I was ripped from sleep this morning by Mr. T screaming, “Get out of bed, fool!” But when I opened my eyes, all I saw was my cat laying next to my head and licking her rectum. I’m pretty sure she didn’t say it. And not just because her mouth was full.
*squints at Lucy, rubs neck to check for gold chains*
Pretty sure. But just for the record, she would look pretty bad ass with a mohawk.
Also, for the record, I got distracted and Craftastrophated instead of coming up something interesting to write about here. Bad, Elly.
And in only a few hours there will be more strangers traipsing through my apartment, critiquing my cabinet organization and knocking over my vibrator collection. So of course Lucy just made a great production of standing on top of the fireplace mantle and hacking up a giant, cat-food stuffed hairball which, when it hit the hard wood floor three feet below, managed to cover a four foot radius in tuna splatter. It’s probably the result of being possessed by the spirit of Mr. T, poor thing. Now I have to add “exorcise the cat” and “mask smell of warm tuna and bile” to the list of things I have to accomplish before running out the door. (I’m pretty sure Charlie Sheen has those same items on his “to do” list, too.)
Frankly, I already didn’t allocate enough time to sacrifice a live chicken and cover my little zombie St. Joe in avian fluids.
Trying to sell a house is so much frickin’ work.
Are you still here? Fine then. Um, go look at this. It’s the latest link Creamed Corn sent me. You’ll never look at Barbie the same way again. Just…don’t look at it while you’re eating. You’re welcome.