My Daughter's Cat is a Moron and I Have Proof OR Other Stuff I'm Compelled to Discuss in a Sarcastic Manner Or the Heck with it, Let's Go For the Longest Title Ever!

WARNING: the writer might ramble from subject to subject without proper transitional authorization.  Also she might switch- was that a butterfly over there?  Wait, what was I talking about? 

I have it.  I have absolute, undeniable, incontrovertible proof that my daughter's cat, Doofaroy, er, Megapoop, er, Pooparoy, er, Dinglehead, er, Megaroy, is a moron.  I took a picture and here it is.  It's just like if you saw a Sasquatch taking a dump in the forest and took a picture and he smiled at you.  (Well, almost the same.)

Yes, the room is a mess, but I spend most of my time writing, er, taking care of my family, rather than picking up shizz off the floor.  But look!  Look where the cat has chosen to sleep.  Not on the comfy bed, which is no longer my bed.  It's a king-sized cat bed upon which I'm allowed to partake several inches of in the night, often with my ass hanging off the side.  (Forget about the blankets because that ship has sailed off under the cat's ever-growing ass.)  Not in the clever cat perch in the window so that the cat will not be bored and he may look outside at the birds and the bees and other stuff that might amuse him in a feline fashion.  No.  Not there.  Not in the freakin' cat bed that my daughter had to have in purple, because it's her very favorite color and she just knew that it would be the cat's favorite color, too. 

No, the moron cat king of the world is sleeping on the floor, propped on my tennies, looking at me as if I was insane.

Of course, there's a story about me breaking the axle on my Jetta, but
I'm just going to say that that gate I drove through was way too narrow and
those German Army Guards were laughing too hard when I did it.

On to other things.  Recently, I received the following three notes from fans.  I have left off names and locations because I don't want to embarrass anyone (with the following notable exceptions, HIM, my daughter's stupid cat, my sister's vicious, woman-eating cat, all political parties, and underwear with holes in it.  Just sayin'.):

I just finished the second Hubbard book.  It is over the top funny.  Cannot wait to read book three. You have a new fan. I think Bubba would make a great movie! Thanks for writing.  

Great books. Love Hubbard and am eagerly waiting more.

I started with the Hubbard aerie. Having spent half my childhood in the south I found the characters very amusing. 

I added the blue color for clarity.  The first one I decided that someone had the wrong author and ignored it.  (Sorry to that person if I didn't answer you.)  Then yesterday I got the other two, from different parts of the country, and I thought to myself, "I have writer's Alzheimer's.  I can't remember the name of a character I wrote about."  But I've ascertained, there is no character named Hubbard in my novels.  Once, I knew a Staff-Sergeant Hubbard in the Army.  He was my boss, and I'll never understand how a man who is five foot four inches tall can run a five minute mile.  AND he smoked two packs of cigs a day.  I also knew a Hubbner, but only because he worked with HIM and I remember his wife.  (She wasn't a very nice person, either.  Her kaka did not stink.)

So I told HIM about it.  HIM and I concluded that it was the autocorrect on their dohickeys changing Bubba into Hubbard.  (Dohickey is a highly technical term for any electronic gadget that I don't specifically know the name.)  I even wrote back to one and said politely, "Thanks but who the hell is Hubbard?"  (Maybe I'm writing books in my sleep.  It's a mystery.)

If it had been just the one person, I would have said, "Hokay.  Mistake.  Doesn't matter."  But three altogether and two on the same day, WTF, over?  (I checked it on my Droid and my Droid must be partly programed by rednecks because it didn't change Bubba into Hubbard.)

Whoops.  Subject change.

We didn't get to go on the camping trip with the Brownies, after all.  Which is a shame because I'm certain it would have been the endless fountain source of unlimited, funny blog material.  Bears, rain, tired little girls, fat woman without access to KFC or alcohol.  Hugely massive mountains of blogging material.  It could have been a three parter with tons of sarcastic input.  Alas.

Instead we stayed home because the kid got STREP THROAT.  Then HIM felt left out and got STREP THROAT, too.  The moron cat wasn't smart enough to know he was being left out and didn't get STREP THROAT.  (He probably thought about a hairball, but instantly forgot it when I put Friskies out for him.)

I, however, did not felt left out, and consequently, did not get STREP THROAT.  Yet.  (Why am I capitalizing STREP THROAT?  Well, the first time was funny.  Then it was funny the second time.  The third time was mildly amusing and the fourth time was habit.)  (I could have gone back and made it different colors.  Like this: STREP THROAT.  See, it's funny again.)

I was going to put an actual photograph of someone with strep throat above, but it looked pretty icky-poo and I changed my mind.  I wouldn't want any of my readers to ralph on their computers.  (Bad for the computers.)  (Then Cressy saw what I was doing and wanted to see photographs of actual STREP THROAT victims and I spent the next thirty minutes listening to, "EWWW!  Gross!  EWWW!  Mommy you have to see this!  EWWW!")

Anyway, lots of chicken noodle soup around here.  Also we broke out the air mattress, dvds, the barbie magic pop-up tent, and the uber, frickin' large jar of patience.  Here it is, Sunday afternoon, and everyone is much better, except me.  I need a nap.

On the other hand, the Brownies got rained on all weekend long.  Poor little girls.