Updates

Ever said to yourself, "I need "X" like I need another hole in my head" ? Well, a warm welcome if you please, for the new hole in my head. I dun pierced mah nose! And I love it. I now fully expect to find out what "X" is and why I need it. No, that didn't make any sense to me either, and I wrote it.

In other news, Doritos and half a king-size Hershey bar, while seeming like a most excellent lunch, are in fact, NOT excellent. At all.

You live and you learn.

Cyndi

Songs that are supposed to be romantic...but aren't

Songs that are supposed to be romantic but aren't...Volume 1 (I feel this may become a regular series as today's music industry is kind enough to provide me with such ample fodder.)

I get the distinct impression that today's young women become increasingly easier to impress. All an uber-sensitive whiny chap with mascara must do is slap together a few notes, paying special attention to engineering a chorus that stops a hairsbreadth away from devolving into WAAAAAAAAHHHHH!, and he has his very own gaggle of ravening, weepy, screeching girls who assign to him the status of Mega Ultra Super Romance God of the Universe. Honestly, does anyone listen to lyrics anymore? Anyone?

So with that I give you Secondhand Serenade's "Fall for You." Try not to expire from the romance of it. I know it will be difficult. I've honestly been out and heard a young woman shoosh her friend when this sodden Kleenex of a song came on. "Shhh! Oh my gosh! It's our song!" *Fans herself.* "Oh my gosh, Secondhand Serenade is sooooo awesome! They're deep."

They're deep alright, my young emo mall-rat friend. So deep I need a shovel for fear that a load of steaming piffle might find it's way into my ear. Let's begin, with the song's first stanza. And I quote:

"The best thing about tonight is we're not fighting,
Could it be we've been this way before?
I know that you don't think I am trying,
I know you're wearing down thin to the core."

Honestly,'The best thing about tonight is we're not fighting,'? Perhaps he's celebrating the much-anticipated commencement of his Thorazine drip. They're not fighting tonight. Hurray oh hurray!

Sounds like the hallmarks of a trailer park romance to me. What a momentous night indeed! The neighbors won't have to call the cops for once. No one will have to witness the spectacle of Jim Bob in naught but his boxers and stained tank top lurching about on the lawn, shouting drunken obscenities at the plastic flamingo as Jane Bob ejects his possessions from the trailer's front window. No, not tonight. Tonight Jim Bob can ruminate on the fact that they're not fighting.

"Woulda you look at that Jane Bob, we ain't even broke a dish tonaght! I think that maght jest be the best part bout tonaght. Other than this frosty Keystone a course." Oh the romance! Help me for I grow faint!

And just because this line is too droll to pass up, "I know you're wearing down thin to the core." Well yes clearly, he needed something to rhyme with 'before.' I can only imagine the choices he elected to pass on. Pore, spore, bore, gore, lore, more. No, none of them quite communicate the depth of the angsty angst that drips from this song. Really dude. Thin to the core? What, is she an apple? The earth perhaps? Does she have a liquid hot mag-ma center? Gar.

Ready yourself, for here comes the chorus:

"But hold your breath,
Because tonight will be the night
That I fall for you over again
Don't make me change my mind."

Don't make me change my mind? Is that a threat? Don't make me change my mind or what? She'll see the back of his pimp hand? And how will she make him change his mind precisely, by NOT holding her breath?

"Hay! Jane Bob, I dun told you to hold yer breath! Don't make me change mah mind now. I's said I's gonna fall fer you over again. Now get on in there and put on them cut-offs you hade awn when we first met down at them stock car raises. You know, the ones I spillt that beer awn."

Yes, Jim Bob sure does know how to charm a lady. But wait! There's more!

"Or I won't live to see another day!
I swear it's true!
Because a girl like you is impossible to find
You're impossible to find."

Ohhh. I see. So Jim Bob really only wants to patch things up because a girl like her is impossible to find. Uh huh. So what is she now? A Tickle Me Elmo at Christmas time? A quail in hunting season? It's hard work puttin down the beer and going out on one of them women-hunts. You're right Jim Bob. Better than to patch things up that actually put forth an effort. Good on ya.

Skipping forward a touch:

"So breathe in so deep
Breathe me in, I'm yours to keep
And hold on to your words, cause talk is cheap
And remember me tonight when you're asleep."

Boy, the rhymes sure were coming quickly when he composed this stanza. He must have felt like Stradivarius approaching the work table. Aside from the oh so deft rhyme schema, does this make any sense whatsoever? So breathe in so deep, breathe me in, I'm yours to keep. Breathe me in...hmm. Sounds like in a misguided attempt at romance, Jim Bob resorted to the ole covered wagon, which while utterly hilarious to him, would likely not have greatly impressed his lucky lady love.

Jim Bob and Jane Bob lay in bed together. Jim Bob suddenly pulls the covers over Jane Bob's head.
"Shoooeee! Git a load of that babydoll! I bet it was them deviled eggs I dun ate. Go on, breathe me in. All that is yers to keep! Yes m'am. Ain't you the lucky one."
*Jane Bob retches, flees for the bathroom.
"You better not be holdin yer breath baby, don't make me change mah mind!"

Continuing on, 'So save your words, cause talk is cheap.' Wait, so she can't talk, because talk is cheap, and therefore meaningless. Okaaay. Em, terribly sorry if I'm pointing out the obvious here. But, isn't this song, well, composed of...words? So would that mean this song is well...Oh never mind.

The song whines on for another couple choruses, of course, just so we fully understand that he won't live to see another day, he swears it's true, she's impossible to find, yadda yadda, blah bah. What can one do in the face of such linguistic deliciousness but yield to its solicitous sentiments?

Holding my breath,
Cyndi

UCGs and Other Random Facts

Before I begin to ramble, a couple of not terribly important things:

Firstly, I received a notification via email that I have officially reached the 1000 hit mark (this number reflects all the hits between June when I started tracking and now). Who knew my Mom and Dad were online so often?

Nextly, I'm just awful at remembering birthdays and anniversaries (I know how old I am, but only because I can do basic subtraction. 2008 minus 1981, carry the 3...wait. That's not right.) Being such crap at remembering these things, I am not at all surprised to announce that I missed my own Blog-versary on January 4th. Happy blog-versary to me! It's been one year of incredibly sporadic posts about things no one but me gives a goat turd about. Gives me a deranged sense of accomplishment really.

But neither of these insignificant items is what I wish to talk about today. What I wish to talk about is something that makes me, Scroogesquely, heave a sigh of relief when the holidays are finally over. UCGs. That's right. Unexpected Christmas Gifts. Please note that the gifts in question do not come from close friends or family members. Those you should see coming and reciprocate, unless you are a total jerk (like me). I am referring to totally unexpected gifts. Ninja-like gifts that leap from the shadows and nearly cause you to soil yourself. You know the kind I'm talking about.

There's a knock at the door. You wonder who it is. You're not expecting anyone. All the kids are off mugging old ladies, making origami from their homework, or watching mostly inappropriate shows in the basement. Your significant other is deeply engrossed in a sporting event of some kind. Yes, everyone accounted for.

You open the door, and there it is. A shiny and lovingly-wrapped parcel, grasped in the mitten-ed hands of a friend, neighbor, or co-worker, face flushed red with seasonal cheer and cold.

"Hi!" They shriek excitedly. "I just wanted to drop this by for you!" They extend the package to you. You stammer, you stutter. You forget to invite them in.
"Oh, thanks," you manage awkwardly. They blink at you. You blink at them. You frantically scan the nearby table for something that even remotely resembles a gift that you can present in return.

"Would you care for a fish stick?" You mumble stupidly.
"Oh no, I'm good" they say, patting their festively be-sweatered stomach. An awkward silence follows. "Well, I need to be on my way," they chuckle nervously.
"Yeah, sure. And...erm...thanks for...this," you say, feeling like the world's crappiest crap-hole.

This happens to me every year. I suck at sending Christmas cards. I don't make cutesy things to hand out to friends, let alone near acquaintances. It's not that I never think about it. I just never think about it in time. An idea lodges in the back of my muddled brain and only squeezes out until there is no time and no resources to make it happen. As a result, I have become utterly paranoid at avoiding these sorts of gift-givers at all costs. For an example of one of these interactions, please peruse the dramatization below:

*Phone rings, Cyndi looks uncertainly at a number that looks vaguely familiar and answers.

Cyndi: "Hello?"
Gifter: "Hey there! I was just wondering when I could stop by your house?"
Cyndi: *Cyndi recognizes work acquaintance's voice. Said acquaintance lives nearby as was discovered by a recent water cooler conversation. "Stop by? Why?"
Gifter: "I just wanted to drop something off to you."
Cyndi: "I'm sorry? Did I leave something at work?"
Gifter: "No, I just got you a little something for Christmas. It's not much but..."
Cyndi: "Oh no. You really don't need to do that."
Gifter: "I know I don't need to but I wanted to just..."
Cyndi: "No really, I'm good. Thanks though."
Gifter: "Look, it's really not anything big. Just tell me when you'll be around."
Cyndi: "You know, it's really busy right now and all. I'm just not sure when I'll be home. Probably you should just give it to someone else."
Gifter: "But the gift has your name engraved on it. I don't know any other Cyndies. Much less Cyndies that spell their names Cy..."
Cyndi: "You could change it. Maybe just scratch some of the letters out..."
Gifter: "Look. I could just swing by and leave it on your porch."
Cyndi: "Er...umm...that may not be such a good idea."
Gifter: "Why not?"
Cyndi: "Tapeworms."
Gifter: "Excuse me?"
Cyndi: "I have a tapeworm. They might be contagious within a 20 foot proximity. In fact, that's why I won't be around tonight. I need to uh, get it removed."
Gifter: "Don't they just give you pills for that?"
Cyndi: "It's a new breed of tapeworm, it's developed an immunity to medication.It's a...um, really big tapeworm. Highly evolved."
Gifter: "So how are they going get it out?"
Cyndi: "Um, make it feel unwelcome?"
Gifter: "Sorry?"
Cyndi: "Yeah, these new tapeworms are really sensitive. I think they said something about getting down near my abdomen and hinting about George having overstayed his welcome."
Gifter: "George?"
Cyndi: "I named him."
Gifter: "Will you be at work tomorrow?"
Cyndi: "Gosh darn it no. I'm done for the year."
GIfter: "Cool, I'll just leave it on your desk."
Cyndi: "Piss!"
Gifter: "Excuse me?"
Cyndi: "Hiss! Meow meow," laughs shrilly, "I was just talking to my cat."
Gifter: "Oh, that's em...nice. Well anyway, I hope you like the gift."
Cyndi: "Thanks a bunch."

Cyndi

A Treatise on Travel Toileting

I suffer from terminal wanderlust. I rather enjoy the whole experience of traveling, from the butt indent in the front seat of the car down to the hotel soaps. Travel often gives us the opportunity to see things from a different perspective. Removed from our natural environment, familiar things become foreign, the commonplace transforms into the extraordinary. Some of these experiences are thrilling, others, horrifying.

I had one such experience the morning before last, Christmas Eve Eve. There I sat, in the Hampton hotel bathroom, in the process of conducting a "transaction," if you take my meaning. Take my meaning, please. Don't make me say it. That would be icky. I don't like icky.

Yes, anyway, so in the process of a transaction, when I look up, and there I am, in the mirror, with a perfect view of myself sitting on the toilet. I did a double take, quickly looking away after the first pass. There was, after all, a person on the crapper in the mirror. Somehow, it didn't seem polite to watch. And yet, inexplicably, after a moment, I discovered that again, I was looking at myself in the mirror, and yes, I found that I still sat on the toilet. Then of course began my neurotic fantasizing (this happens often, as you should well know.) The following is a conversation between MC - Mirror Cyndi and TC - Toilet Cyndi.

MC: "I say, you there. Would you mind awfully averting your eyes? I seem to be in a most compromising position here." *laughs nervously. (For some reason MC speaks in an English accent. Don't ask me why, I don't know. I'm going to blame the part in Mary Poppins where she speaks to her reflection in the mirror.)
TC: "Oh, yes. So sorry. *Looks down at the linoleum floor, notices a cobweb in the corner gathering hair, looks back at the mirror.
MC: "Em, I do hate to be a bother, but you seem to be looking again and I believe I just requested that you.."
TC: "Goodness, yes. I am aren't I? My apologies." *Looks towards the tub and notices a rather curly dark hair in the corner of the tub. Turns back to the mirror "Eeew! DO YOU SEE THAT! THAT'S A PUBE!"
MC: *Narrowing eyes "Yes, I could see how that would be rather disturbing, nevertheless, here I sit, attempting to have a private moment, and you insist on harrying me continually. I would greatly appreciate it if you would kindly..."
TC: "Oh, of course. So sorry. I'll uh, Ill just look over here instead. *Looks at towel rack by the mirror, thinks she sees a dark spot on her face, looks back at the mirror and wipes at cheek.
MC: "Alright then you bloody tosser! This is utterly ridiculous! I'm at the end of my tether Miss! If you can't be bloody bothered to look somewhere else for five rat-arsed minutes, then I'll not be finishing this transaction."
TC: "No! No no! I'll be good! I promise! Please, just go ahead."
MC: "No, it's no use now. My concentration's been broken. You'll just have to try again tomorrow."
TC: "Aww. Come on! I had an extra-strong cup of hotel room coffee and everything. I need to GO!"
MC: "Perhaps you should have thought about that before you started leering at me like a some peep-eyed lout then shouldn't you?"
TC: "Crap."
MC: "I'm afraid not for you. Ah ha ha ha. I do believe I've made a funny."
TC: "Jerk."

Yes, travel provides one with a wealth of opportunities for rich and engaging conversations. With oneself. About toileting. And watching it. In the mirror.

Cyndi

PS. Merry Christmas y'all!

A Practical Husband's Guide to Rabid Meyerism Survival

It's not often that I feel sorry for men. Comparatively speaking, it seems like men have it easy in a plethora of ways. They don't have to wear make-up, their pants size comes in inches and is generally consistent from brand to brand, and they never have to take trip down the "Masculine Needs" aisle of the supermarket. In fact, such an aisle does not exist. The refrigerated beer section is about as close as it comes.

But as I've observed the whole Twilight phenomenon (if you don't know what I'm talking about, you have a bigger problem. Like the fact that you live under a rock and lack a social security number and a belly button) I've come to feel bad for the men of the world. Edward and his hunky vampire pals done gone and upped the ante. What's a man to do when his wife becomes a screeching, teenage vampire-obsessed, "Team Edward" t-shirt wearing lunatic?

Well stress no more dudes. I'm here to help a brotha out. Ever hear the saying, if you can't beat 'em, join em? I find it practically sound, and if you follow my easy steps, you'll be on your way to winning back your wife. So without further adieu, here is Cyndi's guide to everything you need to know to become an honorary Meyerific vampire.

1. Brooding - Now that you are a vampire, attitude is everything. You must remember, you are deep, you are soulful, you are conflicted. You are powerful, yet sensitive. Cunning, yet vulnerable. You want to impress your lady love but you must, no matter how tempting it is, MUST resist the urge to tear her throat out. Are you feeling conflicted yet? Is your soul torn with anguish? No? Perhaps you should practice in front of a mirror. Repeat after me. Brooding is all in the eyebrows.* Practice lowering those brows. Loooower. Good. Now draw them together, and remember, you are deep in thought, your inner struggle must be made manifest. Smiling of any kind is strictly forbidden. Who has time to smile? Certainly not an immortal. Earl the tax accountant perhaps. Earl the tax accountant who will lose his wife if he can't get his damnable eyebrows to sing with inner sorrow and pain.
(*Author's note: Not all eyebrows are created equal. A thick, bushy brow is a must for that extra-tormented brooding look. If your brows are sparse, you might consider filling them in with your wife's eyebrow pencil, or perhaps supplementing with the application of a little spirit gum and furs snipped from junior's teddy bear.)

2. Aggressive carnivore-ism - You can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs, and you can't be a vampire without rending some flesh. It's the way of the world folks. However, in the Twilight series, one of the elements that distinguishes the Cullens from other blood-suckers is their oh-so-gentile refusal to gnaw on humans. Instead, the hunt down Bambi and his friends. Chances are you don't have a steady supply of deer, wildcats, or rabbits to lustily masticate in front of your wife, so you'll have to use your imagination.* Go ahead, go crazy, tear into a raw steak with your teeth. Be an animal. Growl! This is your marriage we're talking about here.
(*Author's note - Though this would seem to be a great opportunity to rid yourself of your wife's irritating Persian, hunting of household pets is generally to be avoided. No one is going to think you are a bad ass for taking a bite out of Muffy the hamster.)

3. Pasty/Sparkly/Cold skin - As a vampire, you are immortal, and have therefore done away with such archaic concepts as a circulatory system. Therefore you are pale, you are cold, you are marble. There are several good cosmetics on the market that can help you achieve that bloodless look. Any sort of commercially available foundation in Ivory (this is the industry equivalent of ass-that-has-never-seen-the-sun white) should suffice. But instead of pressed powder to set your look, opt for pure talcum powder, you know, the kind you puff sprinkle liberally onto a baby's bottom. But for those on a budget, a sparing application of certain household items is acceptable, including but not limited to: Desitin, powdered sugar, corn starch, or cream of tartar.
To achieve that ever-so-impressive sparkling skin in the sun look, you should keep a pot of Bonne Bell body glitter gel on hand at all times. A stealthy application of this behind the porta potty, and your gleaming skin will be the envy of all your wife's friends.
For the requisite cold and clammy feeling, wear a hoody at all times and keep a bottle of frozen water in your hoody pouch. You can keep your hands on it until it's time to give the wife a little accidental brush with your chilly fingers. She can the gasp in true Bella style and marvel at your frigid temperature.

4. Super fast movement - Vampires are fast and agile creatures. To be a vampire, you need to be fast as well, or at least give the illusion of being fast. To give the impression of extraordinary speed, I recommend wearing roller blades or skates to zip from room to room. These can be deftly hidden by wearing extra-long and baggy pants. (This manner of concealment provides the added benefit of helping you appear taller. All the better to loom ominously over the shoulder of your beloved while brooding. The brooding is vitally important people. I cannot emphasize this enough.) In addition, whispering a "whoosh" sound as you pass might help create the illusion of excessive speed.
*Author's note - I do not recommend hooking your belt to your brother Bubba's trailer hitch with fishing wire and having him take off down the street in third gear whenever you need to leave the room. Preliminary experiments with this method proved to be hazardous. And also somewhat inconvenient during hunting season when Bubba was not readily available.

5. Poofy vampire hair - When you are a vampire, even your hair must say, "Don't mess with me, I'm volatile, I'm broody, I cannot be tamed, and I'll cut you if must." In order to communicate this, your hair must achieve the proper verticality so it may properly look down its nose at smaller, less beautiful hair. In order to achieve this look, first, hang upside down from a sturdy curtain rod to get gravity working for you. Now that your hair is standing on end, apply a generous layer of shellac and dry thoroughly with a hair dryer. Not only will your hair be formidably tall and intimidating, it will also be waterproof - very important when you are brooding in the rain. And you should be.

6. Eyes that change colors - This one is a little harder to do. You can of course employ the use of colored contacts, and pop them in and out regular intervals if you wish. But I did say this was the practical guide to Meyerific vampire-ism, and such practices sound less than practical to me. Instead, I would recommend straining as if taking a bowel movement. This will force blood into the whites of your eyes. Due to the color principle of simultaneous contrast, your blue eyes will look greener against the red, your brown eyes blacker, and so on.

Following these simple tips, you too can be a moody, brooding, deer-eating conflicted hunk of man meat that your wife won't be able to keep her hands off of. When she's not nose-deep in a Meyer novel that is.

You're welcome.

Cyndi

Where Was Santa?

So Thanksgiving is over. It is now officially the Christmas season. And with Christmas comes Christmas songs. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely LOVE Christmas songs. I have CDs. I have records. I have radio stations that play Christmas songs 24 hours a day 7 days a week. But sometimes, a particular song gives me pause. I hear the lyrics and I begin to think (always dangerous). I begin to ruminate. Read my ruminations here.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. We've all heard it. This song has bothered me since kindergarten when I had to learn it for a presentation. Come the day before Christmas break, we were to sing this song (in a cafeteria that smelled vaguely of fish sticks) for a crowd of adoring parents at my elementary school. I consciously only mouthed the words as the song offended me. Why you ask? I'll tell you. Read the song lines that follow and see if you feel me.

'All of the other reindeer, used to laugh and call him names, they never let poor Rudolph, join in any reindeer games...then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say Ho Ho Ho, Rudolph with your nose so bright, won't you guide my sleigh tonight?'

Okay, let's establish one thing right from the off. The other reindeer? Bitches. I can hear them now: 'Oh. My, gawd! Rudolph's nose is red! Eeew. We totally have to hate him! I mean, he sorta looks like us, but his nose! It's like...RED! It's like a zit or something. Sooo gross! We should make sure he doesn't play any reindeer games. Like 'eat from the trough,' or 'crap-some-pellets.' (I mean honestly, what kind of games would reindeer really play?)

So let me ask you folks, Are these really the kind of animals you want helping deliver your presents? Discriminatory bastards that freak out over a genetic mutation? Did Rudolph choose this deformity? I highly doubt it. Can you imagine if he'd had a goiter? A gimpy leg? The gout? I shudder to think.

And where the hell was Santa during all this anyway? Don't tell me he was too busy to intervene. Unless by "busy" you mean snoring with his fat ass wedged in a Lazyboy in front of a fire.

Here's his bitchy reindeer, starting a gangland style turf war out in the barn. Seconds away from threatening to buss a cap in Rudolph's deformed reindeer carcass. And there's poor Rudolph, watching, wishing, hoping, traumatized in the corner, only wanting to play some freakin reindeer games. And where is Santa? Don't tell me he's too busy checking lists. Please. I'm an admin people. Santa is the head of a multi-national corporation.

The man does not check his own lists. He has hired help for that, elf temps in short skirts, or perhaps Mrs. Clause. Do you honestly think that if a man was checking the list, it would be divided into naughty and nice? Mmmhmm. Perhaps naughty (as in meeow) and nice (=boring). ie. Librarians and academicians get no presents. Jerk.

So it gets a little foggy one Christmas Eve, and who do they look to? That's right. Old glowing zit-nose. Santa stumbles out, drunk as a skunk, as evidenced by his declaration of 'Ho! Ho! Ho!. Really, when's the last time someone greeted with you with "Ho Ho Ho!"? Other than drunk uncle Ralph at the last family Christmas party that is.

So here comes Santa, and asks Rudoplh to guide the sleigh (a safe bet considering Santa started hitting the eggnog before five pm that night). And what happens next? 'Then all the reindeer love him' (fickle dill weeds that they are). Oh now they love him. He wants to play some reindeer games, and its all bitch slaps and snide comments. Suddenly he's gonna make sure the old man doesn't steer them into the broad side of a barn, and it's all, "Oh Rudolph we love you!" Sure you do, you ignoble prigs.

But this doesn't even address the most insidious undertones of this little ditty. Check this out. What's so special about Rudolph? Why, he has a glowing nose, of course. Know what we call that in the tech field ladies and gents? Something that's sort of like the original only with an added functionality feature? Reindeer version 2.0. An upgrade. Follow my logic here. This next bit is important.

Guess how long it takes for a reindeer to span from birth do adulthood? Less than a year. So in my estimation, between the time that Santa figures out that a reindeer with a glowing red shnoz is a significant improvement over a bunch of catty game-playing skanks (even a raging lush can observe market trends) and the time when next Christmas rolls around is more than plenty to hook ole Rudolph up with a few smoking hottie reindeer cows (that's what they call them, I kid you not) and breed a super-race of present-hauling, nose-illuminating work horses, or deer, I guess.

And what do you suppose happens to the obsolete reindeer? Well lets indulge in a little conjecture, shall we? The facts are as follows. 1. Non nose-glowing reindeer are no longer needed. 2. Santa is a rather large man with a rather large appetite. 3. Chickens are not widely farmed at the North pole last time I checked. 4. There are a proliferation of excellent venison recipes available via Google. You do the math people.



Cyndi

All Nine Lives

A cat is considered geriatric at 12. Two Sox was eighteen when he finally passed away last week. I've seen those bumper stickers that say "Animals are People Too." Given, these bumper stickers are typically pasted on the backsides of cars that also have tatty sun bleached stuffed animals in the back window and woman wearing stretch pants and a chocolate frosting stained Garfield "I Hate Mondays" t-shirt wedged into the driver's seat. But I digress. Animals are people too, that is my point.

As strange as it may sound, I believe that. Anyone who's had a pet knows that pets have personality. And where there is personality, there are also personality quirks. Two Sox certainly had his share.

The Ambush: Two Sox simply knew, without question, that he was lord and master of our house growing up. Our insistence on introducing unworthy companions into his realm proved to be someone disconcerting to him, though he deigned to allow himself to play amusing games with his unworthy wards. One of these was "The Ambush." Two Sox often preferred to take his leisure on the dining room table. This locale had the added benefit of allowing him to observe the approach of his dim-witted canine co residents, who on occasion (being of course, far less intelligent than himself) would amuse themselves by doing laps around the table. This behavior, of course, providing Two Sox the opportunity to wait until said dog came racing around and perform a graceful leap onto their passing back. Typically this elicited a reaction rather similar to having lit the dog's ass on fire. Which, of course, would have been infinitely more satisfying, but it is rather hard to strike a match without the operation of an opposable thumb.

The Ambush 2: Being the well rounded and open minded individual that he was, Two Sox was not so shallow as to limit himself to hunting from the dining room table. Indeed, he wisely took advantage of seasonal opportunities as well. One method of doing this was to conceal himself amongst the foliage at the bottom of the Christmas tree. Hidden in the shadows afforded by the lower branches, Two Sox would then lay in wait for a passing dog, or foot, and erupt from his concealment in a gray streak of feline claws, teeth, and fury. Being also benevolent, as well as skilled, he typically allowed his quarry to escape after minor scratches an abrasions, such was his self control.

The Ambush 3: As was becoming a gentleman who knows the importance fealty, Two Sox allowed his lessers to display their gratitude for his presence with the occasional pet on the head, chin, or throat. In the case that said lessers became overzealous in their adorations, he was prepared to remind them of their station and permissions. On one such occasion, one subject by the name of Steve dared to pat his hind quarters. After a stern warning of tail flicking and pupil dialating glares, Two Sox, with his keen powers of observation, determined that his lesson had not been taken to heart. In a powerful and terrible gesture, he launched himself at Steve's arm and into Steve's cereal bowl, soiling Steve's trousers with both milk and shame.

The Refined Palate: An epicure of the highest order, Two Sox did not limit himself to canned cat food sup or dried pellets for sustenance. Indeed no. He was a cat who enjoyed something sweet to tempt the palate. Some of his favorites included a nibble of strawberry Pop-Tarts, Twizzlers, or the very occasional marshmallow. Such was the refinement of his tongue, that he preferred to take only one bite from each marshmallow, knowing of course (as all experts do) that after one bite has been taken, the flavor and texture of said marshmallow has been hopelessly compromised and must then be discarded in whatever manner one sees fit. Which is exactly what he did do, all across the living room carpet, where his minions would collect them and dispose of them, as is their station.

The Chatter: As a scholar of military stratagems, Two Sox was infinitely aware of the philosophy that one should keep one's friends close, but enemies closer. In order to do so, Two Sox developed a system of speaking in short mews and chatters (modified from his celebrated moth hunting techniques) that could be easily understood by those in his jurisdiction. Hearing his vocal chatter, the humans would then respond with gushy coos and greetings, instantly alerting him to their location within the domicile. Ingenious.


The Games: As I mentioned before, Two Sox was a great hunter, a strategist. Such skills, like claws, must be kept sharp, honed, and ready to kill. But how does one hone such skills when entrapped with lesser beings? Simple. War games. Through a series of subliminal prompts, Two Sox taught his subjects to help him hone these skills by pitching him ice cubes from the freezer. Upon hearing the freezer door open, Two Sox stealthily maneuvered himself into the sink, only his eyes above the rim, waiting for his practice quarry. Seeing him hunkered down, the subject would then toss the bit of ice slightly above his head, affording him the opportunity to spring into action, swatting his target with deadly accuracy. Through such preparations, he could be assured that when the time came, he would be ready and able to kill. Sudden death, served chilled.

The aliases: Wisely, an assassin of Two Sox's order had many aliases in order to keep his true identity a secret. Some of these included: Toxy, Soxy, Mr. Kitty, Mr. Sprinkles, Puddles, Soxo, and Keeton. It is believed that he survived as long as he did through the operation of his closely kept identity. A cat of mystery, to the very end.

We will miss you Soxy.

Cyndi