La Luna

It was a gray spring afternoon. We received a call from Evan's friend who said that she wanted us over to meet the cat she needed to give away. She had three cats and had to downsize. Robin and I reached this point after much deliberation and careful planning. If we were going to get a cat, we needed to factor in vet bills, food, toys, and anything else that might come up. We had to make sure she was cared for if we went out of town. I was working full-time, but would go back to college in the fall, during which time Robin and I both would be students until he graduated a year later. It was a lot to consider, but we knew we were ready.

The cats were all sitting on her bed. She pointed out Luna, who perked up when she heard her name. Out of the three, I couldn't believe Luna was the one she wanted to give away. Her reason was that she had the other two first, but Luna was so beautiful and vocal. She chirped a few times, said "hi" to the soon-to-be owners, and generally acted like a normal cat. I pet her luxurious coat and scratched her face. Her loveliness continued to unfold as I met her ice blue eyes, her little pink nose, and her enormous feet. Unlike most polydactyl cats, she had an extra toe on all four paws. Robin and I chatted for a time and on the car ride home, realized that Luna was going to be our kitty.

Her first few days were, predictably, cautious. After all, she was in a new place with new smells, people, and sights. She didn't want to be held, at least for very long, and was reticent to show any of us very much affection. One of her immediate comforts came in the form of a majestic palm we had in a corner of the living room. Placing one paw on the adjacent wall for balance, she arched up and snagged a frond in her mouth, nearly pulling the entire pot over as she munched on the delicious greenery. Robin hollered, I laughed, and no matter what we tried to do with the plant, Luna would get to it. It was this first glimpse of her determined mindset that let us know we weren't dealing with some stupid cat. Our cat was intelligent, resourceful, and could get what she wanted.

A month later, and in the same apartment, rainy spring clouds were giving way to the first sunny warmth of the season. We were on the second floor and had a small balcony attached to the living room. Luna positioned herself directly in front of the screen door to lay belly-up in the beaming sunshine. She purred and stretched as we pet her, now content with her new surroundings and owners. On one such day, we opened the sliding glass door to let the outside in. Luna sat up and wanted out. We debated what could happen if she had a full-on melt down and tried to escape. Measuring the distance between gaps of the fence on the balcony and factoring in Luna's girth, we realized that even if she wanted to, she couldn't slither underneath. Even so, we accompanied her outside. She took a couple timid steps out, sniffed the air, and went immediately for a drain cap, located in the center of the balcony. She stared at it. She stared some more. We pet her, asked what she was doing, but she couldn't be bothered. We eventually left her to stare as long as she wanted. From that point forward, it was referred to as Luna's Drain, and we always knew what she wanted if she meowed from inside the glass door on a nice day. With our roommate, we all decided for a change of venue and trade up to a larger apartment, located in the same complex. We had a beautiful corner unit but unfortunately for Luna, one that did not come with an outside drain. I tried to interest her in the bathtub drain, but I should have realized how different they were. Though not scared of bathtubs, Luna wasn't into bathtub drains thank you very much.

Robin's dad is a man of many talents, and he offered to build Luna her very first kitty tower. We enthusiastically said yes, and a couple weeks later, he knocked at the door with the newly built kitty condo. We helped him carry it upstairs and set it outside our apartment door. In typical Luna fashion, she waited by the door when we left, and opened it to see her sitting there. She caught a glimpse of the tower, chirped excitedly, and immediately jumped into it. "Mine!," she clearly said as she purred, scratched, and rubbed her new tower. We brought it inside and put it in the living room, from the top of which Luna could survey her domain, sleep, and stretch over the side.

Robin graduated college and got a great full-time job. We knew it was time to move out on our own, so we amicably parted ways with our roommate. After helping E & C move out of their duplex, we were very interested in the other side that was becoming available. After a few chats with the owners, we were in and settled. By this point, Luna had moved four times, so she adjusted quickly. She enjoyed the new space, as there was ample room to run and play. More than the space, however, was a certain variety of tree located just outside our back door. The sliding door in the duplex opened onto a small porch, covered by two large Japanese Maples. In the fall, they loosed their canopy onto the ground which became littered with brightly colored foliage. Luna was beside herself. She sat in front of the glass and pressed her nose to it. Her tail flicked quickly from side to side as her gaze widened. Soon we heard her chattering... at the leaves. I asked her what was going on. She quickly met my gaze and made a sound I had never before heard. It was somewhere in between a chirp, a click, and a growl. She kept doing it as her stare returned to the leaves. She wanted them. She wanted them bad. Knowing by now that Luna was not the type to run if she got outside, we opened the door. She darted out and became even more excited. She chirped and clicked and purred and didn't know what to do. She had found herself the Ultimate Treasure, she was crazed with joy and looked up at me as if for some kind of clue. "What the hell NOW? What do I do with all of it??," she pleaded. I crouched down, pointed to a single dried leaf and said, "Luna! Look! This one!" She bolted over, shoved my hand out of the way, and devoured the leaf in pure, ecstatic bliss. A few chomps later, she looked up again for guidance. "Here!," I exclaimed as I pointed to another. She pounced on it and did the same thing. We continued this game for quite awhile, with each crunched leaf becoming a more amusing and adorable experience. When it was time to go back inside, Luna could not be stopped. She struggled against me like a druggie being pulled away from its stash. Once inside, she turned right around and pressed her nose against the glass. Fortunately for her, the amount of leaves lasted well into the following spring, when we decided it was finally time to clear off the deck for the warm weather.

It was in the duplex that we discovered Luna's favorite food. Until this point, Luna had been a very polite kitty when we were eating. Occasionally she would meow and show interest, but would give it a rest if we told her no. That is, until Eric was eating a slice of the most delicious pizza the world has ever known. I don't remember what kind it was, or even where it was from. What I do remember, vividly, is Eric in mid-bite and Luna jumping directly onto his chest and pawing at his pizza. "Luna!," Robin yelled, but the most she did was stop pawing. She sat on Eric's lap and waited for another chance. She didn't get one as Robin pulled her onto the floor, but from that point on if we had pizza, Luna would go out of her way to get some.

When we purchased our first home, Luna again did well with the move. This was her biggest house yet; it included a long stretch of carpet from the end of the hallway, across the living room. One night, we had Evan over for drinks and merriment. We were watching TV when we heard a loud knocking on the screen door. BANG! BANG! BANG! It startled us and we wondered who it could have been. I opened the door and there sat Luna, her paws dirty and cold with a terrified look on her face. She leaped into the house and ran for cover. We didn't know exactly when she made it outside or how long she had been out there, but it couldn't have been very long. What we did know was that Luna had decided, once and for all, that outside was definitely not her favorite. From then on, the most she would try to do was bolt onto our front landing and sniff around.

At the end of each day, all she wanted to do was curl up on my chest and purr herself to sleep. I could be upset, happy, anxious, timid, embarrassed, vulnerable, but none of that mattered to her. When I was sick, she was so excited to spend all day resting with me. When I cried, she would sit on my lap and knead my legs until I felt better. She would excitedly chirp in the morning with half-open blinking eyes as I fed her breakfast. She greeted me at the door each evening. What I miss most about Luna, more than anything else, is her unique personality. She was so good in so many ways, but it's her unending sweetness and warmth I miss terribly. Every pet owner will tell you they have the best animal. Call it hyperbole if you like, but we really did have the best cat ever. Luna was like no cat we've ever known, both in appearance and personality.

I still listen for her. I glance down as I open doors and am mindful of the space around me. If I hear a creak, my head darts in the direction of the sound and waits for Luna to come trotting around a corner. Every time I come home now, I have to whisper, "She isn't here," to remind myself of the bitter fact. I sometimes take breaks at work just to go and cry. I think that overall I'm doing as well as I can, but this truly is the worst loss I have experienced in my life.

When I reflect on our shared lives, I refuse to let Luna slip into the void. She was not simply some animal that we took care of. She was a member of our family; a being with which we shared a very close bond. Like any being that has passed and had a deep connection with you, the loss is devastating. While she is no longer here physically, her memory will live on as long as I do. In that time, I can allow her wonderful life to influence mine. She taught me that being sweet and caring go a long way to improve another person's mood. She taught me to be myself, an independent, and not just shower someone with affection because they're there. She taught me not to put up with those who don't understand and respect you. She taught me that taking a nap in the sun is the best possible activity on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

I love you so much, my little Luna. Rest peacefully.

Until our souls meet again...

Everybody Poops

1) The Perfect Poop: You have all the time in the world. There is nothing stopping you from taking as long as you like. In fact, you just might read several chapters in your book because you rather like the cool toilet seat cradling your buttocks. Very little effort is required, aside from the occasional sigh of gratitude for this lovely experience.

2) The Hasty: You have no time. You're already late for work. There is no way you're going to shit your pants in the car (again), so you've got to get this thing done. Dropping trow, your end lurches for the toilet bowl, only to be met with stubborn intestinal resistance. What the hell? You're supposed to be Niagra Falls back there, but nothing? Nothing?? OK, relax. You just have to relax. Relaxing makes everybody poop. Ahhhh. You're so relaxed. You're middle name is Relaxington. Nobody will care if you're late for the meeting. OH CRAP, THE MEETING!! No, relax remember? You're fine! It'll be fine. Ok, ok, here it comes! Heeeere we go now. It's... almost.... [plink, plink]. That's IT?! Where's the rest? THAT'S what you're late for?? AHHHHHHH!!

3) The Pasty: You sit down, pull out your People magazine for some light reading, and begin. An unpleasant gurgle is soon followed by the grotesque sensation of aerated cake batter working its way out of you. It smells. It smells really bad. You try to seal the bowl with more thigh skin, but can't quite cut off the stench. You would breath through your mouth, except for the nauseating thought of poop particles filling your throat. When you're finally done, you pull off several squares of toilet paper and quiver thinking about what awaits in the darkness. Sure enough, you're going to need more TP. Then more. Half the roll and several flushes pass, and you're still only barely clean. Deciding that a slightly unclean rear is better than a bloody scab, you pull up your pants in defeat.

4) The Troublemaker: You go. And go. And go and go and go. Nothing is coming out anymore, but for some reason, you're not done. You've been there for 40 minutes. You've ruptured a blood vessel in your eye. Still not done. It's up there, taunting you. Hiding far away, tucked deep within, causing you to feel bloated and in need of release, but it won't budge. It's the troublemaker, and it's not coming down anytime soon.

5) The Ninja: Hmmmm. Why hasn't anything happened? You've been there for five minutes. Well, it'll happen soon enough, you just have to sit there. You tap your fingers in anticipation, bored since you forgot something to entertain you. A little more time passes. You're growing impatient. Geez, what's the deal? Lifting a thigh to check, there's gotta be at least a.... WOAH. Where did that come from? Were you even there? When did it happen? You pause to recount the past several minutes and know that 1) You never left and 2) What's left is distinctly yours. Enter the Ninja.

6) The Loudmouth: You're at work and it's time for an afternoon visit to the bathroom. You look forward to a nice afternoon bathroom break, if nothing else but to have an excuse to leave that claustrophobic cube for a bit. Several other people have the same idea, and you're not alone. You nod to a few of them and even chat with Steve from Accounting in the hallway. You find an open stall and take a seat. You suddenly realize what's coming, but it's too late to stop now. "WHY HELLLLLOOOO THERE!! I'M YOUR BUTT! FANCY A CHAT? A LOVELY CHAT?? LET'S HAVE A CHAT! I SHALL SEND YOUR EXCREMENT INTO THIS POOL. BELLY FLOPS FOR EVERYONE, YES? YES! OH MY, THE WATER IS LOVELY TODAY! AREN'T YOU JEALOUS OF YOUR EXCREMENT? THEY LOOK TO BE HAVING A LOVELY REUNION DOWN THERE! A JOYOUS REUNION OF POOPERY!!" You try to tell yourself that you're a grownup, and so are your coworkers. Everyone has, from time to time, a bathroom experience that's a bit louder than usual, but surely they'd understand, right? You can count on their sense of decency and the human experience and know that they'll understand. No. Of course they won't. You know they won't. They're going to laugh at you behind your back, and there's nothing you can do about it. You'll probably receive a Christmas card this year signed by everyone that reads, "Merry POOPmas".

7) The Firestorm: Extra jalapenos on your nachos. Too much sriracha sauce in your curry. Habanero-infused burger with pepper jack cheese. Whatever it was, it's too late to go back now. You know what's coming, and you've made the appropriate arrangements. Your will and last testament are secure. You've written your loved ones. When the inevitable knock comes, you step timidly into the bathroom. Another knock; a bit louder this time. A bead of sweat forms on your temple and slides down your cheek. No more delaying. No more excuses. You're either going to emerge scarred and close to death, or you won't emerge at all. You bear down and convince yourself that it will be a quick one. "I'll get this done in less than two minutes!," you say nervously, but you know the truth. Time and space have no meaning in hell, and that's where you're about to be. Delirious with pain, your body lurches, saliva drips from the corners of your mouth, and you know, you KNOW, that your insides are melting into the bowl. By this point, you may not even have insides left; just a gaping cavity of woeful regret. Hallucinations and fits of rage set in. You tear at the walls and beat yourself in the head with a towel bar; anything to distract from your burning insides. When you're done, you pick up what's left of your entrails, which sizzle and hiss in your frail hands. You may still be alive, but you'll never be the same.

8) The Tsunami (a.k.a. The Doubting Thomas): You sit and await what you think will be an easy ride. You stare off into the distance and remember that bouquet of flowers you passed at the market but didn't pick up. You wonder if cherry tomatoes would go well with... suddenly you're interrupted. The tide washed out too quickly. You grip the seat and press your thighs hard. The deluge practically blows you off your seat. A few seconds of rest before the second wave. Then the third, fourth, and fifth. You didn't even see it coming. You had exerted absolutely zero effort, yet here you sit, filling the bowl at breakneck speed. The waves subside, and you flush. Happy to be finished, you reach for the toilet paper. Then, a shiver. And another. Are you done? You didn't feel it the first time, so how can you be sure? You decide that you've not yet reached the end and place your hand back on your lap. You squeeze, but nothing. You push, but nothing. Apprehensive, you again reach for the TP... and.... nothing. Nothing! You're done. You pull up your skivvies, zip your pants, and take a step. A shiver. A chance that... maybe? No, surely not. You're done. You're sure of it!... Right?

9) The Carpet Bomb: Accuracy is of little concern, only forceful devastation. You don't remember loading yourself with gunpowder, but apparently you did. BOOM! BOOM BOOM!!!! BA-BOOOOOM!!! You cringe at each blast, cowering a little closer to the ground. You end up with more water on your legs than in the bowl.

10) The Stubborn Debutante: What should have been a joyous celebration has turned sour. You've been waiting for the debutante to descend the staircase, to see her in her full glory, resplendent; a woman entering the world. Instead, you hear grumbling and crying upstairs. A shoe is thrown from the bedroom and slaps the adjacent wall. Mother and father have tried everything, to no avail. You even toyed with the idea of sticking your head in there to give her a piece of your mind, but quickly recoil at the thought. It's better to wait than to get a face full of angry debutante. It's a good thing you're not in a hurry, because this is going to be one loooong party.

Sarah Palin

For those of you who have been living under miles of earth, alone in a dark, silent cave, subsisting on a diet of misery and your own hair, you won't know the putrescence of which I speak. For everyone else, here's a perky reminder:

(Don't stare directly into its eyes)















Sarah Palin is a creature that congealed in Alaska from bits of a regurgitated animal carcass, bullet shells, Newt Gingrich's taint sweat, and pure, unfiltered narcissism. I don't fault Alaska for its creation, though I do fault them for not having dealt with this nuisance long before now. "She" is currently my most hated political figure. Her near constant verbal discharges are a visceral reminder of just how stupid some Americans can be given the right factors.

In Sarah's case, the factor was one Senator John McCain. Before him, she was the governor of Alaska. Until McCain used his rotting talon to pluck Palin from total obscurity, if you were to ask the average American to point out Alaska on a map, they would most likely tilt their head to one side, squint their eyes, and point to their crotch. They wouldn't be far off. Look, it's not that I have anything against Alaska. If I enjoyed the sports of hockey, snowmobiling, and ballfreezing, I would visit. Consider the combined factors that our dear Mrs. Palin developed there, that it's totally dark from November 18th to January 24th, and it rarely gets above 60 degrees. In my research, this evidence provides irrefutable proof that at least six gates to Hell are actively open and scattered across Alaska's vast, inspiring (I've heard), beautiful (I'm told), breathtaking (no seriously, the demons will steal your breath) landscape.

Now, you might be saying aloud to your monitor, "Oh gee, you just hate conservatives and the conservative movement! Sarah Palin happens to be at the forefront of this, so she's an easy target!" I'll give you that she's an easy target, but the fact that she's a conservative has nothing to do with it. There are plenty of conservatives with whom I disagree, but with whom I can have a civil, reasoned conversation. Sarah Palin is not one of them. Palin may anchor her rhetoric in political dialogue, but the ground is loose and her ship is adrift. No, the problem with Sarah isn't right v. left or conservative v. liberal. She is, simply, an unhinged fame whore. One that must be dealt with. It doesn't matter what she says now. She will use the conservative argument because it's convenient, simple and there are a lot of people in our fair nation that love red meat.

The thing I can stand least about Palin isn't her political message. It's not her "traditional Ahmurrican values" bullshit. It is, in fact, that she's a huge pussy. Under the general category of pussy, you have those who are simply afraid of everything, and those who talk a big game but couldn't fight their way out of a Neiman Marcus. Our lovely Sarah falls squarely into the latter. When I was first learning about her (like the rest of our nation), I didn't know what to think. She was obnoxious, rude, snarky, and everything else a campaigning politician should be, but there was something extra, something hidden, something that I knew, given enough time, would reveal itself. And then it did. For sport, or what she calls sport, Sarah Palin shoots wolves from helicopters. She rents a helicopter, gets her rifle, and flies about the skies fixing her hair, applying her makeup, and zeroing in on a lone, starving wolf. If there is a better definition of pussy, I would like to know what it is.

A lot of people can fire guns. Firing a gun doesn't make you tough. It doesn't make you terrifying. To me, all it signifies is that you're a pussy who can't scrap. You might "win" the fight, but you're still a pussy. You'll get to heaven and be all, "I killed FIFTEEN DEMONS, lord! You be praised!," and god will regard you with a sour expression and scoff, "Yeah, with a gun. Pussy. Have fun in Hell." Sometimes I have a dream and wake up with saliva dripping from the corners of my mouth in lustful anticipation. I'm excited, the sheets are wet, and my mind is racing. This dream is Sarah Palin hunting wolves on the ground, with a knife, in the Alaskan winter on the, what's it called... tundra. She has her provisions: tent, food, makeup, hairspray, etc., but no guns. I want to be there, to see the expression on her face as she closes in on an alpha male. I want to see the alpha keep her attention as the pack circles around and boxes her in, trapping The Palin from escape. I don't want to see the grisly end, just for the camera to pan away upon a gorgeous Alaskan sunrise. The dawn of a new day for America. An America without Sarah Fucking Palin.

Why, Hello There

It has been some time. According to my calculations, one year and several months to be precise-ish. In any case, I'm here now aching to write; to unleash my wordtastic fury unto the universe!

I turned 30 in June. Like most birthdays, I didn't actually feel anything when it happened. It just sorta... happened. Since 30 is considered to be a milestone (from what I'm told), I expected an event to occur within; something inside exploding or tingling or at least humming. Instead, I was quite happily in Michigan at S's parent's cottage (house on a lake), drinking a bottle of tequila with she and R. I didn't get bombed out of my mind, nor did spankings or other shenanigans occur. It was an incredibly beautiful day; warm, sunny, and spent in the company of true friends. We ate, laughed, and played games. This is in stark contrast to some of my other friends who are turning 30 this year, and on whose birthdays end up looking like this:

(You almost killed yourself turning 30! Great job.)













One of my very favorite new games is called Russian Roulette. No, not that Russian Roulette. This game was told to me by E, and since we share the exact same birthday, we share the same morbid sense of humor. We also share our kidneys, but that's another story. OUR (way better) version of RR is played thusly:

With your significant other, take a word or phrase and type it into Urban Dictionary. If, in the definition, there is a depraved sexual act associated with said word or phrase, you must do it.

Some of my favorites thus far include: peeled onion, pasta special, everlasting gobstopper, Rutiger, kitten pile, chocolate cheese, flea beard, spring release, ape call, special circus, foot pedal, bag of holding, yogurt cup, and The Rutherford. After playing Russian Roulette, you might get a terminal case of Face Freeze. If you do, simply look at this:
















I need to take a moment and clear up a misconception that I find appearing with more frequency. Unicorns do not have wings. They never have. They never will. As Earth's Ambassador to Unicornia, and with my very own unicorn BFF, The Good Sir Reginald, I'll have you know that there has never once been a unicorn born with wings. Why, you might ask? Why deprive a unicorn of wings? It's really quite simple: THEY DON'T NEED WINGS, YOU IDIOT. They have the power of flight, teleportation, and instakill from infancy. As they grow, their powers develop and multiply. The only time you will see a unicorn with wings is in the famous unicorn opera, The Pegasus Who Fell.

(The Good Sir Reginald as Angelo, The Pegasus Who Fell. NOT A TRUE UNICORN.)














Of course, you might say, "Why, if unicorns are so powerful, wouldn't they just hide their horn while portraying a Pegasus? Surely as we have prosthetic makeup to change the shape of our faces, they have something comparable?" You might be right, were it not for the fact that as I said before, YOU ARE A COMPLETE IDIOT. If you had a unicorn's horn, would you hide it? Ever? For any reason? No, you wouldn't, and neither do they. So just shut up and stop spreading ridiculous lies about bastard hybrid unicorn-Pegasus creatures.

Meet Claudette!

Why is "dress up" in quotes? How does one MILK a spirit, particularly a holiday one? What is polyresin? Since when is Spring the only season? If I put Claudette in my toilet after I take a dump, does that qualify as anywhere she would look charming in my home? I have questions, Claudette, questions that need answers if your existence is indeed pure and not, as I highly suspect, a malignant incarnation painfully aborted from a gaping soulless abyss.

Aside from those questions which are based purely on the ad itself, could you please explain your religiously-biased and seasonalist tendencies? The holidays you celebrate are all Christian, and the only season you celebrate is Spring. Why not just come out and say that your Spring outfit was originally going to be Easter? What are you trying to pull? You think you're appealing to a broader base of consumers simply because you throw in a neon flower mumu and claim to celebrate the pagan season of Spring? Please. You don't fool me! Summer and Fall are better seasons by far and you know that!

And also, you're lazy Claudette. There, I said it. To celebrate an entire holiday (or that ONE season), all you do is put on a different hat and cape? If you're going to pull out the same tired outfit year after year for the same holiday, at least have the decency to change the pattern! Your lack of imagination is staggering and only fuels my theory that you come from place of eternal blackness. What? Prove me wrong! ZOMBIES have more originality than you.

How dare you, Claudette. How.... DARE you.

Des Choses Intéressantes

(Translation: "interesting things")

(You may not find them interesting in the slightest. On the other hand, you may find them right droll, I daresay. I hereby claim you pugnacious if you discover them to be the former and delightfully whimsical should you conclude the latter.)

People are going ape shit over Michelle Obama's clothes. Ape. Shit. I cannot for the life of me understand it. She's an incredibly beautiful, wealthy woman who (GASP) wears department store clothes and manages (SOMEHOW!) to look elegant and put-together. She of course wears designer duds to fancy shindigs; state dinners, G-20 Summit galas, et cetera. But the hilarious thing is that people keep comparing her fashion sensibilities to that of Hillary Clinton, whose tenure as First Lady was during the 90s. The 90s which, at its best, was a decade of ill-fitting, shoulder-pad-sporting hell. If you managed walk outside and not look like the slightly more dressed-up version of a Fly Girl backup dancer, you won.

Speaking of the Obamas. I was watching a brief news bit this morning and our very own, U.S.A.-blooded Brian Williams was interviewing some Brits about their thoughts on the Obamas. Hard hitting stuff! Journalistic fluff aside, he walked up to a lady who began speaking about her excitement at the Obama's arrival. Her name was Trudy Cogdell. I burst out laughing because that, that is the most British-sounding name in the English language. Go ahead - say it with a really bad cockney accent. TruuuDEE COGdewwl. Oh sure, you can think of something like Sir Archibald Flufferbottomshirington, but that's just silly. At most, his last name is simply Fluffer. Trudy Cogdell, however, is someone I expect to show up on my doorstop and offer me sweetbreads with mum's puddin'. She's a woman of the people, salt of the British earth, someone who can scrub your dingy whites until they're clean and bright.

Our "friend" Scott will be heading down this weekend for revelry and shenanigans. We haven't seen him since New Year's, which means that it has been far too long. We will probably also hang out with our other "friend" Evan, a gentleman of leisure (pronounced LEH-zure) and pleasure. Together, they become the formidable ScEvan 2.0.1, a dense humanoid hybrid comprised of massive probability and protracted alcohol ingestion. I expect some kind of singularity at their joining, something to do with Earth's magnetosphere and heightened boson levels. I've told NASA to scan for loose ScEvan particles in the stratosphere, should they escape the singularity. They are easy to spot because they're usually wasted drunk and hollering Tenacious D songs at passing cumulus clouds.

My office is on the second floor overlooking a basketball court. A red-haired college kid was pacing back and forth. I recognized him as one who worked in the downstairs café. I couldn't yet tell he was perturbed until out of nowhere, he picked up a clump of sawdust, hurled it at the entrance to the café and screamed, "FUUUUUUUUUUCK! FUCK IT! FUUUUUUUCK!," and stormed off. When I inquired about the incident at the café a bit later, the barista told me that he had been asked to not do his homework when customers were in line waiting for him. Rather than simply say OK, he quit on the spot. Thank goodness we have a robust job economy for him to fall back on! Oh wait.

April has become, unsurprisingly to me, the darling of my Twitter group following. Everyone wants a piece of her. Everyone says how snarky and funny she is. Her wit is legendary. Her literary flourish, unmistakable. They wish they could meet April, shake her hand and take her on a play date. I have made excuse after excuse as to why April has something or another preventing her physical self from manifesting physically. What they don't know, but are soon to find out from reading the following, is that April isn't a human at all. Rather, A.P.R.I.L. stands for The Assembled Party of Really Intelligent Lemurs. "She" is actually a gathering of adorable monkeys whose sole purpose is to spread joy and laughter through Twitter. Oh, and to fling poo. It's all covered in The A.P.R.I.L. Bills of Laughter and Poo Flingage.

FOOOOOOORE!!!

I have never enjoyed the game of golf. Some may bristle at my use of the word game when, according to them, it is in fact a sport. Since I have no personal experience with the game, I can only speak to that of my friends, for whom golf is an activity that involves hitting balls across long distances, drinking, ferrying oneself to said balls in a golf cart, drinking, and walking around on some grass. And drinking. Sorry golf snobs, but to me that series of activities describes a game.

Having never played the game, I never considered the possibility that one might need to take a bathroom break while on the tenth green and having no resources to do so. I assumed there would be bathrooms along the course at certain points, but my assumption appears to be incorrect. I had no idea that the desire to relieve oneself while playing golf was so profound. It is so great, in fact, that the makers of Uroclub invented a giant pee stick disguised as a nine iron.

I'm going to guess that most golfers wouldn't want their friends knowing exactly what their "new club" actually is. Telling someone that they aren't practicing a shot at all, but rather peeing into a giant pee stick is a delication situation at best. Furthermore, how does one disguise the fact that they have a piping-hot hollow plastic handle of urine? Wouldn't it smell? When one is using the green crotch bib, wouldn't it be obvious what they're up to as they are sighing relief and shaking the stick three times? Or is this something you would tell, nay brag, to your golf buddies about? Would they all get giant pee sticks and have a giant pee stick bag disguised as a regular golf bag?

Move over, Japan. You might have cornered the market on ridiculous baby things, but the U.S.A.'s got a steaming river of golf handle piss headed your way.