Maybe it’s Vitamin M(ia).
This is why you should always buy from your friendly local retailer. I mean, look what turned up in our Lucky Vitamin order.
Archive for the ‘Cats’ Category
Vitamin C(at)
July 9, 2017Reel scored for pennywhistle and putty knife
March 17, 2017
It’s not as boondocky as it looks: The Trek 520 shoot took place just west of Albuquerque.
There was a time when I might have begun St. Patrick’s Day with a dollop of Irish in the coffee and ended it with a few pints of the black, playing Clannad, The Chieftains and The Pogues in between.
Not this year.
We’d been contemplating the renovation of Herself’s office, and as it happens the dude who does that sort of thing for us was available this very week, the same week during which Herself was scheduled to take a business trip to Florida.
Bejaysis.
So instead of getting my Irish on I arose early to feed and water the menagerie, swallow a bit of (unenhanced) java, and record the voiceover on my Trek 520 video (see screenshot, above) before the hooley resumed. The cats took up their positions under the bed and Mister Boo — well, nothing fazes The Boo save a late meal, so he was fine.
And I broke out the old iPod Nano, the better to hear The Chieftains by. May yis all be in heaven a half hour before the divvil hears you’re dead.
The cat’s meow
March 14, 2017
Flower child.
Miss Mia Sopaipilla reports from the field that spring has sprung, no matter what your calendar may say.
Also, she adds, you needn’t worry yourself sick about health care. Whenever Mia gets the vapors, a sick headache, or the jim-jams, some two-legged type takes her to the vet and picks up the tab.
Apparently this good Samaritan also provides nutrition and sanitation, likewise free of charge.
Mia recommends we all get ourselves one of them there.
Breaking news
March 12, 2017
It was an under-the-covers operation.
He is a Boo of action, to be sure.
ALBUQUERQUE, N.M. (MDM) — Hidden-camera footage released Sunday afternoon appears to show Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment) meeting in secret with Mia, a known Russian Blue.
Asked whether he would sack his household-security adviser, President Boo replied, “Zzzzzzzzzzz … slurp, smack … Russian? As in Russian dressing? Yummmmmm. … zzzzzzzzzzzzz.”
Meow mix
February 25, 2017
The Turk loves him some velour blanket and sunshine.
Remember the good old days, when there were commies under your bed?
Now it’s just cats. And they’re both under it and on top of it.
Mia goes to the mattresses. Well, to be specific, under same.
For purposes of security, his adjutant and aide-de-camp Miss Mia Sopaipilla favors a (mostly) undisclosed location.
I’ve wondered more than once whether they’re solar-powered. If so, their batteries should be topped off nicely.
Eternal vigilance, etc.
December 20, 2016
A box seat for ‘Is Lardship.
Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (Lord Commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment) is taking his duties very seriously indeed as we gird for the dawn of the New World Ordure.
You will notice, for example, his steely gaze. Resolute, is it not?
Also, and too, the crumpled papers with which he has surrounded the Turkenbunker. No jackbooted Trumpetista can approach his position without causing them to rattle. Fear, fire, foes! Awake!
Finally, observe the collected Tolkien in the bookshelf. Instant access to comprehensive advice as regards the arts of war and magic!
We all may sleep a little easier tonight.
November surprise
November 2, 2016
“Wake me when it’s over,” says the Turk. I’ll need a big-ass spatula to flip him from time to time so he doesn’t get bedsores.
Hey, I’m surprised it’s November. Aren’t you?
Last night Herself showed me a meme making the rounds on Facebutt, something about 2016 being the kind of year an apocalyptic movie would use to set the scene for how the whole world went to hell.
Sounds about right to me.
But is it really only a preview of coming attractions?
Got ‘er done. Go thou and do likewise.
Take this presidential election (please). It matters who wins, of course. But even if The Hilldebeast prevails over Insane Clown Pussy, unless the Senate and House flip to Donk control, the next four years will make the last eight look like the Golden Age of Athenian democracy.
Hell, I anticipate that the immediate aftermath might embarrass any banana republics that aren’t already embarrassed on our behalf. Whether he loses big or little we should not expect ICP to go gentle into that good night. Imagine a large, oversugared toddler being dragged to bed after learning Santa brought him wool undies instead of a red trike. Better take his phone away first.
His supporters will be equally sanguine about an unhappy outcome, I’m certain. The Secret Service is probably already taking bids on Iron Man suits, Batmobiles and Terminators.
Mind you, this assumes an unhappy outcome for ICP and his merry men, which is not at all a sure thing. Plenty of smart folks gave the old hee, and also the haw, to the notion of Alfred E. “Worry” Bush ever getting into the Oval Office, and look how that turned out, if you can bear to.
We’re in what used to be called “the final stretch.” Alas, it’s only the beginning.
In lieu of a debate recap
October 10, 2016(Hat tip to S.Reed.)
Putting the rumors to bed
July 15, 2016
Turk denies coup reports. “I’m right here, just like always,” he told our reporter. “When’s dinner?”
Despair
May 31, 2016
Life. Don’t talk to me about life.
Miss Mia Sopaipilla contemplates a month without Live Update Guy. Colorless. Forlorn. An unscalable wall of gloom.
Words and pictures on the DogPage © 2016 by Patrick O'Grady/Mad Dog Media. All rights and most lefts reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, redistributed, laser-printed, photocopied, crocheted into a sampler, knitted into sweater, tattooed on a floozy, spray-painted on an overpass, tapped out in Morse code, sublimated onto a jersey, shared in whispers in the back row of an adult theater, shouted from the rooftops, scored for tuba and banjo, translated into Squinch, or communicated via telepathy without the permission of and hefty payment to a heavily armed, whisky-addled cyclo-cross addict who knows your IP address. Bonehead shysters and the simpletons who employ them, take note: The opinions expressed on the DogPage contain toxic quantities of hyperbole, satire, parody and humor. Pah-ro-dee. Hyyuuu-mor. Acquire a sense of same or read at your own risk.
