Flash panned

The Flash stuff in my sidebar was pissing me off this morning. So now it’s gone.

Stupid, irritating, slow loading, moving things. Damn shiny trinkets.

You can still make donations to the Red Cross to help hurricane victims (and yes, there’ll probably be more with Rita building as she roars toward the coast), and you can still see my Flickr stuff. You just have to go to the respective Web site.

If that’s too huge a pain in your ass, leave a comment and I’ll consider a Flash restoration project.

New Home for Flopsiehead

Apparently, the flopsie headed dog, the one who when she shakes her head, sounds like pygmies beating drums in the deep jungle, has decided to move.

Normally, she follows Meg and I upstairs at the day’s end, circles around about fourty seven (million) times before collapsing in a little ball on top of a heap of dirty laundry, snoring and scratching her way through the night. Hey, dogs are like their owners, right?

Last night, she went upstairs as usual, all flopsie and wiggle-wagging. This morning, after listening to NPR commentators wring their hands about how the Gulf coast is gonna get the shit kicked out of it by Rita, I slid out of bed, very sneaky and ninja-like, as per usual, then did my Walk (notice the capital “W”; it’s there for a reason; ask Pete if you’re confused) through the room and down the stairs, hoping to avoid flopsie who has an annoying habit of squealing when I step on her.

But no flopsie. Even no warm spot. Hmmm. I ninja-walk the old, creaky, gonna-drop-my-big-ass-in-the-basement-someday stairs. Go through living room quietly. Couch wags it’s tail at me.

Flopsie, I scold, what are you doing on the couch?

Puts her hugemongus ears back and grins dog breath at me in tiny, nervous pants. Well, you know, it was all hot upstairs, and you were snoring, and the kid (that little toy stealing bastard) kept rummaging around on the bed, and all I wanted to do was sleep, but then the cat came up, chasing another cat and there was ruckas, but they didn’t want to play, so I came downstairs for a drink of water and to lick my ass and smell the garbage again but don’t you think the couch is ever so much more comfortable than your underwear?

Wagwaggrin.

Too. Much. Code.

Eyes are raw. Falling asleep in chair; and not just butt.

Have been on mission. Click; see results of mission.

Mission continues. More later.

Oh, shit

There’s no toilet paper in the house. That was a rude surprise this morning.

We started with five rolls on Moday when the inlaws got here. We’ve been going through about a roll a day (!), but apparently yesterday was a shitty day and all the current full-time residents of this property forgot to buy more toilet paper. As did I.

But I can be forgiven, right? I mean, sure, I saw our supply dwindling for days, now, and I knew guests were coming. Hell, even as late as last night, when the wife and I were on a date in town and browsing movies at the local video store and I had to go use their bathroom and there was no toilet paper there either, that was both a reminder of need and an opportunity to fullfill same.

But I’ve been extremely busy trying to maintain balance in my life; trying to stay healthy. I mean, all this mumbojumbory I do at work is vitally important, right? No one else could possibly do it, except maybe the people, like turd petal, who tell me how to do it. And the stress that sort of responsibility brings is ginormous; so much so that I need to spend a large part of my day with my feet on my desk, just trying to relax so I can make clear headed decisions.

Like this one: I think I’m going to have to find someone else to head up the toilet paper relief effort. Maybe I can find a Coast Guard quartermaster fired for snorting crank and shoving a grease gun up his ass in preparation for a hampster. That sort of person would show the kind of initiative and free thinking I like in a lackey. Besides, it’ll give turdpetal a little challenge in the ol’ spin department. After all, that spywhore thing went right away after we summoned a little storm and a little judge. Whew! It’s a lot of work, this executive thing.

I think I’ll go on vacation. Honey, pack a duffle bag of ass wipes, will ya?

In Lieu of Paper

So I’m thinking about this wedding gig I have tomorrow, and I gotta make notes, but have no paper. Since it’s early, and I’m too uncaffinated and generally lazy to go hunting for said thin, flat tree, I’ll just post my notes here. Disregard or not; you’ve been alerted.

• need to leave at 5:30
• do laundry –> something semi-formal; black is good (remember socks!)
• Saturday: write write write: only eight songs to transpose. You can do eet!
• bring:
  • sax
  • music stand
  • clothes pins
  • music
  • sax stand
  • water bottle
• set phone to vibrate

A Hint

This is the last post of the morning, unless I write more.

“Hmmmmm,” Yoda frowns. “Suspicious does that sound. Choose, you must. Either write or write not. Waffle, there is none.”

Damn coffee.

Anyway, like I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by an invisible muppet, is that to truly appreciate today’s offering, you’d be best served by scrolling down the page, all the way to the bottom, and reading the last post first.

If you choose to ignore this small piece of helpful advice, you’ll be sliding down the caffine curve, which is much less entertaining than climbing it.

You are warned.

I was up too early this morning, and started posting, and decided what the hell? Why not fill up the entire front page of my blog with posts from today. Now that that’s done, I gotta go see what else I can fuck up with my coffee breath.

Best. Cat. Ever.

With possible exceptions that may be noted later, due to my current hypercaffinated state of affairs

I go out. Whistle for dog. Wheeeeeeeuuuuuuu! Bushes rustle, pads on gravel. Oh, hi MooMoo. You’re a good cat.

Flopsie-head comes galloping up. “Am I late,” she pants with a question mark tounge.

Later

I go out. Whistle for dog. Wheeeeeeuuuuuuu! Car sounds suspiciously like it’s creeping toward me. I look toward the helicopter tail lifting flopsie butt into air as she runs to me. Stops three feet away, pants, glares at Cowboy winding through my legs. “I am late,” she pants with pouty jowls.

Trajectory

Notice, through this morning’s posts, how you trace my caffination level? I start with questions. I move to statements. Interject fucking profanity. Expunge direct first-person references. And eventually, I move on to huge, wondering like a hobo with a stick and a bandana sack sentences that sounds all great and literary (maybe that’s the secret of all those word hacks who’ve had their crap stuffed between two relatively hard outter casings) but just add detail upon detail until you jst can’t stand it anymore because your head will explode from the lush description just like my heart will from swalling any more coffe, except for this last sip.

Or two.

Upward, oh gentle reader, to the sky. Oh see, see how I ply the waters of the universe born on the back of the good and speedy ship caffine?

Notice My Congeniality

Because I am a nice son-of-a-bitch, my last post not withstanding, I’ve taken to breaking my ramblings and early-morning musings into shorter chunks for your digesting and excreting pleasure.

Or maybe I did it because you have no attention span, you poor children of the MTV generation, and since I am an utterly vain bastard, and want you all to read all these momentus words and murmer appreciative applaudings in my digital ear (not my actual ear, you sick, stalking fuck; I’m calling the cops!), I’ll coddle you, bend to your every capricious whim, go even so far as to limit my sentences to just a few hundred words.

And then there were none

Went back out to check on damn flopsie-headed dog. Still there.

Unlike Mars and Orion and Sagitarius and Cygnus and co. Now, only the far, barely flaming edge of the biggest (relatively) star in the sky just kissing the tops of the fucking neighbors’ trees, painting them black agaist a barely violet sky.

That’s good. Wouldn’t want the fucking neighbors to see this early-morning beauty, this duet between tree and star, this ever-so-carefully choreographed dance the planet does every day, even before it was a planet, and will keep doing long after it’s a planet.

Unless the planet gets subsumed in a massive, firey explosion when the sun goes nova and melts us all from the face of the Earth and turns the neighbors’ mobile home into so much super-heated gas shooting out from the surface of the sun, only to loose headway and plumet back into its thermonuclear depths.

That’ll teach those Harley-revving bastards.