The most frequent "funny" picture subject I get from my FB friends is a cat. And if you are one of my FB friends, then yes, your cat, cats, feline street gang is the cutest, coolest, smartest, funniest, most zen-like, and superheroish of all cats anywhere.
(Cat keepers need reassurance like that sometimes.)
The result of this glut of cat pictures is that we now have a glut of cat memes, where some clever FBer or blogger (don't you hate those guys?) puts words in the cat's... well they print them in the same picture with the cat, giving the impression that the cat has this to say.
For instance:
Hmmmm. They're probably right about that one.
Also possible.
This one is actually likely.
Maybe
I'm afraid that one might be true.
Really? I've never met a cat that wanted to accomplish more than acquiring the best nap spot in the house. Some of the rest of these are even more... Well, you decide.
Less than 5% of cats (and 4% of humans) ever listen to Ravi Shankar.
Some cats are suckers for Cadbury eggs.
Cats don't like practical jokes, but they're even less fond of meetings.
All cat armor must be warm and fluffy.
Less than 2% of accidental shootings are done by cats. And finally...
Well, okay. I'll buy this one.
And now, presenting the opposing point of view.
The easiest thing to find on Youtube - a cat video.
To those just
joining, you are now lost in the bowels (yuck!) of Dirk Destroyer’s
Less Destructive Brother, an unpublished novel. In the previous
installment Elmer, our protagonist failed with his limited
telekinesis to stabilize the magically levitated body of Jonma Claim
which was hosting the ghost of Uriculous Wisehind. The ghost and
host could have landed in a pile ewe poop as far as Elmer was
concerned, had his failure not been seen as a betrayal by the
winsome, euphonious, and calamitous Onomatopoeia Upsala (Ono for
short.)
On her bed of soft earth, Ono’s eyes opened and met mine. “Why
did you do that?” her eyes said figuratively, because of course,
her eyes didn’t say anything literally.
Only a rare breed of chipmunk have eyes that can literally speak
words, and they rarely say anything other than either, “please keep
your cat indoors,” or “have any nuts?” I saw one at a
traveling circus once. His cage was so full of nuts that the little
guy could barely move around. I waited around for a couple of hours
to hear his eyes say real words, and all the time I was there people
kept coming by, saying things like – “hey, it’s an
eyeball-talking chipmunk! Throw him some nuts.” Frequently, they
did just that, more completely filling the poor creature’s already
smallish living quarters.
Gamely, the little fella would munch on a few nuts, though he was
already paunchy for his breed. When people saw him eating, they
might say something like – “I heard about those eyeball-talking
chipmunks. Look at him – he sure likes nuts. Throw him some, will
you Hortense?” And frequently Hortense would respond by throwing
yet more nuts into the hopelessly over-filled cage.
After spending the afternoon watching, though not throwing any nuts,
I leaned against the poor fella’s cage and offered him a sip of my
ice tea which he gratefully accepted.
“So,” I said finally, figuring the ice tea had broken the…
“So,” I said finally, “do you have anything you would like to
say?”
Lips formed grotesquely below the pupils, probably because there are
not many non-grotesque ways that lips can form on eyeballs. “Please
keep your nuts to yourself,” he said softly, before putting up an
“on break” sign and burrowing into his massive nut pile.
I spent a century or five meditating on the words, “please keep
your nuts to yourself.” I mentioned the words to Dirk, who was not
impressed; though I’ve never found Dirk willing to give intelligent
rodents all the credit they’re due.
I later learned that the species developed a nut allergy and were now
extinct. I decided I wasn’t much for meditation, and had not
thought about the eyeball-talking chipmunks until that moment when I
faced Ono’s literally silent, but figuratively accusing eyes.
As I anticipated, my encounter with the extinct rodent was no help to
me at all.
“You know,” said Mage-e-not. “I think she’s angry with you.”
I said nothing.
“I can usually tell these things,” said Mage-e-not as if I needed
clarification on the matter.
“Thanks,” I said, offering him an algae bar that I had been
hoping to offer to Ono during breakfast. Mage-e-not took the bar
from my hand, smelled it, touched the end briefly with his tongue,
and finally bit into it.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“It’s hideous,” he said, “but given time, I think I could
really come to hate it.”
Tune in next
Friday when our intrepid Fellowship of the Bring gallantly seeks
escape from a massive herd of sheep.
Actually they
just panic.
And they said I
couldn’t write high adventure!
So I search YouTube for talking eyeballs and I find something. Either I need to watch more TV, or less YouTube.
In this year of presidential politics I’ve been thinking a lot
about cons lately – more specifically, what is the greatest con of
all.
I love the movie, The Sting, but as entertaining as it is, Paul
Newman and Robert Redford taking Robert Shaw for a few hundred
thousand isn’t all that earth shaking. It was clearly not the
greatest con of all. Even upping the ante with George Clooney and
Brad Pitt taking Andy Garcia, Al Pacino, and that freaky French guy
for hundreds of millions ends up paltry when distributed across the
planet’s population of 7.2 billion.
I mean, what is that – a nickel a piece?
More pernicious, (or it would be if I knew what that meant,) are the
movie tickets sold to feature films that featured actors like Steve
Guttenberg, Diane Keaton, Chuck Norris, and Chris Rock – actors
that clearly couldn’t act to save their lives.
But even that, in spite of all the hours and money wasted in
sticky-floored movie theaters, and graffiti-covered Red Box kiosks,
is still small potatoes to the greatest con of all.
I was six. For some reason of inscrutable cosmic karma I ended up
with an ENTIRE PACKAGE of Oreo cookies. Thinking back, that was the
highest, most blissful moment of my life. Many’s the time I’ve
wished I could have been cryogenically frozen, my package of hard
chocolate-flavored disks enclosing sugared hydrogenated animal fat
grasped firmly in my tiny greedy fingers. Perhaps I could have been
thawed once a millennium for enough time to lick one cookie
cream-free, only to once again be popsiclized.
I could have been the frozen Buddha of sensory contentment.
But it wasn’t to be.
Instead I remained in the standard time continuum, and just as atoms
or electrons (I get those guys mixed up,) eventually collide with
other atoms or electrons, I eventually came into contact with…
another six-year-old.
“Gimme some,” my greedy contemporary demanded.
“No,” I replied.
“C’mon!” said the six-year-old.
(C’mon is
among the most common phrases used for cajolery (?) in the English
language, but in spite of it’s trillions of applications has never
once convinced a person to do anything they didn’t already want to
do. I didn’t want to share my Oreos.)
“Why should I?”
And here it comes, the greatest and most pernicious (I think) con in
the history of humankind. It is great not because it has ever
emptied a casino vault or cheated a mobster, but because it has been
used successfully millions, billions, maybe even trillions of times.
“I’ll be your best friend!”
Into my naive six-year-old mind flashed images of earning a life-long
friend at the cost of a few empty, and possibly carcinogenic
calories. This hungry fellow would laugh at my jokes, help me stand
against bullies, let me copy off his paper in arithmetic, and when we
got really old (like twenty-five,) would loan me all his power tools.
It was a tempting trade.
“How many you want?”
“Twenty!”
“How about three?”
“Okay.”
“You’ll still be my best friend?”
“Yes.”
“Forever and ever?”
“Yeah.”
My hand shook slightly as I extended the cellophane reliquary of
sacred snackery to my new best friend.
I don’t have to tell you how that ended. My guess is that everyone
reading this post has either fallen for this con, or practiced it, or
both during their childhood. By the end of the hour, two important
things in my life had changed - I was out of Oreos, and my best
friend was gone.
Was I foolish? I was young. I was innocent. My brain was partially
gelatinized by cream filling.
(Of course that
doesn’t explain how I fell for the same con regularly over the next
fifty years.)
“I’ll be your best friend” is the simplest, the easiest; most
ubiquitous of cons. It may also create the most heartache. In spite
of feeding my life-long, heart disease inducing obsession, the
Nirvana of Oreo satiation never returned.
My one consolation is the look on my ersatz best friend’s face
months later when he returned from a painful afternoon in the dentist
chair.
Ah, Best Friends! What a great concept! Maybe little Eddie got that on his TV show 43 years ago.
This is the
15th installment of Dirk Destroyer’s Less
Destructive Brother, an unpublished novel I had to give up due to the
Donald Trump Ubiquity Law or 2015. If you’re just starting in, the
hero is Elmer McFarland, or Elmer Destroyer, or Destroyer, or Hey
You. There are no villains, though I can’t say I like some of the
characters too much. For instance, I sure am glad we don’t have
that Jonma Claim guy in our universe.
Chapter…
(I
lost track – look it up.)
Nobody got up to relieve me, so I didn’t feel so bad about falling
asleep. There were sheep all over the campsite, eating Carry’s
beans, Mage-e-not’s shirt, and two of my precious store of matches.
I asked Lustavious for a light, but he was in a grumpy mood,
probably because Swampy wouldn’t leave Ono alone, and Swampy seemed
to be the only being capable of stopping Lustavious from moving on
Ono.
“Ono and the bird are inseparable,” Lustavious sang to me in a
low – Leonard Cohen-type drone.
“I understand,” I said to Lustavious. “If you want, I can ask
to talk to Ono and you can have time alone with Swampy.”
That really wasn’t a way to get a light from the Light Bringer.
“Say,” said Mage-e-not, awake now and looking at the state of his
shirt. “You still using that bag?”
I looked into my cigar bag. I had smoked enough that there were only
a couple cigars left. I managed to cram them into my fanny pack and
handed the bag to Mage-e-not.
“Thanks,” he said. “I wonder how I can use this to patch my
shirt without thread.”
I shrugged my shoulders in the universal gesture of, beats me.
“It’s just that I don’t look so good shirtless.”
I had to agree.
Tip Ton Tease was meditating while balanced on a slender branch
twenty feet above where Jonma Carry had been sleeping. The tree was
missing all its bark close to the ground – probably from sheep
grazing.
“Why are you up there, Tease?” asked Lustavious.
“The thirty-fifth idea.”
“Oh… What do you see?”
Tease put his thumb and forefingers to his earlobes before
responding, though it was hard to see how he might have gotten water
in his ears up in a tree. “Sheep,” he said.
“What else?”
“More sheep.”
“What-do-you-mean, more sheep,” sputtered Jonma Claim. “Light
Bringer, lift me up so I can see.”
The awkward little man waddled over to where Lustavious –
reluctant, but obedient, lifted him into the air.
“Higher!” barked Jonma Claim.
“Top floor,” grunted Lustavious.
Suddenly the annoying host of Uriculous Wisehind began to rise.
“What kind of…” sputtered Jonma Claim… with a few spasms
thrown in. “Destroyer, what are you doing?”
“You squawk for upsey,” said Ono who was clearly working very
hard to keep the doughy Jonma Claim airborne.
“It can’t be!” Jonma Claim spitted.
“What?” asked Mage-e-not who had somehow found a way to join the
bag to his shirt making an astoundingly ugly garment.
“There are sheep,” said Jonma Claim crossly.
“Isn’t that what Tease said?” I asked.
“But so many!” sputtered Jonma Claim. His body began to sway to
the east. “Stop it,” he barked, but his body began moving even
faster to the southwest.
“Whoop, swoon, swish,” said Ono.
“As High Priest, I command you!” commanded Jonma Claim... with a
sputter.
“I would put him down, Ono,” said Mage-e-not.
“Squeak, sway, thump, thud!” said Ono, clearly distressed.
“Destroyer!” barked Jonma Claim. “Do something!”
“But you’re always telling me not to do things,” I said to him
not helpfully. I enjoyed the look on Jonma Claim’s face, but then
I glanced at Ono, and saw both panic and betrayal etched across her
features.
“Hold on,” I said, and I tried to bring my limited telekinetic
powers to bear. If I’d been a better telekinete, or if Jonma Claim
had not been a moving target, I might have had more success. Whether
it was my effect, or Ono’s magic, Jonma Claim’s swooping went
from two dimensions to three, now shooting up near the treetops, then
crashing down to within a couple of body lengths from the ground.
“Can’t you let him go when he’s low?” asked Mage-e-not.
Ono, her face set in determination, shook her head no.
“It would probably kill him, anyway,” said Jonma Carry in a tone
that showed that wouldn’t bother him overly.
“This is unacceptable!” blustered Jonma Claim. “I will not
have this!”
I almost gave up trying right there. Why should I care if the dead
man died again?
“To me,” said Tease, still up in his tree.
Adding Tease to the equation, I came up with a plan. Instead of
trying to grab Jonma Claim from Ono’s magical grasp, I started to
build barriers of compressed air, herding the bouncing Jonma Claim
closer to Tease’s location. Tease jumped from branch to branch,
many of them too thin to support my fanny pack, much less two men.
“Let go,” called Tease, as he lunged for Jonma Claim. Ono
swooned falling to the ground. Lustavious was about to catch her
when Swampy hissed at him. Quickly, I brought loam and soft earth up
to cushion her as she came to ground. She bounced gently as she
might on a good mattress.
Tease landed moments later, Jonma Claim in his arms.
“Just like your brother!” Jonma Claim sputtered. “Thank the
really good ideas that the world will soon be rid of you both.”
“I did my best,” I said.
“To get me killed!” he replied reproachfully with both a sputter
and a spasm.
What will the
Fellowship of the Bring do surrounded so completely by a seemingly
endless flock of sheep? Me, I’d just push my way through and watch
my step for doo-doo, but on the Planet 2, the thirty-fifth Really
Good Idea might not allow that. We’ll find out next Friday…
(Actually, I already know. I’m just trying to establish community
here.)
For some reason, ELO kept running in my head as I wrote this.
It had to happen. I have a fever. My body feels like it did five rounds with a cement mixer. I've got to lie down in five minutes so I'm just going to give you the first 13 pictures in my save file and get back to sucking on Nyquil.
Here's the dude that created the selfie stick. That's not what he invented it for, though. He just wanted to read the cereal box at breakfast without his glasses.
Safety tip
I got nothing.
A friend sent me this - still trying to figure out what she's implying.
Boiled reindeer. Just like Mom used to make.
Another safety tip
Deliciously thoughtful
Drive that bass beat!
And now you know why I talk funny
Progress sucks.
There's always a snowman that'll tell you, "I told you so."
Makes sense to me.
And I thought I was sick.
Okay, here's the shortest vid on Youtube when I searched sick. Don't complain or I'll sneeze on you.
Welcome back to
Dirk Destroyer’s Less Destructive Brother – an unpublished novel
of political parody. When we left off, Jonma Claim AKA Uriculous
Wisehind, who is the non-dead leader of the Fellowship of the Bring
has assigned Elmer Destroyer to keep watch while those who plan to
banish him and his brother to oblivion catch a few Zs.
I guess that
makes sense to politicians.
Chapter 7
When Reason Sleeps, Politicians Talk
It turns out there was something to watch that night.
At first all there was to see was tossing, grumbling, farting, more
grumbling, which then transitioned into less tossing and grumbling
and more snoring and farting. I didn’t mind being the only one
awake. I wasn’t used to so much company and despite the growing
stench; I was enjoying the comparative peace. Jonma Carry was
sitting upright propped against a tree with his eyes open. If it
hadn’t been for his light snoring, I might have thought him awake.
And then his snoring stopped. He looked over at Jonma Claim who had
also stopped snoring and was sitting up. Uriculous’ constantly
annoyed, constipated expression was now replaced by a different,
though equally annoyed and constipated expression.
“You!” said Jonma Claim, apparently to Jonma Carry, because he
wasn’t looking at me. “What are you doing here?”
“Watching you,” said Jonma Carry.
“I don’t want you in my party,” said Jonma Claim.
“It’s not your party,” said Carry’s stone-like features.
“You’re only carrying water for someone else.”
“Jonma Claim doesn’t carry water for anyone,” sputtered Claim.
“I’m a maverick!”
“Like you didn’t carry water for the Casinos, or the S&Ls?”
“Too shmuch money in shpoliticsch!” sputtered Claim.
“And you got your share.”
“You should talk, you medal-throwing radical. You got all your
money and power through marriage.”
“So did you.”
“I only married one rich woman,” said Jonma Claim proudly. “My
first wife was poor. You jumped from one rich widow to the next.”
“Only two rich widows,” said Carry.
“That’s only ‘cause ketchup queen has more money than you could
spend!”
“I wish,” said Carry. “Stupid pre-nup.”
“You don’t even like ketchup!”
“It’s called Catsup,” said Carry, “and you’re right.”
“What’s wrong? The Dijon mustard widow wasn’t available?”
None of what they were saying made any sense to me, but they were
getting loud in saying it. That didn’t surprise me, stupid people
usually get loud, but I wondered if I was supposed to do something
about it.
I felt a tap on my arm. Ono with a sleeping Swampy still attached to
her shoulder was behind me.
“Sorry about the noise,” I said.
“Why are they croaking and cackling?” she asked.
“Something about ketchup and casinos,” I said.
“Will they shush?”
I thought about the problem. It didn’t seem too difficult. I
ionized the oxygen molecules near their faces creating ozone. As
they breathed in the ozone, they began panting, then yawning, then
finally dropped off to sleep. If I left the ozone bubbles around
them, neither would wake up in the morning. That would solve my
Uriculous Wisehind problem. It was tempting, but I burst the bubbles
instead.
“How kerplop?” asked Ono.
“Just a trick you learn if you live long enough.” She put her
hand on my arm. It was a simple gesture of gratitude, but I felt my
face blush like a twelve-year-old boy’s.
“No schtupeing,” said Swampy who was not asleep after all.
Ono laughed. “Thank you, Mr. McFarland,” she said. It was only
four words, but it was the first time I’d heard her say something
normal-sounding.
“Call me Elmer.”
“Thank you, Elmer,” she said, then yawned and went back to her
patch of ground.
I listened of her soft purr-like snores and Swampy’s raucous honk
snores before I started breathing easier. I pondered two things as I
sat and watched. Was it a good idea to fall for a woman eight
thousand years younger than me? And how hard would it be to convince
this hungry party that five thousand-year-old swamp-rat bird goes
well with beans?
Wow! A whole
chapter with no partials or asides. I wonder if that will ever
happen again.
Here’s the
video. It's a year old and at least a day late to be of use - just the kind of service you've come to expect from Just Plain Stupid.
