Month: November 2015

Victory

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 14 Comments
The all clear has been sounded, reports the commander.
The all clear has been sounded, reports the commander.

El Rancho Pendejo is now firmly back under local control. The invaders have been repulsed, sent packing to Texas, Maryland and Tennessee.

Reached in his command bunker, which looks an awful lot like our kitchen sink, Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein took full credit for routing The Enemy.

The doughty commander of the crack 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment noted modestly that for his valor he has been offered a full scholarship to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, the nomination of the Republican Party as its candidate for president of the United States, and full oversight of the Keystone XL pipeline, which has been repurposed to deliver a steady stream of Feline Greenies Ocean Fish Flavor Dental Treats to an undisclosed location.

Then he knocked a bowl off the counter and blamed it on the media.

 

55? Do I hear 60? 65?

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 20 Comments
The road goes ever on and on, etc., et al., and so on and so forth.
The road goes ever on and on, etc., et al., and so on and so forth.

I’d like to run away from home. But which home?

There’s the one in Bibleburg, which is under contract. The prospective buyers would like a couple electrical and plumbing issues corrected before the deal goes down, and while they seem to be minor items at casual glance, our plumber has a second home in Hawaii.

Then there’s the one in the Duke City, which has a slight in-law infestation that can’t be eradicated by the usual pest-control outfits. People would talk, especially the ones being eradicated. (Editor’s note to in-laws: I keed, I keed.)

Soup of the evening, beautiful soup.
Soup of the evening, beautiful soup.

Alas, furthermore, moreover, and too, deadlines loom, with words, cartoons and video all very much in demand and yet proving elusive for some reason(s).

Add a soupçon of inhospitable weather — my God, I’ve actually taken to wearing pants, and indoors, too! — and it’s no wonder a paranoid misanthrope might get the feeling that some stealth contractor is adjusting the walls inward during the night, while Realtors®, repairpersons and relatives harry me through my dreams like the coyotes Herself and I heard singing last night as we walked The Boo.

The only possible solution is — yes, you guessed it — a great big pot of homemade chicken noodle soup. It cures everything. I even got a cartoon done while it was cooking.