My terrific tuchas was seated, preparing to start in on this blog. Today’s diatribe had been pondered and expanded in the dark, humorous and still functioning portion of my neo-cortex. Suddenly from behind came the dreaded, soul stealing, inspiration killing sound of… HORK.
It was Lizzie Borden, known deranged Queen of Inbred Persian Catdom, spewing forth hairball goodness. On the bedspread. The new beige bedspread.
This morning I’d decided to write a piece on body image. Specifically the obsession with impossibly thin women and men. Such a post it was to be! Complete with Fabulous Fotos of Fine-Ass Fatties, the beauty of individuality, sexy attire for all bodies and finally words of encouragement, help and empowerment.
Apparently it wasn’t meant happen. After hauling the bedspread down to the basement I couldn’t stop laughing.
The basement furnace (circa 1928) is where I incinerate the junk mail,
Jehovah’s Witnesses religious pamphlets and occasional census taker forms. After staring at the furnace the bedspread was dumped into the washing machine.
We’ll give the beauty and pain post another go tomorrow.
Remember: When life gives you cat vomit make cat vomit milk shakes!*
*Note: This flavor no longer endorsed to bring the boys to your yardCurrently listening:
House: Original Television Soundtrack