I’ve blogged here for years, but I feel boxed in and tired of making the same old dumb jokes, so I’m changing addresses. I’m not going deeply undercover or anything stupid like that, but hopefully my relatives and human friends won’t find that page.

eebmore at yahoo dot com

Bleh. I went to the trouble of uploading the photo, so I might as well share.

[totally stolen from Lindsayism]

Update: Double bleh. Broken. Screw it. Nevermind.

Last night I decided to put thrift before caution and finish off that alfredo sauce that I probably should have thrown away four or five days ago.

Oh lordy, such a huge mistake.

Fear not, I have no intention of angling for a cheap laugh by going into excruciating detail describing what turned out to be the worst abdominal nightmare of my 34 years on this earth. But I can’t help but wonder what it is about extreme gastric distress, the sort that causes you to scream at the top of your lungs (thankfully, no neighbors called the police), sweat to a degree that you feel like you’re standing in the middle of a typhoon, and prey for your own death while sitting on the can, that compels you - forces you, even - to strip off all of your clothes? Is it because you subconsiously think you are about to meet your maker and feel like you should go out the same way you came into this world?

Or is that just me and 3 year olds?

Did I just read that right? In an article about Michael Steele, did Laura Vozzella actually refer to George Bush as Steele’s ”homeboy?!?" What the fuck?

Seriously, I’m a Dem and pretty much couldn’t stand anything that Steele stood for; but that is some seriously inexcusable bullshit.

God, I hate that paper.

Six months or so ago, I replaced an old dead cat with a new baby cat. Being a discriminating shopper, I just asked the vet if they had any male cats up for adoption while I was filling out the dead-cat-disposal paperwork.

“Yes,” they said, “we have a male six (or eight? I can’t remember) week old kitten. Would you like to see him?”

“Sure,” I said. They brought out a kitten and I told them to wrap it up and that I would take him, because the only thing gayer than a man owning a cat is going to the trouble of picking out the perfect cat. They said they needed to give him a few shots and that I could pick him up the next day. Whatever, anyway, fast forward to two days ago...

Being lazy and not too terribly concerned about his gonads, the cat - which I never properly named because naming a cat is gayer than owning a cat - went all puberty on my ass. Poor little fella, I thought. Puberty sucks, from what I remember. He was climbing walls, making funny noises, cocking his tail to the side, which I thought was kind of gay of him, but I don’t judge gay cats and just accepted his bottom faggy ways. I made an appointment at the vet to have his testes removed this morning. At 8 this morning, I dropped the little fella off.

At 9:30, I received a call from the vet, which worried me, as I wasn’t supposed to receive a call until 3 or so.

“Hello”
“Hello, is this Adam?”
“Yes.”
“Did you drop off Noname for a neuter this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that Noname is a female?”
“?”
“Hello?”
“A female?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Well I guess that would explain why he went into heat the other day... I just thought he was really gay or something.”

[I totally said that, and the female vet totally didn’t laugh. I think I offended a lesbian vet. Whatever.]

So I’m a big dumbass who never bothered to properly examine my cat’s genitalia. Reason number one thousand and twenty why I would make the worst parent to a human child, ever.

No biggie. After the vet explained to me the medical reasons the previous tard hack vet got the cat’s gender wrong when he gave the cat to me, we agreed that tomorrow morning, I’m going to pick up my newly sterile girl cat that I’ve been calling “Little buddy” and “Little fella” for the past six months. It’s going to take a bit of getting used to thinking of her as a her when I’ve been thinking of her as a him for all this time, but in the long run, him/her, being a dumb cat, will be blithely indifferent to the gender role that I’ve been assigning to him/her for all this time. I’m glad I fixed... um, her when I did, but it would have been sooo hil-AR-ious if he had had kittens on me. Now, THAT would have totally freaked me out.

... but we, as a people, should really just stay off the dance floor.

So right:

So wrong:

Yeesh.

[via the Baltimore Sun]