No accounting for taste
This weekend, a delegation of the Man's progenitors descended upon my fortress — and promptly holed themselves up within the tested walls of my newly refurbished bunker. So I assume they came seeking refuge and protection from something. They did have the reek of unclean, long-haired, belly-in-the-dirt farmcats on them, so could be they were on the run from a pack of feral hairballers.
I am not a for-hire bodyguard, nor am I running a safehouse here, but I've learned that I can tolerate these particular interlopers for short durations, as they're more or less quiet, respectful types and they keep the Rodent occupied.
The Old Man at least made himself useful, applying sealant compounds to the hatch linings within the bunker (another layer of invulnerability added to my fortifications). He later distributed an excessively oily bread-cheese morsel to the Rodent, presumably so as to test the integrity of these new seals against canine flatulence — not the bunker’s primary function, but a welcome modification. I do admire thoroughness in craftsmanship.
The chatty one they call Grahamaa spent most of her time assisting the Woman in her laboratory, which is unfortunate — I have learned that if I can isolate her from the others, this Grahamaa character is highly suggestible when it comes to renegotiating pellet dispersal. She is particularly susceptible to the repeated plaintive meows of my starvation ruse.
Later, while the Man and Old Man monitored games of fetch on the big box (these simpletons are far too easily entertained), the Woman and Grahamaa brought the gassy Rodent into my bedroom and invited themselves onto my bed, where they proceeded to watch some five-hour talkie entitled J. Nausten's Pride In Prunejuice. Grahamaa repeatedly mooned over some poor fellow with the unfortunate and repugnant name of Colon Filth.
Still, five hours of Colon Filth proved more interesting than watching two grown men slurp yellow water and stare at a simple game of fetch played on an interminable loop.
Culturally speaking, this fortress of mine has not exactly turned out to be a citadel of refinement.
I am not a for-hire bodyguard, nor am I running a safehouse here, but I've learned that I can tolerate these particular interlopers for short durations, as they're more or less quiet, respectful types and they keep the Rodent occupied.
The Old Man at least made himself useful, applying sealant compounds to the hatch linings within the bunker (another layer of invulnerability added to my fortifications). He later distributed an excessively oily bread-cheese morsel to the Rodent, presumably so as to test the integrity of these new seals against canine flatulence — not the bunker’s primary function, but a welcome modification. I do admire thoroughness in craftsmanship.
The chatty one they call Grahamaa spent most of her time assisting the Woman in her laboratory, which is unfortunate — I have learned that if I can isolate her from the others, this Grahamaa character is highly suggestible when it comes to renegotiating pellet dispersal. She is particularly susceptible to the repeated plaintive meows of my starvation ruse.
Later, while the Man and Old Man monitored games of fetch on the big box (these simpletons are far too easily entertained), the Woman and Grahamaa brought the gassy Rodent into my bedroom and invited themselves onto my bed, where they proceeded to watch some five-hour talkie entitled J. Nausten's Pride In Prunejuice. Grahamaa repeatedly mooned over some poor fellow with the unfortunate and repugnant name of Colon Filth.
Still, five hours of Colon Filth proved more interesting than watching two grown men slurp yellow water and stare at a simple game of fetch played on an interminable loop.
Culturally speaking, this fortress of mine has not exactly turned out to be a citadel of refinement.
so sayeth Shmool on Monday, April 10, 2006
1 Comments:
Colon Filth?
A pox on you, chat noir!
The chatty one.
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