Party Of Three Minus One

Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, look good. They look good because of their professional packaging. Nothing inside, not even air. It's a special talent they have. I couldn't do it, so count me out.

Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, went for a walk and never came back, for not particularly obvious reasons because well — who knows? Anyhow, wouldn't you if you had the chance?

Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, have each been married. Not to each other, of course, or to anyone else either, because it's so much easier not to, and the simple solution is usually best for obvious reasons, and they like to be obvious.

Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, want to do something uplifting, so they're taking subscriptions for their feelgood service. You pay them and then they think good thoughts. If you don't feel better, you get to upgrade to the "Pro" plan and pay through the nose by the week until something happens.

Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, have no business relation to Captain Obvious other than their mutual, mirror-image lawsuits for trademark impersonation.

Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, yawn in unison. It's sort of contagious too — if you know how yawns go, except that for me retching is more the thing. Everyone has their own response to life. For me it's mostly vomit.

Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, had a garden party. Everyone was invited, except the people they didn't like. I still had my sock puppet, so no ground lost there. Anyway, I'm allergic to parties, being one of the original nonpartisans.

 

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Me? Recently confused again.

Eeepser Goo

So, today is Goo Friday, or, as celebrated by my love, Echinoia Eeeps and her family, "A Day That Comes Along A Couple Days Before Eeepser".

Normally they turn the chickens, turkeys, partridges, owls, vultures, and flying lizards loose to happily ravage the countryside and randomly lay eggs everywhere, before hunting them down (The beasts — they leave the eggs as unholy.) to make the family's Eeepser stew — slow-cooked chunks of stuff, rendered down to goo, then served in a large chocolate egg.

And I am invited this time.

I get the First Shot At The Snot, as they say — the flying lizards, etc., and if I survive, that's a sign for the festivities to begin. If I don't, then they compost me with the goo and everyone just goes home until next time.

 

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Me? Recently turned mellow.

Life As She Is Known

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Me? Take a guess.

And It Never Gets Old

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, recently introduced me to her new cousin Kitsuania Foondoggy. They're still getting acquainted but are planning on being in a band together, as soon as they can find the right saws. It'll be a saw band.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, cut her teeth while performing as a soloist in the Kindergarten Orchestra of Raucous, which is why, when she wishes to eat food that requires chewing, she borrows the dog's dentures. Clever.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, gave me a cat suit for my birthday. Not one of those slippery lycra jobs either. This one has a tail. And she has a vermin problem, one not caused by me this time, but one I'm still in charge of fixing. After all, aren't I the one with the cat suit?

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, wants to set up a barbecue joint along the highway, called something like "Eats With Eeeps". True, it could be mistaken for a disease, but she likes the sound of it. Also unfortunately, I can't help with product development because I'm too scrawny and wouldn't roast well (she says). Says that scrawny doesn't put butts in seats, so I've been assigned kitchen duty, licking the plates clean, in hopes that some day I'll plump up and qualify for R&D in the roastery.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, had a birthday party. I wasn't invited because someone had to work security — mostly shooting any wild hogs attempting to encroach on the family compound. Hogs just go nuts when they catch even the slightest whiff of spicy rutabaga pie and pit-roasted sand lizard (two of the family's party-time favorites).

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, brought me a gift. It's a replica of the toilet seat that her grandmother, Elderly Onus Epinephrine Eeeps, died on during The Great Diarrhea Explosion of 1933 (mostly forgotten now). As soon as I sand it down, repaint it, and give it a yearlong soak in bleach, it will be safe to hang on the dining room wall as both a monument to memory and a warning to the world.

 

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Me? Recently sanded smooth again, and liking it.

Lunch With Bugs Onnit

If you ask me, I might say something, but then again, maybe not. I’m like that, and generally don’t fight, especially with the cat, unless it’s over food (we like some of the same bugs).

Like that time I was short on food and scraped bugs off windshields for an hour? Only to find a perfectly good dead cat out in the street right behind me. Man, was I embarrassed.

Needing more eyes to watch the cats, I asked one of my house spiders how to handle it. Spiders know these things. However, in this case, it only bit me. Then it pooped on the cat. Time to get a bigger cat, it seems, and charge rent to the spiders. Some of them are sure to just move out. Some, of course, will try paying what they owe in dead bugs, and that’s where the cat comes in. Somehow, I’m sure that I’ll figure out how that should work. Maybe the cat will know. I like cats, and if you ask me, a person can never have too many cats around. But that is, if memory serves, where this business with the spiders began.

The cat told me to do it. I’m not clever enough to manage on my own. Get paid in bugs and mouse parts. Better than my last job.

Ever have, as they say, a bug up your butt? Me neither. Some lessons are best learned from books.

Found a louse wort bugging the lice again. Must do something soon. Around here the lice are all nice, save those few who bite in the night, but we’ve a spray for them.

Had to rush to get to lunch today because they were serving food. Usually it’s just dried bug heads, which is OK, mostly, although all the little eyes sometimes bother me.

I went back in time to kill my grandfather, who turned out to be an anteater. And how could I murder a cute little bug-sucker like that? So I have to stay here in this time frame with you until I figure out something else.

Uncle Benny caught a corona virus. True. He was out fishing — thought he had a bluegill on the line, but it was only this little bug thing hissing at him. He didn’t want it so he gave it to me and I let the neighbor’s dog eat it. Problem solved.

 

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Me? Bugged. Again