Kidnapped and held ransom by mucal kittynappers, Smoog makes daring escape across Sea of Snot. Details at 11.
I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said I haven't written because of Hurricane Isabel, would you? So I'm in the middle of the Canadian prairies. It could happen. For ten days. Really. Stop looking at me like that.
come hither - back off
You'd think, by taking a break for just under 2 weeks, that I'd have all kinds of interesting things to write about. You'd think I'd use my time to go out into the world and whip up a frenzy of hot and wild fun, then rush back here to tell you all about it. That's right -- you'd think I'd be swinging from vines, pounding my chest and snatching up unsuspecting blonde bombshells for some jungle lovin'. Or you'd think I'd be ripping my bodice late one night in the office for that cute architect with the washboard stomach to ravish me on the drafting table. You'd think I'd be chasing Columbian drug lords with a cat-o-nine-tails and an uzi in order to save the free world from the dissemination of tainted cocaine that would instantly kill all who handle it without protective clothing.
Yes, you would think that. Don't argue. Just humour my sorry ass. You'd never suspect I did nothing exciting at all. Nod your head.
What exciting things did I do? I'm glad you asked. Why, I managed to wade through a vicious jungle of paperwork to wrestle a killer 3-foot stack of filing into the magic metal cabinet, saving the world from certain doom. After all, your life would be over if my alien boss couldn't find that 4-sentence memo from a client that essentially says, "Hi, how are you? Please make sure you do this work. Thanks. See ya." Really. It would be. My boss said so. OK, yes, what he said was "AAARRGH*#@$#)#$GRRR@#$RAR #*snort*@#arrgh!!", but I'm pretty sure I've got the alien translation correct.
I also swam successfully across a raging toxic sea swarming with evil, noxious sea monsters. I'll be the next comic book superhero. I fail to see any diminishment in my valour just because that sea's existence was due to an explosion from the nostrils of my cat Jessie in a series of violent sneezes. Jessie, of course, had wanted to cuddle just beforehand, and was positioned on my chest as I gazed up at her from my pillow. She stared lovingly into my eyes from about 4 inches away, purred -- then recoiled with a hideous snarl as she contorted her snout in a very uncatlike manner. At that moment, every sinus cavity in her head blew up onto my face. It gave new meaning to the phrase "dripping wet".
This didn't just happen the one time either. Oh no. Three times in three days. The first time I thought, "Aww, poor baby is getting a cold. Awwww." Then I petted and cuddled her after I washed the slime from my face. The second time it happened, I thought, "OK, she's not feeling well, which is why she's coming for cuddles. It's only natural, after all." The third time it happened, I realized I harboured an evil snot monster in my home, whose sole desire was to drown me in cat mucous while I slept. Yet another death by cat.
In fact, I did party, in a Smoogypartyish sort of way. My idea of a great time is sleeping for 20 hours straight. I really git down by putting in a television and popcorn break between hour 10 and hour 11 of The Long Sleep. I don't actually wake up for the television and popcorn break; I just emerge from a paralytic state of deep sleep into a slightly more buoyant, slightly perkier, slightly more San Fernando Valley sleep. Like, totally.
In other words, I recharged my batteries. It just so happens that my batteries are located in my buttocks and are composed of Twinkies, Chef Boyardee ravioli, and People magazines. Who needs spas, massages, and bubble baths with scented candles? Just give me a can opener, the remote, and a napkin, and I'm set for full refreshment, baby.
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