Caps

Captain Automatic made an announcement today. He's switching to all caps for the duration. Best not to ask for the duration of what or you are likely to GET A REPLY IN ALL CAPS, YOU HEAR ME, PUNK? And so on. Whatever.

Captain Automatic did a tour of duty at a noodle factory. No other information is available at this time.

Captain Automatic, the original autopilot. Never flew and never crashed. More than many can say.

Captain Automatic, formerly world champion squirrel nutter. Not something I would personally brag about, but neither does he, so I guess we're even.

I saw Captain Automatic up in a tree on my walk to work yesterday. Then in another tree, and another. I honestly don't know how he does it, but the good news is that I haven't worked for 16 years, so I should start sleeping in, I guess, which will also reduce the number of arboreal sightings, and then I'll have even less to wonder about.

While going through my closet I was surprised to find several dozen Captain Automatic costumes. That was a puzzle. Later, looking around for more evidence, I found Captain Automatic's diaries and tax records. (He's an LLC.) Then the photo albums, including shots of me from the 1950s, during my first grade-school-level Captain Automatic escapade. Yes, it's true. I am the one. What a surprise. So I had some cookies and beer.

 

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Me? Don't know yet.

May God Muck Your Buckles

Captain Automatic went snork hunting. Caught a cold. Began snorking. Declared the winner.

Captain Automatic, a distant relative, was not an absolutist. Because relative. Give the man a pudding.

Who says Captain Automatic is a man? Does it matter? Can anyone even tell? What seems to really count in the clinch is whether or not said Captain smells bad, and related to that, how many flies come over to investigate. And how tight the clinch is.

Neighborhood terror Tiny Teena Terpschitz the two-year-old once set Captain Automatic on fire, capewise, to see if Captain Automatics burn. Yes, but not cleanly, and there can be lots of yelling, which will scare cats.

Captain Automatic, now retired, stands guard in the park in statue form, after having him/her/itself bronzed. Visiting hours are 8:00 a.m. to noon, and from 1:00 p.m. to dusk, pigeons permitting. Do not take fright if you hear an occasional sigh — it's mostly unavoidable, given the situation.

If Captain Automatic were an aardvark, it's possible that no one would have noticed. Or if they did, well, maybe they would not have called it to your attention. Probably one of those. Anyway, most of the excitement died down long ago.

 

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Me? Wondering which end of a cat is sniffable.

House Me Now

Had to move. Sold the land. They'll be here Thursday to haul it away. Kept the house though. Cousin Berta's a professional house dragger, and said she would help. Has her own rope, which is nice. All I have to do is watch, and keep the flies away, handle any medical bills. In case. Looks doable from here.

Recently bought a small house for the cat. His snoring was scaring the parakeets. Now I have to convince him to move. Will probably wait until after lunch, after he finishes his wildebeest. He's usually mellower then. I can only hope.

A chrane plashed into the house. Or something like that. Maybe it was the other way around. Woke me up anyway. Still a bit groggy, out here in the street in my Superman pajamas and bunny slippers, directing traffic around the debris pile. Haven't seen the cat yet. He might be taking advantage of the confusion to bring down one of the neighbor's horses. Too tempting, indeed. So a possible barbecue later on then, which will help. Good kitty.

It's really nice owning your own house. Mine's made of match boxes. A bit on the small side, yes, you might say that, but on the other hand, if I have to I can just pick up and go. Right now the toilet is being sluggish so I'm using the neighbor's rose garden, after dark, and it's not convenient at all, though it is a cozy place to have conversations with the cat. Brings us that much closer together.

No, it's not like I really need a house, but once you become seriously invested in urban turd collecting you find that the space fills up quickly, and it is genuinely nice not having roommates messing with your little nugget buddies, out of curiosity or any other reason.

Did you know that if you have a house, you can invite people over and do wicked things in the dark? Mom taught me that, shortly before she turned pro. I sort of miss her at times, but not often, or that much.

 

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Me? Can't say yet. Still bound by a non-disclosure disagreement.

George Sez

My friend George likes walnuts. A lot. Used to date one. (Of course not, no, never — how could you even think such a thing? No, they never did that. As far as I am aware of. In public.)

My friend George is a real friend, unlike my imaginary friends who are imaginary, though some of them are pretty cuddly at times.

My friend George — what a guy. Only person I ever knew who had a personality transplant. Came out the other side exactly the same, since he was one of the very few with an exactly symmetrical personality. Kind of lumpy and bold from every angle.

My friend George, a guy who enjoyed doing taxes. Said it gave him great satisfaction to know that an anonymous government drone would be devoting a day or two to him alone, since he got audited exactly once a year. (And always came up smelling like an average Lithuanian, which he was not, so you could say, if you so desired, that he routinely beat the system).

My friend George, like a marshmallow in disguise, but with bushier eyebrows, which usually gave him away.

My friend George, listed in his high-school yearbook as "most likely to become confused", didn't. Though he often had that effect on others.

 

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Me? Nice of you to ask. Check your inbox for roaches bearing messages.

The Former Priscilla Pussyfish

I caught Mom smoking behind the outhouse. She's been hanging around there to "tend my rutabagas" a little too often. Now we know.

Whenever you notice your Mom hiding alligator eggs around the house, you have to suspect that something is up.

Mom always worked hard and kept her nose clean. In fact she got an award for that. Never could get her shoes on the right feet though.

If I ever had to give Mom an employment evaluation, it would have to include "good at terrorizing cats", and "intimidating in a house coat". Not to mention the fuzzy slippers.

I'll say one thing for Mom, as soon as it comes back to me.

Mom never learned how to ride a horse but she could barbecue one like nobody's business.

 

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Me? Wondering about toad licking. (Again.)

Go Dead Now

God came by yesterday to roast some marshmallows. I guess that's not allowed over there. Something about zoning and explosive sugary puffies. Whatever.

God is pretty good to drink beer with, cuz when you run out, it's only a matter of a little finger wiggle and there's plenty again. Pretzels are harder though. I don't get that part.

Me and God like to race hamsters. Hamsters don't, but if it's a slow day you don't mind spending some time coaxing.

Got a birthday present from God. Haven't opened it yet. Whenever I bump the box there's this sort of growling sound inside. God can be pranky, sometimes goes overboard, so I'm waiting until I have my baseball bat to hand to pull the ribbon.

God complains a lot. All too often about the little things. Get off your ass and do something then, right? But no. For some, life isn't right without a chance to sit and bellyache. At least there's beer.

By the way, I may be the mission creep you heard about.

 

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So what are you looking at?

Living On Deaf Row

Dear Diary — I ate a cookie today. Now I'll recover by having a nap. The end.

Death plucked my ear and said "Live, I am coming." -- Virgil (now dead)

Dad said he wanted to run his first marathon. But we convinced him that because he's dead they wouldn't even let him register. Plus — the smell. So now he's hanging out by the grade school. Likes to leer at the 8-year-olds. Girls, mostly. No matter how often we bury him he keeps coming back.

Dad's got a new business idea. Investment counseling for the dead. It stinks, but so does he then, being dead and all, himself. I told him he'd be better off with a steady job down at the DMV, where no one would notice the smell, or the fact that he never moves, but I don't know.

Even though Dad's still dead, he won't stay in the hole. I really hope I'm not like that when I get to be his age.

Compared to my grandfather I'm about six inches taller, and of course speak English much better and I'm not dead.

Found more tuna in my shoes this morning. I still suspect the cat. The little bastard is always smirking about something. Seldom confesses.

Found a screw on sidewalk. Shiny. Clean. "I've missed you," I think. "Welcome home, little buddy."

 

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Me? Tried exhaling last night. Still not working properly.

Leafing Some Things Forever Untouched

You know, whenever someone talks about how long a month is, they always say so many days, but leave out the nights? It's like getting an extra half month to creep around in the dark, for free, every month.

If you want to live a long life then don't die, and don't bug me either.

In later life, Frodo Baggins became treasurer of his local Hells Angels. I don't know why he didn't do it sooner.

Saw another one of my relatives publicly executed last week. I don't know what it is with those people, but I'm really glad I changed my name and got that face transplant while I was on vacation.

Speaking of face transplants, seriously, take a look in the mirror.

"Three strikes and you're out," said Mom, while teaching me how to light her cigarettes.

 

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Me? Parked with my motor off.

Hey Babe

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, wants a baby. Says she's lonely, says it's been way too long since her last one wore out.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, is taking lessons to become a helicopter parent. Says it's fun, but she's having trouble getting a license for the machine guns.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, what a gal. I get to hang out with her and all the rest of her relations during bat week at the the family compound. The blood is rushing to my head just thinking about it.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, no longer plays with dolls, not since that incident with the flamethrower. Says she doesn't want to go through that kind of trauma again. So from now on she's only spending time with the neighborhood kids (weather permitting, and if she can get kerosene).

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, wants to be a mama. She's been practicing by acting like one, by carrying around a heated brick, tenderly wrapped. I've been taking photos for the family album, which they keep in the vault.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, the one who used to be a sniper, isn't. Any more. I hope. But she does still have a lot of artillery in her closet. And the boots. Still the boots.

 

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Me? Trying to avoid cookies, especially the chocolate-chip ones. They've been out of sorts and generally upset about everything lately.