The Diary of My Discontent, Part One

Day 1

My plans of launching an electronic attack on Eric's cyberspace defenses has been derailed by the fact, unbeknownst to me, that Eric has lost his Internet connection. Whatever am I to do with these downloaded photographs of extreme fecal discharge now? Perhaps there is some adventurous college student with a score to settle that I can sell them to. Also, I appear to have dropped my lucky ten-dollar bill--probably in that dumpy town I spent the night in. Hopefully this development will not come back to haunt me in a bitterly ironic fashion.

Further complications arise when my plans to surprise Eric at his front door using my clever "Chloroform Salesman" disguise is thwarted by his insistence on not being at home. His friendly neighbor, possibly alerted by my incessant pounding of Eric's door and high-pitched wails of frustration, informs me that Eric and his missus are out apartment-hunting. I thank the young man for this information by chloroforming him. His face sure does look funny with a penis drawn on it!

I decide to take a more guerilla approach and, prying open Eric's balcony door, set about enacting Operation Kitty Kidnap. The results are disastrous: the kitties are in no mood for kidnapping, and express this via sharp clawing of my face and arms. I am tearing the black one from off my eyelids when the front door opens and, much to my surprise, Eric is not keen on my uninvited visit. Currently, I am occupying a closet in his bathroom area, which reeks from the unkempt litterbox placed nearby, as well as my own fearful perspiration. Thankfully, my captor has allowed me to keep my handy notepad and pen, which helps me occupy the time inbetween crying fits.

Day 2

I awake to a domestic dispute, which in this household consists of Eric and Allison talking reasonably and calmly through their disagreements. Eric seems intent on keeping me prisoner at least until someone named "Robby" is consulted, whereas Allison seems more interested in not having an abductee mucking up their moving plans. I attempt to voice my own opinion on this matter, but the two of them either ignore or cannot hear my demands to find my mommy.

For lunch, I assert my evolutionary dominance and manage to steal some bits of Meow Mix from my feline roommates. I wash it down with a few laps of toilet water, which is surprisingly pleasant.

It appears Eric won the argument, as I hear the doorbell ring and Eric greet the mysterious "Robby," whose true nature becomes apparent as their conversation proceeds thusly:

Eric: pleased, Wookie-like groan
Robby: Bleep bleep blorp!
Eric: confused grunt
Robby: Blorp! Bleep blorp blorp!
Eric: conciliatory walrus wail

From the cadence of his groaning, I take it I am to remain a prisoner for quite some time.

Day 3

Doing your business in a litterbox: why have we humans not adopted this practice? Possible answer: getting litter nuggets out from under your toenails is a bitch.

Day 4

Eric came home today griping about some pear that hit him on the head. Note to self: recruit more pears! They appear to be sympathetic to my cause, unlike those treacherous, backstabbing pomegranates.

Day 5

Confound it all! I had been hoping that my presence, not to mention my increasingly offensive body odor, would have Eric on a razor's edge by this point, and hopefully cause him to slip up, security-wise. But alas! Today he came home in good spirits, and celebrated by once again refusing to feed me. From what I gather, he was able to repair his car for free, acquired some tasty squash (squash! A pox on that collaborating vegetable!), and found himself a ten-dollar bill sticking out of the mud.

Wait a minute...lost ten-dollar bill...Albany...mud....

Nooooooooooo!

Day 6

Recently learned fact: flaky skin fragments are good for peeling, not necessarily for eating.

Day 7

The Walkingshaws have found a new apartment! My opportunity for escape may be near. Surely in the tumult of moving house, they will neglect their abductive duties and allow me to slip free. The time has come for a plan of some sort. Hours of neck-craning eavesdropping has allowed me to glean a few details, which may yet prove useful:

--There is no second bathroom in the new apartment! Oh, sweet smile of grace, you shine upon me! No more will I be relegated to sharing my existence with cat feces and toilet water! Perhaps I shall be confined to a nice, comfy utility closet, or simply beat about the head with a hammer and left to bleed to death. The flame of my hope has not yet been extinguished!

--A smaller on-site laundry. Does this mean my rag replenishment will become less frequent? But where will I get my nutrients?

--No racquetball court. Ha ha! Victory for the non-paddle-sport enthusiasts!

--Ping Pong table? Rats! Victory snatched from the non-paddle-sport enthusiasts!

--Bigger kitchen. Wait--bigger kitchen? Meaning to say they've had a kitchen all this time? Lying fiends! And here I am eating my own toenail clippings!

--Gigantic walk-in closet: Hel-lo, roomier cell!

--Right next to WinCo. Great. Even more frequent, overly enthusiastic testimonials about their bulk foods section.

--They'll be moving...I can't quite hear that...the moving date is...October 15th. October 15th. October 15? October 15!!??

Noooooooooooo!

...to be continued...

In Which I Explain My Unnoticed Absence

It has been quite some time since I last posted, and quite some time since I have been able to sit comfortably in a chair, fully clothed, and enjoy all the wonders of modern computer technology. The reason for this is twofold:

a) I went on a journey a short while ago
b) Said journey developed into unexpected incarceration and mental degradation at the hands of the fiendish Eric Walkingshaw

Roughly three weeks or so ago, I decided that all this anti-blog blogging foolishness was just that and that I needed to undertake something more tangible, more hands-on, if I was ever to expose to the world the mad menace that my colleague/arch-enemy Eric Walkingshaw truly is. So I packed up a few supplies, drew up some rudimentary plans, and set off for the great wilderness of central Oregon, uncommonly referred to as "Beaver Country," which I can only assume is in relation to some kind of ritualistic, backwoods sexual depravity.

When I arrived things went smoothly at first: I found a cheap hotel with a one-eyed attendant who gracelessly showed me to my room and assured me the hidden camera that I heard whirring behind the bathroom mirror was not a hidden camera at all but simply "noisy insulation." From this impromptu and cockroach-ridden HQ I was able to study my plans, diagrammed to the finest detail on Denny's napkins, and prepare for the kidnapping, assault, or execution of Eric Thomas Walkingshaw, whichever came first and whichever proved easiest to accomplish with a belly full of peppermint schnapps and Mr. Goodbars. I then proceeded, as I had planned, to ingest copious amounts of peppermint-flavored liquor and peanut-inhabited chococlate bars, before passing out on the floor to the sounds of the motel proprietor chuckling perversely from within the wall cavity.

It was when I awoke that everything started to go awry. I kept a short journal while I was away on my mission, and in the ensuing posts I will reveal my entries to you, so that you may better understand the horrors I endured in that godforsaken savage-land.