As they teach us in the International Academy of blogging, there will always be times of inspirational breakdown. This is the only reason cats exist. Otherwise they are useless beasts. When you do your cat post, there are two ways to cheat. One is to post gifs that have been photo-shopped.
The other is to post gifs where humans are making the cat do something he/she would never do on their own
This is considered both cheating, and bad form. On their own, cats will do funny things - assuming there are sufficient humans available who have nothing better to do than take pictures of cats.
Props are acceptable
As is the inclusion of other beasts
Even other cats
I'm pretty sure this next one was cheating - but who can know?
Finally, adding children is encouraged
So now you know how to post a blog post with little or no creativity on your part. Try it on your own now. You not only contribute to the mental stagnation of Western culture, you also justify the existence of these otherwise worthless creatures.
I think they meant this vid to be cute and educational. For me, it has the feel of a Hitchcock flick.
This is the third installment of Chapter Seven of Trouble in Taos. Here's Part one, and Part two. For those of you entering the Nine (should be Eight) Missing Words Contest, the scrambled letters to word five is SEUHO.
“Howdy Estevo, I’m Lowell Sparger.”
“Well Mr. Sparger,” said Estevo, “your first drink
is on the house. Can I get you beer or whisky?”
Two-Bucket Joe muttered something about never getting a
drink on the house, but most of Joe’s drinking came when someone
else bought a round, so no one paid any attention to him, except
maybe Flossy, who did something under the bar that made Joe twitch.
Sparger was still leaning on Estevo’s new doors, so
offerin’ whisky and beer instead of mud was probably a good idea.
The stranger pushed both the batwing doors in, just like the cowboy
in the picture. It made me feel like I wasn’t in Taos anymore, but
some made-up place that was supposed to look like the American West.
“Is the whisky any good,” he asked.
“Not really,” said Two-Bucket. Then he grunted as
Flossy made him twitch again.
“Why no tequila?” asked the guitar player.
“Estevo’s afraid of worms,” said Two-Bucket Joe.
He twitched again, but he didn’t look so much like he was in pain.
It was almost as if he was enjoyin’ it.
“I’ll have the beer,” said Lowell Sparger.
Two-Bucket opened his mouth, twitched, smiled, and never
said a word about Estevo’s beer.
Estevo poured the stranger’s beer in an almost clean
glass while everyone else paid attention to whatever they were
drinkin’. Some were even polite enough to sip instead of slurp.
“Yup,” said Slimy. “This reminds me of that time
Uncle Ned didn’t say anything. Uncle Ned always said what was on
his mind, like how there was water in the cotton fields one Spring.
I wasn’t there that Spring, cause I wasn’t born yet, but I guess
there was a lot of water. Water isn’t somethin’ you want in a
cotton field, they say, at least Uncle Ned didn’t want it. That’s
what he would say, except that time he didn’t say anything that
really surprised us that time.”
Everyone froze. Slimy’s stink was only half of the
problem, but how could we get him to shut up? He had a habit of
shooting men that tried to do that.
He obeyed me when I asked him to move; it was time to
see just how far this new friendship would go.
“So Uncle Ned didn’t say anything about the fields
or the cow horse what kicked him when he was only…”
I stood up.
“Slimy,” I said. “This man here has a guitar.
Wouldn’t you like to hear a song?”
Slimy looked up at me. I couldn’t tell if he was
furious or just surprised.
Maybe he didn’t know either, but after
three real slow heartbeats, he smiled.
“Yah,” said Slimy. “I would truly like to hear a
song.”
Estevo started to giggle. I think he was just too
scared to do anything else. If anyone was going to take charge, it
would have to be me.
“Say, Mister,” I said. “My friends and I would
sure like to hear a song or two. Do you know any? I mean, any other
than ‘Dixie,’ ‘Green Grow,’ or ‘Tenting Tonight.’”
“Or ‘Frère Jacques,’”
added Jacques.
“Oh yeah,” I said. “We know that one too.”
The stranger shook his head. “You’re telling me
that you fellers only know three songs?”
“Four,” said Jacques.
We all nodded except for Slimy. He seemed to be paying
attention, but sometimes that was hard to tell with Slimy.
“Well shoot,” said the stranger, “I know hundreds
of songs. I’d be happy to sing for you fellers as long as someone
buys my beer.”
“How about mud?” said Two-Bucket Joe. He twitched
again, looked up at Flossy, and muttered, “I’m not going to have
to pay for this, am I?”
Flossy flashed her teeth in what I suppose was a smile.
It was a scary sight, but it made Two-Bucket smile back.
The West was a lonely place in those days.
Lowell took his beer from the bar and brought it over to
a table. He set the beer down, unslung his guitar, and started
tuning it. A few of the fellers looked confused – was that
supposed to be a song? Slimy was bobbing his head to it.
We finally get to the song on Thursday. For now, here's my last (promise) yodeling video.
