Physically Unfit

Scientist thingies have announced that they have discovered the "God Particle".

Also called the "Higgs boson", they say that it is the key to the whole big universe thingy. Given the fact that I am the Grand Poobah and Supreme Dictator of All Universes (known and unknown), I felt I should know more about this theory and those who thunk it up.

After studying this theory between naps over the last 45 minutes, I have drawn my own conclusions and developed my own theory:

There should be mandatory drug tests administered to all physicists.

Allow me to elaborate.

While the physicists have been studying the universe and stuff, I have been studying them.

It seems that in their quest to explain everything, they have become extremely adept at explaining nothing. Oh sure, they got the whole gravity thing right. Stuff drops. But how hard was that? I prove that on a nightly basis. Occasionally however, stuff happens that they simply cannot explain. Whenever this occurs, most folks would simply throw up their paws and say "Huh, I didn't see that coming. I dunno what happened there" and then go have a beer or something. A physicist on the other paw, would rather enter a lion cage in a suit made of meat and catnip than say those three awful words "I don't know".

So instead subjecting themselves to the ridicule and mocking of their colleagues by admitting that some things just happen, they invent a whole new particle, wave or element that is always invisible, untouchable and unmeasurable.

Now don't get me wrong, I understand that the mocking and ridicule of physicists can be quite extreme. If you think bullies in high school were vicious, try facing down a gang of college professors with malice in their pocket protectors and chemicals at their disposal. Imagine waking one morning and finding that the thesis you worked so hard on for the last two years has been vandalized with the words "Dr.______ is big doo doo head" written across the cover page in purple crayon.

So, back to my rant. In my opinion, in an effort to avoid such dire consequences, they simply invent a particle of the week and use such big words and convoluted mish-mashery that the rest of us assume that they must be really smart and that it would be the height of folly to question them.

By now you may be thinking that I dislike and have no respect for physicists. I assure you that quite the contrary is true.

In fact, I seek to emulate them.

I shall use their methods to my advantage.

But not to convince everyone that I know everything (they already know that), I shall use them to avoid accepting responsibility for my actions.

From now on, when a knock knack meets its end in the wee hours of the night, I will blame the "Cujon Wave". It is an invisible force that strikes in the night without warning and leaves only destruction in its path.

The smell that is so horrible that it makes artificial flowers wilt is now dubbed the "Ivanian Plasma Field". It is a colorless gas that dissipates all too slowly, leaving no film and is virtually undetectable by modern sensors after the cloud evaporates.

A high-pitched sound that begins as a soft hum and crescendos into an ear-splitting bit of sonic torture that can shatter glass and piss off any sentient being within a 7.41 mile radius will be forever known as "Tigerphonics".

When every bit of upholstery in the house (especially the right side of the couch and the back of the reclining chair) is suddenly found to be ripped to shreds overnight, this is caused by "a Jaquonian Tear in the space time continuum thingy"

From this point forward, the two leggers will have to bow to the fact that I and my fellow felines are not to blame for their problems.

After all, science doesn't lie.

Martial Paw

I have discovered that there exists a breed of two leggers that deserve my respect.

I have been watching several shows on the talking box thingy about them and have reached the conclusion that they are the most feline of all two leggers.

They are like cats with thumbs.

They are called..........Ninja thingies!!!!

They stalk the night, silent as shadows, blending with the darkness, striking suddenly and without mercy all those who annoy them.

Ivan and I have decided to become Ninja thingies.

Well, to be honest, I decided that we are to become Ninja thingies. Ivan is only doing it because I told him that Ninjas get to break stuff and eat a lot of Chinese food.

It was probably the food that convinced him.

So we immediately began our Ninja training:
Ninja thingies must move silently through a variety of obstacles and conditions. We practiced this skill by weaving through the multitude of knock knacks the female two legger cherishes so dearly. I told Ivan that he must navigate the shelf without touching a single knock knack. I then demonstrated by slinking slowly and silently from one side of the shelf to the other. Though the temptation to slap each and every one of them was great, I knew that the Way of The Ninja Thingy required great self-discipline and I resisted the temptation to smack them into oblivion.

Ivan was somewhat less successful. As he jumped upon the shelf, his greater bulk over-balanced the shelf causing the knock knacks to fly across the room as if launched by a teeter-totter from hell. I was forced to admit that by not actually touching any of the knock knacks, he passed the test, but I feel he missed the spirit of the exercise.

Ninja thingies are masters of concealment. They can blend into their surroundings enabling them to move unseen in the pursuit of their prey. To this end, we have been attempting to remain in the bedroom at night after the two leggers have gone to bed in the false belief that we have been locked safely in the front of the house.

I have been able to achieve this with every attempt. Ivan........not so much.

Whereas I am able to conceal myself in the folds of a blanket and lie perfectly still, silent and unmoving, Ivan invariably fails to control the excited twitching of his stubby tail. On the few occasions that he has been in control of his tail, he blows it by suddenly getting a case of the giggles right after the two leggers turn out the lights.

Finally, Ninja thingies are deadly fighters. They are masters of a variety of weapons and fighting techniques.

World famous for his patented "Karate Chomp", I figured that Ivan was surely able to grasp this part of the program.

I quickly realized that my optimism was unfounded.

Oh sure, he is great at chomping. His jaws are the stuff of legend. But like any effective weapon, they must be well-aimed. When Ivan attacks, he tends to chomp everything, and I mean everything, that comes within his grasp. Unfortunately, this includes shoes, pillows, table legs, rocks, dishes, silverware, books and in one tragic incident, an extension cord.

The smell of singed fur permeates the hallway even to this day.

And so, I have regretfully decided that perhaps Ivan does not have what it takes to become a Ninja thingy. 

But perhaps all is not lost. While I continued working on my Ninja skills, I also continued to seek proper employment for Ivan's limited assassin abilities. But how could I possibly utilize a dim-witted, overweight, uncoordinated, stinky and unattractive individual such as Ivan?

Hmmmmmm.........what's this Sumo thingy?

The Wrongest Yard

Last night I visited my Outer Kingdom.

At first, I had planned to give a brief summary of my adventure, but upon further consideration I decided that the only way to convey the true spirit of my idyll was in verse.

And anyway, it's been a while since I subjected my minions to the pure, unadulterated torture that is my poetry.

Those of you with a weak literary stomach may wish to look away now.

Beyond The Sliding Door Thingy  

Beyond the sliding door thingy  

Is the place I've longed to go.

No matter the weather there,

Be it wind or rain or snow.

I've spent many hours staring

through the cold, rain-speckled glass,

Standing motionless like a statue,

Or sitting on my perfect.......tail.

Last night as I stood my vigil,

There erupted a ruckus upon my deck.

The male two legger rushed over

And exclaimed "What the heck?"

He didn't even notice me.

He spared me not a glance.

And as he opened the outer screen,

I finally saw my chance.

Tiger Lily guessed my plan.

She whined "You better not!"

So I gave her a goodbye smack

As I snuck out through the slot.

Jaq's soft voice followed

Singing the theme from "Born Free".

Ivan was in the bathroom

Playing checkers with a flea.

Unnoticed by the two leggers

I slipped into the night.

An avenging nocturnal spirit

Dressed in black and white.

I set for the bird feeders.

A predator seeking prey.

But before I could catch one,

The birds all flew away.

No big deal, I thought.

It's the squirrel I truly seek.

I'll find him and stalk him,

And slay the furry freak.

 

 But alas, it was not to be.

The vermin alas had fled.

He was probably playing with his nuts

Up in his tree-bound bed.

I shall inspect the ferals!

The strays that haunt my lawns.

I would show them my noblesse,

The King would greet the pawns.

I approached Inky and Sheba,

They sat there looking bored.

But perhaps they were simply stunned,

By the presence of their lord.

I said "Bow to me wild minions!"

"For I have come to thee!"

But Inky just leaned to Sheba

And whispered, "Who is he?"

"He's that maniacal little tuxie"  

Said Sheba to her kitten.
"You've seen him in the windows,
Smacking the glass, a-hissin and a-spittin"

Obviously, they are in error.
Perhaps, they are misled.
Or perhaps due to their rough living,
They are damaged in the head.

Whatever the cause
Of this gross misapprehension,
I decided to leave them
and thus relieve the tension.

It was time to go back home.
To end my Royal Field Trip.
Now to figure out a way,
Into my house to slip.

I only had to wait a short time
Before they realized I was missing.
For the house was too quiet.
No sounds of fighting and hissing.

Whenever things get peaceful,
The two leggers soon grow wary.
They know that something's amiss
And find my silence scary.

So after a brief search
They realized where I'd gone.
They opened the slider
And I walked in with a carefree yawn.

So now I am returned.

Bearing gifts I am back.
I gave Ivan an old pine cone.
And Tiger Lily a smack.


 

The Walls Have Noses.

Several of my minions have written to tell me that they are curious about Ivan and his propensity for slamming his head thingy into the nearest wall every time he is startled.

They accuse me of exaggeration or embellishment of the facts.

I assure you that quite the opposite is true. I have actually downplayed the truth out of embarrassment for the stinky, orange, wrecking ball of furred destruction.

It is my theory that everyone (excluding myself, of course) has their one great weakness. A weakness that no matter how they try to avoid it, seems to seek them out and lay them low at just the wrong time. Superman has kryptonite, Dracula has sunlight, Achilles had his heel, Nero had his depravity. Miley Cyrus has her total lack of talent.

Ivan has walls.

It is a curious phenomenon, but every single time Ivan is startled, his head seems to seek out the nearest vertically flat structure and slam directly into it.

Throughout my entire house, in the dining room, the living room, the kitchen, down the hallway, in every bedroom and bathroom there are small indentations about three quarters of a tailspan above the floor. It has reached the point that visitors often mistake the dents for part of the decor. Even the stainless steel door of the fridge thingy has several impressions of Ivan's tiny noggin. There are times that the walls of a room he enters will actually begin to shake in anticipation of another cranial assault.

Pondering this, I decided that this required further study and immediately set out to find answers to this minor mystery. Of course the first step in any investigation is to observe the event and chronicle the results.

Fortunately, Ivan is extremely easy to startle. Often, just whispering the word "Boo!" in his ear is enough to cause him to poof, bolt and slam. Placing a sock in a place that he doesn't expect it to be can result in sudden abject terror and the subsequent structural damage that invariably occurs.

Allow me to pause for a moment and clarify something. Ivan is by no means a coward or "scaredy cat". He is actually one of the bravest cats I know. I once saw him face a running vacuum cleaner and chomp it into submission without showing a single whisker quiver of fear. But in order to face the potential danger, he must be made aware of the peril very slowly, with ample warning and preparation.

Startling is another thing altogether.

Anyway, I began with a test that started with Ivan being startled out of a deep slumber. I found him snoring on the heated bathroom floor. I stalked up next to his ear and shouted "OH NO! THE TWO LEGGERS FORGOT OUR FOOD!!" As predicted, Ivan jumped to his feet, poofed and slammed into the wall next to the commode. From start to unconsciousness, the experiment lasted 2.174 seconds.

Next, I stood silently behind the bedroom/hallway door and waited for Ivan to walk by. As he passed, I gently tapped him on the hindquarters. With a skittering of claws on the hardwood flooring, Ivan flew down the hallway but failed to negotiate the turn into the kitchen and slid headfirst into the utility closet door. He wasn't knocked out this time, but he did wander in circles, twitching for a few minutes.

For my third trial, I waited until Ivan was using the litter box. I felt that waiting until he was completely distracted might provide further insight into why Ivan is the way he is. Last night, about 3:37 AM, I noticed Ivan heading into the computer room to "take care of business". I knew he was headed to the litter box because he was carrying his comic book with him (he has been reading the same comic book for three years now and is about to start page five). I gave him a few moments to get fully engaged and then I smacked the side of the hood with all my might. An orange puffy lightning bolt shot out of the litter box and lodged in the wall. In the eruption, the litter box was sent flying in the opposite direction toppling over and spilling its contents in the process.

The commotion apparently awakened both two leggers. They emerged from their bedroom shouting my name and casting aspersions upon my character. When they entered the computer room, the female waggled her finger and glared at me while the male attempted to extricate Ivan from the drywall.

After several days of experimentation, I confess that I am no closer to solving this mystery than I was when I started.

So I shall continue my investigation.

But as a wise two legger once said: "The journey is often more rewarding than the destination".

Not a Leg To Stand On.

Last week, the male two legger came home from work with an apparent limp.

As the week progressed, the limp grew more and more pronounced. By Sunday, the female had completed her ritual of toe tapping, finger waggling and eye rolling that she must perform in order to convince the male to seek the advice of a physician.

When he returned home from the Vet thingy, he was walking with the aid of a stick and had a big dopey grin upon his face. The stick is called a "cane" and the big dopey grin was the result of modern chemistry. Immediately upon his return, the female planted him in his easy chair, brought him all 37 remote control thingies and issued orders that he was forbidden from any sort of movement or exercise until further notice.

Already I could see the benefits of such an order.

The male two legger is now at my mercy. He is immobile. His lap is now a permanent fixture in my living room.

He is mine to toy with....

However, I have learned not to blindly trust such an obvious windfall of good fortune. Though my two leggers are for the most part unimaginative and dull, they have occasionally been known to make attempts to entrap me. For instance, they once brought home a seemingly expensive vase thingy and placed it in the center of the dining table. Knowing full well the consequences of leaving such a temptation within my reach, they actually had the audacity to act angry and dismayed when the vase thingy met its inevitable end.

Anyway, the male's posterior was firmly planted in his easy chair, the female had retired to the bedroom, and I was ready for a little mayhem. However, as I approached the male, I realized that the female had made plans to enlist me in the recuperation of her mate.

She had brought out THE HEATING PAD.

Two leggers have known for centuries the healing powers that felines possess. No matter the injury or ailment, the placement of a cat upon the afflicted area will encourage quick and natural healing without the need for surgery or pharmaceuticals. The key is getting the cat to stay on the injury long enough for its healing benefits to work effectively. Early experiments with smearing tuna and catnip over the owie often had catastrophic consequences when the feline would simply eat the affected two legger thus defeating the purpose. With the advent of electricity however, the heating pad was invented. By laying the new device upon the injury, any feline within a five mile radius would be attracted and compelled to curl up, lay down and provide hours of purring power to the afflicted two legger.

I have spent the last six days healing the male's knee. Though it goes against my sensibilities to actually render aid to the two leggers, I comfort myself with the knowledge that whenever I shift my weight, it causes him much grimacing and pain.

In the meantime, Ivan has become bored with being a vacuum and has decided that he wishes to become a beaver. He has been spending every waking hour (about 1.74 hours per day) attempting to gnaw through the male's cane thingy.

Once he is finished felling the cane, he plans on damming the toilet and creating his own pond in the guest bathroom.

Attack of The Furms

The other day, my Kingdom came under attack.

It began, like all invasions, with a small scouting party that soon became an all out invasion.

I discovered the first one when I noticed Ivan standing in the hallway, fully poofed with a look of panic in his eyes. This is not particularly unusual and so I asked him the usual three questions:
"What are you doing?"
"Why are you doing it?"
"When are you gonna stop?'

Ivan, nearing hysterics, pointed down the hallway and replied "Boss! Look! The male two legger has lost his hairy lip thingy!!"

I looked and discovered, much to my surprise, that Ivan seemed to be right for once. There at the far end of the hall was what appeared to be the male's mustache (sans the male's face). It quickly became apparent that the male had not simply misplaced his mustache, but the mustache had chosen to escape of its own volition, for it was at that very moment moving across the floor, obviously intent upon some sort of mustache pilgrimage.

This was not completely without precedence. For the last several years, I have noticed that the hair on the front of his head has been slowly migrating to the back of his head, but I had never witnessed a total abandonment before. Perhaps mustaches are a bit faster or more mobile.

I decided to investigate it anyway. As I stalked it, I noticed that it was not a mustache after all. Instead, it appeared to be some previously unknown form of life. It was about two paw-lengths long, covered in rusty colored fur and seemed to have neither a head nor a tail. It moved along the floor by virtue of about a gajillion tiny legs. Now my curiosity was truly piqued. So I did what any scientifically curious person who encountered something completely unknown in the natural world would do........

I ate it.

Needless to say, it tasted like chicken.

Well, it tasted like chicken that had been left out of the fridge thingy for a week, stored in a dirty sneaker and liberally basted in toilet water. Don't ask me how I know what that tastes like, it's a long story and I'll save it for another post. Suffice it to say that I know the taste.

Having consumed the interloper, only leaving a couple of hundred tiny feet in the litter box as evidence, I put it from my mind and returned to my normal nocturnal activities.

The following morning I discovered to my dismay that several more of the fuzzy worms (furms) had entered my house. Ivan was busily chewing a few and had a couple of more trapped under his paw. As I entered, he turned to me and asked "Mwumppf gwom bofth?"

"Perhaps later" I replied.

It was at this point that I noticed the sound. It was a rumbling coming from both my front and back decks. Running to the bay window, I quickly realized that the rumbling was being caused by millions of tiny feet steadily making their way across the wood in search of entry into my house.

The furms were launching an all out invasion. Not even Ivan could eat them all.

As I lay pondering, trying to decide the best course of action to repel this multi-legged menace, a strange and wonderful thing happened. Suddenly my yard was filled with bird thingies! As though someone had rung an avian dinner bell, bird thingies of all sizes and shapes swooped, hopped and fluttered about in a furm feeding frenzy. In a matter of hours, every single furm was consumed. Scattered about my yard lay dozens of over-stuffed birds too full to fly.

I spent the next hour attempting to figure out a way to get outside and feast upon the bird thingies. I pushed at the window screens, I batted at the door knobs. I slapped Tiger Lily. Finally, I reached a decision.

There had been enough slaughter.

I shall let the bird thingies live.

Ivan Sucks

Around two o'clock today, I reached the conclusion that I was well and truly bored.

Those of you who have read my blog or book thingies will surmise that this never ends well.

You surmise correctly.......

As I sat in my bay window pondering my boredom, an infomercial came on the talking box thingy. It was touting the attributes of a new super-duper vacuum sucky thingy called a "Dyson". An over-caffeinated two legger was jumping about, screaming at his audience that their eternal happiness depended upon them sending him $99.99. But if they order in the next 20 minutes, he'll double their order! (Just pay $300 shipping & handling)

It seems this incredible machine sits around all day until something is dropped on the floor. It then awakens with a deafening whirrrrrrrrrrrrr and proceeds to suck up every last trace of fallen debris until the final molecule has been eradicated.

As I stared in infomercial induced stupor, a thought suddenly occurred to me.

My life can never be complete unless I procure a "Dyson".

There was just one problem......

The two leggers have taken to locking up all the credit cards.

Apparently they took exception to my last purchase of a new refillable catnip mousy thingy. Hiding my credit card was a total overreaction. Sure, it was a bit pricey for a cat toy ($625.00) But I considered it a bargain because it came with a 300lb bale of catnip. And they even delivered it free of charge!

Be that as it may, as I sat pondering my dilemma, I noticed Ivan was busily licking the spot on the dining room floor where a two legger had dropped a potato chip two weeks ago. It came to me in a flash! I don't need a "Dyson".

I have an Ivan.

Yup. Slap some stinky orange fur on a vacuum sucky thingy, teach it to chomp random objects, and Viola!

RoboIvan.

I just had to convince him that he was our new vacuum cleaner.

So I called him over and made him watch the infomercial.

First they spilled some cereal on the floor. The Dyson sucked up every crumb. Ivan's eyes grew big as saucers. He jumped up and shouted "HEY! I CAN DO DAT!"

They spilled some fruit juice on the floor. The Dyson consumed every drop. "I CAN DO DAT TOO!" Ivan declared. "I EVEN MAKE DAT SOUND WHEN I EAT!!".

Then they turned the Dyson off, folded it and stuck it in a closet.

"I SLEEP IN CLOSET TOO!!!" Ivan screamed, and ran down the hallway yelling "I AM DYSON!!! WHIRRRRRRRRRR!!!!'

It was at this point that the two legger started talking about the Dyson having "Smart Technology".

Oh well. I wonder if they accept checks.