There are times in life when one must take the good with the bad. For example, today, when The World's Greatest Company and Friend to All Mankind sent back my 4th-time's-a-charm repaired gaming console in time for me to fritter away my weekend hours without having to interact with other people. This was good. The bad came when I got home, and found myself on the receiving end of a two-pronged assault by everyone's favorite curly-haired, bulbous-faced robot sympathizer, Eric Walkingshaw.
The opening volley came via e-mail, where Eric gleefully flaunted his capture of Darryl Strawberry, a former fantasy baseball associate of mine who had undertaken a secret espionage mission against my former captor and sworn enemy. My perennially underachieving imaginary baseball team had, a few years back, provided an alibi for Darryl during one of his many run-ins with law enforcement, and by way of paying me back good Mr. Strawberry had agreed to snoop around Eric's home and work for a while and see what he could see. Unfortunately, as Eric's e-mail graphically made clear, things did not go so smoothly.
The e-mail in question was brief; two bravado-filled sentences accompanied by a photograph of Eric's beaming, cartoonishly-proportioned face. Next to his face, held up by one of his assumed-still-human hands, was poor old Darryl--captured, posed, and then somehow turned into either a three-ring binder or giant baseball card (it's hard to tell, given the extreme closeness of the photograph). There was nothing else--no ransom demands, no details on Darryl's health, no potential release dates--just unabashed, childish gloating. He was like a dictator holding aloft the severed head of a dissident, awash in the glow of his own self-satisfaction.
I have to admit I feel at least partially responsible for Darryl's likely demise, as a tall, pock-marked former Major League All-Star is a fairly conspicuous agent of espionage. But irregardless of Darryl's lack of stealth (which he should have enhanced by wearing that Cloak of Concealing I gave him, acquired after much toil under the watchful eye of the High Lord Razelmayne), Eric's cruel treatment of this one-time American hero is downright barbaric. Turning a man into a three-ring binder? What foul robot magicks my adversary must possess!
But before I get too depressed by imagining the details of this horrid transformation (just where did Eric acquire a miniature replica of a 1988 New York Mets uniform, anyway?), I must address Eric's other action against me--updating his blog. After working for nearly a whole hour to catch myself back up with Eric's sporadically-updated web diary, I now have to set fingertip to keypad for yet another foray into mockery? I am not a machine, Walkingshaw! I have my limits!
But in keeping with the theme of taking good with bad, the bright side is Eric's entry today was mercifully brief, and thankfully very bathroom-centric. I am well-versed in bathroom commentary, having honed my skills at the venerable Washington Institute of Juvenile Humor, and I am confident that my turd-riffic ability will have you all urine-ing for more--it is, after all, a highly sought-after commode-ity.
Eric's bathroom complaints center around the plumbing, which unlike my bowel movements is highly irregular. He pooh-poohs the faucet arrangement, noting that they're aligned backwards and control their opposite functions. Normally, I wouldn't give two shits about this kind of insignificant wankery, but one must answer when doody calls.
There is also a complaint about the wiring inside the bathroom, which leads to this wonderful moment of semantic brilliance:
Finally, there are two light switches which control two lights...
Genius! Oscar Wilde, eat your heart out!
And then, just when you thought he'd exhausted his supply of mind-bending comments for one day, he drops the A-bomb:
Maybe our apartment's construction crew was Australian?
I have to admit, even given my inherent disregard for Eric's personality, I was dumbstruck by this closing comment. In this day and age, to revert to such inflammatory and quite frankly bigoted speech is genuinely shocking. After all the torment that Australians have had to go through in this country--being sent to separate schools, forced to talk with a funny accent, dress up in kangaroo outfits and take their children and belongings and go live and work in Australia--Eric has to add accusations of incompetent apartment construction? Why? Is it really necessary to perpetuate the stereotype that Australians are foolish, no-good layabouts, concerned only with waltzing their matildas under their billabong trees and surfing with kookaburras? Uncalled for and unnecessary, in my book. How dare you, sir?
You should be ashamed to derive happenis from such bigotry. There was no need to go that fart.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
In Which Eric Goes to Germany (While I Do Not), Which Conveniently allows Me to Catch Up on Several Blog Posts with One Unnecessarily Long One
As you may know from reading Eric's blog (and don't expect any in-text linkage to his blog, either, especially since I've devoted the entire right side of my blog for that nefarious purpose), recently the curly-locked mecha-fetishist spent some time in Europe--Germany in particular; Munich in particular particular. Ostensibly he was there for some kind of computery conference-type thing, but I think I know Eric well enough to say that the real reason he journeyed halfway around the world was to get some nice, up-close sightings of Buxom Bavarian Babes, which I have capitalized because that's the way Eric tends to say it. I, as a human male of the heterosexual proclivity, cannot blame him for this. Nothing gets the blood a-boiling more than a Buxom Bavarian Babe, with the possible exception of a cannibal's cooking pot.
However, it goes without saying that Eric's adventure in the land of lederhosen and dirndls left me feeling, well, left out. My current lack of educational funding (or, for that matter, desirable intelligence) leaves me out of the loop when it comes to this computer-science-brainbox-conference-trips-to-lands-with-high-populations-of-traditionally-dressed-and-attractive women business. Now I could take the "high road" and simply congratulate Eric on his successful trip and his wonderful foreign experience, but that's exactly what Eric and his robot pals would want me to do. Instead, I will thumb my nose at their elitist snobbery and instead take what I call the "low road," where I passive-aggressively mock his trip by focusing on my very own "staycation" and the wonderful adventures I myself had while he was away. As an added bonus, this allows me to stop talking about Eric for a while and start talking about myself, which any of my imaginary friends will tell you is my (and, incidentally, their) favorite subject.
So away we go:
Part One: Landing
I land here in Lynnwood not via plane, but via waking up in my bed in the morning. How's that compared to a ten-hour flight, huh?
Part Two: Day One
Upon venturing outside, I am awestruck by the beauty of the local skyline. Not every city has the vision to make all its buildings look exactly the same. It is a bold statement of solidarity, of the true unity of our people; these buildings represent our collective squareness and mundanity. Surely Munich, with its centuries-spanning architectural designs and elegantly crafted exteriors, suffers from a massive internal conflict, unsure of its true identity as a city. I revel in the dulling simplicity of this town's architecture; it's a reassuring breath of conformity in a time of great global upheaval, filling me with a strong desire to retire to my sleeping quarters and spend this wonderfully sunny afternoon mindlessly shooting at computerized space-villains with my video-gaming box. Which I do.
Part Three: Day Two
I will admit that Lynnwood is sorely lacking in Buxom Bavarian Babes, but what we lack in that department we more than make up for in unwed teenage mothers. Also sketchy-looking streetwalkers. Though the latter really only tend to appear sporadically, and in very specific locations. Still, not all the world can have Buxom Bavarian Babes; and every indigenous culture is just as valid as any other.
I do spend the better part of this day trying to engage the afore-mentioned locals in conversation, but my attempts are either rebuffed completely or misinterpreted--as either "bein' all nosy an' shit" about their bulging, pregnant bellies; or, more unfortunately, as some kind of solicitation. Which, also unfortunately, lands me in the local jail.
Part Four: Day Three
I am in the local jail. They are kind enough to lend me a pad and some very sharp pencils, which I question, given that prisoners aren't supposed to have anything they can kill themselves with. Upon my questioning, they also supply me with a short strand of rope, a loaded revolver, and several shards of broken glass. They are a strange folk, these local police. Especially the one who keeps taking "bets" on which "implement" the men around the precinct would rather watch me do myself in with. I say, not very professional behavior, in my book.
All in all, the jail is made up of the same sanitary drabness that seems to be prevalent in this area; no narrow staircases or lavish, ornate Bismarck-era ballrooms for us, no sir! From what I can gather, the typical day in the life of a Lynnwood law-enforcement officer consists of writing speeding tickets, teaching D.A.R.E. classes, confiscating minor narcotics from teenagers, and then "disposing of the contraband." I notice they tend to giggle a lot and congregate in unseen areas of the station while they do the latter. Must be some kind of local custom, probably going back to those heady settler days of the early-to-mid 20th century.
Perhaps not as exciting as having to calm down excessively ebullient Buxom Bavarian Babes, but these fine law enforcement officers are serving the public good in their own special way. Also they appear very red-eyed and somewhat paranoid a good deal of the time. This might require further looking into.
Part Five: Day Four
I try to take my mind off women, especially their relative levels of Buxom Bavarian-ness, by indulging in the vast array of local cuisine at my fingertips. For breakfast I had deep-fried egg product with the finest ground sausage patty, all sandwiched between a delectably moist biscuit bun and rounded off with a side of deep-fried pressed potato substance. Also I had a Coca-Cola--straight from the fountain! How many eateries in Munich have Coca-Cola fountains? Probably not too many, I'm guessing. They're too busy with their "fine beer" and "cognac" and "uncarbonated non-tooth-rotting beverages." Neophytes!
The choices for food here are astounding. Feel like teriyaki? Just walk five yards and look in a random direction! Poultry on the brain? Enjoy a bucket of fried chicken! A whole goddamn bucket! Or perhaps you're more into a hearty beef concoction? We can either slap it in a bun with some ketchup and cheese or put it on a plate with some other high-cholestorol products! It's your choice!
The air is truly fragrant with the mixed smells of the many small local eateries here. There is even, I hear, some kind of underground, subterranean place where you can have something called a "subway sandwich" made for you. I don't know what that entails, but it sounds like some good deep-fried deliciousness. I shall seek out this "sub-way" at another time; for now, I must scarf down my lunch of beef-pattie-on-beef-pattie-on-beef-pattie-on-piece-of-stringy-lettuce-on-ketchup-on-mustard-on-thick-gooey-cheese-on-bun. Yum!
For dinner, I had a triple bypass operation. The street doctor was very courteous and delicate, and only mugged me after he'd completed the procedure. Highly recommended!
Part Six: Day Five
I have a grease-and-heart-failure hangover. Thankfully, the quaint grocers nearby have an ample supply of foodstuffs and medications to get me through my day. Is that a fresh copy of
2 Fast, 2 Furious I see in the DVD aisle? For only six bucks? Looks like I've found my cure!
Part Seven: Day Six
I take a walk around town again, and realize I am running out of things to do. Bowling?
Alright. Christ. Bowling.
Part Eight: Day Seven
Buxom Bavarian Babes.
Buxom Bavarian Babes, Buxom Bavarian Babes, Buxom Bavarian Babes.
Eric, you propitious fiend!
Part Nine: Day Eight
Okay, so maybe things aren't looking so exciting right now. But maybe I'm just not digging deep enough. I must dig through the surface of fast-food joints and convenience stores and strip malls and unveil the thriving, idealistic, artistic underground of this fair town! Surely there is something here to rival the literary works of Bertolt Brecht and Thomas Mann, or the revolutionary artwork of Gabriele Munter, or the classic, mold-breaking films of Rainer Werner Fassbinder and Werner Herzog. All I need to do is find it.
And here, here on the south wall of this old school building, I believe I have stumbled across the canvas of the inspired youth! It's a drawing that is simple, yet evocative; inscrutable, yet somehow...oh Lord. Oh Dear Lord. That is foul. Loathsome. To draw that...on a public structure...oh, dear Lord.
But what is this, floating in the breeze? A scrap of paper...perhaps a romantic poem, a paean to a lover lost? Or an eloquent yet forceful diatribe against the power-that-be? Or...Oh. I see. Apparently the young lady mentioned on this scrap of paper "doesn't give it." Short, to the point.
Well, then, I suppose it's up to me. Let this hate-inspired blog stand as the pinnacle of Lynnwood's artistic endeavor! Let me carry the torch for for our grassroots arts community! Allow me the honor of being our, if you will, Laureate! And if this shall come to pass, then...well...in all honesty, that's kind of sad. I'm going to bed.
Part Ten: Day Nine
To cheer myself up, here's another Buxom Bavarian Babe.
Well played, Walkingshaw. Well played.
However, it goes without saying that Eric's adventure in the land of lederhosen and dirndls left me feeling, well, left out. My current lack of educational funding (or, for that matter, desirable intelligence) leaves me out of the loop when it comes to this computer-science-brainbox-conference-trips-to-lands-with-high-populations-of-traditionally-dressed-and-attractive women business. Now I could take the "high road" and simply congratulate Eric on his successful trip and his wonderful foreign experience, but that's exactly what Eric and his robot pals would want me to do. Instead, I will thumb my nose at their elitist snobbery and instead take what I call the "low road," where I passive-aggressively mock his trip by focusing on my very own "staycation" and the wonderful adventures I myself had while he was away. As an added bonus, this allows me to stop talking about Eric for a while and start talking about myself, which any of my imaginary friends will tell you is my (and, incidentally, their) favorite subject.
So away we go:
Part One: Landing
I land here in Lynnwood not via plane, but via waking up in my bed in the morning. How's that compared to a ten-hour flight, huh?
Part Two: Day One
Upon venturing outside, I am awestruck by the beauty of the local skyline. Not every city has the vision to make all its buildings look exactly the same. It is a bold statement of solidarity, of the true unity of our people; these buildings represent our collective squareness and mundanity. Surely Munich, with its centuries-spanning architectural designs and elegantly crafted exteriors, suffers from a massive internal conflict, unsure of its true identity as a city. I revel in the dulling simplicity of this town's architecture; it's a reassuring breath of conformity in a time of great global upheaval, filling me with a strong desire to retire to my sleeping quarters and spend this wonderfully sunny afternoon mindlessly shooting at computerized space-villains with my video-gaming box. Which I do.
Part Three: Day Two
I will admit that Lynnwood is sorely lacking in Buxom Bavarian Babes, but what we lack in that department we more than make up for in unwed teenage mothers. Also sketchy-looking streetwalkers. Though the latter really only tend to appear sporadically, and in very specific locations. Still, not all the world can have Buxom Bavarian Babes; and every indigenous culture is just as valid as any other.
I do spend the better part of this day trying to engage the afore-mentioned locals in conversation, but my attempts are either rebuffed completely or misinterpreted--as either "bein' all nosy an' shit" about their bulging, pregnant bellies; or, more unfortunately, as some kind of solicitation. Which, also unfortunately, lands me in the local jail.
Part Four: Day Three
I am in the local jail. They are kind enough to lend me a pad and some very sharp pencils, which I question, given that prisoners aren't supposed to have anything they can kill themselves with. Upon my questioning, they also supply me with a short strand of rope, a loaded revolver, and several shards of broken glass. They are a strange folk, these local police. Especially the one who keeps taking "bets" on which "implement" the men around the precinct would rather watch me do myself in with. I say, not very professional behavior, in my book.
All in all, the jail is made up of the same sanitary drabness that seems to be prevalent in this area; no narrow staircases or lavish, ornate Bismarck-era ballrooms for us, no sir! From what I can gather, the typical day in the life of a Lynnwood law-enforcement officer consists of writing speeding tickets, teaching D.A.R.E. classes, confiscating minor narcotics from teenagers, and then "disposing of the contraband." I notice they tend to giggle a lot and congregate in unseen areas of the station while they do the latter. Must be some kind of local custom, probably going back to those heady settler days of the early-to-mid 20th century.
Perhaps not as exciting as having to calm down excessively ebullient Buxom Bavarian Babes, but these fine law enforcement officers are serving the public good in their own special way. Also they appear very red-eyed and somewhat paranoid a good deal of the time. This might require further looking into.
Part Five: Day Four
I try to take my mind off women, especially their relative levels of Buxom Bavarian-ness, by indulging in the vast array of local cuisine at my fingertips. For breakfast I had deep-fried egg product with the finest ground sausage patty, all sandwiched between a delectably moist biscuit bun and rounded off with a side of deep-fried pressed potato substance. Also I had a Coca-Cola--straight from the fountain! How many eateries in Munich have Coca-Cola fountains? Probably not too many, I'm guessing. They're too busy with their "fine beer" and "cognac" and "uncarbonated non-tooth-rotting beverages." Neophytes!
The choices for food here are astounding. Feel like teriyaki? Just walk five yards and look in a random direction! Poultry on the brain? Enjoy a bucket of fried chicken! A whole goddamn bucket! Or perhaps you're more into a hearty beef concoction? We can either slap it in a bun with some ketchup and cheese or put it on a plate with some other high-cholestorol products! It's your choice!
The air is truly fragrant with the mixed smells of the many small local eateries here. There is even, I hear, some kind of underground, subterranean place where you can have something called a "subway sandwich" made for you. I don't know what that entails, but it sounds like some good deep-fried deliciousness. I shall seek out this "sub-way" at another time; for now, I must scarf down my lunch of beef-pattie-on-beef-pattie-on-beef-pattie-on-piece-of-stringy-lettuce-on-ketchup-on-mustard-on-thick-gooey-cheese-on-bun. Yum!
For dinner, I had a triple bypass operation. The street doctor was very courteous and delicate, and only mugged me after he'd completed the procedure. Highly recommended!
Part Six: Day Five
I have a grease-and-heart-failure hangover. Thankfully, the quaint grocers nearby have an ample supply of foodstuffs and medications to get me through my day. Is that a fresh copy of
2 Fast, 2 Furious I see in the DVD aisle? For only six bucks? Looks like I've found my cure!
Part Seven: Day Six
I take a walk around town again, and realize I am running out of things to do. Bowling?
Alright. Christ. Bowling.
Part Eight: Day Seven
Buxom Bavarian Babes.
Buxom Bavarian Babes, Buxom Bavarian Babes, Buxom Bavarian Babes.
Eric, you propitious fiend!
Part Nine: Day Eight
Okay, so maybe things aren't looking so exciting right now. But maybe I'm just not digging deep enough. I must dig through the surface of fast-food joints and convenience stores and strip malls and unveil the thriving, idealistic, artistic underground of this fair town! Surely there is something here to rival the literary works of Bertolt Brecht and Thomas Mann, or the revolutionary artwork of Gabriele Munter, or the classic, mold-breaking films of Rainer Werner Fassbinder and Werner Herzog. All I need to do is find it.
And here, here on the south wall of this old school building, I believe I have stumbled across the canvas of the inspired youth! It's a drawing that is simple, yet evocative; inscrutable, yet somehow...oh Lord. Oh Dear Lord. That is foul. Loathsome. To draw that...on a public structure...oh, dear Lord.
But what is this, floating in the breeze? A scrap of paper...perhaps a romantic poem, a paean to a lover lost? Or an eloquent yet forceful diatribe against the power-that-be? Or...Oh. I see. Apparently the young lady mentioned on this scrap of paper "doesn't give it." Short, to the point.
Well, then, I suppose it's up to me. Let this hate-inspired blog stand as the pinnacle of Lynnwood's artistic endeavor! Let me carry the torch for for our grassroots arts community! Allow me the honor of being our, if you will, Laureate! And if this shall come to pass, then...well...in all honesty, that's kind of sad. I'm going to bed.
Part Ten: Day Nine
To cheer myself up, here's another Buxom Bavarian Babe.
Well played, Walkingshaw. Well played.
In Which Eric's Betrothed Becomes a Fencing Champion of Sorts
Point 1:
Haha! Eric, you are the inferior fencer in your household! Looks like it's pretty clear who wears the knickers in this relationship.
Point 2:
As excited as I am that my dream of an Allison-induced Eric-stabbing closes in on realization, my joy is somewhat tempered by the fact that her grand victory has come over a man who swordfights with children for a living. Perhaps not the highest level of competition around.
Point 3:
On the other hand, I don't remember Eric saying he defeated The Instructor, so by the transitive property of fencing skill, Allison > Eric. How's that for pseudo-math, robot boy?
Point 4:
"Robot boy" is a childish, unimaginative insult. My aims would probably be better served by making some kind of snarky comment about the largeness of Eric's facial features, predominantly the nose.
Point 5:
Big-Nosed Robot Boy? Yes, that's much better.
Point 6:
Allison, if you are reading this and if your hangover has subsided, might I request that when you inevitably slay your collaborationist husband, you do so while declaring "From Hell's heart, I stab at thee!?" I'm sure Herman Melville would approve.
Haha! Eric, you are the inferior fencer in your household! Looks like it's pretty clear who wears the knickers in this relationship.
Point 2:
As excited as I am that my dream of an Allison-induced Eric-stabbing closes in on realization, my joy is somewhat tempered by the fact that her grand victory has come over a man who swordfights with children for a living. Perhaps not the highest level of competition around.
Point 3:
On the other hand, I don't remember Eric saying he defeated The Instructor, so by the transitive property of fencing skill, Allison > Eric. How's that for pseudo-math, robot boy?
Point 4:
"Robot boy" is a childish, unimaginative insult. My aims would probably be better served by making some kind of snarky comment about the largeness of Eric's facial features, predominantly the nose.
Point 5:
Big-Nosed Robot Boy? Yes, that's much better.
Point 6:
Allison, if you are reading this and if your hangover has subsided, might I request that when you inevitably slay your collaborationist husband, you do so while declaring "From Hell's heart, I stab at thee!?" I'm sure Herman Melville would approve.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Diary of My Discontent, Part 2
I acknowledge that once again there has been a gap in my correspondence. I would take full responsibility for this, but as you may well know, that is just not my nature. So instead I'll lay the blame at the feet of the real culprits: court-appointed psychiatrists. As if I am somehow a "danger to society" who "harbors deep delusions about his fellow citizens" and "cannot be trusted with a toothbrush, let alone drive a car or ride public transportation." First of all, that toothbrush had it coming; secondly, do you realize how long it takes to walk everywhere in the suburbs? Rather a long time, I can assure you. The local grocer is open 24 hours and I still have to leave my house an hour early to get there before it closes.
Anyhoo, enough about my legal troubles; back to the action, eh? Just how did I intrepidly escape the clutches of that curly-haired nasal monstrosity called Eric Walkingshaw, and return to my less-than-grateful community? Well, read on:
Day 8
Depression. My escape is at least good two weeks away, if my calculations are correct; it is indeed difficult to register the days properly in my darkened prison tower/apartment bathroom, especially given the fact that I have adopted a few traits from my feline roommates and began sleeping at irregular intervals. Also I've begun combing my hair by licking my palms and running them across my scalp--which isn't all that bad, actually, since I'm beginning to resemble a Bunnyman. In any case, the grand Walkingshaw moving adventure will not be happening for some time, and I have two options: rack my brains to find an alternate solution, using all the willpower and ingenuity that I can muster to find my way to freedom; or, on the other hand, whimper and cry.
Day 9
I choose option two.
Day 10
Having nearly dehydrated myself with my weeping, I saunter over to the water bowl to find it empty. Strange, I think; then I realize that I haven't been fed for two days either. I also haven't heard the strange, deep-throated caterwauls that often wake me frightfully from my catnaps until I remember it's just the sound of Eric talking, and not some extra-dimensional monster creature bent on devouring my life-force. Have I been abandoned by my captors, left to rot in this large-laundried, racquetball-court-having apartment complex? The kittens are eyeing me hungrily. I meow threats at them, but they just cock their heads as if they can't understand. I can't help it if I have a thick accent! I was born human!
Day 11
At last, information! I heard the front door open today, and Allison rather foul-mouthedly celebrating a victory she had over someone called "The Instructor." I ask you: is it at all lady-like for a woman of such fine breeding to refer to male genitalia in such a derogatory manner? I submit that it is not.
There is a large amount of movement and rustling noises coming from the bedroom area. I fear the worst; thankfully, it is revealed that Eric is simply packing for some kind of trip, and it was not the audio portion of what I had assumed to be some kind of unclean co-mingling, if you catch my drift. As if my presence here wasn't horrific enough...
Anyway, Eric is apparently heading off to Germany for a while. Strange; I was not aware that the Germans were robot sympathizers--this may force me to re-think my love for gigantic unhealthy sausages.
No, wait--I can't help it. Robot-lovers or no, them Germans make some damn fine sausages. Herzerkrankungen!
Day 12
I yearn for gigantic unhealthy sausages. Instead, I am fed all the leftover bulk foods that Eric has left behind. I instantly gain 27 pounds.
Day 13
When all seems lost, hope, like the Terminator disappearing into a vat of molten steel, warms the cold, cynical insides of my heart. Allison's three-day-long bender following what I now understand to be a fencing victory of some kind has opened the door to my escape. Literally: she has left the bathroom door open after feeding the cats and I, having passed out on the floor, bottle of Jagermeister nestled in her hand. I slowly peer out of the open door, into the world that I left behind nearly two weeks ago; it is strange, for I feel almost reluctant to leave this place, as if it has become like a home to me. The two kittens I've spent so much time squabbling with stand awkwardly behind me; I cannot tell if they are wishing me farewell or pleading silently for me to stay.
Allison emits a loud unconscious burp. There is a widening pool of drool on the floor next to her face. Clearly, I have overstayed my welcome.
I step out of the bathroom and into the apartment proper, which is littered with empty bottles, all beer and liquor of German origin: St. Pauli Girl, Jagermeister, Warsteiner, and a variety of schnapps. It appears her victory celebrations have morphed into a self-destructive pining for her absent husband. I feel a tinge of sympathy, and then I smell something that eerily resembles the aroma of the litterbox, and I beat a hasty retreat.
The crisp autumn air smacks me in the face like the welcome-home slap of a jilted bride. I am free! Free! I do a cartwheel. I blow kisses at passers-by, shouting pleasantries at them, but they all look at me with a combination of fear and disgust. In my joy, I confuse this for wonderment, but upon reflection, I should have realized that when they were whipping out their cell phones and dialing hurriedly, they were not in fact calling friends and acquaintances to "get a load of this guy," but were instead informing the local police about the crazed man running in torn rags through the the streets of Corvallis, meowing like a kitten and looking oddly like he once belonged in a seminal 1980s rock band from Liverpool.
Day 14
The Corvallis jail is rather well-kept, I must admit. And the beatings are relatively gentle. If you're going to get arrested for indecent exposure and just generally being a transient crazy, might I recommend doing so in Beaver country?
Anyhoo, enough about my legal troubles; back to the action, eh? Just how did I intrepidly escape the clutches of that curly-haired nasal monstrosity called Eric Walkingshaw, and return to my less-than-grateful community? Well, read on:
Day 8
Depression. My escape is at least good two weeks away, if my calculations are correct; it is indeed difficult to register the days properly in my darkened prison tower/apartment bathroom, especially given the fact that I have adopted a few traits from my feline roommates and began sleeping at irregular intervals. Also I've begun combing my hair by licking my palms and running them across my scalp--which isn't all that bad, actually, since I'm beginning to resemble a Bunnyman. In any case, the grand Walkingshaw moving adventure will not be happening for some time, and I have two options: rack my brains to find an alternate solution, using all the willpower and ingenuity that I can muster to find my way to freedom; or, on the other hand, whimper and cry.
Day 9
I choose option two.
Day 10
Having nearly dehydrated myself with my weeping, I saunter over to the water bowl to find it empty. Strange, I think; then I realize that I haven't been fed for two days either. I also haven't heard the strange, deep-throated caterwauls that often wake me frightfully from my catnaps until I remember it's just the sound of Eric talking, and not some extra-dimensional monster creature bent on devouring my life-force. Have I been abandoned by my captors, left to rot in this large-laundried, racquetball-court-having apartment complex? The kittens are eyeing me hungrily. I meow threats at them, but they just cock their heads as if they can't understand. I can't help it if I have a thick accent! I was born human!
Day 11
At last, information! I heard the front door open today, and Allison rather foul-mouthedly celebrating a victory she had over someone called "The Instructor." I ask you: is it at all lady-like for a woman of such fine breeding to refer to male genitalia in such a derogatory manner? I submit that it is not.
There is a large amount of movement and rustling noises coming from the bedroom area. I fear the worst; thankfully, it is revealed that Eric is simply packing for some kind of trip, and it was not the audio portion of what I had assumed to be some kind of unclean co-mingling, if you catch my drift. As if my presence here wasn't horrific enough...
Anyway, Eric is apparently heading off to Germany for a while. Strange; I was not aware that the Germans were robot sympathizers--this may force me to re-think my love for gigantic unhealthy sausages.
No, wait--I can't help it. Robot-lovers or no, them Germans make some damn fine sausages. Herzerkrankungen!
Day 12
I yearn for gigantic unhealthy sausages. Instead, I am fed all the leftover bulk foods that Eric has left behind. I instantly gain 27 pounds.
Day 13
When all seems lost, hope, like the Terminator disappearing into a vat of molten steel, warms the cold, cynical insides of my heart. Allison's three-day-long bender following what I now understand to be a fencing victory of some kind has opened the door to my escape. Literally: she has left the bathroom door open after feeding the cats and I, having passed out on the floor, bottle of Jagermeister nestled in her hand. I slowly peer out of the open door, into the world that I left behind nearly two weeks ago; it is strange, for I feel almost reluctant to leave this place, as if it has become like a home to me. The two kittens I've spent so much time squabbling with stand awkwardly behind me; I cannot tell if they are wishing me farewell or pleading silently for me to stay.
Allison emits a loud unconscious burp. There is a widening pool of drool on the floor next to her face. Clearly, I have overstayed my welcome.
I step out of the bathroom and into the apartment proper, which is littered with empty bottles, all beer and liquor of German origin: St. Pauli Girl, Jagermeister, Warsteiner, and a variety of schnapps. It appears her victory celebrations have morphed into a self-destructive pining for her absent husband. I feel a tinge of sympathy, and then I smell something that eerily resembles the aroma of the litterbox, and I beat a hasty retreat.
The crisp autumn air smacks me in the face like the welcome-home slap of a jilted bride. I am free! Free! I do a cartwheel. I blow kisses at passers-by, shouting pleasantries at them, but they all look at me with a combination of fear and disgust. In my joy, I confuse this for wonderment, but upon reflection, I should have realized that when they were whipping out their cell phones and dialing hurriedly, they were not in fact calling friends and acquaintances to "get a load of this guy," but were instead informing the local police about the crazed man running in torn rags through the the streets of Corvallis, meowing like a kitten and looking oddly like he once belonged in a seminal 1980s rock band from Liverpool.
Day 14
The Corvallis jail is rather well-kept, I must admit. And the beatings are relatively gentle. If you're going to get arrested for indecent exposure and just generally being a transient crazy, might I recommend doing so in Beaver country?
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