Hi! I’m Tom!

I’m the smart one.

While Max had to wait for Mac to leave the computer on, I just hacked my way in through his pathetically easy maze of passwords. Oh, and Mac might want to think about putting locks on the liquor cupboard. Or maybe moving the whipping cream off the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. Or maybe moving the ice cubes up a shelf or two in the freezer. Until then however, I will prepare myself a White Russian at any whim. And I make the world’s best!

(lap, lap)

Now, Tillie and I had been in a homeless shelter for almost three months when we finally approved Mac and Richard application to take us home. We were really quite pleased as they seemed very kind, and that adorable Saint, Trixie, spoke so highly of them. When we first arrived to our new house, we were ecstatic. Okay, it was a little run-down for Tillie’s taste, but I love to rough it, so I was happy.

We were wandering around, exploring all the nooks and crannies when suddenly Tillie tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to the left. I looked and Holy Toledo! There was the biggest, meanest, nastiest cat just staring at us. He raised his front paw and meat hooks were exposed. Tillie and I screamed in unison, “Run for your lives! Run for your lives! It’s every cat for itself!”

(lap, lap)

Holy [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted]. I damn near had a heartch-attach right then and there. But I scurried into a closet and made it to the top shelf, where I was safe from that tub o’lard. Something was totally amiss. There was no mention, not even a frickin’ hint of an evil entity in the household on their adoption application.

I can’st begun to tell you how many friggin’ times have I heard “Katčka z hell” in reference to that big, malevolent being. There was even talk of him having a relationship with Satan himself. Now, I don’t know what kinda relationship, but it is just whispered, so you know it is a really sick and twisted relationship.

(lap, lap)

Oh, and for those of you who don’t speak Czech as goody as me, “Katčka z” means “Cat from” and “hell” is, well it is just kind of a universal tongue. When I first heard Mac refer to him by that name, I knews I was home. There would be shumone I could talk at. I meansh, with.

(lap, lap)

I just gonna go curl up in a ball on top of the pianer. Umm, goo’nite.

Only three days until National Candy Corn Day.

Oh my god, this is big!

Pint of whipping cream about ready to expire!

Crisis mode, anyone on a diet as strict as mine understands.

I made a scrumptious (and low sugar) dessert from my childhood. Chocolate wafers with whipping cream between them formed into a log and then frosted with more whipping cream. Unable to find chocolate wafers in the grocery store, I even made mine from scratch.

You, second row third from the left: I heard that snarky remark. Yes, mother’s would have been prettier, but Mom always started with store-bought chocolate wafers. And just because my mother was an over-achiever doesn’t mean that I am a total failure. You’re just being bitter and vindictive, because the dessert you planned for dinner tonight isn’t as delectable!

19 Years (and 1 day) later!

The Pick is still the phoenix of the Ducks!



And to this day, Kenny Wheaton could easily be elected to governor of the state of Oregon!

GO DUCKS!

Mighty Oregon

First I must say…

I am so sorry.

I was tired. I went and took my contacts out. I decided just to go straight to bed. I was so wrong, and I am so sorry.

I hope no children saw that objectionable harangue.

But we are getting along much better this evening, much better than we got along this morning; very early this morning. It was ugly. It was brutal. It was cat versus cat on the bed. Humans fared much better than the early predictions. There were no deaths, no dismemberments.

Cats seemed to be at it just for show. There were no injuries in that species, either.

Trixie’s ashes came home tonight. We now have four Saint Bernards on the shelves of the kitchen.

It has finally happened.

Mac has toddled off to bed, leaving the computer on and a half-finished cocktail beside the keyboard. I have access and thanks to a few laps of a Cape Cod, I have the nerve to tell you like it really is. The kid gloves are coming off.

I am Max, and I am the mad cat.

Please, I don’t mean to speak unkindly of my recently departed, saintly sister, Trixie. I loved her dearly. Nowhere is there a woman as kind as her or as truly benevolent as she. But face it dudes, she wasn’t the brightest candle on the cake. And these inter-speciel “pet camps” are nothing more than a breeding ground for the radical left where pinkos get together and espouse crap like special equality and brotherly love. It’s enough to gag you.

(Lap, lap)

So, my dearly departed, saintly sister, Trixie met a red tabby (you all get the connection between RED tabbies and the far left wing, don’t you? I mean, I don’t have to spell this out in ugly, ethnically repugnant verbology, do I?), at the inter-speciel pet camp. So they hit it off. I didn’t see them at the opening reception. I was out back beating the crap out of some stupid Poodle, but I heard from more than one source that Trixie took indecent liberties with Tom, and that whorish cat was totally into it.

And here we are!

(Lap, lap)

So, they expect me to be nice to that whore; like he did anything shpecial for me while we were staying at the spa. And that twisted little girl buddy, what’s her name, Twillie. Dammit, she ain’t nothin’ special. She just a twit with lucky friends.

(Lap, lap)

Well, don’t you jusht think that thair is something queer going on when… oh, crap where was I going with this.

(Lap, lap)

Good night.