In our latest episode of Guerrilla Theatre (Feline Overlords Edition), Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein demonstrates the Republican technique for thinking outside the box. Stare to the hard right long enough and something is bound to come to you. (Hint: It used to smell like half-baked Alaska, but now it’s more like an Easy-Bake Oven Mitt.)
Today, Turkish (a.k.a. Turkenstein, The Turkinator, Mighty Whitey, Big Pussy, et al.) and Miss Mia Sopaipilla present a bit of guerrilla theater illustrating the two-tiered system being forced upon us by the oligarchs.
The Turk’ represents the moneyed elites (fat, white, enjoying the view from the penthouse) while Mia portrays the downtrodden proletariat (of color, hunkered down in the shabby basement of the economy, yearning for the bright light of freedom from oppression).
Now and then the Turk’ reaches down and gives her a swat, just ’cause he can. She puts up with it for a while, then casts off her chains, pins back her ears and chases the big capitalist bastard round and round the house until he accedes to her demands for equal access to the litter box, the occasional half-sardine and the Tower of Meower, which is to be designated The Turkintower or Mia Mountain depending upon which of them is in residence at the time.
At no point does the deficit come up for discussion.
With the holidays bearing down upon us like a doped-up masters racer, a cat’s life is simply overflowing with anticipation.
“When will Jesus bring the pork chops?” wonders Turkish, a.k.a. Turkenstein, The Turkinator, Mighty Whitey the Blue-Eyed Bully of Bibleburg, Big Pussy, et al. He suspects that something wondrous is taking place on the other side of that door and has asked Santa to bring him a pair of opposable thumbs so he can work the knob.
He’s actually pretty damn’ close to getting the door open without thumbs — he certainly doesn’t have any trouble grasping the knob, which sits 36 inches off the ground. Wrap it with something he could sink his claws into and he’d come and go as he pleased.
Miss Mia Sopaipilla, on the other hand, wants nothing more than to see an unwary Turk’ ambling past her grocery-sack spider hole en route to the feed zone so she can whip an ambush on his big white ass. A half hour ago she was merrily flogging him around the house — through the living room and into the bedroom, then through the kitchen and down to the basement. Repeat until naptime, which has just arrived.
Herself is making banking noises out there in the living room, moving money around from one account to another to balance my extravagance as I await delivery of my new Voodoo Nakisi frameset. I’ve found most of what I need to build it up gathering dust in the garage, so naturally the purchase is justified by the crisp sense of order its assembly will bring to a presently cluttered space.
It will use Salsa bars (either flared Bell Laps, Pro Road or Moto Ace); some unlabeled off-brand stem; nine-speed Shimano drivetrain (bar-end shifters, Ultegra derailleurs, XT triple crankset, 11-28 cassette); a pair of moderately scarred Shimano 600 aero brake levers, plus cantis and top-mounted brake levers from Cane Creek; a Thomson seatpost and maybe the old Avenir saddle that came stock on my Nineties road bike.
I don’t have an actual 29er wheelset, however, so I’m gonna make do by pulling a pair of wheels off one of the ’cross bikes and slapping some 700×45 Panaracer Fire Cross tires on ’em. That should be burly enough for my mild purposes until I can get Jerry down at Old Town to build me up a set of righteous hoops using a leftover pair of Hügi hubs and maybe some Alex Adventurer rims, which come recommended by tech editor Matt Wiebe of Bicycle Retailer & Industry News. Matt is the generous gent who is ferrying the frameset from BTI in Santa Fe to Your Humble Narrator in Bibleburg en route to Turkey Day festivities in Denver.
So, yeah. Christmas beats Thanksgiving to the DogHaus this year. But then we were never traditionalists. And if you’re hanging around here, you probably aren’t either. So I’ll leave you with the words of Robert Downey Jr., from “Home for the Holidays”: “That was absurd, let’s eat dead bird.”
We were here when it fell, and we heard it. The last tree standing in our back yard has been sawn down and hauled away in chunks.
Turkish loved that crabapple tree, and so did Miss Mia Sopaipilla. It was fine for climbing, and occasionally held a toothsome squirrel or two.
We two-legged sorts were less enamored of it — it shat bitter green apples all over the yard each fall when it was in sound health — but it was lovely to look at until fire blight carried it off, as it did the smaller ornamental apple next to the driveway.
Before that it was either aphids or a bacterial infection that did in the small stand of black walnuts by the fence. These were a favorite of the late Chairman Meow, who used them to access the pergola over the deck, so she could keep an eye on things. She always did like heights.
I miss the Chairman, and I miss the trees, too.
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