Say "Cheesehead"

Ivan is practicing his Superbowl viewing technique.

The Superbowl amuses Ivan.

This year the Superbowl has Ivan positively giddy, as evidenced by the picture above.

You see, Ivan, like my male two legger, is a "Cheesehead".

What is a Cheesehead you ask?

I shall tell you.

From what I have gathered, a Cheesehead is any organism that exhibits any of the following traits:

1. They support the Greenbay Packers Football Team. By support, I of course mean that they eat, live, breath and bleed for the Packers. They will accept someone questioning their ancestry, or insulting their mother, but will instantly turn violent if someone says that the Packers are not the greatest football franchise thingy that ever played the game.

2. They attend football games where the temperature is 200 degrees below zero, completely topless with nothing between them and the elements but green and gold body paint. Though they will don earmuffs if it is snowing.

3. They subsist on a diet of beer, bratwurst, jalapeno poppers and beer on all Sundays between September and February.

4. Their offspring are named Brett, Bart, Aaron or Lombardi.

5. The very thought of a Chicago Bears fan marrying into their family makes them physically ill.

6. They have a sign in their yard that reads "Welcome to Lambeau Field".

7. They have a deep seated belief that anyone that does not support the Packers is either mentally disabled, easily misled, or both. (yet they themselves walk around wearing hats in the shape of a wedge of cheese)

8. They have a shrine to Aaron Rodgers hidden in their closet behind a secret panel that {CENSORED} .......nevermind.

There seems to be no geographic limitations to the spread of this mania. Here in the Great Northwest, the Seattle Seahawks are the nearest professional football team, yet everywhere one turns, it is not silver and blue you see, it is green and gold.

Now, on top of everything else, I have been informed that this coming Sunday, I am to host a "Superbowl party thingy". Will the madness ever end? Although truth be told, I am looking forward to the party thingy since I have been informed that several of my online minions will be attending. This will provide an opportunity for much chaos. My two leggers have been manically cleaning and planning for this event. Given that this party is happening Sunday, I plan on spending Saturday night "rearranging".

My house full of Cheeseheads on Superbowl Sunday. It boggles the mind.

Think I'll make Tiger Lily wear a Pittsburgh Steelers sweater.

Roots

Over the last several weeks, I have received requests for more information about my two leggers. I know not why anyone would be interested in them, but being the ever congenial tyrant that I am, I have decided to comply.

So I present to you, Doug's family history as told by.......Doug.

"My ancestors originally arrived in this great land (America) in 1870. Twenty year-old Daniel Dunn arrived here from Ireland and immediately headed west to seek his fortune. Daniel found gainful employment with General Custer's 7th Cavalry as head poop picker upper. His job was to follow the cavalry and clear the trail so that the infantry would not get their feet dirty with the excrement of the preceding beasts of burden. Danny 'Greenboots' Dunn, as Custer liked to call him, served meritoriously until 1876 when the 7th Cavalry met its' fate at the Little Big Horn. Danny was not present at the battle, however he did arrive the next day and did his duty by clearing the battleground of all fecal matter. For this he was awarded the Brown Star of Valor and summarily discharged from the Army.

"Danny then went into private practice. In 1890, he became rich after inventing the Poop Limiting Undertail Gizmo (P.L.U.G. for short) However, the advent of the automobile and several unfortunate cases of exploding horses limited the success of his invention.

"In 1892, Danny met the love of his life, Doreen. Doreen was a former side show performer and recreational gypsy. She was fired from the side show after losing one of her three eyes in an unfortunate bratwurst making accident. The sideshow already had several two-eyed women and so she was summarily laid off. Danny and Doreen settled in central Texas where they raised their two children, Poolina and Duke. Poolina passed away in infancy.

"Duke, under his loving parents guidance, grew into a strapping young man of 4'11". Nicknamed 'Duke', he left home at three years old to seek his fortune.

"Duke met his bride Eileen in 1952. Ironically, Eileen was a one legged waitress working at IHOP. She and Duke settled on the family farm where they made a living raising canned hams. They also tried raising lean beef, but the cows kept blowing away in the high Texas winds.

"In 1966, Eileen gave birth to me. Duke and Eileen raised me as if I was one of their own. The youngest of one, I was forced to wear my own hand me downs. It was rough country life. Our furniture was made of mud and cactus. I recall waiting by the horse stop, (our school was too poor to afford buses) in the middle of the harsh Texas winter. One year it actually got down to 60 degrees. (Brrrrr) But I never complained. Duke always told me "Remember son, that in other parts of the world, there are kids who are much smarter and handsomer than you". I'm not sure how that helped, but that was his way.

"In 1984, I joined the U.S. Navy. The Navy taught me how to wear shoes that tie and how to open a beer bottle with my teeth. I cannot understate how that experience changed my life.

"I was discharged in 1987 when it was discovered that that I had only one functioning nostril. At loose ends, I wandered around looking for a job wherein which I could cut, burn and mutilate myself and yet still get paid. Goldsmithing was the perfect fit."

The rest is history.

Ghosthunters (Home Edition)

It is the "wee hours" of the night.

I know this because the female two legger just got up and went "wee".

Normally this time of night is very quiet. It is usually the time of darkness during which Ivan and I plot our activities and chaos for the coming day. Tiger Lily is locked in the computer room and unavailable for therapeutic smacking. The two leggers are sleeping soundly in their bed completely unaware of our plotting.

Ivan and I continue to plot. It is becoming increasingly difficult to come up with new forms of mischief. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. We cause chaos, they attempt to restore order into their little world. However, I am confident that chaos will always triumph.

As we sit in the living room plotting, our ears are beset by a most eerie sound. Mere words fail to describe it. If I heard this sound emanating from the talking box thingy while it was tuned to the Sci-fy channel, college students would be running for their lives while an alcoholic priest suddenly finds his true calling again and rushes into the house to exercise the spirit. Why spirits need exercise is beyond me, must be a Richard Simmons thingy, but I digress.

This sound reverberates throughout my house like all the demons of the netherworld thingy trying to once again take over New York. (I am not convinced they have ever been vanquished from New York, but once again, I digress)

If you have ever watched "Ax-Men" on the talking box thingy, and if you have ever heard "Rap" music, take the sounds from those two things, add the sound of a lawn mower thingy, throw in a tuba and a poorly tuned violin, add a teaspoon of Celine Dion and a pinch of "American Idol" tryouts, and you have a small example of the noise.

What can this horrid sound possibly be?

I turn to Ivan seeking his counsel. This to no avail, given that Ivan has been reduced to a quivering puddle of orange dumbdom. He is in the process of imitating a striped peach and apricot Jello mold gone horribly wrong.

As usual, it falls to me to seek out and vanquish the foe. I am not saying that I am the John Wayne of feline society, Ok, maybe I am saying that, but when I confront a mystery, my feline instincts shift to high gear until the mystery is both solved and turned to my advantage.

The sound seems to be emanating from the back of my house. This is where I allow the two leggers to sleep. They call it the "bedroom", I call it the...well, bedroom. It is where the bed is, so though unoriginal, bedroom it is.

I approach the bedroom on full alert. Smack first, and second, and smack a third time before I ask questions is my philosophy. In short order, I realize that this Hell begotten sound is not emanating from a curio that the two leggers brought home from another flea market featuring Gypsies and other sordid folk, that they enjoy visiting on off weekends because it makes them feel "artsy", it is coming from the male two legger's face.

At first glance, I am unable to comprehend what I am seeing. Surely my mild mannered two legger could not be capable of producing such a cacophony of audio torture.

I must test my hypothesis.

Using my entire weekly ration of stealth, I climb upon the bed. Careful not to wake the two leggers, I walk to the to top of the bed covers and observe. The male is sleeping with his mouth wide open and emitting the offending sounds. Very carefully, I place both paws into his mouth effectively cutting off his respiratory passages.

The noise ceases.

I remove my paws.

The noise returns.

I once again place my paws in his mouth.

The noise again ceases.

Mystery solved.

I go back and inform Ivan that I have forced the evil spirit from our house. I also mention that the only way to keep the vanquished from returning, is by giving the vanquisher half of his food from now on.

This will serve the greater good. I will be even more well fed and Ivan will lose some of that gut.

As for the two legger, he is still wondering why he wakes every morning with cat hair on his tongue.

Some mysteries are better left unexplained.

100th Post Contest

My Dear Minions,
I am hereby announcing a contest.

Yesterday I posted my 91st post on the blog. Realizing that the 100th is just around the corner, I decided we should have some fun with it. So here goes:

I am taking suggestions for the topic of the 100th post.
The winning entrant (as judged by a panel of 1, me) will win a framed autographed picture of yours truly and a catnip mousie thingy.
All entries should be submitted to: dougnkatty@yahoo.com
The deadline is midnight of some day I've yet to determine. (hey, I'm a cat and am subject to changing my mind)
Minions in my immediate household are not eligible.
Bribing the judge is not only acceptable, but expected.
Creatures of all leg counts are eligible.
Except Squirrels.
I look forward to seeing your entries.
Sincerely,
Cujo

The Tominator

He's at it again.

For some strange reason that has always escaped me, my male two legger enjoys watching the really bad disaster/monster movies that the Sci-Fi channel shows on the talking box thingy.

Given the fact that both my throne and the firebox thingy are in the living room directly opposite the talking box thingy, I am forced to endure these movies.

It does not amuse me.

This week he is watching something about the energizer bunny of all earthquake thingies that is threatening to destroy the world.

Again.

All these movie thingies seem to have several similarities.
1. Bad acting
2. Bad special effects.
3. A poor misunderstood scientist whose wild theories got him fired from his government job, but whose theories are now being proven by the current crisis.
4. The poor misunderstood scientist's ex-wife who is now in a position of influence with the President.
5. Former child stars in starring roles.
6. Did I mention bad acting?

I do not understand my two legger's fascination with this drivel. For a two legger, he seems to be moderately intelligent. (He can even spell his name correctly five out of seven times) Which is why his interest in bad cinema is so confusing.

Therefore I have decided to write my own disaster/monster movie:

Inside a secret government lab, deep in the woods of Western Washington, a government scientist mistakenly releases a germ thingy that kills all animal life.

Except squirrels.

This germ thingy spreads quickly due to another government program that has for the past 30 years been training pigeons to collect used band aids and drop them in parks near large population centers. The used band aids then stick to the shoes of unsuspecting park users and are tracked throughout the city.

Just when all seems lost, a cat appears from the future. He is, of course, a strikingly handsome tuxedo cat that due to his advanced intelligence has learned to communicate with the two leggers and also developed a cure for the mad squirrel plague. He immediately contacts the nearest divorced/disgraced scientist and teaches him how to smear the cure on dirty band aids and set them around statue thingies to be redistributed by the pigeons.

In an ironic plot twist, the cure for the disease is deadly to squirrels.

The movie ends with our feline hero from the future curing world hunger by teaching the two leggers how to grow genetically enhanced varieties of catnip and tuna. He is then unanimously elected Universal Dictator for life and given his choice of females.

And he lives happily ever after.

Roll credits.

Mutt-erings

I don't understand it.

I am confused.

I am annoyed because I don't understand it and it confuses me.

Why are dogs always so happy?

Between naps, snacks, litter box visits, slapping Tiger Lily and chaos creation, I have been pondering this very question.

What the hell is it that makes dogs so eternally happy?

They are happy when they see a two legger. They are happy when they don't see a two legger. They are happy when they are well fed. They are happy when they are hungry. They are happy when they are thrown a ball. They are happy when you only fake throwing them a ball. They are happy when they go poo, and then they are happy eating the poo that just made them happy when they left it. They are even happy when they are unconscious. They can be completely comatose and that tail will still be wagging.

My first thought was that their happiness stemmed from their lack of mental capacity. However, Ivan disproves this theory. He has the IQ of a mentally challenged dust bunny, yet he is very seldom happy. So obviously stupidity is not the key to a cheerful disposition. (Washington DC. would replace Disneyland as the "Happiest Place on Earth" otherwise.)

My second hypothesis involved a recreational drug that affects only canines. After searching the internet thingy, I failed to find any references to "dognip". I did however find several website thingies that discussed canine fashion, although the pictures seemed to have very little in common with "doggy style" and only confused me more.

My final consideration is that canine anatomy includes a "happy gland". I believe this gland is located in the dog's hindquarters. It is triggered by the dog's nose. Apparently there is a complimentary gland on the dog's nose that triggers the "happy gland" on the dog's butt.

Whenever a dog's nose comes into close contact with either its' own butt or that of another canine, some type of chemical reaction thingy takes place in the doggy brain that makes it incredibly happy. This reaction seems to be very short-lived causing the dog to constantly repeat the process, usually several hundred times per day.

Yes, this must be the answer.

Just a note to Cesar Millan.(The Dog Whisperer) If you require any more advice, I am at your service.

Ode to Tiger Lily

I beg to describe her,
She's a large grayish tabby.
She is never joyful.
She's always very crabby.

She's partial to other females,
She never likes us boys.
She'd rather fuss at us.
When we're playing with our toys.

She looks down her nose at us,
In two legger terms she's conceited.
Swing one paw at her,
And you'll find that she's retreated.

She lays all day,
Basking in the sun.
Just a boring lump of fur,
Disdaining any fun.

She does very little,
She'll never chase a mouse.
I've yet to figure out,
Her purpose in my house.

But in one area,
She hasn't any peers.
She makes a sound so annoying,
You'll wish you had no ears.

Yes, she is a master
When it comes to whining.
It annoys all who hear it,
It requires no refining.

She whines in the morning,
She whines all through the day.
She whines so much,
It keeps the mice away.

I've tried to speak to her,
Alas with no success.
I've tried very hard to accept her,
But I fail, I must confess.

So it is not my fault,
If my paw acts of its' own volition.
You'd do the same,
Were you in my position.

You'd smack her too,
I've no doubt you would.
You'd smack her just to shut her up.
You'd smack her because it felt good.

So please don't try to judge me,
I'm not the only one.
Everyone wants to smack her,
Plus it's just so damned fun.