I’m about to go have lunch with the Queen and the Divine Miss B. at Granite Falls. I cannot wait. I am, of course, going to have a burger. I am also, of course, going to bitch about the fact that they no longer have the Patio Burger.
Then, I’m going to take Miss B. and Mrs. Wigglebottom to the park. It will be a tad warmer than Mrs. Wigglebottom prefers, so we may have to make it a park with a puddle for splashing.
Then, later tonight, if I can stay awake that long, I will get drunk with my friends and sing for them all a little Charlie Daniels about poor girls and rich girls and college and work. They won’t get it, but it’ll make me happy.
Tiny Cat Pants 
No Patio Burger?!
Please tell me what kind of dog Mrs. Wigglebottom is. I used to call my Rat Terrier “Maggie Wigglewoo,” a name blatently ripped off from an “Abby Wigglywoo” somewhere in Florida…
Mrs. Wigglebottom is an American Staffordshire Terrier. She used to be Miss Wigglebottom, for her wiggly bottom, but then one day I was in Fido’s–a local coffee shop–where they give you a picture of a dog so that they can find you when they bring you out your food. And we had a picture of a Mr. Wigglebottom.
Who knew Mrs. Wigglebottom was a divorcee? I didn’t until then. But clearly, if your last name is my last name and you marry some dude named Wigglebottom, you’re keeping that name, divorce or no.