I’m watchblogging and getting excited about a movie quote contest. This has been a brutal year for me so far, but Jesus, this is not why I came here.

So, here’s some shit for you to chew on:

Lawrence Summers says men and women are different. Duh. Check your shorts.
Men are better at some things. Women are better at others. Don’t like it? tough. Fuck off. it’s true, and it always will be. Making women more like men, and making men more like women, will never do anything but damage the race as a whole. Are the things men do more valuable than the things women do? FUCK NO! Don’t like that? Pity. That’s the way it is. Everyone is different, and that’s the way it is. Deal with it.

If Mikey Jackson Of course he has his own URL, what did you think?) is a child molester, let him rot his life in jail for about twenty years. If he is not, (and personally, if you aren’t a child molester you are careful not to even give the ILLUSION of impropriety) his accusers should do the time. This is to be decided by a jury of Mr Jacksons peers. Now, where the FUCK are we gonna find twelve of him? Good god almighty.

Finally, we have the stupidest goddamned cat on earth. Cooney, our orange coontailed cat, woke me up tuesday morning, with a 4:00 AM game of Cup Hockey. Cup hockey is where you take the cottage cheese container with your catfood, and bat it all over the damned house. When you get to the threshold of the bathroom, hit it hard enough that the cat kibble sprays all over the goddamned place. This way, when I’m awakened by the cup hockey, I can stagger into the bathroom and hop on alternating feet, marvelling at the ability of Purina to form catfood in a perfect caltrop shape. Cooney is 220 years old. He was placed on this earth to harsh my mellow, and he has the brain of a 4X8 sheet of plywood. We’ve recently taken him to the vet, who said “what a healthy young kitty!”. We know him to be at least 17 years old, and he was an already-fixed already-declawed stray when he showed up on my father-in-law’s doorstep.

Cooney is tolerated in Chez og, because the Oglet loves him. He and I have an understanding: He does as I say, and I don’t eat him. Bite or harm the oglet, and instant burrito.

Still: The cat is a source of some amusement. We were watching a Discovery channel program on cats, and found out a few interesting things. “Cats have pads of fat on the soles of their feet to allow them to sneak up on their prey”. yeah, right. Cooney walks with the grace and silence of a herd of elephants. “Cats purr loudly and use a kneading motion of their front paws when they are contented. This stems from early nursing reflexes; cats would knead their mother’s bellies to stimulate milk production” Lately, cooney has tried to make milk come out of the arm of the couch, the poker table, the back seat of the Honda, the coffetable, the wife’s head, and my ass. If milk begins to sponaneously spurt forth from my buttocks I’ll be, to say the least, surprised.

Finally, the cat has taken to chasing, stalking, pouncing on, and attacking,

nothing.

Sometimes, it catches the nothing and deliberately kills it. Then, it drags the nothing on the bed, chomps noisily on it, and then licks itself clean of nothing.

All of which is no doubt intended to drive me insane. Er.

Little bastard. He’s gonna outlive me just to piss me off, I know he is.