Chronicles of ThatGoddamnedCat – Bobbing for Bunnies in the River Styx

I’m posting this for those of you who are following and are-not-horrified by the Adventures of ThatGoddamnedCat. This particular episode was tucked away in Junes draft folder somewhere around Father’s Day.

However, this is not exactly a Father’s Day post, because I very wisely had ThatGoddamnedCats testicles decommissioned as a kitten.

God knows one of him is enough.

The world is most welcome!

Anyway,

The serial killing feline asshole… has strucketh again.

In my defense, several weeks ago I swear that I absolutely wrote, “Buy collar with bell for asshole cat” on my TO DO list.

I just hadn’t gotten around to crossing it off yet, and for that I’m very sorry Mr. Rabbit.

May you RIP.

I didn’t actually find him all festively decked out in a party hat waving a magic wand. I took the liberty of adding a few photoshop extras, so he’d appear less gruesome and… dead in a somewhat happier light.

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He probably would’ve wanted it that way.

Bunnies are promiscuous party animals from way back.

The quarter however, is the real deal though. The shiny disc, is in fact, 25 cents that I deliberately placed on his shoulder so you could better comprehend just how freaking ginormous bunnyzilla is.

Relatively speaking I mean – in relation to TGC’s body weight.

I’m not exactly sure how many ounces my Jack-the-ripper feline has on this guy, but I’m guessing not too many – making Mr. Rabbit by far his largest kill to date.

I do feel bad about Mr. Rabbit I really do, but nonetheless I’m pretty impressed.

When I carefully instructed my son to bury Mr. Rabbits remains with the 25 cent piece, he wittingly replied, “Good, he’ll need it to pay his toll to the river Styx.”

Me – you don’t say.

This apparently, is a toll paid upon ones demise – in order to travel to the underworld of the afterlife… or something like that.

I shit you not.

My bright offspring are full of obscure trivia.

Who knew?

That guy is damned lucky I found him and thought to provide him with underworld fare.

The moral of the story – never leave home without a quarter in your pocket or it’s possible you’ll be up Shits creek or possibly the river Styx… without a paddle.

Chapter Two – The Unexpected

I bet you weren’t expecting a sequel to “The Adventures of ThatGoddamnedCat- Bobbing for Bunnies in the River Styx, because… neither was I.

I had hoped it was the last we’d seen of Mr. Rabbit after I’d carefully instructed my son to bury him WITH his shiny quarter that-was-actually-toll-for-the-river-Styx.

But nope.

His saga lives on, although you won’t see him again, because he’s vanished.

By vanished I mean Mr. Rabbit has vacated the garden… did like a baby and headed out, blew that Popsicle stand, did like a tree and leaved(?)…

Since I KNOW-for-an-absolute-fact that my diligent children did not let our German Shepherd indulge in a bunny snack that was not a tidy approved canine snack shaped like a bone from a colorful box, I’m going to speculate what happened to him.

You call it denial. I call it creative writing therapy so-I-don’t-wig-the-fuck-out.

*He hitched a ride to Pet Semetary for a proper burial. (Can’t blame him)

*He was actually the Jesus Easter Bunny and he rose from the dead.

*He turned into Zombie Rabbit and will be coming for TGC soon. (In which case, this story is about to get good!)

*The Jehovah’s witnesses saw him as they headed down my walkway and decided he needed to be saved.

*The postal carrier decided to mail him back to Max and Ruby, so they could have closure.

*A bald eagle swooped down and carried him to Bunny Heaven, but kept his party hat to conceal his middle-age male pattern baldness.

*Elmer Fudd finally bagged him, in which case he’s on display over at Acme Caskets.

Anyway,

He’s gone and I’ve convinced myself beyond the shadow of a doubt that he. will. not. resurface. in. doggy. vomit.

No.

The end.

 

The Grass is Always Greener… When it’s Undead

Let’s pretend… you’ve lived at your current place of residence for like 7-ish years and someone you live with who-may-or-may-not-be-your-wife-or-me drives over the same pesky patch of grass at the end of the driveway consistently, like every. single. damned. time.

Would you bother planting more green stuff?

Let me answer that.

Hell no.

Anxiety over grass causes nothing but marital angst, bad juju and hot air wasted over dumb grass.

What’s meant to be… is meant to be.

The universe has spoken.

Let that particular patch of earth be grassless.

Not only does your bride of two decades have ADHD, she’s also got crappy middle-age vision and not a shred of give-a-shit left.

Just leave well enough alone, already.

It’s grass for fucks sake.

Correction- it WAS grass, and now it’s mud casserole decorated with Goodyear tracks.

Technically, the lawn is half mine… to do with what I please.

That said, fun lawn-use ideas came shooting out of my colorful brain for consideration.

What to do with my half?

*Plant a cocoa bean tree so I can gnaw on the bark when I get one of those really bad chocolate cravings or dry the leaves and smoke cocoa out of a bong.

*Construct a moped speedway for senior citizens.

*Host midget mud wrestling for people only 4 feet and under

*Open a pig washing business or a restaurant for goats and other hungry grass eating creatures.

*Install a bullseye sign on the naked earth where grass used to grow, and every time the car hits it confetti or grass seed pops out.

*Bury a bottle of emergency vodka for the zombie apocalypse.

*Use it as a burial ground for ThatGoddamnedCats unfortunate victims.

*Open an upscale spa specializing in mud baths for beautiful intelligent women and pigs.

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Admittedly, I’m pretty fond of grass mostly because it keeps mud off the dogs paws and hides their poop… so there’s that.

What to do?

Decisions…

I shall conclude this post with a nonfiction story called BestWifeEver.

Once upon a time… in an old country home in the woods of Pennsylvania, someone who lives with me who-I-may-or-may-not-be-married-to actually ** pay attention here ** disassembled my decorative split rail fence in the front yard and drove his big ass truck directly OVER and through my seasoned perennial garden to dump half a freaking ton of coal through the basement window.

And, he lives.

I shit you not.

Payback’s a bitch.

The lovely puddle of mud shall stay indefinitely.

The end.

Lessons in Flushing

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Let’s face it. Some bathroom jobs require more than one flush.

In fact, repeat flushing is probably twice as likely when male waste is involved.

Multiple flushes are often a way of life.

As you already know, and just like replacing the empty roll of toilet paper, “Ain’t nobody (but mom) got time for that!”

So, to make things run more efficiently in bathrooms everywhere and to prevent from grossing out everyone in your household with your shitty presents, I’ve come up with fun activities to engage in while waiting for the tank to refill… so you can flush AGAIN.

And again if necessary.

You know… that long drawn out 90 seconds or so that seems like an eternity.

Ready?

The list-

*Wipe down the faucet. There’s almost always spittle, dribble and/or ick on the faucet… which is most likely yours.

*Sing a verse from… “Another one bites the dust” as you intently watch the turd-subject make it’s final swirly lap.

*If there’s more than one turd, bet on which one will go down first.

*Use dental floss to weed the garden between your teeth.

*Count the brackets on your braces.

*Post a guess-how-long-this-is? photo on Instagram and wait for responses.

*Practice your duck face in the mirror and post it on Facebook to annoy the world.

*Play a game of solitaire. (Everyone brings their phone to the bathroom)

*Change the toilet paper roll. -just kidding.

*Play a game of Frootloop toss where you try to peg the unflushable offender with a fruity ring. This activity will fine tune your aim for when you try to win a goldfish at the fair.

*Take a moment to squeeze the trigger on the air freshener that’s sitting right next to the toilet for your spraying convenience. – this activity is highly recommended.

Just… pleeeeease.

Remember, much like the age-old camping rule… leave no trace.

This concludes today’s lesson in Civilized Bathroom Etiquette.

Have a great day.

Extreme Driving Adventures- Testosterone Behind the Wheel

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Let’s face it… teenage boys behind the wheel of any vehicle that isn’t

a self propelled red and yellow plastic Fred Flintstone car is frightening shit.

 

Teaching my, now licensed 17 year old to drive last year was an experience that had my already-questionable-sanity hanging by the fiber of a frayed thread… which continues to weaken every. single. time. I hand him the keys.

 

No doubt, those smelly green Christmas tree air fresheners should be available in xanax scent- exclusively for parents and/or mental patients.

 

The air freshener people would make a killing.

 

It seems like a no brainer, yet to this day I’ve been unable to locate a single anti-anxiety scented air freshener for sale on ALL of the inter webs.

 

Go figure.

 

The following driving tales were scribbled in holy water written while I was up to my eyeballs in adventure last year, teaching Big Kahunas to drive.

 

Big Kahunas nickname is explained somewhere in the smoking wreckage.

 

Fasten your seatbelt and read on…

 

Dumb Shit my Son Says…

Big Kahunas

Cruising in the Jesus-mobile

Testosterone Powered Jackass

 

 

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