accents Synchronized With Mr. Rogers' Hacking, Whacking Phlegm-Blasting Coughs. WE hold these truths to be self-evident, self-supporting, self ass-wiping, and thoroughly incorrigible, as incorrigible as Dolly Parton's breasts seems to the NRA in terms of sheer armor, and capable of stopping the overflow of the Tennessee Valley in case of another Civil War, which we shall call here forth 'Another Civil War' as to not treat the American Publick Stupidly. Marbles has hamburgers. I have typhoid. I hate Marbles. I hope he falls off a cliff, get a perfectly narrow tree trunk caught up his assjamb, and tears of approximately 22 and a half feet of intestines as well as a third of his liver, and 1/6 of Malaysia's Gross National Profit, plus every k.d. lang song ever written, before he hits the ground in a heap of torrential shit and flaming fungicide, liberally dosed by a loving Julia Child whose hump keeps her from competing with Julia Roberts, who should have never dated Richard Gere, who should have left all those poor hamsters alone so they could have danced more online, who lent propensity to the pornographical filth online that Larry Flynt made famous, while Clevelant deliberately torched the Cuyahoga in spite, who went down narrow alleys and wide upandishads in search of a white dharma, who beat Allen Ginsburg like a tin drum and sprayed his blood everywhere so Pollack could paint his works so that we could lose our minds and ram our heads melodiously into every open, cold crack in the sidewalks to loosen up mother earth's clutch on the sandstone supply in accordance to the Taft-Hardy law or some bullshit jive like that, who gives regular monopolistic folks like that a black eye, just like the cats' eyes I'm going to hit out of the ring. Anyway, I hate Marbles, and I ate Sam. Boredom ate my brain, and how about you? 'Poff.' This isn't getting anywhere, is this?Please don't turn me in to the UN International Court. You probably will, anyway, so I'll save you some legwork: International Criminal Court