Conversations With Pets

catvdog

I read a post at Content Unrelated where he wondered what it would be like if dogs could actually talk. The results were hilarious. Go read it now. I’ll wait.

Since I’m nothing if not an appreciator of humor and thief, I thought I’d try my hand at it and give you conversations with my own dog and cat.

In the morning:

Dog: Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

Me: Merghablarhg.

Dog: Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. It’s time for up. Up means outside and breakfast. I’m just going to lick you with my giant cow tongue until you wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

Me: Fuck off!

Dog: Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. What if I sit on you?

Me: OWW! I’m up.

Cat: Would you stop fidgeting? I’m trying to sleep here.

In the bathroom:

Cat: Captive audience. Pay attention to me. Now.

Dog: I’m just going to sit here and awkwardly stare at you without blinking until you’re done doing whatever it is you are doing. OK?

Cat: Rub my belly or I’ll jump on your lap and dig my claws in. It will hurt.

Me: Go away.

Feeding time:

Cat: FEED ME.

Dog: Ooh, good thinking, cat. Some food would be nice.

Cat: Mmm dog food nom nom nom.

Me: Cat, don’t eat the dog’s food. Eat your own.

Cat: Food is food and this is closer.

Dog: Are you going to let the cat eat all my food?

Me: Why don’t you stop him yourself? You’re three times his size.

Dog: I can’t. You stop him!

Me: Cat, don’t eat the dog’s food. Eat your own food.

[pick cat up from dog bowl and place him at his own]

Cat: Mmm cat food nom nom nom.

cateatfood

Cat Toys:

Cat: What is that thing?

Me: It’s a cat toy.

Cat: What do you want me to do with it?

Me: Play with it.

Cat: Why would I play with that?

Me: Because it’s a cat toy specifically made for cats to play with!

Cat: I prefer this toy.

Me: That’s not a toy. It’s a power cord.

Cat: Whatever. It’s delicious.

Me: I got a cat toy to keep you from chewing on the power cord. Do not eat the power cord.

Dog: Can I have the cat toy?

Me: No.

Dog: Why not?

Me: Because you’ll chew it into a million little pieces in 30 seconds.

Dog: Yeah! Let’s do that!

Me: No.

Cat: I don’t want it. Give it to the dog.

Dog: Yeah! Let’s do that!

Me: No.

Dog Toys:

Dog: PLAY WITH ME.

Me: I’m busy right now.

Dog: PLAY WITH ME. PLAY WITH ME. PLAY WITH ME.

Me: Maybe later.

Dog: PLAY. I’m going to shove this toy in your lap until you play with me, alright?

Me: This isn’t a tuggy toy, dog. This is a ball.

Dog: What’s a tuggy toy?

Me: It’s a toy where you hold one end, I hold the other and we pull.

Dog: Ooh, I love that toy! This is that toy!

Me: No, you have a ball. There’s nowhere to grab onto a ball.

Dog: Sure there is. See?

Me: I mean, there’s nowhere for me to grab onto the ball, because you have the whole thing in your mouth.

Dog: TUGGY TOY.

Me: I can’t play tuggy with this! It’s a ball.

Dog: TUGGY.

Me: You always win.

Fetch version 1:

Dog: Throw The ball. Throw it. Throw the ball.

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Me: OK.

[dog watches it bounce away without moving]

Dog: Why did you throw it over there?! I wanted that.

Fetch version 2:

Dog: Throw The ball. Throw it. Throw the ball.

Me: OK.

[dog goes after it but doesn’t bring it back]

Me: Why didn’t you bring it back?

Dog: Why would I do that?

Fetch version 3:

Dog: Throw The ball. Throw it. Throw the ball.

Me: OK.

[dog goes after it, brings it back halfway, then drops it]

Dog: That was fun! Come here and throw it again!

Me: No, you bring it back to me and I’ll throw it.

Dog: Come here and throw it again!

Me: You really suck at fetch.

Dog: What’s fetch?

Outside:

Dog: Outside?

Me: No, we just went outside a half an hour ago. Wait until bedtime.

Dog: Outside?

Me: No.

Cat: What is outside?

Me: Remember that time you went missing for four days and I found you all smelly and matted inside the next door neighbor’s shed? That’s outside.

Cat: Oh yes, that’s where all the scary things happen. Outside is terrible. Why would anyone want to go outside?

Dog: Outside is awesome!! There are squirrels and other dogs and people!

Cat: Inside is so much better. It’s warm and there’s food and no one beats you up.

Dog: Outside!

Me: Neither of you are going outside right now.

Cat: Phew.

Dog: Outside?

Time:

Dog: What time is it?

Me: 8:37.

Dog: Hahaha! Gotcha! I don’t even know what that means!

Me: That’s not very funny.

Dog: Hahahaha!

Cat: What is time?

Dog: Time is how we know when we get fed, when to go out and when to go to bed.

Cat: But, I eat when I want, sleep when I want and don’t go outside.

Dog: How do you know when to do that?

Cat: I just do it when I feel like it.

Dog: That doesn’t make any sense. Silly cat.

Me: It’s time for you both to be quiet.

Hello, My Name Is Goldfish. I’m Broken.

bfmh14-copy2

I read a post today at Behind The Mask Of Abuse that got me thinking about stigma. In the post, Ms. Zoe says, “I fear that if I share my history with him, he will see me differently. You know…the stigma thing. I want him to get to know me without that first.”

I can relate. When you are a former child prostitute, substance abusing, anorexic cutter who was molested as a child and in a violently abusive relationship as an adult, when is it appropriate to mention that? When do you tell people about your history?

“Hello, I’m Jason. Great party.”

“Hi, my name is Goldfish. Yes, it’s a great party. I have PTSD, Major Depressive Disorder, Anxiety Disorder and Body Dysmorphic Disorder as the result of child sexual trauma. I was a child prostitute and substance abuser. Don’t worry, I’m clean now. Would you like an hors d’oeuvre?”

Obviously, that’s a bit of hyperbole, but it’s really not too far from the truth. When is it appropriate to tell people about your past?

There are people I’ve known for years, coworkers and acquaintances mostly, who have no idea what I’ve gone through, while there are other people I’ve told when I first met them. It depends on context and the eyes. If people have had rough experiences in life, you can see it in their eyes. It’s a calling card. I can spot someone who’s gone through trauma almost immediately. It’s easier to talk to those people. They don’t judge as readily. They’re less apt to view you differently.

Some people do view you differently once you start talking about it. It’s not their fault. It’s not intentional. They just have no frame of reference for what it’s like to have someone kill your dogs out of spite or try to kill you to keep you from leaving. Their eyes widen or narrow and their mouths involuntarily curl up in mild disgust. Some people can’t handle it and walk away forever, while others see it as part of me. The past is the past and it is responsible for who I am now, so it can’t be all bad.

I don’t dwell on my past, but if I’m going to be involved with someone more than just as an acquaintance, I feel it’s my responsibility to tell them, not in detail, but at least, a big picture view. If people are going to run away, I’d rather they do it up front before there’s an emotional connection.

Especially, when it comes to intimate relationships, partners should probably know up front that I was once a drug addict prostitute. I’ve been tested and I’m clean, but still, men tend to freak out when you tell them that afterwards, as if I was trying to hide it or trick them. It’s best to get these things done with, but that is not an easy conversation to have. Plus, every once in a while, someone will run away. Some run away after, some before.

There is a stigma and it’s not pleasant. It’s not fun to have people recoil from you in horror as you matter-of-factly tell them about your past. Mental illness, domestic violence, child sexual abuse–each of these has a unique stigma, and I’m lucky enough to experience all of them. Yay me.

What’s your take on having to explain a sordid past to strangers? When is it appropriate to have that conversation? On a first date? Before you sleep with someone? Never? When?

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Conversation With An Alien

David Bowie, The Man Who Fell To Earth, British Lion Film Corporation, 1976.

As I was walking my dog this morning, I wondered what an alien species would think about us if they ever came to visit. Don’t blame me; I hadn’t had any coffee yet.

I came up with a list of things that aliens would probably find really strange about the human species and here it is. Ta da!

In this post, I’ll be acting as alien ambassador. The odds that aliens would visit us and that I, your friendly neighborhood goldfish, would act as an intermediary are about as small as my winning an Olympic gold medal, but this is my blog, so I can do what I want.

I like to think of my alien as looking like David Bowie:

David Bowie, The Man Who Fell To Earth, British Lion Film Corporation, 1976.
David Bowie, The Man Who Fell To Earth, British Lion Film Corporation, 1976.

Daylight Savings Time

Alien Visitor: Wait, so half the year, you use one time, and the other half of the year, you use another time?

Me: Yes.

Alien: You’re saving time for what purpose?

Me: Well, we’re not saving it per se, not like putting money in a bank, but aligning our time so that we use the least electricity.

Alien: What’s a bank?

Me: Never mind that.

Alien: But not every one participates?

Me: That’s correct. Even in this country, The United States, there are a few states that don’t participate.

Alien: Doesn’t that make it awfully confusing?

Me: Yes. Yes, it does.

Alien: Well, why do it then?

Me: I have absolutely no friggin’ clue.

Pets, Zoos

Alien: I see a lot of your people walking four-legged creatures around on ropes. What’s that about?

Me: Those are dogs. They are our pets.

Alien: What’s a pet?

Me: A pet is an animal that we look after. They are our companions.

Alien: They’re different species than you?

Me: Yes, we have dogs, cats, reptiles, fish, birds and all sorts of other creatures as pets.

Alien: You don’t keep humans?

Me: No, not anymore. That’s called slavery and that’s bad.

Alien: So, non-humans then. Do they have a choice in the matter?

Me: Well, sometimes, yes and sometimes, no.

Alien: It’s slavery then?

Me: Oh, no, not at all. We take care of them. A lot of them couldn’t survive on their own.

Alien: Why is that? They were originally wild creatures, no?

Me: We’ve domesticated them and now they depend on us.

Alien: So, you bred out the wild qualities and made them depend on you and now you keep them in your homes sometimes unwillingly?

Me: Well, um, yes.

Alien: And this zoo thing?

Me: Those are wild animals that we keep so that people can visit them and learn what they are like.

Alien: They’re not pets?

Me: No, they’re not. They’re technically still wild animals.

Alien: Wild animals that you keep in cages for people to look at.

Me: Well, um, yes.

Cars, Commutes

Alien: So, most of you work away from your homes?

Me: Yes.

Alien: Why do you live far away from your homes?

Me: Lots of reasons. Sometimes, we can’t afford to live where we work. Sometimes, spouses work somewhere else so we live in the middle between them. Some people want their kids to go to a certain school. Some people just enjoy living in a certain neighborhood.

Alien: Well, why don’t they get a job in that neighborhood then?

Me: They’re not always available.

Alien: But there are jobs in that neighborhood that someone has? Why not just take those and make the people who live far away work in their own neighborhoods?

Me: I’m not sure. It’s not that simple I guess. I suppose it goes to free will. We don’t like being told what to do.

Alien: And you commute to these jobs in other neighborhoods in these little metal boxes?

Me: Yes, they’re called cars.

Alien: And they run on a limited supply of fossil fuel that is hard to get and pollutes the air. Why don’t you use some other cleaner form of transportation? You have trains. Why not use those?

Me: A lot of people do, but humans love their cars. We have cleaner forms of transportation, but as of now, they’re expensive and not everyone can afford them.

Alien: Why not just force people to switch?

Me: It’s not that simple I guess. Politics and we don’t like being told what to do.

Concrete, Asphalt, Traffic

Alien: I’ve noticed a lot of grey and black on your surface.

Me: Oh, you mean concrete and asphalt.

Alien: What’s that for?

Me: Well, mostly for cars to drive and park on. Some of it is for pedestrians though. They’re called sidewalks.

Alien: So, people do use their legs to move about sometimes instead of cars?

Me: Oh, yes, of course they do.

Alien: Why don’t they do that all the time then instead of using cars?

Me: Cars move a lot faster than we can walk.

Alien: Then why do I see them stopped so often?

Me: That’s called traffic. It happens when a lot of people are trying to get somewhere all at the same time. We have what we call rush hour when most people are trying to get to work at the same time.

Alien: Why don’t you stagger your work hours to avoid traffic?

Me: We do, sometimes, but generally, it’s best where business is concerned that we’re all working at roughly the same time so we can communicate, buy, sell, trade and whatnot.

Alien: So, in order to run these polluting cars around to jobs that are far away, you have cut down trees and made roads of concrete that run through neighborhoods that you all drive on all at the same time slowing everyone down.

Me: Yes.

Countries, War

Alien: Who’s in charge of your planet?

Me: Lots of people are. We have a lot of different countries and each one has its own government.

Alien: Oh. Well, who’s in charge of them?

Me: No one. Each country governs itself.

Alien: There’s no one overseeing the whole planet?

Me: Well, no. We do have The United Nations where different countries are represented and make decisions.

Alien: So, they’re in charge then?

Me: Well, no, not really. Each UN representative is beholden to the government of their country.

Alien: And each country is in this United Nations?

Me: No. There are 193 United Nations member states. The number of countries on earth is always changing, but it’s higher than that.

Alien: So, not everyone is represented in this United Nations? That doesn’t seem fair.

Me: No, it doesn’t.

Alien: And who decides that a country is a country and who decides who is allowed in to the United Nations?

Me: The UN general assembly votes on new members. Countries are created through wars and coups and revolutions.

Alien: What’s a war?

Me It’s a conflict between people and countries.

Alien: Over what?

Me: Wars happen for a lot of reasons: disagreement with the current government, country boundaries, religion, racism, greed, oil, money, etc.

Alien: Those all sound like bad reasons to kill each other.

Me: They are bad reasons to kill each other. War is always stupid and bad and unnecessary.

Alien: Then why do you do it?

Me: Because there’s always someone who wants something someone else has or wants a certain race out of their country. Wars are sad.

Alien: Then you should stop doing that.

Me: Yes, we should.

Races

Alien: Humans come in a lot of different shapes and colors, but you’re all the same species?

Me: Yes. Humans come in many different shapes and sizes and colors, but we’re all human. We all share the same basic structure.

Alien: It seems that some of you don’t agree with that.

Me: That’s true. There are some people who think they’re somehow better than others because of their color or shape, but those are the minority.

Alien: But you have wars and kill each other over race.

Me: Yes, sadly, we do.

Alien: Why? It is common knowledge that you’re all the same species?

Me: Yes, it’s common knowledge.

Alien: They who do some people think they are better than others?

Me: Because they are wrong.

Alien: Then they should stop thinking that.

Me: Yes. Yes, they should.

Comfortable Silence

SHUT UP!
Image from madbetty.com

I’ve been spending a lot of time alone. Some people might think that is an awful thing, but I genuinely enjoy my own company more than anyone else’s. I like me better than you. Sorry, but it’s true. I never ask myself prying questions. I don’t mind awkward pauses in conversation. I never make small talk with myself.

Part of my aloneness has to do with the fact that Male moved away two months ago. We used to spend most of our time together. I genuinely enjoyed his company. He rarely asked prying questions because he knew all the answers. There were no awkward pauses since we had come to a place in our togetherness where we could sit comfortably and silently. He never made small talk with me. He told me once that he knew all my stories.

Without Male, I find that I enjoy my company second best. This is nothing new. I’ve always been the quiet girl sitting by herself at the lunch table, or perhaps sitting silently with one or two others. Part of it is genetics. My father isn’t inclined to small talk either and he is a downright gossip girl compared to his father. Silence is a venerated Finnish family tradition, though both my father and grandfather chose to mate with chatterboxes. My grandparents and parents each produced one chatterbox and one silent child. I am the silent child like the males that came before me.

Comfortable silence is vastly underrated. Most people don’t find silence comforting. They find it awkward, as if there’s an unwritten rule that human mouths must constantly flap or we’ll drown like sharks. We won’t die if our mouths stop moving for an instant. Really, we won’t. I’m still alive.

SHUT UP! Image from madbetty.com
SHUT UP!
Image from madbetty.com

Some people mistake my disinclination to blather on about nothing for coldness. I’ve been called a bitch because of it. Added to my silence is my tendency to furrow my brow and squint. I am photophobic (sensitive to light) from childhood meningitis and my brow lives in a constant state of furrow. If there’s any light at all, which there generally is wherever people are, I squint because it helps keep the blinding rays out of my delicate eyebulbs. Quietly squinting and furrowing, people think I am judging them because people always think the worst of other people. It never occurs to them that maybe there’s a reason for my furrowed squinting and maybe I only speak when I have something to say.

For the past two weeks, my sister has been visiting our parents. She comes back today and I find myself dreading it. She is the chatterbox. I know that once I pick her up from the airport, my lovely silence will be broken.

That’s not to say that I’ve been alone the whole time. I’ve texted friends. I have seen people every day. I’ve gone to work and I’ve gone to the dog park. The people at the dog park are there for the dogs. Human interaction is a secondary activity. There are delectable moments when a dozen people sit and watch the dogs play while the last of the sun’s rays disappear, saying nothing. That’s my kind of silence; realizing that the earth has spun again leaving our corner of it out of the sun’s direct path for a few hours in its twenty-four hour cycle. Slight breezes, sunsets and silence. That is why I love the dog park. Well, that and all the dogs. Dogs don’t make small talk either.

If you were to drop me on a deserted island, I would cope. I would probably miss people, specifically the people I’m closest to, but I would thrive. I would find ways to entertain myself as I have always done. I would survive in a world without people, but I would miss certain things. I would miss listening to stories. I would miss high fives and hugs and laughter.

Though I am a taciturn misanthrope, I am not silently judging you. I will speak when I have something to say.

Barbaras

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This story requires a disclaimer and a back story.

The company I work for recently bought a company that makes tea. The company I work for is not a tea company. My company sells more lascivious entertainment of the adult variety. The two companies share a building. Right next to a where a nice Oolong is stored in the warehouse could be a rack for vibrators. You get the idea.

The people who work for the tea company are nice people. The people who work for my company are nice people, too, but they’re more the kind of people you might cross the street to avoid if you were walking alone late at night. Not because they would do anything necessarily, but because, you’d think to yourself, “it’s better to be safe than sorry.” You would never have to cross the street for the tea people. The tea people would be assessed by your on-board computer, if you had one, as threat level green, on par with a baby kitty cat, while the other employees in the building, myself included, would be assessed as threat level orange, in other words, time to cross the street.

There’s a lady at the tea company who does the same work that I do. We’re both graphic designers, but she designs tea company stuff where I design things of a more lascivious entertainment of the adult variety. This tea lady is nice. If I had to use one word to describe her, it would be nice. Barbara, the tea lady, is nice.

Today, as I was working away, munching on some sun chips with my headphones blaring, Barbara came into my office to grab a printout. Even though it was obvious that I was A) working B) eating and C) wearing headphones, Barbara started talking to me… while I had headphones on… as if I was faking not being able to hear her. I removed a headphone and she just kept going with her sentence. “What did you say?” I asked when I had swallowed what I was chewing. “Oh, I was asking about your car.” I was recently in a car accident. I answered her questions and she went about her business wishing me a pleasant day.

Then I chatted with a friend of mine to complain about how nice Barbara is. This chat was with the person you might know better as Blast, so heretofore, we shall use the names Drat to refer to me and Blast to refer to my friend. The conversation goes a little like this:

Drat: The tea lady is annoying. She means well, but she’s too nice. She always wants to chat.  I’m sitting here with headphones on munching on sun chips, which means I’m double occupied, and she wants to chat at me anyway.

Blast: Oh. What is a tea lady?

Drat: She’s me for the tea company we bought and I find her niceness annoying. She’s the anti-me.

Blast: Oh. Is she hot?

Drat: No. Her name’s Barbara and she seems like a Barbara. She’s older than me and nice.

Blast: Barbaras throughout Earth are all pretty much the same, except one. Barbara Bach. The rest? All the same.

Drat: Who’s that?

Blast: Some random 70s hottie.

Drat: “Hottie” and “Barbara” do not mix well. Nor do “street smart” or “badass.”

Blast: No, but Barbara and tea, on the other hand, kinda go together. Tea and crumpets are often served by women named Barbara.

Drat: Barbara and I-need-a-ride-to-the-airport-at-5AM go together. Barbaras can’t say no. They’re too nice.

Blast: Barbaras wear robes all the time at home.

Drat: And own cats and teapots.

Blast: Barbaras also like mass-produced art.

Drat: Their favorite cartoon is Cathy.

Blast: Their favorite tv show is anything with Martha Stewart.

Drat: They love gardening and email forwards.

Blast: And bland food and soap operas.

Drat: Spicy and Barbara do not mix. Barbaras actually like and talk to their families. You can’t hide your Barbaraness by being called Barb either. Although it is slightly better.

Blast: Barbie is the only path out of Barbaraness. Unfortunately, it is often a path to stripping, drugs, and/or prostitution.

Drat: Barbaras dislike loud music and horror movies.

Blast: Barbaras like flowers.

Drat: They don’t like commercials without kittens. Barbaras love motivational posters – the real kind. They also think lolcats are hilarious, but that real cats would spell better.

Blast: Barbaras are reasonably certain that there are little people working inside of computers, and that spells are cast to make the cursors move.

Drat: Barbaras believe that unicorns are real, but they never tell anyone besides other Barbaras. Barbaras talk to their pets and houseplants.

Blast: It is also a verified fact that Barbaras are born with makeup on their eyes, and their eyes open approximately 22% wider than non-Barbaras. They stay that wide, even while sleeping. Barbaras also smile 143% more than anyone on earth.

Drat: Barbaras say, “you startled me!” approx. 30 times more than the general population in a given month.

Blast: And always do so while waving their hands in front of their face to scare away the Demon of Startle.

Drat: Barbaras get their hair cut at least twice a month.

Blast: And yet it never actually grows or changes in any discernible way.

Drat: Barbaras think manicures are silly and a waste of money that could be used for buying more cat toys.

Blast: Barbaras secrete a special enzyme from their scalps that coats each individual hair in both frosting and hair spray.

Drat: Barbaras never have nightmares. Barbaras think rap music is something involving a piano score. Barbaras have seen every single episode of Wheel of Fortune ever aired.

Blast: Barbaras have seen episodes of Wheel of Fortune that have yet to air. Barbaras often say, “those people.”  It is the only observable phenomenon to cause their smiles to lessen… almost imperceptibly unless measured with calipers.

Drat: Barbaras think everyone is as nice as they are. The only exception is teenagers or as they call them, “hooligans, but they will grow out it.” Barbaras who have been mugged think that the person’s guilt will eventually get to them and they will bring back the Barbaras’ purses.

Blast: Barbaras believe that somewhere there lies a fabled realm where all the Barbaras purses that were stolen and not returned before the thieves met an untimely end reside, frolicking with lace and sheer curtains while Yanni plays in the background.

Drat: Barbaras are the most prolific collectors and makers of doilies. Barbaras are responsible for every purchase of something called a “dust ruffle” in human history. Barbaras buy spoons at souvenir shops.

Blast: Barbaras are single-handedly responsible for the use of the word “darling” to describe inanimate objects.

Drat: Barbaras have the most extensive porcelain collections. Collectively, Barbaras own more porcelain kitties than the number of real cats on earth. Barbaras favorite activities are needlepoint and crochet.

Blast: Barbaras propped up the hat industry throughout most of the 20th century, as each Barbara must own at least 35 hats. As the name has reduced in popularity, many hat makers were forced to sell their organs to make ends meet.

Drat: Barbaras own at least 50 blankets, one for every occasion and temperature. They are stored by thickness and color. Barbaras refer to each by its proper type: duvet, throw, bedspread, quilt, Snuggie, etc. Barbaras will often lend their umbrellas to coworkers since they carry at least 3 on them at all times. Barbaras own a sweater, sweatshirt or t-shirt for every holiday.

Blast: Barbaras believe that all babies are indeed brought by the stork. As a result Vlasic pickles are venerated, and that episode where Bugs Bunny has to take over for a drunk stork is horrifying. Barbaras have been known to kill when witnessing white being worn after Easter.

Drat: Barbaras are unclear on the following concepts: internet, video games, cell phones, instant watch, DVRs, torrents and fiberoptics. Barbaras are still trying to learn how to program their VCRs. Barbaras think pornography is Victoria’s Secret or one of those racy perfume commercials. Barbaras crochet tea cozies for all of their friends and relatives but most people think they’re toilet paper covers and use them as such if they use them at all.

Oh, Barbara.

DISCLAIMER: Even though this post and everything in it refers to Barbara, it is not necessarily a reflection on anyone with that name. You should all know by now that I make things up. I apologize to any Barbaras or Barbs I may have offended. The nice lady could have just as easily been named something else instead, but as it happens, her name is Barbara and so is this post. By the way, I’m sorry you’re named that.

This post is part of the Drat & Blast series.

Battles

400px-Sadler,_Battle_of_Waterloo

400px-Sadler,_Battle_of_Waterloo

Blast: I want to get a pool.

Drat: Who doesn’t?

Blast: I honestly cannot remember ever not being able to swim.

Drat: I suck at swimming. My skeleton is too dense, what with that Adamantium coating. So, I just sink.

Blast: Your skull is too dense.

Drat: Floating is half the battle.

Blast: Lots of things are half the battle like not being a spastic retard also helps. That’s half the battle. Not drowning? Half the battle. Geez, I quoted Kevin Costner, but what was that from?

Drat: You got me. Even if I knew, I would pretend I didn’t because that’s just embarrassing.

Blast: The Untouchables. And surprise, as you very well know, Mr. Ness is half the battle. Many things are half the battle. Losing is half the battle. Let’s think about what is all the battle.

Drat: You’re a battle.

Blast: You’re half the battle.

Drat: HA! I win.

Blast: LIES How do you figure? I’m ALL the battle, therefore, I WIN.

Drat: I’m only half as much battle as you, therefore, I WIN. You are ALL battle.

Blast: That doesn’t even make sense to a Plutonian.

Drat: I’m half battle, half AWESOME, whereas you are ALL battle, which is like so totally boooooooo.

Blast: I’m ALL AWESOME.

Drat: Nope. You can’t be both all battle AND all awesome. Since you are all battle, you contain no awesome.

Blast: You got your halves mixed up.

Drat: You are all battle, which means that I contain 50% more awesome than you.

Blast: You are half spastic retard.

Drat: You didn’t specify that.

Blast: You’re half drownedy mcdrownerpants with zero buoyancy.

Drat: You can’t go specifying after the fact.

Blast: I can too.

Drat: No, you cain’t.

Blast: I command thee to allow it. I come with the Lord with the power to compel. I smite thee.

Drat: Only people who are 50% more awesome than you, like ME, can compel others to do their bidding.

Blast: SMITE SMITE SMITE.

Drat: By commanding me to allow it, you have proven that I am more powerful. Bask in the power of 50% more AWESOME than you.

Blast: You are smitten. You are in deep smit.

Drat: I’m way more full of power than you. Revel in the power of my awesome.

Blast: SMITE. That was just to remind you of my power.

Drat: You have no power since I am the one who allows or does not allow, and guess what; I won’t allow it.

Blast: I just commanded thee to allow it in your own brain.

Drat: Denied.

Blast: It’s allowed.

Drat: Request denied in perpetuity.

Blast: I come with the Lord with the power to compel just to teach you a lesson about the long arm of my authoriTAE.

Drat: Punishment forthcoming. G’lord, we have some stupid conversations.

This post is part of the Drat & Blast series.

Mind Bullet

mind_bullets

mind_bullets

Blast: I killed him for real with a mind bullet. His gray matter is leaking all over his dorky, white lab coat.

Drat: Sure you did.

Blast: Blast shoots Drat with a mind bullet. I am sorry I had to do that, but you left me no choice.

Drat’s computer: Drat cannot respond because she has been unfairly shot with a mind bullet for no reason.

Blast: I don’t know who you are typing on Drat’s computer, but please get her some help. There is only one known cure for a mind bullet: Raw onions ingested for an hour. Get her some life saving roots, STAT.

Drat’s computer: Drat has been shot through the mind with a mind bullet and is now a vegetable.

Blast: She’s an onion, which is why the onions are necessary, you twat. What kind of a moron are you anyway? Who is this? In fact, Blast shoots Drat’s computer with a mind bullet flurry from which there is no recovery.

Drat’s computer: ARRRRRRGHHH!!! thud

Blast: That’ll teach you, asshats.

Drat’s computer: Everyone here is dead.

Blast: Dear NSA,
The preceding was simply a satirical dramatization. Please don’t arrest me.
Love, Blast
p.s. Drat is not really dead.

Drat’s computer: Drat is most certainly dead from an unfair mind bullet flurry which you lobbed at her.

NSA: Dear Blast,
How do you even know about mind bullets? That’s top secret, secret squirrel information. You will be taken out and shot after we torture you for your sources.
Love, The NSA

Blast: Dear NSA,
The previous satirical dramatization was purely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or secret squirrel future weaponry is purely coincidental and therefore non-actionable.
Love, Blast
(p.s. I know Drat is typing)

NSA: Dear Blast,
The very fact that you used the term “mind bullet” means that you have access to top secret, secret squirrel information, which is well above your security clearance (which is still in negatives, by the way). So, you will be tortured. Sorry, but we have no recourse. Rules is rules.
Love, The NSA
p.s. If you’d like to just tell us your sources, we might not torture you as much, but you will still be tortured regardless (because we like it).

Blast: fires mind bullets indiscriminately at whomever is doing all of this nonsensical typery.
Dear NSA,
I admit it, I know all about the mind bulletry program. However, you would do well to avoid me altogether, as I will not hesitate to take you fuckers out.
Love, Blast
p.s. Please send me some free pens.

NSA: Dear Blast,
If you’d like to fill out requisition form 328B in triplicate and push it through the appropriate channels, you might get some free pens. But the odds of you receiving them before we torture you to death are nil. Please call the office within the next two days to schedule your torturing at a time most convenient for you.
Love, The NSA

Blast: Dear NSA,
Your effete claims of future torture are laughable. I find you laughable. Ha! See? I just laughed. I have MIND BULLETS! How on earth would you ever even get your hands on me? Get a grip, you ridiculous twats.
Love, Blast
p.s. How about some stickers?

NSA: Dear Blast,
We tried to be nice about it (it’s the new policy), but you refuse to see reason. We even allowed you two days to settle your affairs before torturing you, but you came back with threats. Therefore, someone will be at your office sometime in the next 2 minutes to collect you. You may not make it to the office since we’ve had an inordinate number of deaths by torture on wheels lately. Anyhoo, no free pens or stickers.
Love, The NSA

Blast: Dear NSA,
Someone is knocking at my door, hang on.

Oh, it was nothing. Anyway, you have pushed me beyond limit. I am now coming for YOU. The Whole Thing. I will be there at your headquarters in DC, your secret stronghold under the mountains of Nevada, and your super super secret hideout on Grenada in a few minutes with mind bullets for all.
Love, Blast
p.s. I am taking all of your pens and stickers.

NSA: Dear Blast,
Good. It will save us the trip. That was our NSA guy come to torture you, but it turns out that the guy who came to collect you knocked on your door, realized it was apparently lunch hour and walked away. He will be tortured. Good luck finding us. We’re not on the google maps.
Love, The NSA

Blast: Dear NSA,
I killed the guy who knocked on my door, only AFTER torturing him to get the locales of all of your secret bases. Which now belongs to us. To recap: all your base are belong to us.
Love, Blast
p.s. And all your pens and stickers are also belong to us.

NSA: Dear Blast,
Bring it. We are not afraid of you. We are the NSA. We know all. We can torture anyone we please. There will be no pens or stickers.
Love, The NSA

Blast:
MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET MIND BULLET
Dear the shreds and tatters of once was the NSA,
I told you so.
Love, Blast
p.s. Your pens don’t work and your stickers are gay.

NSA: Oh, Blast. We invented the mind bullet. Do you really think we’d invent something without being able to counter it? Silly American. Prepare for torture.
Love, The NmotherfuckingSA

This post is part of the Drat & Blast series.

The Onion

onion-clean-FD-lg

onion-clean-FD-lg

Drat: I fucking hate onion.

Blast: I loooooove onion. Ima eat a raw onion and then breathe all up in yer face.

Drat: Raw onion is just about the worst possible food on Earth. Except maybe dill pickles.

Blast: That’s crazy talk.

Drat: At least onion doesn’t spread its weed juice all over proper food like pickles do. Not only are pickles and onion both disgusting, but somehow, everyone who serves me food automagically includes them on my plate, thereby infecting my proper food with vile odors and flavors.

Blast: Define proper food.

Drat: Proper food being whatever onions and/or pickles come on. A cheeseburger, for instance.

Blast: A cheeseburger requires onion. Most non-retarded diners recognize this.

Drat: No way, no fucking how. Get that vile, smelly, goddamn weed off my fucking plate.

Blast: Firstly, it’s a root…

Drat: Whatever.

Blast: Secondly, it’s the awesome.

Drat: It smells and it’s fucking disgusting. I’d rather eat a tube of toothpaste – at least my breath would smell good.

Blast: I cast you out! OUT! Do you like garlic?

Drat: Fuck YES. I will eat the hell out of some garlic. I’m not retarded.

Blast: Yes, you are. Not liking onion = retarded. It is one of the first things they test for when testing for brain damage. “Do you like onions?” “No.” “She’s a retard.”

Drat: Not only do I not like onion, I FUCKING HATE IT.

Blast: Mmmmm onion… with its sweet aroma of awesomeness.

Drat: Get that stinking weed off my food before it infects it with its toxic fumes. Natural gas smells better.

Blast: Natural gas has no smell.

Drat: The smell they add to it.

Blast: You didn’t say that, and anyway, onion smells like WIN.

Drat: Nope. Anything that can make you cry can’t be good. When you cut it, it’s a warning like the smell they add to natural gas: “This food is toxic and will infect the rest of your food with toxic if you’re not careful.”

Blast: In the Middle Ages, onions were such an important food that people would pay their rent with onions and even give them as gifts. Doctors were known to prescribe onions to facilitate bowel movements and erections, and also to relieve headaches, coughs, snakebite and hair loss.

Drat: If someone gave me an onion as a gift, I’d be PISSED. Besides, we don’t live in the Middle Ages. We know better now. We have SCIENCE. Get the fuck out of here with your goddamn superstitions.

Blast: In many parts of the world, onions are used to heal blisters and boils, and then eaten to help the ingester encompass the soul of his many enemies, enemies like you.

Drat: Back in the day, when people liked onions, they thought the earth was flat. When onions were popular, they thought the sun revolved around the Earth.

Blast: Drats are known to have an aversion to onions, resulting in severe moodiness, pallor, translucent skin, boils, moles, explosive diarrhea and hives – all common afflictions among those of that inferior race. Drats also have aversions to many other things that TASTE THE AWESOME!

Drat: Science has proven the onion to be superfluous and fallacious, just like man’s belief in god.

Blast: The onion is totally not fallacious.

Drat: One day, we will evolve past these superstitions. Some of us, onion-haters, are more highly evolved now though.

Blast: That’s more crazy talk. Once upon a time, Men believed that onions could cure impotence. Now upon a time, they know that this is not true, but onions still taste fucking badass.

Drat: Onions are outdated. Science > onions.

Blast: You’re outdated and retarded. Science has identified many positive effects of long term onion consumption such as: eating something that tastes badass.

Drat: Such as horrible breath.

Blast: A lower percentage of moles.

Drat: Birth defects.

Blast: A propensity for lucid thought.

Drat: Toxic mutation.

Blast: And total win!

Drat: People who like onions discriminate against those of us who don’t – just like being left-handed.

Blast: Drat, in addition to being a retard, shall have to eat twelve raw onions in shame.

Drat: Everything is made for right-handed people and onion eaters. I am oppressed. Heavy is my burden.

Blast: Onions are not for the left-handed. Onions are for right-handers only.

Drat: Well, there you go then. There’s my out.

Blast: Not for eating anyway, but for stoning left-handers: Perfectly acceptable. Mmmm onion.

Drat: You’re an onion and I’m not going to eat you.

Blast: I am multi-layered and strongly smelling.

Drat: I’m going to start a non-profit organization. The Special Scientific Association for the Proper Treatment of Onion-Hating Left-Handers. The SSAPTOHLH.

Blast: Onions don’t need an association to advance their cause, and anyway it would be lost on the retards who don’t like them, who would be too busy smearing feces on their own thighs to notice.

Drat: I’ll call it Onion Hating Left Handers Appreciation Group. OHLHAG or Ol’Hag for short. I’ll get T-shirts printed and business cards.

Blast: Maybe you should work on being less retarded and left-handed instead. I win.

Drat: Lyingliar McOnionbreath.

This post is part of the Drat & Blast series.

The Bankrupt of Drat

bankrupt-life-insurance-company

Dear Diary,
I will be taking a hiatus from you for a while. You see, now I am a bank. Be back with money soon.
Love,
Drat

Dear Government,
I am a bank. Please give me some bailout money. Thanks.
Love,
The Bank Of Drat

Dear “Bank” Of Drat,
No.
Love,
The Government

Dear The Government,
Really, I’m a bank. See, it’s right there in my name. I promise to only hoard maybe 90% of the bailout money.
Love,
The Bank Of Drat

no reply

Dear Blast,
The Bank Of Drat is declaring bankruptcy. Can I get some of your money?
Love,
The Bank Of Drat
P.S. I don’t need that much, maybe a million or two… You won’t even notice. Really.

Dear Bank Of Drat,
Who is your daddy?
Love,
Blast

Dear Blast,
You are.
Love,
The Bank Of Drat
P.S. Please? With sugar on top?

Dear Bank Of Drat,
You misunderstand. Is your daddy someone rich, powerful, famous, and/or has he hosted a game show? Answer soon.
Love,
Blast

Dear Blast,
Oh, no. My dad is not rich nor famous, but you can be my daddy for a couple of mil.
Love,
The Bank Of Drat

Dear Bank Of Drat,
Ha Ha Ha. You foolish member of the Ignorant and Meddlesome Masses. Go to work and pay your taxes like a good little drone, and leave me alone.
Love,
Your Daddy

Dear Daddy,
You suck. Gimme money.
Love,
The former, now bankrupt, Bank Of Drat

Dear Bankrupt Of Drat,
No.
Love,
Blast

Dear Drat,
Why do you hate America? This is just a friendly note to let you know you’re now on the NSA watch list. Please don’t travel outside of the US without letting us know first, okay? And by the way, you should water that plant. It looks like it’s dying.
Love,
The Government

Dear The Government,
Which plant?
Love,
Drat

Dear Plant Murderer and Terrorist Bank Of Drat,
The one in your bedroom on the windowsill next to your collection of Richard Simmons bobblehead dolls.
Love,
The Government

bankrupt-life-insurance-company

This post is part of the Drat & Blast series.

Talking Versus Texting

Teen-Text-closeup-500

Do you prefer to talk or text?

I choose none of the above. I hate texting. I hate the little keyboard on my phone that makes it impossible to spell anything correctly. I hate the clipped, abbreviated textspeak we are forced to use that barely resembles the English language at all. I partially blame texting for dumbing down the American population, not that it had very far to go anyway.

If I have to text someone more than once in a conversation, I just pick up the phone and call them. Text messages are not a forum for conversation. They are only to be used to find out information. “Are you awake?” “What time is dinner?” “What’s your shoe size?” “Who won the first Nobel Prize?”

I hate talking on the phone, too. There are some people I know that love talking on the phone. They are impossible to get off once you get on. “Blah blah blah me me me…” “Uh huh, I have to go now. My house is on fire.” “Oh, really? I remember this one time my house was on fire, blah blah blah me me me.” So, when it comes to gleaning practical information from talkers, I generally prefer to text message. It’s simple and to the point.

Either of these options is a poor substitute for sitting down at a table with a friend and having a proper conversation. Sometimes, that’s just not an option. Sometimes, my friends live in different states than I do. That tends to happen when you move around the country. In any case, sitting down at a table across from a friend is still my preferred method of communication. Seeing their facial expressions, watching them laugh or cry or cry with laughter… you just can’t give someone a hug over the phone.

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