Kanye West: Thug Trash in Nice Clothes

You can dress up a dog turd all you want, but it's still a dog turd. The same idea applies to Kanye "I have no class" West: dress him up in overpriced clothes all you want, but he's still a street thug. He's still common trash, without any ability or desire to act like a civilized human being.

First of all: Taylor Swift didn't have jack squat to do with Kanye West, or with the rap/hip-hop genre. This wasn't some ridiculous little rapper beef thing at all - not, of course, that I would condone acting like a complete jerk at an awards ceremony because one dude has a problem with someone else.

Secondly: Kanye's blogged apology does not mean diddly squat to me. I can do all sorts of rotten things to other people, say that I'm sorry, and not be truly remorseful. I can come to your house; poke your right eye; mutter "Sorry" and then poke your left eye. How sincere was my apology? Yeah, that's what I thought.

This is NOT Kanye's first incident of this sort, and it probably won't be his last. If he were truly repentant, he would not continue interrupting people, verbally trashing them, and otherwise acting like the gutter trash that he insists on being.

Thirdly: His music sucks anyway. If I wanted to listen to some jackass babble about how freaking awesome he is, I'll sign up for another class with Professor Self-absorbed. That would cost me more money, granted, but I wouldn't feel nearly as bad about myself if I did that - versus spending even ten cents on any of Kanye's egotistical drivel.

Of course...how seriously can you take a grown, allegedly-heterosexual dude who puts a friggin' teddy bear on his album covers?

---

Now that I've said all that, I'd like to add that Beyoncé Knowles showed real class after Kanye acted in his typical, trashy fashion. Even though I honestly could not give less of a crap about MTV, or their awards ceremonies, I'm glad that someone with such a kind heart and good attitude scored "Video of the Year."

I Love Cats

Yummy, Yummy Snack Time

Let me tell you something, folks: I’m not a big fan of sea kittens, because they don’t taste very good to me. But this week’s meals included a lovely assortment of God’s other yummy, yummy creatures.

We made egg rolls with sausage sty kittens. I had to grind up the carrots and cabbage dirt kittens, but the work was well worth it, because those egg rolls tasted great. A little soy sauce in the filling, plus some sweet and sour sauce for dipping, and I’m in egg-roll heaven.

Then there was Grit Casserole night. Hint: the more cheddar cheese you mix in with the grits, sty kitten, and eggs, the better.

And of course, I went to Sonic for their one-dollar Jr. burgers. I'm pretty sure that they use real cow pasture kitten in them, unlike some other chains that come to mind.

There is, however, one exception to my "I don't like sea kittens" rule. I will, on occasion, eat a tuna-fish sea-kitten sandwich, provided that the kitten is not too dry, and is slathered in plenty of Miracle Whip.

Little Twit

So we have this kitten, Sonny Boy, who's bright orange and white.

Now, I've learned one or two things about cats over the last twenty-seven years, having spent the overwhelming majority of my life with at least a couple of them around.

Orange cats have The Asshole Gene. This is a scientific fact, proven by any orange cat who's ever existed. Even subdued-orange kitties, who look more like wheat than traffic cones, have this...errant gene. Their condition causes them to constantly be up to something, and it's rarely good.

Cats with The Asshole Gene tend to purr loudly, especially when caught doing something that they shouldn't be doing - like attacking your eyelashes while you're in REM sleep. They also tend to be males, for some reason. We did, once, own a female fur ball named Spidey who was, actually, orange. Fluorescent orange. With occasional white accents. She was a semi-asshole, but an asshole nonetheless. She liked to lock her front legs around your ankle when you walked through the house. And she purred while she did it - preemptive purring to stave off the inevitable scolding.

Sonny Boy is definitely in possession of The Asshole Gene. The little twit is not quite three months old, but already knows good and well what is and is not allowed around here. However, because he possesses this defective gene, he just doesn't care. He does whatever comes to his tiny, pea-sized mind, and usually with a flagrant air of superiority. "So what?" his body language seems to say. "What if I did do it? Whatcha gonna do? Take away my crappy dry food? Ooooh, I'm so scared."

The family and I aren't overly strict. We don't give a crap if the cats sit on the couch, or take a chair. They can even stretch out on the back of the recliner if they so choose. We don't care if they sleep in bed with us (we prefer that, actually), hop up in the window to catch some sunbeams, or claim an empty Dr Pepper box as their own personal hidey hole. Whatever makes them happy.

However, the counter and table are not cat-approved zones. The fur balls might THINK that they're entitled to our people food, but they aren't. We have spray bottles full of tap water for "reminding" the fur balls that they can't hang out on these surfaces. The older cats figured this out rather quickly. Sonny Boy and his friends, though? Not so much. Especially Sonny Boy, who goes out of his way to sneak onto these surfaces when he thinks we aren't watching. The twit.

Yesterday, Mom had a tray of tater tots in the oven. She let them cool off in there, then removed them. (We like ours at room temperature, for some reason.) She put the pan on the counter, then turned her back on it like the silly person that she can be sometimes.

She and I were in the living room, yakking, when we heard a horrific crash. Followed, immediately, by many little thumps of tater tots hitting the floor. Tiny little tater corpses, hitting the linoleum in darned-near-perfect synchronization with each other. It's a weird sound. Trust me.

Sonny Boy was perched on the counter's edge, his head hanging down and his tail twitching excitedly, staring at the mess he'd made. The tots were all over the floor - like a potato frag grenade went off in my kitchen.

While we stood there, just staring at this unholy, salted mess, Sonny Boy sloooooowly lifted his head and stared at Mom. His tail stopped flicking as soon as he realized that she was, really, yes, looking at him.

They stood there, nearly eye to eye, just watching each other for a very long moment.

I stood nearby, staring at the staring contest and wondering who would blink first. I fully expected Sonny to give Mom his, "What? I didn't do it. This is obviously the dog's doing" look and amble away.

Instead, Mom started snickering. The kitten blinked a couple of times, tilted his head to one side in confusion, then realized that he was Getting Away With This. You could see the exclamation point light up over his head as he realized that he just might even get to consume his treasured tots. Obviously, as far as this kitten is concerned, this turn of events proves that Santa Claws really does exist, and really does love him.

That's when the dogs bounded into the kitchen and began scarfing down the food. Sonny Boy hopped down and nosed his way into the pack. He managed to fish out one tot with his paw and drag it out of the circle. He dragged his prize underneath the table and wolfed it down, occasionally growling to make sure we humans understood that he was not willing to share.

"What an asshole," Mom snickered.

This occurred the day after Sonny Boy bravely hopped onto the counter right behind Mom, who was frying bacon at the time, and snagged an entire piece from the plate. She didn't even notice until she went to retrieve the plate and saw that there were not, in fact, three pieces of bacon on it any more.

Eventually, the cat will learn to either a) not get caught, or b) make sure that we're in good moods when he is caught, so that we're too busy snickering to get the spray bottle.

Little twit.

New York Murderers (Black Friday Scumbags)

Dear New York Wal-Mart Shoppers:

Now you've done it. You murdered a Wal-Mart employee on Black Friday. Trampled him to death because he made the mistake of not calling in sick on the most horrible retail day of the entire year.

Jdimytai Damour, a 34-year-old man, is dead now because you oozing sores couldn't stand the thought of somebody else beating you to your precious merchandise. You showed up at Wally World on Thanksgiving Day - a day before the sales - to be absolutely certain that you, the most important people on the planet, didn't miss out on the goods. Because, as we all know, everything is all about you, of course.

That stampede isn't even the worst part. You're guilty of that, but also of not giving a rat's furry butt that you had just killed somebody. When Wal-Mart announced that they were going to close the store - because, you know, one of their own was dead, thanks to you animals, meaning that the store was a crime scene because of you - you protested. How dare they close when you were in line since Thursday? Just because somebody is no longer living doesn't mean that you should have to go home without your precious merchandise, right? You entitled, selfish boils on society's backside. You life-stealing, oxygen-thieving wastes of matter. You subhuman savages.

Die in a fire. All of you. You murdered an innocent person - a man who was just doing his job - for consumer goods. You didn't even have a decent reason to kill him, you selfish pieces of garbage. Wal-Mart wasn't selling kidneys for transplant, or the last bottle of oxygen, or the last plate of food in existence. Your "reason," as written in the news article:

Items on sale at the store included a Samsung 50-inch Plasma HDTV for $798, a Bissel Compact Upright Vacuum for $28, a Samsung 10.2 megapixel digital camera for $69 and DVDs such as "The Incredible Hulk" for $9.

You murdered a man, and then stomped all over his coworkers (while they were trying to save him) for this crap? This easily-found, widely-available, unnecessary-for-survival crap? You killed him for TVs, vacuum cleaners, cameras and DVDs? Really? What in the world is wrong with you animals?

Crackheads will stab you for your purse or wallet, or just for the hell of it. But at least I can understand their lack of reasoning. They're on drugs. What's your excuse, you infectious puddles of waste? None. That's what.

I hope that all of the guilty parties - every murderer in the store - suffer greatly for this. I hope that your TVs explode in the middle of the Super Bowl. I hope that your vacuum cleaners ruin every square foot of your carpets. I hope that your cameras fall into the nearest bodies of water. And I hope that your crotch droppings scratch all of your precious DVDs to hell and back.

Murderers. Every one of you who did this, and protested when Wal-Mart tried to do the only thing they could (close the store for a few hours), deserve to spend the rest of your miserable, useless existences in prison. And don't cry when your cell mates hurt you, because that's what you get for murdering somebody for crappy merchandise.

Bees. In November.

A couple of days ago, when the temperature was up there in the seventies, I went outside and saw a whole swarm of honeybees. They were all happy and active, greedily cleaning up the Dr Pepper cans in the storage box outside my room.

It's November. In other parts of the country, the honeybees have taken cover for the winter. Here, though, they have no idea that their Northern cousins are freezing their stingers off.

But I really like bees - they're useful, and the honeybees don't bother me as long as I don't bother them first - so it's nice that they're still around.

It's just a little odd, that's all.

Hi, Norm!

I live in the middle of nowhere. "Turn off the paved road" is, in fact, included in the directions to my house - followed by "then turn off that cruddy road onto an even-cruddier one." We have thirteen acres surrounded by trees, with a couple of neighbors who are far enough away from our house to not mind when one of us gets on the drum set in the evening or cranks up a stereo.

However, living off a half-mile-long private road does have a disadvantage: oxygen thieves think that it's a good idea to abandon animals at the end of the road that intersects with the county road. They aren't likely to be caught, because they're dumping their animals in the middle of nowhere. And I doubt that many of the scum sucking, syphilitic wastes have to drive very far to get here, either. That would require effort, you know.

Somebody did just that yesterday. A large Beagle puppy - definitely old enough for solid food, but not fully grown yet - showed up outside of our gate. He, in fact, of the floppy ears and large, sad, brown eyes, managed to find a way through the gate and into our yard.

Our dogs, oddly enough, merely woofed at the poor guy. Typically, they want to destroy any unauthorized visitor, regardless of how many legs it happens to possess. But in this dog's case, they woofed a few times and proceeded to exchange butt sniffs.

The dog soon found his way onto the porch, then into the living room. He's currently curled up on one end of our couch, sleeping.

We've dubbed him "Norman," for whatever reason.

What pisses me off is the fact that this dog is used to being inside. He didn't have any problem just rolling right in and making himself at home. This isn't his first indoor experience. He's also housebroken. And he's good with cats.

He doesn't belong to one of the neighbors. Somebody abandoned him after giving him a decent home.

Oxygen thieves.