Whatever So Many Feebs was supposed to be (still not sure), it’s turned into All Iggy All The Time. And hey, I love the little bastard, but he jumps on the furniture whenever he wants, he chases the cats when they’re minding their own business, and he hogs the bed — he’s not taking over the blog too. Because there have to be some ground rules somewhere.
So, just like getting him to put down a shoe by offering him a squeaky toy instead, I’m reclaiming this blog by offering up a whole other blog, dedicated entirely to Iggy and his issues:
The Iggy Dialogues.
That’ll learn ‘im.
Watching The Year Without A Santa Claus. Everyone’s so wrapped up in Heat Miser and Snow Miser, nobody mentions how the elves found themselves on a one-way street, getting ticketed for riding a Vixen the wrong way.
Couch. Sofa, so soft.
I should exercise more, yes?
No. Couch! Couch, couch, couch.
Yeah, I don’t know either. Here’s another pet picture. This one is Miniature Schnauzer, Confused.
Yes, he’s on the cat perch. This dog ain’t right.
From the depths of my patriotic soul, I say this to you now:
Christ, is there ANYONE in this country who can sing the national anthem? I don’t mean “KISS MY ASS MARIAH CAREY” vocal pyrotechnics like Mariah Carey shot your dog and fuck her now because from here on your sole purpose in life is to show up that dog-shooting bitch everywhere you go. I mean is there anyone in this country who can just SING THE DAMNED SONG?! If you’re not already a professional singer, kicking off a goddamned Met game is not going to be your big break. You’re not gonna get to duet on the Grammys with Justin Beeberlake and D-Jism or whoever the fuck you consider an “icon” because of your “stirring rendition” of the national anthem in which you hit every note within the range of human hearing just on the word “brave,” okay?
JUST SING THE GODDAMN SONG AND SIT THE FUCK DOWN.
Heading to Black 13 this weekend to finish a tattoo that was started in April (yes, another one. I know. I’m done after this, I sort of promise except I have my fingers crossed so don’t hold me to it).
Black 13 is located in Nashville, Tennessee, a/k/a “Music City.” Musician that I am, I booked a hotel near Music Row, the center of the country music industry. I’m bringing my guitar, and I’m going to set up on the sidewalk and perform a song I’ve written specifically for the city of Nashville and the state of Tennessee.
It’s called “Fuck Your Truck.”
What could possibly go wrong?
In a desperate flail at a post, I offer up yet another cat picture. This is Smudge, cuddled up with a scrap of fleece that I filled with stuffing and catnip.
I’d better come up with things to write about, or I’m gonna need more cats.
Making up funny captions for a Captain Picard picture won’t bring the value of my property back up, but it’s a nice distraction from the clucking.
To be fair, though, I realize that if you want to raise chickens on your property, there aren’t a whole lot of options available to you in the largely rural county where most of the land is zoned agricultural and there’s a ton of cheap real estate for sale within five minutes of here.