Closed-Door Session
Woke up just in time to see Bill Frist on TV, stunned that the Democrats forced the Senate into secret session today. Poor Bill Frist -- no one prepared him for this when he took over Senate Majority leadership from whatsisname, the guy in the white hood. Senate Republicans feed Democrats their Science Diet Hairball Control pellets every morning, and the Democrats dutifully crouch at their bowls and eat, hoping for a can of wet food once per week. So who can blame Frist for being upset? After all, no one told him this was a democracy. And weren't checks and balances eliminated years ago?
Feeling empathy for Frist, I called him over to the apartment for a special closed-door session in my litter box. I ordered the general public out of my li'l toilet. Dimmed the lights. He argued that the clump in the corner was yellowcake uranium. But I pointed out the distinct ammonia smell, and affirmed that it was a mound of litter mixed with this morning's pee. He said he distinctly smelled yellowcake uranium destined for Iraq. Oh, please. Look, I said, if that clump of dried pee is yellowcake uranium, then an absent-minded goldfish just swam underneath the back door and landed, flopping next to that pyramid of turds I just laid as a protest against prisoner abuse at Abu Ghraib. It just can't be, I continued, since fish obviously cannot swim into my litter box during closed-door session. He persisted (and of course claimed my precious poop was not shaped like an Abu Ghraib pyramid). Finally, I pushed him out of the box and back into the apartment. If Frist wants someone to believe anything he says, then he can call Judith Miller. As far as I'm concerned, he's a fucking bore.
Feeling empathy for Frist, I called him over to the apartment for a special closed-door session in my litter box. I ordered the general public out of my li'l toilet. Dimmed the lights. He argued that the clump in the corner was yellowcake uranium. But I pointed out the distinct ammonia smell, and affirmed that it was a mound of litter mixed with this morning's pee. He said he distinctly smelled yellowcake uranium destined for Iraq. Oh, please. Look, I said, if that clump of dried pee is yellowcake uranium, then an absent-minded goldfish just swam underneath the back door and landed, flopping next to that pyramid of turds I just laid as a protest against prisoner abuse at Abu Ghraib. It just can't be, I continued, since fish obviously cannot swim into my litter box during closed-door session. He persisted (and of course claimed my precious poop was not shaped like an Abu Ghraib pyramid). Finally, I pushed him out of the box and back into the apartment. If Frist wants someone to believe anything he says, then he can call Judith Miller. As far as I'm concerned, he's a fucking bore.
posted by Shimmy at 3:10 PM
2 Comments:
shimmy, you don't know me but i know you, and i feel horrible to have to say this, but i've got to.
while out of state, supposedly visiting his family, tony cheated on you with another cat.
a black cat. a dumb cunt of a black cat named sydney. in a church in pennsylvania. yup. he lay on the floor and meowed with her brazenly right in front of -- people.
don't let the name fool you -- sydney is a girl. check out the spelling. not that he couldn't have cheated on you with a male cat, which i am, even though because i'm long-haired and very fuzzy and i have a cute name, everyone thinks i'm a girl. it's hell to be me. i've been in therapy for years.
but i'm not homophobic,i'm bisexual or no, i'm polysexual, i'd be that urban-sexual word that's now so outre, except i'm a country cat so i can't even think of the word. it means that i don't go clubbing.
but since that dumb cunt sydney lives with me and promised we were in a tradition deerhunter-country-commitment, i don't owe her my silence here.
silence kills, let there never be another season of it. his denials will be useless.
like you said, autumn is the season of blood.
your friend, KARMA
Dear Karma,
What does it mean to be in traditional "deerhunter-country- commitment"? Does this mean you drink deer blood? Do you scare the deer before you destroy them? I would.
You sound like a confused glitter-boy. I'm in love with a Congressional candidate from Ohio that I saw on Chris Mathews's "Hardball." I can't remember his name. You might love him, too.
Tony, ah, he's not much of a man, anyway. He leaves the apartment once in awhile, but hasn't brought home a carcass in 11 years. Once he threw away a dead mouse I was sitting next to. Fucking pussy.
But he did it with Sydney in a CHURCH? Delicious. He came home last Saturday night, stinking of wine, whiskey, a calico named "Girl," the blood of Christ, and a German Shepherd-Grayhound mix named "Tytan" who eats potato chips. I haven't trusted him in years.
I put up with it, in its own polysexual way. As long as he doesn't bring animals bigger than me into the apartment. Shelly left yogurt in a cereal bowl this morning and I licked it when she wasn't looking.
Shimmy
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