If you are going to give your time to charity, make the most of it, by god:

Masturbate-A-Thon 2006
On Saturday 5th August Europe’s very first Masturbate-a-thon event will take place in London. Participants ask friends and loved ones to sponsor them for a certain amount of money for every minute they masturbate during the Masturbate-A-Thon, or simply for having the courage to turn up and take part.

This is the part that… caught my eye: The record currently stands at eight hours and thirty minutes.If the winner of the English event goes beyond this time it will mean a new international record. If they do not then a first British Record shall be established.

Although I’ve never heard of the international world record for going blind, I humbly salute the man or woman who could keep it going for that long. I mean, THAT is dedication, my kittens.

So, field trip to London, anyone?

(hat tip to Easy Bake Coven)

*bimbles off*

I now officially know someone who is related to a serial killer.

…. I wonder what normal people are doing right now.

*bimbles off*

*glances at patches of dark clouds outside and chants*

I do believe in rain.
I do believe in rain.
I do, do, DO believe in rain.

*bimbles off*

My youngest sister should work for the CI-fucking-A, I swear to god. Getting information from her usually involves a floodlight and a steady drip of water to the forehead. This is what I get in an email today:

“Dad is having surgery tomorrow (Wed.). Something in his shoulder broke. Scheduled for 7:24 a.m. my time, so 10:24 a.m., your time. I’ll keep you posted.”

Something in his shoulder broke. Descriptive, yet vague. Like…. yogurt or something. I skip calling her and call my Dad. Give him a new asshole for not telling me himself, then get the actual details. He had surgery about two months ago to repair damage from a fall in February. At the time, the doctor thought the tendon holding the bicep looked a little frayed, but left it alone. Physical therapy made it worse and, a few weeks ago, it just snapped. Dad said it felt like getting shot. Or, as he so nicely summed it up: “I thought: ‘Shit. Drive-by.’ ”

*sighs*

Family.

*bimbles off*

Can someone please explain to me why… just fucking WHY… after you place your order at the drive-thru, you are then harassed for another few seconds into whether or not that is ALL you really want and, by god, don’t fries sound good at 7:15 in the morning?

GEEEEOOOOODDD!

When I place my order, that’s all I want. Really. If I had wanted a Coke and a side order of fries or a pie or whatever the fuck you are pushing this month, I would have mentioned it the first time around. Pimping the entire menu through a speaker I barely understand before I’ve had my first cup of coffee is a good way to get me to drive off, possibly after calling you a moron.

JS, who is the possibly the best sales manager on the planet, will tell you its about the push – getting you to buy more through suggestion. I will tell you the slacker at the Whataburger drive-thru can barely wrap his brain around the concept the sun comes up in the morning, much less the higher arts of marketing and sales. To me, it’s just annoying. It’s almost the subtle suggestion I really have no idea what I want and, if presented with other bright ideas, I might choose a bit more wisely.

Yeah. Uh huh.

Just give me my two damned breakfast burritos and sell the extra drink, fries and salad to the brain trust behind me driving a hopped-up Ford F250 with the light rack across the top it ’cause, trust me… he needs better ideas in his life.

*bimbles off*

Okay, I need to know the acceptable amount of time someone can stay in your house before you slaughter everyone in their sleep and make a run for Canada? One day? Two days? The day after your nephew vomits on the couch you keep in your office, thereby causing a stench that will only be removed by burning down that side of the house?

*sigh*

I don’t hate my in-laws. In fact, I’m lucky in that I truly like each of them. But the whole family has a bad habit of deciding to do shit on a whim and, by god, if it interferes with your plans, then… um, sorry. Last Friday – FRIDAY, mind you – JS got a call from his sister in Florida. Apparently, the planets had converged to the point where she and her son could fly out to see us. For a week. A fucking week…. on less than 48 hours notice. JS knows this sort of thing drives me bug-shit crazy. If one of my family were to visit – say, death, wedding or someone is in danger of losing a kidney – we know fucking months ahead of time, even for just a few days. Much less a whole week. But, what do you do? Say, no, your sister and nephew whom you only see once a year cannot come up here?

*second sigh*

So, they’ve been here since Sunday. My nephew has been sick since Monday after my sis-in-law let him eat THREE bowls of chips and queso at a Mexican food place, by himself. She said, well, he doesn’t get to eat these that often. Well, no shit…. ’cause his stomach is redlining all over the place. He was sleeping on the couch in my office and got this shit on the couch, the carpet, his clothes and in the bathroom. Now I can’t even remotely go near my office to get on the computer because my stomach rolls. JS has cleaned and cleaned and the smell is still there.

Aside from that, because I understand kids get sick, I feel trapped in my own house. I can’t make any plans or go anywhere or even just get on my computer and write and be alone with my own brain because I have company. And, not just any company, but family. And, this is family that decides fives minutes ahead of time we all going to the fucking zoo. Last night, JS’s sister who lives in Dallas came over and the last thing that was said was “So, why don’t you just come over tomorrow and Friday nights as well?” No asking if that was okay, just assume.

And, these are people I like. But, Sunday to Sunday is too much. I’m too much of a solitary animal to want people under foot for this long. I’m married and there are times that I lock myself in my office and write or game, just because I need to be alone.

*rubs forehead slowly*

Discussing this with JS is out of the question. First, he and his family actually get along and like to spend time together – a completely foreign concept to me, I admit. And, this is the sister and nephew who live in Florida, so he only sees them once a year, at best. Plus, if being non-confrontational was an art form, JS would be Picasso. He wants to please everyone, ergo someone is going to be unhappy. Looks like that is me.

I can’t be by myself at work and I can’t be at home either. So, when you hear of some hikers finding a redhead wandering, wide-eyed, in the woods in Nova Scotia, you’ll know who it is.

*bimbles off*

Rule #1:

I don’t care who you are, where you are or what you are doing, pop in a Nine Inch Nails CD and you want to have sex. Right then. No waiting around. The people around you can just stare.

*bimbles off*

Okay, soooooo… I caved to the immense pressure of pop culture and created a myspace.com account a while back, mainly to keep up with a friend’s band. Terrifyingly excited, I constructed a small lean-to and was proud.

*crickets chirp*

That as the sound of my account. I suppose not trolling for young boys and making the news, crying “But, I didn’t KNOW posting pictures of me nekkid on myspace would end up on everyone’s computer!” left me a bit out of the loop. I was getting no comments and lots of spam. So, delete, delete, delete.

Now, I’ve received several emails and IMs asking where I went. What happened? My god, the humanity of all.

I suppose its like the favorite old blanket you have. You don’t necessarily hold it everyday, but its there just in case you need it. Or, get cold on the couch.

“Where’s that blanket?”
“What blanket?”
“The blue, fuzzy one. The one that’s warm.”
“I threw it away.”
“WHAT! Man, that was like my favorite blanket.”
“Well, you never used it.”
“Yeah, but…. it was there.”
“It was sitting in the hall closet collecting dust.”
“But…. but…. it’s really gone?”

Wow… okay… complete tangent there. Prolly due to lack of sleep and not enough coffee. My brain isn’t working in straight lines at the moment.

So, the fuzzy blanket is back in the closet…. being fuzzy….. http://www.myspace.com/labkatt

*bimbes off*

I truly believe separating and/or divorcing is worse when it doesn’t involve some big sin on either side…. no cheating, no abuse, no bodies hidden in the backyard. Just the gradual drifting and separate evolving that turns a home into someplace you live, your spouse into your roommate. There is nothing to pin anything on, no convenient scapegoat. Just the knowledge it simply isn’t working anymore.

I got the sad call last night that my friend EG and her husband have reached this point. It breaks my heart because they are both good people… just two very different people who cannot bridge the chasm anymore. While I hate this happening to anyone, I believe it’s good they realize now is the time to let go, not 15 years down the road when they are so bitter, they cannot even be friends anymore.

I ask my dear kittens for good thoughts and prayers for EG and for her husband.

*bimbles off*

I drive fast. Okay, let me rephrase…. I drive fucking fast. I’m not an asshole about it. I actually signal and pay attention to the traffic around me. But, the numbers below 75 mph on the speedometer are meaningless in my Mustang.

To this end, I accept the fact I’ll get a ticket at least once a year. I consider it karma and move on. I don’t argue with the cop, as there really is no point. Fair play to them for popping me on the interestate at 80 and have a nice day.

HOWEVER, you bag me coming down a hill where the speed limit suddenly drops from 60 to 35 and I’ve had no chance to slow down – you are just a fucking asshole. Make that two assholes sitting on side streets waiting for people who didn’t throw on their brakes fast enough conducting the monthly fund-raiser for the donut money-pot. Plus, the guy was a dick. Usually, when you simply acknowledge you were going too fast and they realize you aren’t about to throw a fucking fit right there, the cop is courteous and quick during the process. Not this moron.

Cop: Ma’am, I pulled you over because I clocked you doing 60 mph in a 35 mph speed zone.
Me: I know. I….
Cop: You know? You just driving fast because?
Me: I mean, I know I was going fast. I’m late for work.
Cop: That’s no excuse, you know. You need to leave earlier in the morning if that’s a problem.

Now I’m resisting the urge to grab his pen and shove it into his fucking eyeball. First, I was acknowledging what I did and he interrupted me. Now, he’s giving me advice on how I should plan my day. I don’t need advice. I need for you to fucking write the ticket so I can still salvage my goddamned morning, you piece of shit. Plus, he was wearing those highly-reflective sunglasses that, I’m sure, he wore to look more intimidating. Yeah, I’m scared. Shaking, really.

So, after the warm-up chat, I sit there and sit there and sit there while he returns to the car to write me up. I don’t know if he was jacking off while writing the damned thing or what, but it took forever. He then brings it back and I sign it.

Cop: You really should slow down. Driving fast will get you a ticket and you’re just endangering your life.

GEEEEOOOOODDDD! Like smoking will kill you? Like putting your hand in an open flame will burn it? Like poking yourself with a knife may cause a bit of damage? I mean, could I fritter away my morning on more gems like this, ’cause I’m not late for work or anything.

I guess he decided he had imparted just the right amount of wisdom to the unwashed masses then, because he finally went back to his car and drove off. I’m left sitting there with a ticket and the overwhelming urge to follow him, wait until he exits the car and then knife the tires.

So, to all my kittens to live in this area: whether you are coming in from 183 or 35W to Fort Worth, Belknap is 35 mph…. right as you hit it. No slow down time, no progressive decrease. Just boom…. 60 to 35. And, it’s the way cops keep their faces stuffed with donuts.

You’ve been warned.

*bimbles off*