I believe the housewives are plotting their revolt.

I've recently moved. Gasp! I officially "Live" in Seattle. It's a decent place and I like it just fine, though I have an issue.


There is a Marie Callender's Restaurant four blocks away. Every time I see it, I have these visions flashing through my mind, projecting onto my eyes.
Sometimes it causes me to hit pedestrians, they don't count as real people-so it's fine...

Anyway. So, I've been there. I'm not made of stone, people!!! They have food, that is just... well... fine! Don't worry loyal readers, this isn't becoming a food column. Promise. It's a nice enough place with it's, We Really Are a Restaurant and Not an Analogous-Sheri's-or-Denny's!, thing... Though I have to say... what the fuck does the kitchen look like?



This is Marie Callender's! They sell boxes of food to supermarkets! It's the staple of angst-ridden suburban housewife. This was the day dream that usually crosses into my field of vision, causing me to hit that homeless guy (at least he looked homeless) the other week...



I imagine a kitchen, with upwards of fifteen microwaves and fifteen toaster ovens. Eight, somewhat well dressed, women mill about the stainless steal and decorative tile back-splash workspace, white-knuckling their disappointment and ire at their life of deferred dreams and bitter consequences.

These women, displeased housewives, are found leaning against the counters with a glass of red wine in their hands probably from a box, bitching about their husbands.

"Sarah, why are YOU angry?! Greg at least brought home 75K last year and got a new company car, what did my Henry get? A pair of movie tickets and a bought of Gonorrhea from that slut secretary at his firm!"
These women would continue to rant and rave about their lives by laying into their brat children and their continued disobedience by associating with those "Poor" kids at school.
"Johnny keeps on -associating- with that McPhearson boy from the other side of the Well-Fair Line. I took away his TV and his car for two weeks and he STILL disobeys me!" Molly Smith snears as she swirls her wine, one arm crossed beneath her ample and slightly lopsided bosom God-and the kind folks at McNease, McNease & Fontleroy Cosmetic Surgery Center-blessed her with.
"He says it's not right to judge people based on their family's income and birth. I tell him it's not right for a boy of seventeen to still go to dance recitals and to spend so much time on the American Idol website." She takes a long drag of her wine and looks poignantly at the woman across the table from her. "...Might grow up...funny." She finishes with a waffle of her hand like a dying bird.


Near the end of their shift, of drinking the finest red wine found in a two gallon jug, these women maybe begin reminiscing of their days as captains of their respective Cheer Leading squads in high school. They bemoan the loss of the high school bodies that 'could have been in movies.
The rants and raves begin to sound like a cry for forgiveness as they speak, each one deaf to the others, and woe the salad-days of youth and beauty, and then their ire turns back to their current (or first) husbands.

Each one yells at the woman across from her, how they settled for that son-of-a-bitch undergrad, right before Rush Week as a Freshman, and got pregnant, and had to stay home because they were embarrassed to be seen on the Quad as big as a bison. They never graduated. Never bettered themselves by themselves. Never got their Masters in English or their Masters in Business...


"My parents never gave me the family business, and now I'm stuck in this suburbanite HELL!" Crying as if stabbed in her heart, Samantha hurls her glass of wine at one of the droning microwaves. The women fall silent.
Each woman has just been shamed by her own fate. She chose it, she was the instrument of her own downfall. They realize their life fell apart, like the broken bits of Sammy's wine glass, because of each of their decisions. Molly drains the rest of the wine from the jug, looks at the empty and discarded box, and gives a tittering laugh.

"But Henry let me hire a new pool boy! He's one of Johnny's friends from camp he went to last summer. He's not as cute, but he fills out the speedo better than Raul did, though so far he's not even looked in my direction. He'll learn. But I just wish John-John will stop offering to drive him home after he's done, he only LIVES three blocks down, why does it take him two HOURS to get back home?" Molly finishes her recently filled glass and gives a tiny, hiccuping burp behind her hand. Giggling she blushes.

"Anyway, the pool boy is coming over on Sunday to make sure the new pump is working right. I think we need to have a brunch while he works. Don't forget to bring your bathing suits!"

As the eight ladies gather their frauda-bags, and cheek kiss their goodbyes, each one is dreading the ride home. Alone with her thoughts, to return to her life, as the woman she never wanted to be, a woman she would have hated to become when she was younger. But the pills are about to kick in, and this odd feeling of rage and sadness will soon be just another Zoloft-coated crumb in the pit of their stomach.

.... So what I'm trying to say is.. well... I'm happy with my new place, and I need someone to start a task-force to keep the homeless from 1st and 107th, because I'm not partially hiding another body!

That's all.

The pros and cons of non-theme music sex and having Sexual Healing on loop.

I'm sitting here, listening to a cover of Sexual Healing by Dave Matthews. It's good... I mean, I could go without the cheering and jeering audience, but it’s pretty! Very pretty. Then I started thinking about an appropriate time to play this. Only the obvious comes to mind, Sexual Healing, during Sexual Intercourse! Fantastic! But then... What do you expect would happen...? You know?

Is it "weird" to play it on a loop while amidst carnal lusts? Would there be some sort of Pavlovian dog effect after the coitus? Every time you would hear it, you'd get aroused and start gyrating in a less than publically accepted fashion. Then again. You don't have to put it on a loop, and you can make a soundtrack for nookie. But, what the fuck goes along with Sexual Healing? NOTHING! That’s what.

Nothing.

So now we're left with two options.

1.) No Sexual Healing in the soundtrack, and keep it to the Tribal beats and Pan flutes of South America, or perhaps indigenous yodeling of Scandinavian Sheep Herders....

Or

2.) No sound, no music. Nothing. Just the less than mellifluous sounds made of two hot sweaty bodies rubbing against each other.

I'll give you a second to think about it.

Sluuuurp. Thwack, Thwack Thwack, smack smack. Sluuurp, Squish, Squish Squish. Ouch, Oooh, HEY! STOP IT! NOT THERE! Thwack thwack thwack thumpthumpthump Squish squish.

It's not pleasant. Not in the least.

So let me pose this request to whoever reads this...

What is your 'Nookie-Track'? Because honestly... Having Welshmen singing drunkenly from an hour to up to three... Just doesn't sound sexy...

...

..

.

Less it's Ianto Jones...

*sigh*

The Story of the Flittering Horde.

Scientists have known this would happen. They tried to convince the population that there was no possibility of it actually happening. They were wrong. Nostradamus was right. The reign of the Flitter Felines was brief, but bloody. Was I blessed to know their glorious history? Is it a curse? Even now, does some god or demon sit and hold their sides, tears of mirth unending streaming from their blighted eyes. Do they hoot with amusement, giggling and groaning with the Hoopoes and Pard?

I am not one to know, never one to have the knowledge that would be helpful. The knowledge that is needed. I am the jester, the minstrel, the Fool. I am crow, coyote and rabbit. I have not but my tales. My stories. The story of the Flittering Horde, is one of my darkest.

I will share it with you

I start my stories in the middle. It is usually best. The beginnings can be so long and tedious. Even when blood and murder and magic is involved…Veterinary experts said then that despite the hard inner core, the "wings" don't harm cats' quality of life or safety. According to the Telegraph's report, scientists believe that 

cats with wings

 developed due to grooming habits, a genetic defect or a hereditary skin condition little did they know it was the instrument of our demise. The cats… the cats of the Hoopoe wing… they would take over the world with their cuteness, and then use the evil, in which all cats have bound and coiling around their beating hearts, to enslave us.

The Japanese would be immune to their cuteness. Those noble men and women would attack with katanas and shuriken. But it would be futile, in the end. The Flittering Host, they learn very quickly, and would learn to dive bomb, much like a Peregrine Falcon, they would rake the eyes of their enemies, blinding them, laming them, destroying them. Only Manga fans who do not leave their homes for fear of sunlight or social interaction remain unscathed.

It is said the only sign of their approach, would be the low rumble of a hundred thousand cats purring in evil delight of their impending meal... Then as if a switch was turned, like some giant loosed his strange and terrible and beautiful menagerie; the Flitters would descend. In near perfect formation found in highly trained fighter pilots, they would bomb and rake and meow. Blood would flow freely across the land until Cosplay girls dressed as Neko-Nekos arrived to face them at the battle of Kuwaii. The glomping, the supersonic squeals, the juggernaut like strength of their minds were their weapons against the Flittering Throng. The battle was short, almost pitiful for the glorious reign of the Flittering Horde. Snatched from the sky by pre-adolescent girls many of the best were lost that day. Mittens, Snowflake, and we will all remember what happened to Chauncy.

Battle hymns were sung for Mittens, who was known as Lt. Mittens of the Crimson Paw-Paw. True to his name, his mittens were freshly coated with the blood of his enemies. Snowflake, the smallest of the flittering horde, found her end at the hands of a Guerilla Squirrel Attack. Her story still tells of how, with her final ounce of strength, she took down the mob of enemy squirrels by tucking her wings and plummeting to earth, to kill all but one of her enemies. Snowflake the Fallen, is invoked for the glorious dead.

Finally... Chauncy, Chancellor of the Magnificent Tail. Perhaps the only of the Flittering Horde, where not a drop of blood ever touched his ginger coat. He was glorious in his ability to end his foes without physically placing himself in danger. The one with the brain, he used his gifts to work for him. His sharp teeth, his flashing claws, his strong and true wings.... His enemies never saw the satellite dish... Never heard his purr of success, for indeed... Chauncy...Was mute… and blind. Young Flitters, still meow of Chauncy the Battle Saint, some say he was a black magic kitten, some say a witch. But his milky blue eyes, piscine and blind to the world, burned, raged with a mind that none of this earth may know, nor will ever bare again.


Now this terrible knowledge, is yours. Yours to know. Yours to bare. A burden, a curse, a glorious gift I have given. May it bring you peace, this knowledge of the terrible fate that might have happened to us in this very town. May it bless your days, every time you see a cat, a kitten. Know what evil sits inside of its darkened-churning-burning-boiling heart. Every soft paw has a ripping claw. May you bare this knowledge…and sleep soundly.

One of us has to.