Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Emergency Beast Blogging: The Palliative Pussies Edition

Thanks to everyone who's voted in the 2011 Miss Wingnut Pageant.  If you haven't had a chance to cast your ballot yet, please do so in comments here; we'll be announcing the winner on Friday.

In the meantime, D.Sidhe, as she so often does, cut to the heart of the matter when she demanded, "Why are you making us look at these people?"  Frankly, I don't know, and I suspect it would take more therapy than I can currently afford to find the answer, but fortunately, she also suggested a way to make the medicine go down: cat pictures.
Riley:  (SIGH)  Yes, you can always tell you're in Hollywood by the sound of your neighbor blasting "The Red Army Men's Choir Sings Your Favorite Marching Songs of the Great Patriot War."  Pardon me for just a moment.  I'm going to kill him with my mind...

Moondoggie:  I had a dream that the whole world was carpeted in rich, deep-pile Persian cat ass.


Anntichrist S. Coulter said...

I loveses yer kittehs. Mine are NEVER that entertaining, at least not when I'm looking...

D. Sidhe said...

Man, does Moondoggie have a brother? I desperately need a gorgeous doofus cat. Evil, sadistic, scheming cat, I have one of those. I also have the good natured constant napper. But I really need an outright dork to entertain me...

Meanwhile, I'm going to live vicariously though other peoples' cats. Iala is spending roughly twenty hours a day asleep under my partner's desk where I can't reach her, and I have a sinus flareup that makes me realize that Nagi is going to have to put off her plans to conquer the world until she learns to stop running and cowering under the bed every time someone sneezes in her vicinity.

Thank you for sharing your kids, Scott. Particularly because it moves The Creepy Bunch down the page some, for which I thank you, Roman Glenn's drunken hairdresser thanks you, and so does the runaway in Lileks' basement.

ifthethunderdontgetya™³²®© said...

Yoo gotta do what you gotta doo.

Anntichrist S. Coulter said...

D., dear heart, I must disagree with you, rather stringently upon this one point (and no I have never thrown away the catalog with the silver origami-crane earrings, for when I can afford to get them for you, my artiste/best-get-well-prezzie-maker-EVER): Moondoggie is NOT, I repeat, ***NOT*** a DOOFUS!!! He has his own form of genius that can't be measured on standardized/formulated/traditional means. He is the Master of Zen semi-consciousness. He very well may be the next reincarnation of the Buddha, look into those eyes --- somewhat befuddled by the complexities/artificialities of modern communication, because he is timeless and as yet unborn, at the same time.

But he R not a 'tard, dammit. He's just cookin' on a whole other planet, is all. Hunter Thompson would've recognized the genius in Moonie's seemingly-"blank" eyes, and Kinky Friedman, despite some of his political boo-boos, would TOTALLY grok that cat. PTerry Pratchett, SIR Pterry, could write an entire book about exploring the many discworlds inside of Moonie's head.

Don't underestimate teh Moondoggie. Whatever he gives away in "...um... DOI..." expressions, is merely the facade concealing a whole other multiverse.

Anonymous said...

Whatever he gives away in "...um... DOI..." expressions, is merely the facade concealing a whole other multiverse.

A similarly-countenanced Dubya, however, is the genuine Tard-icle.

--Sour Kraut

Scott said...

From AnntiChrist S. Coulter, via email (she's having trouble posting comments again):

Heh. "Tard-icle." I like that and I'm gonna steal it, I just thought that I could warn you ahead of time, before I rip it off completely. But then, if that giant fucking nutless-wonder/afraid-of-horses-pseudo-"cowboy" CARPETBAGGER MORON had HAD *any* TESTICLES, then we wouldn't have been dragged into two illegal wars to prove that he and his Poppy did, indeed, "possess" the big dicks that their flight suits let them BELIEVE existed.

Tardicle, Turdicle, Turd-cicle (perfectly good way to ruin fudge-icles for everybody on here!, Even if they say it "fudgeicle" instead of "fudge-CICLE"!), brush-clearing MOW-RAHN who claims to own a "ranch" that has never seen horses OR cattle (The Royal Prince Tardicle is skeered of THEM, too!) in its history as part of the U.S. --- whatever you wanna call him, Sour honey, I still wanna see that mow-rahn, the Cheneyborg, Rum-fucker-feld, Cuntisleeza Rice, Colon Powell of My-Lai, the evil pricks in the Federal Reserve who spent that war money like it was fucking WATER running through their fingers, all of Wall Street/NYSE and every OTHER inherently-corrupt stock-exchange way of fucking poor people over YET AGAIN --- I wanna see EVERY LAST ONE of those evil recruit-only-the-POOR-'cause-there's-no-JOBS-left motherfuckers swing from the long end of a slow, glycerine-soaked rope. I wanna watch their legs kick as their spinal cords die, and I wanna be the first one to spit upon Cheney's corpse, much like the Italian grandmothers who lined-up to spit upon Mussolini's. I call dibs upon spitting upon ALL OF 'EM, except that one day I'm going to out-wit the "guards" at the "Reagan *Library*" (can you say, "HA FUCKING *HA*!!!"???) JUST SO THAT I CAN ACHIEVE A DREAM I'VE HAD SINCE HINKLEY INTENTIONALLY FUCKED-UP (ergo, Ronnie Raygun is invincible, can do no wrong, etc., it's all in that book about the Bush Empire) the FIRST so-called "attempt" to unseat The Puppet-In-Chief, the ORIGINAL moron of the oval office (the man made IKE and Grover CLEVELAND look like RHODES SCHOLARS!!!) --- ever since that day in fifth grade when I got yanked into the principal's office for dancing and singing when they pulled us off of the school buses to tell us that "our" (HA!) president had been shot --- someday, somehow, I am going to treat myself to the hard-earned thrill of a lifetime: PISSING ON RONNIE RAY-GUN'S GRAVE!!!!!!

Everybody's gotta have SOME kind of dream to give them an excuse to continue taking-up space on this planet, right? That and the war-crimes/crimes-against-humanity/treason/embezzling convictions of all of the above-mentioned ancient fucking NIXONITES who got us to where we are now. I wanna watch those motherfuckers SWING, dammmit. If there is ever to be ANY justice in this quadrant of the multiverse, THEY GOTTA FUCKING ***GO***!!!!!!

D. Sidhe said...

What's wrong with being a doofus? He seems like a charming, good natured, extremely laid back guy who can't begin to understand why Riley would want to take over the earth. I'm not saying he's a dumbass, I'm saying he's an underachiever by choice, because if the rest of you want to work yourselves to a frazzle plotting the deaths of all your enemies and the construction of a new kind of can opener, that's your business. Moondoggie? He knows what he wants out of life, and he's worked out how to get it without a lot of drama or work.

I admire that. :-) I'm not saying neurotic cats aren't fabulous, they are, or I'd stop adopting black cats. But there's something very charming about a little guy who just can't be bothered with all of that.

I respect Riley and her evil scheming sisters in species and homicidal intent. But I want to scoop Moondoggie up and blow raspberries into his belly fur.

Anntichrist S. Coulter said...

Moondoggie actually reminds me quite a bit of "Ginger Baker," the orange tabby/ginger marmalade boy-child of "Lex Luthor," the canniest, most-ass-kicking-est mama feral EVAH, the original feral clan (@ L'Hotel des Fouquetards) that got me dragged into the whole feral-cat-wrangling circus.

Sadly, I was unable to ever recapture Ginger, Lex, her paranoid-from-hell sister Polly or the little rangy black cat that was trying to get the remaining family (y'all remember how many of my semi-feral/hand-raised residential babies "mysteriously" disappeared at the Fucktard Hotel, I'm sure) when I hadda move from St. Fuckville to Crackery Zachary. I had found a wunnerful new home for them, plenty of free-range hunting, a wunnerful new caregiver who would feed them every day, the whole schmear, but the bitches JUST WOULDN'T TAKE THE BAIT, so I have no idea what's become of them now.
Ginger, usually, no matter which cat I was trying to catch in the immediate neighborhood, was always, ALWAYS the first fat-ass into the trap, because he knew, after he recovered from HIS trip to the vet, that he could go in there, eat a whole can of the good food, and then just wait an hour or so for me to come let his ass out. But when I no longer lived there and came BACK, repeatedly, for him & his?
No dice.

So I try not to think of Ginger when I look at Moondoggie. I envy the hell out of Moondoggie, but I wanna come back as Riley. I don't know how to do that "hang loose" thing, probably never would, no matter what I may be reincarnated as, if I have to do any further trips 'round this damned sun.

Anntichrist S. Coulter said...

BTW, Scott? Aren't all (non-infectious, non-scabby/crabby) pussies "palliative" BY DEFINITION???

No comment on the hair issue, I think that Brazilians should either be gay landlords or kept in Brazil.

BTW, my code word is "INANIST." Annnnnd, fuck YOU, TOOOOO, Google/Blogger!!!!!!