The Neo-Tribal Midwesterner

"I had the best luck on the plane today.  Not only were there hot girls on the plane, they talked to me."

And with that, the Butcher’s old friend settled in just like he’d always been here.  He’s here for the week, so he’s going to need a nickname, but I haven’t settled on one.

The Butcher votes for "Aboriginal A."  I’m leaning towards… I don’t know.

—–

What Do You Look Like Naked?

That’s what I spent the day wondering.  Not you guys.  The people in the room with me.


Also, I’ve been thinking and, if I had a penis, I’d regularly pee on things.  Awesome peeing ability and the twenty cents an hour more y’all get–I’m a little envious of those two things.


Now, I can’t decide between a nap and a beer.

Reviews of the Future!

1.  My day–I’m going to give it a three out of five.  I have to sit all day listening to lectures, but they should be interesting.  And, if not, I’ll get some reading done.  Or, I’ll skip out early.  Still, academics, if I could teach you one thing, it would be this–loosen up.  If you’re doing what you love, let your love for that come though.  If you aren’t doing what you love, don’t take it out on me.


2.  The chances of the house getting picked up before the Butcher’s friend gets here–Zero out of five.  It’s a pit.  I haven’t done dishes since 1937 and something smells, though that may be me.


3.  The Sagas of the Icelanders–Four out of five.  I’m really excited about reading it.  I’m to the part in the introduction where they talk about how the saga writers would throw poetry into the sagas in order to prove that they were true.  No one thought that a poet would dare lie, so including poetry in your saga was kind of equivalent of footnoting it.


4.  The Butcher, upon waking–Two out of five.  He’s not going to be thrilled when I tell him we have to run by work and pick up some boxes before going over to the thing.  And he’s not going to be thrilled when I suggest he duct tape the mirror back on the car.

Stupid Pet Soap Opera

Mrs. Wigglebottom and I are having a fight.  I would like to go to bed, as it is 10:03 and my bedtime is 9:30, the bedtime of civilized people who do not wander around the living room barking for no reason, just because  we can.

But that is not what we are having a fight about.

We’re having a fight about the new bone.  It’s a fine bone.  But no one else in the house wants it, I swear to god.  And I’m pissed off at the unnecessary brarbarblearlbeling Mrs. Wigglebottom just did at the tiny cat.  This is not a house where great big dogs brarbarblearlbel at tiny cats.  It has never been a house where great big dogs brarbarblearlbel at tiny cats.  So, that pisses me off.

And then it pisses me off that she comes right over here as if to tattle on the tiny cat, as if her behavior is perfectly acceptable and it’s the tiny cat who is out of line for daring to walk in the living room.

And, god damn it, you just know that this means the tiny cat is going to pee in the dryer or shed all over my clean clothes in retaliation.

Worse than that, I’m exhaustedly liveblogging my pets’ squabbles!  What the fuck, folks?  What the fuck?

This is the absolute nadir of Tiny Cat Pants, right here.  I think.  Nadir is the low point right?  I’m so tired I don’t even know.  Nadir.  If not the low point, then maybe some kind of Moroccan restaurant?

Okay, fuck it.  I’m going to bed.  Hopefully, the wild honyock* contingent will not kill each other while I sleep.

 

 

 

*Oh, yeah, remember how I said I wasn’t going to use "honyock" any more because I suspected it was an ethnic slur?  I guess I’m a liar.  If there are any people who have been derisively called honyocks who read Tiny Cat Pants, please accept my apologies.  I was raised by wolves.  I don’t know any better.  I grew up thinking it just meant "uncivilized person who, by nature, did not obey his or her mother and ran around showing boys his or her underoos and also pushing Kevin Appleton down on the playground and kissing him." and it’s hard for me to let go of that.

Help me, Science Types

I don’t just need help deciphering dirty old poetry about threesomes.  I also need help deciding if what Harvard professors tell me is too good to be true.

Let’s take good old Wade Davis, author of The Serpent and the Rainbow.  On page 173 of my book he says the following:

Venus was gone.  It shouldn’t have been.  Astronomers know the amount of light reflected by the planet, and we should be able to see it, even in broad daylight.  Some Indians can.  And but a few hundred years ago, sailors from our own civilization navigated by it, following its path as easily by day as they did by night.  It is simply a skill that we have lost, and I have often wondered why.

America!  Can this be true?  Is Venus visible to some folks during the day and not to others?  I just don’t believe it.  But what do I know?  No one’s paying me to teach at Harvard.