Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Dear Booregard Flapjack

When my girlfriend and I decided to move in together, I had a painful decision to make.  We wanted a cat in our new apartment, and Murphy the Customer Service Cat seemed to be the closest thing to that.  Unfortunately, he had been living with my parents for years now, and if there is something that Murphy hates other than lightning, children, the cold, being wet, any food other than his cat food, and being held, it would be change.  So, we went to local animal shelters to find our new pet.

Initially, we fell in love with a seven year old grey cat named Jasmine.  We were going to name her Jean, since, you know, Jean Grey.  I personally visited her half a dozen times, waiting until closer to the moving date to adopt.  Then, I went to visit one day, and she had an "adopted" sign on her cage.  I pet her for a last time, dreading having to tell ShaWal (she says she is more famous than JLaw, so she should get a shortened name too) that we had missed out on Jean.  As I slowly walked out of the cat area, I felt something hit my shoe.  This is what I saw:
I came closer to the door, careful to stay out of reach, and tried to see who this was.  The tag on the door said Boo.  In the time it took me to read his name, I felt a tap on my chest.
I put in the papers a week later, and the newly christened Booregard Flapjack came home with me.  He and Murphy took well to each other, as they shared the same loves of food, sleeping, food, food, and waking me up to get food.  Things seemed as if they would glide along for the few weeks before the move to the new apartment.  Then, like he does with everything, Buster the Calamity Collie ruined everything. 

My sister brought this awful excuse to a vacuum to visit.  At first, Boo took a page from the book of Murphy and simply tried to ignore him.  When Buster thrust his oily, dripping rat face directly at Boo, Boo would simply cry and walk away, the same as most people's response to him would be.  Somehow, while the humans were all away, Buster did something to Boo so egregious, so alarming, and so unforgivable that Boo could have no more. 

The next time Buster arrived, Boo did his best to be a good kitten.  He sat around, high in his tower, snuggling with his pineapple pillow. 

Whether it was Buster's mucusy whines, or his shrill, horrid barks, Boo suddenly sprang into action.  Every hair on his mighty pelt stood tall.  He eyed down Buster, looked to Murphy, who was lazily napping in a sunbeam, and called him to action with a call to action. 

Certainly, this battle cry was less "Once more to the breach dear friends!" and more "Leeeeeeeee-roy Jenkins!", but it did the job.  Moments after you took off towards Buster, Murphy stumbled after you, since it seemed like the thing to do at the time.  Buster got very excited for several seconds, thinking that finally someone, anyone would play with him, but Boo let out a shriek and smacked Buster clean across the snout.  Murphy, realizing that this wasn't a fun run for food, panicked and quickly veered off to hide in a closet, thinking he had done something terrible and would be punished.  We found him there over an hour later, upset and brooding.  Buster realized that this was not a love tap, and ran to the best possible hiding spot he could muster from his pea sized weasel brain- a corner two feet away.  With Buster doing his best impression of Baby in the corner, Boo proceeded to change the script and go Roadhouse on him, until he was pulled away. 

Things would never be the same, as Boo used his Flapjack sense to know when the dog was near, and would go into fits of fury.  He had to be locked in the guest room any time the dog was over, lest we have to dig a Buster sized whole in the sultry summer heat.

Boo has never treated any other animal thing way.  I guess he just knows awful when he sees it. 

Sunday, May 15, 2016

Dear Racist Old Man at the Chinese Restaurant

When I take my lady out, I go all out.  That's why, on our usual Tuesday date I took her to the nice Chinese place, not the one that gets all of the health code violations.  We settled into our booth, perused the selections, and caught up on each other's day.  Shortly after we ordered, but before I could start daring her to eat a spoonful of hot mustard, we both keyed in on a conversation that was occurring at the booth behind her. 

It should be noted that, at this fine dining establishment, there is only one non-Asian server.  She wasn't working this day, so one of the ladies with a heavier accent was taking the order.  Her name tag informed us that she had the unwieldy Mandarin name of "Jessy".  There was a father, mother, child, and grandfather trying to order, at least I think they were there.  There was so much camouflage clothing I was only able to make out shapes when they moved.  The darling little boy of about ten spent that entire meal playing a game on a tablet, giving only monosyllabic answers when he was addressed.  Mom and dad were much too enthralled with Grampy's shenanigans to care that their child specifically asked to have fried rice substituted for any vegetables that might come with the meal, of course. 

"I don't know what to order.  None of this makes sense" he grumbled at the menu.    "What's lo mein?"

Jessy, who is a fine server, patiently started to explain, "Those are thick noodles cooked.."

"If I wanted noodles, I'd get Italian" old granpappy interjected.  "Tell you what.  If you was dating an American guy, what would you get him to eat?"

Jessy stared somewhat blankly, trying to formulate a response to this that didn't involve a claw hammer.

"You understand what I'm saying?  If you had an American husband, what kind of food in here would you get him to eat?"  Clearly, we must all be foreigners eating this inedible Chinese food.  I give her credit for not trying to shove a hamburger into his idiot maw.  The mother at the table had a knee slapping laugh. "Oh Dad, don't say things like that.  Just get sweet and sour chicken."

"I want some damn barbeque chicken.  Just order me something", old Paps chortled and then proceeded to blow his nose on the nice linen napkin at his place. 

We refused to listen after that.  My lovely girlfriend left Jessy a forty percent tip for not setting that family ablaze, or more realistically breaking into tears at the ignorant and cruel things the family of redneck morons guffawed at her.  The good news is, from the lack of any water or veggies at the table, the whole family will probably be dead from obesity or scurvy before two long. 

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Dear Valentine's Day, Part II

Three years ago, I wrote a piece about Valentine's Day.  Since then, I have found love, and as it is common knowledge that once you find someone, they stay with you forever, it is time for me to write this follow up piece.  As an ex-smoker makes an exaggerated cough around current smokers, letting them know fully well of the disdain they now feel, I must now turn against my former brethren.

Valentine's Day is about celebrating love.  Not just the love you have for a significant other, but your love for everyone.  In lambasting the holiday, you are announcing your hatred for this world and all who walk it.  Your tiny, black heart isn't represented in the large, red, chocolate filled ones available at retailers, and that is not our fault.  Perhaps this burning, foul stench of bitterness and animosity is why you are single, but it isn't Valentine's Day's fault. 

Fie upon thee for your pronouncements of "Happy Single's Awareness Day".  This is not an attack on you.  You are just as bad as a person who complains that there is no White History Month just because February is dedicated elsewhere. 

Yes, you are as bad as a racist.  And you wonder why you are alone.