Pacifism and Misc.

Have you ever noticed that you can’t spell PACIFIST without making a FIST?

That’s all I have to say about pacifism in spite of it being in my title. I don’t know much about it, and I don’t want to insult the pacifists and start a fight. So this post is really much more about misc than pacifism – meaning that it’s a bunch of unrelated items, none of which is big enough to be expanded into a post of its own.

Like this:

Decades ago, the state of Wisconsin decided it was time to replace America’s Dairyland on their license plates. They asked the public for suggestions. One citizen, let’s call him Harvey Curdcrusher, expressed admiration for New Hampshire’s slogan, “Live Free or Die,” (impressed on their plates by incarcerated felons.) He suggested that Wisconsin adapt a similar slogan, “Eat Cheese or Die.”

Another helpful citizen, let’s call her Hildegard Wheystrainer, thought the purpose of the license plate slogan was to encourage tourism. In that effort, she recommended, “Come Smell Our Dairy Air.” (Those of you who took High School French, try saying that out loud.)

I don’t promise that this really happened – just that I believed it when I heard it.

In a similar vein:

Perhaps twenty years ago Canada reorganized their tundranous territories in order to give the impression that people actually lived there. They decided that to make provinces, or provincials or something like that of what used to be called the Northwest territories. That meant that the Northwest Territories couldn’t be called the Northwest Territories anymore. The great Canadian poo-bahs in Ottawa decided to poll the burgeoning populace about possible names, take the two most popular and decide between them in a ballot. Maybe they decided to do this because it had worked so well with Wisconsin, (who you will note, still uses the phrase, “America’s Dairyland” on their plates.)

The most popular response was… Northwest Territories which either shows that bitter cold saps the imagination or that it makes you cranky with bureaucrats who can’t just leave well enough alone.

The number two response (thanks to a slick internet campaign, back when many people in rural Canada hadn’t yet seen a computer,) was Bob. No other response got enough votes to compete with Northwest Territories and Bob.

The proponents of Bob argued that it was a word that meant the same thing in English, French, and every Native American dialect present in the Northwest Territories, (or Bob.)

My haggard (and now quoted without permission,) supervisor at the time thought that Bob was a fine name for a province as long as they named the capital, Yessiree.

And now this reflection on aging:

When I was a youngster, I dreamed of running fast and easy.

When I was in my twenties, I dreamed of fast and easy women.

When I hit forty, I dreamed of making fast and easy money.

Now as I approach sixty, I dream of fast and easy bowel movements.

And that’s all the misc that’s fit to post.

All I know about Pacifism I learned from British comedy.  Now if someone could please explain British comedy.

Cat Pee Can Burn Your House Down

Those with scientific backgrounds probably looked at the title to this post and thought they were way ahead of me. Chemical reactions in enclosed spaces over time can cause an excess of heat which left unattended can burst into flame.

Yes – you’re very smart.

This has nothing to do with that.

You see it turns out that male cats – especially those that still have all their giblets, don’t just pee to relieve themselves. They pee to mark what they own – their cat bed, the carpeted climby thing they ignore because climbing the bookcase offers more stuff to knock down, their littler box pad which smells far too good after their person washes it, and, of course, everything their person wears. It’s all the same to the cat. If an item is part of their life, they own it, and if they own it (and they have their giblets,) they mark it.

It also turns out that people with cats – even those with male cats – even those whose male cats have all their giblets, get so used to the smell of cat urine that they can’t smell it anymore. Even when everything they wear has been thoroughly marked with giblet fortified male cat urine.

So then I enter the picture.

A long time ago, I had a job. It wasn’t like my job with Amalgamated Monster; it was a real job, with actually human co-workers and enough money at the end of each week to make me obese with Pop Tarts. (the glory years!)

This was before I learned that real jobs are traps, sort of like those egg crates are for pre-chickens. They look comfortable and Pop-Tart intensive, but it all ends up leaving you on the hot griddle of middle-class angst.

A real job is like a boat. It’s something you want your best friend to have, but it’s a real pain in the neck to have yourself.

Another thing is like that – a house. I thought I was being real smart. I got a two-family house. That way I could live in one part and let the tenant pay the mortgage.

Yes, I can hear all of you home-owners snickering at me.

So there I was in my egg-carton job with my money-trap two-family house, still blissfully unaware of the griddle that I was approaching with increasing velocity.

“Have Headley do it,” said a co-worker. “He’s outspoken.”

I felt the first waft of heat from the impending griddle.

“Yeah,” said another one not quite quietly enough because I heard her clearly, “nobody likes him anyway.

“Headley,” said Geraldine Bustenfuller, my manager, “I need to ask you a favor.”

“Are there Pop Tarts involved?” I asked – though I doubted I would be that fortunate.

“You probably noticed Carmena,” said Geraldine, ignoring my Pop Tart question.

“Sure.” I said. Carmena worked two cubicles down from me. Even I’m not quite that oblivious.

“We need you to tell her about her odor problem.”

“Why me?”

“You remember that job description you signed without looking at it?”

“It was in there?”

“Uh huh.”

“May I read it now?”

“No.”

That day I told Carmena what I knew about male cats. She smelled better after that –got more popular around the office as everyone avoided me for being so cruel.

After three deadbeat tenants, Carmena rented my apartment. She hadn’t moved her stuff in when she had an accident with the stove – leaving a pile of cardboard on top and turning the burners to high.

Shortly after losing the house, I lost the job, and became pretty much the man I am today – an admitted loser, but at least off the griddle of middle-aged angst.

Cat pee, or at least the discussion of cat pee, can burn your house down.



Cats - evil beasts.  But don't blog without them.