… would be a cat. But I won’t be receiving a kitty any more than you’ll be getting a pony. (Allergies in the family. Meow.)
So instead, here’s a wish that all kittehs get whatever their hearts – or paws – desire.
If you thought last week’s Caturday post was alarming, this week’s is downright scary:
And yes, I realize this blog is in danger of turning into a mere catblog. That’s what the Kittywood conspiracy is all about. I’m hoping, though, that with the kids back in school I’ll have a little more time to devote to writing about gender and politics.
Ever wondered if there’s an elaborate plot for kittehs to take over the Internets? Well, here’s the expose we’ve all been waiting for.
“If you don’t want to do your job and put Maru in a box, I’ll find someone who can!”
Perhaps more alarming than the conspiracy is the fact that I recognized nearly all the kittyvids mentioned in the clip.
Oh, I believe! And so should you! The kitteh conspiracy is real. Just be skeptical when they say that kittens don’t dream. We all know they do.
Just when you think Rick Santorum’s “Google problem” had set a new standard for disgust, Dan Savage proposes a new meme far ickier than the one he has propagated as a neo-definition of “santorum”: “The frothy mix of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex.”
(If you can’t see the clip, click here.)
My condolences if you happen to be named Rick. Or Ricky. Or Richard … Unless, of course, you’ve got your own “man-on-dog” issues.
Oh, and if you figure out the bleeped portions, please do share in comments! Filthy minds want to know.
So tell me, if you’ve ever fantasized about sex in public, did you have a solo effort in mind? And if so, did you imagine just how mind-blowingly sexy it’d be to whack off in your local Walmart? That’s a scenario I’ve never seen in Cosmo. In fact, I think it might even invalidate Rule 34: “If it exists, there is porn of it.” (I went searching for porn set in Walmart. Maybe I’m just having a bad google day, but I came up empty.) Clearly, this is a cutting-edge sex act.
And yet, a local man (not of my acquaintance) dared to live out his pole-polishing fantasies at my local Walmart!
Details in the university’s paper of record, The Post, are tantalizingly brief and slippery:
OMG, did the paper have to juxtapose the crime report with a picture of – what’s that – an erect baseball bat? Hitting it out of the park for – a home run? Oh, Walmart dude: you should have gone to sporting goods. There, you might have started a pick-up game and at least tried to get to second base. (To be clear: the athlete pictured is not the accused Walmart wanker.)
Now, at this juncture I should take a feminist stand. I know this is my duty. I should mention that men who expose themselves in public are engaged in an act of predation and intimidation. I could regale you with my Carl’s Junior bathroom encounter with a peeping tom. And I could concede that women commit similar acts on occasion (Girls Gone Wild, anyone?), but it’s absurd to call nonconsensual exhibitionism and voyeurism a sport protected under Title IX. Instead, these are intrusive manifestations of male sexual entitlement that remind women not to step out of line or consider their sexuality their own. As always, the bedrock principle is self-determination and consent. And I’m quite certain that in this case, his fellow shoppers had not consented to a free peep show.
But I can’t sustain that argument (correct though it be). I just keep bumping into WALMART – and giggling. I mean, a guy actually decided to buff his bishop under those glaring fluorescent lights, in constant danger of ramming carts, and under the watchful eyes of store detectives (or, as the piece preciously puts it, “loss prevention officers”). This just floors me. I’m still trying to parse what it means to be “near” automotive. Was he actually in the nearby toy section, a fact that – if true – trigger a moral panic about local pedophiles? Or was he actually in automotive, turned on by the manly-man smells of grease and rubber tires? Perhaps he had just misunderstood the meaning of “lube job”?
Seeking to understand, I undertook some research, which revealed that our local miscreant was not the first to get a Walmart woody. He’s probably not even the most abject, if you consider a case reported last year in the Frisky:
In case you folks were thinking about masturbating in public anytime soon, let William Tyler Black be an example of what not to do. The 28-year-old substitute teacher (yes … teacher) was arrested in Florida (yes … Florida) yesterday for spreading his baby batter all over a local Walmart (yes … Walmart).
William apparently became aroused by the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition, featuring Brooklyn Decker, while browsing at his local Walmart in Sarasota. He decided to pleasure himself right then and there, splooging all over the floor and wiping some of it onto a “Star Wars” light saber in the toy section. When confronted by the staff about his masturbation session, he said he was buying a toy for his daughter. (Oh no! He’s a father?) He was charged with battery and exposure of sexual organs. Just so we’re clear, this is not something you should ever do. I don’t care how hot Brooklyn Decker is.
At least no light sabers were involved here in Athens, though I should add that there’s one wacky connection between the two incidents: Ohio and Florida are now tied for having the least popular governors! If you’re saddled with a Governor Jerk-off, why not join him?
But geez, Walmart? Rly? This is precisely why the Ceiling Cat created almost-private rooms for us.
“Oh, b-b-b-baby, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet …”
The other day on Facebook, I told an old friend (who lives near Bachmann territory, woe is he) that the only reason to look forward to a Palin candidacy would be the chance to use the phrase that I already blew in the title of the post.
I’m sorry to say that this post has just run out of indigenous humor. But fortunately, Jesus’ General recently posted a clip that does my concept one better: Pain and Bachmann as rock opera! I could do without the cheap Ann Coulter joke (really, if she were trans, it would be the most sympathetic thing about her!) but the rest is brilliant satire, a sort of politicized This Is Spinal Tap.
Also, the Tiger – with his seven-year-old’s taste – thinks it rocks. Clearly he needs much more exposure to The Who’s pioneering rock operas. He’s firmly anti-Justin Bieber, so we’ve still got time and opportunity. But I’ll admit that those power chords are firmly stuck in my head.
This missive was left by the Rabbit, gracing (?) baskets full of sugar and plastic crap that will probably condemn my children to tooth decay and type-2 diabetes.
Kindly note the pastel colors. For all her turdly threats, this is a high-class rabbit who respects Easter traditions. (She also knows that the Tiger loves any poop reference. She further realizes she’lll regret this cheap poop joke a thousand-fold as the Tiger compares each and every chocolate egg to … well, ’nuff said.)
The aforementioned Hello Kitty product is a bubble-blowing set. The Bunny is weary; she has lost all photo-taking capability and merely wishes to sleep until the rain ends in southeast Ohio. (That might be late December, at the rate we’re going.) This blog will not feature a picture of said plastic-crap bubblicious Kitty. You will therefore have to use your florid imaginations. Suffice it to say that the HK product looks incredibly ineffective, as you would expect from a Kitty without a mouth. I mean, how else should she blow bubbles?
Perhaps we’d best not answer that question.
Instead, here is a thing of beauty from the Bunny’s garden. It was not toothsome. That is why we could capture it in a picture, which was taken a few days ago, before the Bunny and her handler committed to a good nights’ sleep. The rain clings to the blossoms. Its fragrance makes us believe in magical rabbits, unearthly and perfect. If only blogs offered scratch-and-sniff functionality!
Happy Easter – or belated spring solstice – or whatever blessed moment you choose to celebrate as the earth awakes from its too-long slumber.
As usual, we at Kittywampus are happy to bring you yesterday’s warmed-over news, along with viral videos that have been around so long they’ve caused people to develop antibodies. Especially if cats are involved. This Ikea commercial has been around for a while, but I only saw it a few days ago, so here you go!
My first thought upon watching this was: If they released 100 cats in an Ikea store, how many did they lose? I mean, I’ve come close to losing a child or two at Ikea. It turns out they did lose at least one, though he was rescued unharmed. The backstory is fun viewing, too:
It’s been one of those loud Saturday evenings in my neighborhood. All those wild professors, acting out! Actually, the students living near us have been pretty reasonable this year. It’s just that it’s the first Saturday of spring quarter, and even though spring weather is nowhere in sight, they need to party on principle. I could call the cops (in principle) ’cause they’re clearly violating the noise ordinance, but I’m not a big enough meanie.
It could be worse. We could be living with a cat whose purr routinely exceeds 70 decibels and has been variously compared to a lawnmower or a Boeing 737 about to land. This lovely kitteh, Smokey, was rescued from a shelter. Maybe she’s just so grateful to be alive that she can’t contain herself. Maybe her little walnut-brain is wired even more oddly than the average cat’s. In any event, she’s gorgeous.
Thanks to Lisa Simeone for being my Smokey detector.
This weekend I took the kids to see “Gnomeo and Juliet,” a trippy retelling of Shakespeare’s tragedy using … garden gnomes. Since the soundtrack was all Elton John, the kids needed to meet him in his ’70s finery. It doesn’t get much finer than his appearance on the Muppet Show. You tell me, please, if he’s supposed to be a bird, a flower, or some other critter entirely.
Yesterday, as I was trying to figure out how to tell a colleague where to find my blog on the Google, I did a quick test run – and here’s what I found:
This blog has finally landed on the #1 search spot on the google for “kittywampus”! We have finally beat our archrival, Urban Dictionary, and rightly so, for they are chronically short on cats. (Full disclosure: Due to husbandly allergies, my off-screen life is also catless, which saddens me awfully.) Various incarnations of the old Kitty on Blogger follow, just down the list. Ditto for my Twitter account.
Of course, dominating the Google doesn’t always bode well. Just google “santorum” to see why ex-senator Rick’s presidential chances may be incrementally worse than my own.
But for a Kitty to be at the top of a tree? Why, it’s a pretty nice place to perch.
Until, of course, the first responders have to be called to pluck you out of the treetop, as happened once to the patron cat of this blog. But that’s a story for another day.
So every time I’ve logged into Facebook recently, this ad keeps popping up:
It’s just that … I’m 47. Only 47. I’m still years from qualifying for the senior meal at Denny’s or Bob Evans. And yet, I’m being hit up on behalf of “Mature American Men,” aka dudes old enough to be my dad.
This is all academic since I’m not on the market. But if I were, and if I went for guys younger than me, I’d instantly be branded a cougar. Evidently, the men my age are supposed to pair off with women 15 years younger. What’s left is the contingent at the Senior Citizen Center. Should I be suddenly single, I’d better spiff up my pinochle skills.
I would love to know if men in my general age group are targeted similarly. “Meet sexy senior women – hot grannies!” Sure, that’s a niche market. I doubt it’s advertised on Facebook. I think you have to go looking for it.
What say you, men between 37 and 57?
My Grey Kitty had a way of staring into space that might have been deeply philosophical. My husband, however, always suspected that if you could see a cartoon depiction of her thoughts, it’d be an empty bubble. Other cat-owned humans have likely seen this in (in)action. Those who knew GK will know precisely what I mean.
GK had white highlights on her face and more of a sprawling belly, but otherwise the likeness isn’t too bad.
(Philosopher kitteh from ICHC? of course.)
Maybe it’s just the lighting on the State of the Union podium. Maybe it’s too much tan-in-a-tube.
Whatever the cause – John Boehner’s skin appears several hues darker than Obama’s tonight.
(Photo of my TV doesn’t quite do justice.)
I keep thinking that with a tan like that, there must be pictures of Boehner in a bikini somewhere on the internet. So far, the google is failing me. If he were a female politician or a Kardashian, I’m sure I’d hit the jackpot.
I’ve been very absorbed in family commitments and the terrible political news, but I didn’t want to miss my bloggiversary AGAIN, for the third year in a row.
This blog started as a space to stash thoughts and material for teaching. Within the first month it outstripped my own intentions. Blame its feline inspiration, which – like the patron cat of this blog, Grey Kitty – is hard to steer or discipline.
Three years into this experiment, with 958 posts and oodles of thoughtful comments (thank you!!) to show for it, I think it’s time to celebrate – with a purrito for each year I’ve been at this. (The two grey kittehs’ markings remind me of GK.)
(From ICHC? of course.)