There are more bugs, insects and arachnids on this planet than there are people. That fact alone terrifies me. Especially in the spring/summer months.
And unlike most people, I really hate the spring and summer months. Not because the sun ruins my beautiful winter moon-glow and I sweat from crevices that naturally shouldn't sweat. Although those are two more good reasons to hate May through September. I hate em because of the hordes of crawling, flying, burrowing bugs that insist on pissing me off.
The bastards that annoy me the most are the bees. The big fat bumblebees in particular. I get that they are part of the Earth's plan to help pollinate the flowers and keep food production humming. But after centuries of evolution can someone explain to me why they are jerkwads?
They fly around my porch which is made of stone and there are NO FLOWERS around at all. And still they hover around my head and attack me for no reason.
I'm not a flower or a plant that needs pollinating so reproduction can occur. I'm a 40 plus woman who through a procedure known to most women as, "Shut up and yank that shit out. It's as if a baby seal is bludgeoned in my pants every month." I have been unfertilized and I'm happy to be so.
But for weeks this one particular bumble bee, who was bulked up on steroids and fried chicken, would wait until I would come home from work and harass me to the point of insanity.
It started with simply ramming me in the head with it's nasty bee body...daily. So I bought a tennis racked and threatened it. For awhile it worked. It feared me. I thought, "Yes, puny bee bastard, fear me! For I am bigger than you and have a tennis racket." Even though I knew my aim was so bad that hitting the toilet while sitting down to pee was often a challenge. I'm embarassed to admit I peed in my own face once.
Eventually, It sensed my false bravado.
Last week the attacks became violent. One particular blow to my head knocked me to the ground! But it didn't end there. The bumble bee took advantage of the situation and rifled through my purse stealing my last two-dollars and a Canadian penny from my wallet. Apparently, this bee pays a disenfranchised Chinese bee to pollinate shit for him! I was appalled. Even the damn bees are outsourcing their services, and with slave labor to boot!
The next day it cornered me at the top of my porch steps. This time it was wearing a ski mask. I didn't risk telling the buzzing thug that its anonymity was lost on me and the mask was kinda pointless. Truthfully, I couldn't pick its fuzzy yellow and black bumblebee ass out of a line-up. They all look alike to me.
But what was worse was that he was high on some sort of 'bee' crack. You could tell by the way he was flying sideways, slurring his buzzes and occassionally resting on my porch wall. At one point he defecated on himself. I took that opportunity to run into my house. He just sat on the wall for while and eyeballed me. I couldn't be certain but I think he was stuck in his own poop. Secretly, I laughed.
Now I have to drive around the block a few times before I pull into my driveway to make sure this thug bee is off roughing up one of the neighbors. I think it pressured the lady next door into a life of prostitution. But the joke is on that stupid bee. She's 89 and was just diagnosed with some sort of aggressive skin cancer of the labia or elbow. He may only get two or three good months out of her.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Friday, April 10, 2015
We Love Mieces to Pieces
As Narrated by Quincy P Longfellow ( the bossy Brussels Griffon) and
Typed by Igor (The devastatingly handsome Chug. Hey, I’m the one typing here so-suck it!)
Poor Yeti the Shih Tzu. He is still too traumatized by these events to do anything and is having a ‘Blair Witch Moment’ (meaning he’s staring head first into the wall).
God help us all…
Before the incident...
One evening, after an hour of Igor's relentless pacing back and forth, peppered with episodes of intensely staring at Mom and Dad while they watched their favorite television program, we were finally granted exodus to the back yard (YAY) where we feigned our need to piss. Suckers.
After a few squirts just to make it look good, we were ready to go in but not before Yeti, who is often way too trusting for his own good, made friends with a little field mouse.
The mouse, named Leroy, asked for refuge for the night. I told the mouse to hit the bricks because mice are creepy and often serial rapists.
But Yeti felt bad for Leroy and carried him inside. At first it was awkward but as we sat around chatting we found his company charming. He spoke of his family and how his siblings upon siblings loved working in the family business, which we found out was stock trading with only an occasional rape here and there. But Leroy just didn’t want to follow into the family tradition. Hedge funds just weren’t in his heart. So he struck out on his own to follow his dream-which was to be a mime.
Now as we all know Igor hates mimes. They make him want to slit his wrist and theirs but as we watched Leroy go thru his little ‘pushing an invisible boulder up a hill routine’ and the disturbing ‘rape of an invisible chipmunk’ we couldn’t help but think- wow…this mouse SUCKS at miming.
We clapped anyway just to be nice and to get him to stop miming the ‘death by hanging from an invisible rope’ routine and that’s when it happened.
Igor may hate mimes but Fathead the one-eyed cat downright despises them. Fathead’s family was tortured and killed by a group of rogue mimes. One tragic summer, the family came across a gaggle of mimes and were egged-on to participate in their routines- when it got ugly. Almost every member of Fathead’s family were killed while slipping on imaginary banana peels. A few died from falling off a cliff while they were ‘walking against the wind.’
Fathead and a few of the other cats in his pussy, I mean posse, damn Freudian slip, took us by surprise and jumped us, plucking little Leroy from his “stage” and into their fiendish paws.
Yeti sprang into action first. Without a thought for his own life he stood face to face with Fathead took a deep breath and with all the confidence his little Shih Tzu voice could muster said, “What the fuck?”
The other cats at his side: Churchy, Poe and Moby just laughed. But Fathead, gripping the scared little Leroy in his left paw, only cocked his head and without so much as a warning hiss, punched Yeti in the face with a solid right knocking him on his fuzzy ass.
Igor, being a protective big brother (me, not so much), lunged at Fathead and attempted to wrestle Leroy out of his vindictive claws.
The other three cats clung to Igor’s back, desperate to pull him off their leader. I decided it was time for me to do something--so I grabbed for the cell phone to get it all on video but a fifth cat, Lily, would have none of it. She was using the cell phone for a marathon selfie session and slapped me in the face as if I were a being challenged to a duel! It caught me by surprise but I shook it off and gave it back to her with a hearty, “Aww no you di-in’t?”
But before I could give her the bitch-slapping of her nine lives I heard Igor begging for my help. He was pulling on Leroy’s arms straining to wriggle him free from Fathead’s kung-fu grip while the Poe, Churchy and Moby clung to his legs neck and back in resistance!
As I bit each cat in the ass I was rattled by a very disturbing ‘pop’ followed by a second ‘pop’ and a horrific scream.
To my revulsion, the little arms of the field mouse 'popped' as they were each ripped from his torso. Igor stood shaking as they hung limply in his paws. The horrid scream was Yeti who witnessed his new friend’s bloody amputation. He puked by the way. Squeamish bastard could never have been a brain surgeon like he always talked about.
For a second, everyone was completely still. Until the battle cry was raised by Poe who roared, “Dibs on the drumsticks!”
While Igor stood dumbfounded, still holding Leroy’s severed arms, I attempted to pry the rest of his body from Fathead. But the son-of-a-bitch cat did the unthinkable. Fathead raised his paw and bellowed, “For my family” and tore Leroy’s head off, spitting it at Yeti who was rocking back and forth, babbling to himself.
Moby dived for Leroy’s head but he slipped in a puddle of mouse blood. Instead of snatching the prize in his claws, he accidentally smacked it, sending it sailing thru the air. Unfortunately, as dad came in to investigate the commotion Leroy’s decapitated head hit him dead in the nuts.
I couldn’t help but snicker at the thought of dad getting ‘a little head’ as it thwapped him in the nut sack. Dammit it was funny! I did feel a bit ashamed thinking it. That’s gotta count for something.
With dad doubled over in pain it gave the rest of the cats time to gut the body and smear the blood all over their faces like some sort of wild-ass Indians. Oh wait, was that racist of me? I meant AMERICAN Indians. (I’m sick of this PC shit.) They then ran through the house each hording their prize cuts.
As dad regained his composure and stepped barefoot in the warm gut pile, Igor and I carried Yeti into the living room. The poor little bastard hasn’t been the same since. Now, when he sees a down on his luck woodland creature outside while pretending to piss, he projectile vomits.
The moral to the story?
Cats are assholes.
And mice skulls can make a set of nuts blow up like a goddamn loaf of bread!
Churchy washing down poor Leroy's liver
Moby & that SOB Fathead sleeping off the carnage
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