Your Psychic Fiend
As I continue to slog away tidying the apartment and listen to the landlord doing god-only-knows-what to the building next door, I have found ways to amuse myself. On Tuesday, for example, I had the task of parsing through an enormous pile of Chinese take-out condiment packets. In so doing, I discovered a handful of old, stale fortune cookies. Yummy. Instead of simply throwing them out, I decided to play a little game: fortune-telling for felines.
First up, Bodhi.
You would make a good lawyer.
This is very appropriate. As it happens, Bodhi regularly humps our female cat Uni (or any other cat in this apartment— male or female— that will sit still long enough) despite having no berries toÂ power his twig. Having dealt with attorneys on a number of occasions, I am of the opinion that persistence, not intelligence, is the defining characteristic of those who engage in this profession. I will refrain from making any wise-cracks about their propensity for ‘screwing people’ because it is simply too easy.
Next up, Uni.
The great pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do.
Once again, this is right on the money. After being severely chastized by our vet for having overweight pussies, my husband and I put them on a diet. This endeavor has been for the most part successful. I say “for the most part” because Uni has only managed to get fatter. I honestly don’t know how she does it, but firmly believe this is an act of spite on her part.
Last up, Tortilla.
You will have good luck and overcome many hardships.
If I had to liken Tortilla to a person, it would be George W. Bush: neither is endowed with much in the way of intelligence and both are bullies. You will notice that the above photo appears to show Tortilla drooling. He isn’t; I took this photo after I caught him trying to eat liquid laundry detergent. Not. Very. Bright.
Whereas our fearless leader has an army (and god) to back up his little big man agenda, Tortilla is a quite large and exceptionally strong animal. He makes this known to the other cats here at Chateau de Ghetto on a regular basis— which is why my husband and I have erected a barrier between the bedroom and the living room. Not satisfied with merely picking on someone his own size, Tortilla takes great delight in accosting Uni.
On the evening of this psychic reading, dear readers, Tortilla got a break. Sort of. After exercising his god-given mandate to be a colossal asshole all afternoon, Tortilla managed to tear down part of our fortifications. Instead of diving into the bedroom and getting down to business (which would get him shot with the water gun immediately), he decided to stand on top of the gate and stare down at Uni menacingly. Subtlety is not one of Tortilla’s strong points.
Upon hearing the noise, I wandered into the bedroom to see what was going on. I found Tortilla pacing along the top of the gate and got the water gun. Despite his cognitive challenges, Tortilla knows this item by sight. He also knows I take great delight in shooting him in the face with it and turned his body around so as to make clear aim at his face impossible. And there he stood, looking over his shoulder at me with a “Fuck you, what are you going to do now?” expression on his face.
What I did was shoot him in the ass. Repeatedly.
Bulls Brown eye! Tortilla didn’t know what hit him. He just stared at me with a mixed expression of confusion and abject hatred. I spent the next 15 minutes laughing my ass off while Tortilla fast and furiously cleaned his.
Feel free to call the ASPCA, PETA, Animal Care and Control, the FBI, CIA and/or the regulatory agency of your choice and report my ass. I dare you. You can rest assured that after the various and sundry authorities parade through this apartment and become acquainted with Tor Dubya Bush they will all walk away with the same opinion: this cat deserves to have U.N. sanctions levied against him.
Little Dick Men Photo Credit: Miss Heather. For the life of me I cannot understand why I didn’t post this earlier. Maybe I got busy, who knows? This morning I emailed this fine image to my husband with the suggestion that he post it on the conference room door in his office. I don’t think he’ll do it though: he uttered some nonsense about liking his job and not wanting to get fired. Oh well.
I wish I had me some little dick men. I bet they’d help me clean all those hard-to-reach areas behind the toilet that gross me out to no end. Perhaps I should ask the landlord next door for some? SHSH!