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Can I show you a little something I shouldn't be proud of?



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    "The Sounds Of Silence", Simon & Garfunkel

    Walking About Meridian In The Evening #5

    Walking About Meridian In The Evening #4

    Walking About Meridian In The Evening #3

    Walking About Meridian In The Evening #2

    Walking About Meridian In The Evening #1

    The Story Of Marley The Cat

    Marley The Boy is a handsome, fat cat, white with blotches of dark khakis and greys. He is part Siamese, so he has beautiful crossed blue eyes. He likes me — perhaps too much, pushing his way into the bathroom through the door with the fucked-up latch/knob (however you want to term it), bebopping in and around the corner of the tub to where I’m sitting on the toilet to see what’s going on, to check out my balls, or whatever he’s after. He’s a watcher. Creepy, dude.

    He shrugs. Cat in there dont care.

    His fur is incredibly soft. It’s- It’s like rabbit fur or something. It’s a joy to pet him. Which only encourages him. As other members of the household say, Marley is in love with me. “He does NOT prefer the ladies.”

    "It’s not just YOU," my sister Lara points out. Marley enjoys peeping at her boyfriend Ty when he’s doing his bathroom thing, too. "Marley’s into the dudes." Which is alright. Any kind of lovin’ is good lovin’. Which, now that I read that back to myself in the spirit of this post, it sounds kinda freaky.

    Marley likes gazing out the front window. As most cats will. He sits motionless in front of it for ours — much like I do when I’m lounging on the sofa, in front of the TV. Windows ARE like television for cats, and Marley is no exception.

    Lara got him from a neighbor when the woman moved out of the house next door. “I’m SO glad she gave him to me,” Lara’s said frequently. To which I’ve replied:

    "Ever notice his ballsack? It’s GORGEOUS!"

    It is. Unlike the rest of his fur, it’s almost a complete deep black, it’s hue- Ugh. I can’t think of the word I want to use, here. What’s the word for when a color goes well with or- Whatever. It looks GREAT with his fur get-up. All you can see when he walks away from you is his good-lookin’ black scrotum, there, dangling between his hind legs, swinging from side to side. It brings a tear to my eye each time I think about it.

    Windows are like television for cats.

    The saddest eyes ever.

    It’s been like an aging celebrity cataclism, today. About ninety old stars kicked the bucket since dawn. Enough, already! Save some for tomorrow!

    And now the last surviving female Munchkin from “The Wizard Of Oz” has died. I can’t with all the death, today. I just can’t. Somebody fluff me: I can’t handle it, anymore.

    And now “Reuben Kincaid” from “The Partridge” family is dead? Today is just too much for me.

    The Bachelor Chef Strikes Again

    The product of my attempts at cooking isn’t usually inedible. It is, however, most-frequently ugly and could’ve been done in a better way that might’ve not only produced a more appetizing-looking presentation, but one that might taste like something you might actually want to continue eating.

    I rarely learn from my culinary mistakes. I claim to have learned something after each one, but I never really seem to. In fact, though I may recall past errors, I forge ahead horribly, anyhow, doing shit that would make the least-experienced chefs want to smack me upside the head.

    Last night’s meal was full of a lot of that.

    It began as “fried rice”. It turned out to be something that the family claimed to like. They’d have liked it more had I done it correctly. But there’s little chance of that happening. I cut too many corners during preparation. I don’t have everything ready during preparation. I overcook. I undercook. I burn, I get measurements wrong, I use too much salt, not enough salt. I use too much pepper. Black pepper, crushed red pepper. Everything I make absolutely must have too much black pepper in it, too much crushed red pepper in it. Everything I make has to make you cry, it’s so spicy. It makes you sweat. It must, or I’m not happy with myself.

    When I cook, it usually takes more time thaan it should. I was surprised when I finished as soon as I did, last night. But I burned half of it. Made too much rice for the pot to handle. The dish was too savory, not sweet-enough. I added eggs — but did so lazily so that what I got out of the effort was gross-looking. I used canned Mandarin oranges that didn’t do anything positive for the overall flavor of the dish, and- SPAM. Yes. Yes, I did. Well, fuck you — we like SPAM in this house. That was actually one of the good points of the meal. Needed more of it, though.

    I tend to use items scattered about the pantry and refrigerator/freezer for meal preparation; this is mandatory for any true bachelor chef. Canned or frozen vegetables, boxed macaroni and cheese, hamburger, American cheese slicees, salt, pepper, and ketchup. Lots and lots of ketchup. Bachelor meals are often consumed directly from the pot with a big wooden spoon while leaning over the stove or kitchen counter, chased down with cheap domestic beer or Kool-Aid. Hot dogs figure prominently in bachelor cuisine. As do potatoes. And the microwave. We really don’t enjoy cooking for ourselves. When it’s just us, we’d much rather be able to go over to the wall and speak into a box and have a panel slide open with a ready-to-eat meal like on “Star Trek”. Anyone who argues with me about any of this is full of shit. Bachelors like nothing better to live next door to a Dominoes, a McDonald’s, a Chinese restaurant, and a Taco Bell. We only cook when we’re out of money and are forced to have to open that last can of condensed tomato soup. Bachelor cooking is not an adventure, it’s a necessary evil.

    Tonight’s necessary evil has yet to be determined. It’ll probably be fried egg sandwiches. Or ramen noodles. or booth. I don’t wanna think of it until I actually have to do it. Another requirement of bachelor cooking. Pre-planning is for pussies. Like spaghetti sauce made from scratch, the idea of it is pointless.

    A day in which “The Professor” from “Gilligan’s Island” is no longer with us is a sad day, indeed. Rest in peace, Russell Johnson.

    cracked:

    4 Valuable Lessons You Only Learn from Having a Crappy Job

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