Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Tag: dragons

The Donald and the Dragon

You may recall that Nick was headed to the Capitol to stop the government shutdown, so let’s check in on him, shall we?

He charged in the doors without significant opposition, since the guards had never seen such a beast before. To get the attention of Congress, he flew in sweeping circles near the ceiling, then sailed down for an impressive landing before the podium. Lawmakers drew back, gaping.

“Wh-what is that thing?” Mitch McConnell said, drawing his turtle-like head into his shoulders.

“I’ve heard of these!” Paul Ryan said, coming closer. “Experimental use in police departments…but the one I saw didn’t have wings.”

“That one was a female,” Nick informed him, and he jumped back.

“It talks!”

“I’m not an ‘it,'” Nick said testily, but then everyone came crowding around, poking at his teeth and ears in spite of his terrible growls, which became louder when a voice in the back said, “I’ve heard of those, but it’s not as big as I was expecting.”

“The President has to see this,” McConnell said.

“Yes, the President! That’s even better than Congress!” Nick cried, and set off eagerly with them for the Oval Office.

The President was eating lunch and watching TV when they came in, but screamed and jumped under his desk when he saw Nick. “What is that?! Get it out, get it out!”

“Sir, this is the latest in law-enforcement technology. We think the model deserves wider application.”

Nick jumped onto the President’s desk, gulped down two cheeseburgers, knocked over the drink and lapped it with his forked tongue, said, “Eww, it’s diet,” and jumped down.

“And it talks, too?!”

“Yes, sir. At least, it appears to.” Nick’s tail began to lash.

The President, having not been devoured yet, began to recover his composure. “That thing’s an ugly color. What do you call that color?”

“I believe it’s navy blue, sir.”

“So you get these things from the Navy?”

“No, sir. They’re used for police work.”

“Hmm. I want this one for Mar-a-Lago. Have it gold-plated.”

“Sir, I’m not sure that’s possible–”

“Gold spray paint, then. But I want it gold. Crate it up and ship it down there. And get a couple females! I’ll start a breeding program!”

to be continued!



Nick’s Christmas Special!

I heard a splintering crash, and looked out my front door to see Nick with a fully-decorated Christmas tree in his teeth, shaking it back and forth savagely.

“What are you doing?” I demanded. “And why?”

He dropped it, and stared at me with baleful green eyes. “Waging war on Christmas, obviously.”

“Where did you get that?”

“From my living room.”

“Does your owner know?”

“Obviously not. She’s at work. But She’ll be back soon. That’s why I flew over here.”

“You’ll be in trouble when She finds out.”

“I think not. She always runs out of switches by this time of year. Of course, Santa will bring more on Thursday. But I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it. Or I would, if you’d let me breathe fire.” He glared at me. “Why are you looking at me like that? Next you’ll be telling me Santa isn’t real.”

I decided not to tell him that the police department actually issues the annual supply of switches at the end of the year.

“I wish Santa would bring me lumps of coal instead. Those would be nice and crunchy.” His eyes narrowed. “I should go after Santa, too. But the North Pole is too far away to fly to. I’ll just have to wait..” He grabs hold of the Christmas tree trunk and clamps down, crunching the trunk as if it were, well, a chunk of coal.

“Would you mind telling me what this is all about?”

“Would I mind? Hmm, I’m not sure…”

“Just tell me.” (It always works better if I don’t give him options.)

He sat up. A strand of tinsel was dangling from his ear, making him look less solemn than he doubtless intended. “OK. She was at work, and I finally got tired of looking in the mirror, so I went to look at the TV–” {his owner leaves it on for him while she’s gone, so he’s less likely to get bored and shred the toilet paper, etc.} “–and there was this documentary on about how the Grinch stole Christmas.”

“I’m familiar with it, yes.”

“You are? Then why did you never warn me? You’re supposed to protect me!!” He was getting squeaky-voiced, as he does under stress.

“Well, I last saw it years ago, so you’ll have to tell me.”

He lays his ears back, causing the tinsel to slide off. “The dispatcher training budget leaves something to be desired.”

“As I said, you’ll have to tell me.”

“OK, OK. Now this Grinch had some good ideas. I’ll vote for him if he runs for office–unless Smaug decides to run, of course. But do you remember what they ended up doing in Whoville? What they had for Christmas dinner??” He was getting squeaky-voiced again. I knew better than to mention that beasts don’t have the right to vote.

“They had…”

“Roast beast!! A barbaric custom!! Don’t they know that we’re almost as smart as a human, and have feelings and stuff, and feel pain just like–”

“Shh, shh…” He was trembling violently. Against my better judgement, I reached out and gently ruffled his topknot–the fur was surprisingly fine and soft–and his eyes slowly closed.

“Let me think. I seem to remember someone else who tried roast beast–” he flinched at the very words–“and it didn’t work out well for them. Hmm..I remember! Have you ever heard of ‘Hotel California’?”

“Hm, I don’t think I’ve ever stayed there…Is it in flying distance?”

“No, but I thought you might have seen the documentary on YouTube.”

“No, She won’t let me watch YouTube without supervision.”

“Well, it said, ‘They stabbed it with their steely knives, but they could not kill the beast’! There! They couldn’t kill it! You have nothing to worry about!”

“That sounds good–but, but what about the steely knives?”

“No! You’re covered with scales! The knives would slide right off!”

“That’s true! Except…I had those loose scales last year at this time–” He curved his long neck around to look at his belly, down near–well, near the area that makes it obvious that this particular beast is a male. “No, it looks like they reattached those nice and snug.” He beams. “This is the best Christmas ever! You improved my morale!”

“Excellent. Now fly away home. She’ll be home from work soon.”

“OK. Oh–do you have a Christmas tree I could borrow? Mine is, you know…”

“Sorry, no. You’ll just have to take responsibility for your actions.”

“I’m so tired of hearing that. The next sentence is always something about actions having consequences. I don’t like consequences.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you there.”

“You’ll think of something.” He crouches down, springs into the air, and gracefully flies away. Leaving a shredded evergreen in my yard.

Beasts Foreign and Domestic



Well, not my vet–my cats’ vet. “ACUPUNCTURE AS PAIN MANAGEMENT FOR PETS.” Well, if I tried that, I’d be needing pain management myself. They come with their own needles, you know.


“Expert Feline Travel Tips.” I (and the cats) got one tip: Don’t.


You know, sooner or later my neighbors are going to wonder why there was a police car in my driveway. With lights on I didn’t know they had, because he was trying to make us think he had me surrounded or something. The annoying part about these various encounters (well, one of the annoying parts–basically, it’s all annoy, all the time) is that I have to think twice so often–“Oh, I can’t just smack him, what would all these people at Thornton’s think?” “I can’t give him the finger and walk out–he’s in uniform!” You know, respecting the office, even though I’m no respecter of persons. Kind of a drag. We be immature and stuff. Nick, quit giggling.


An Internet {are we still capitalizing internet these days or not?} test said that, if I were a mythical creature, I’d be a dragon. This, even though troll was an option. (Nick, who actually is a mythical creature, begs to differ, but I will not allow him to do so.) They came to this conclusion because I don’t like to share (true), and I have a thick skin (untrue). Also a bad temper.

Well, I had a whole bunch of stuff I wanted to tell you, but since I was too lazy to do it before, it’s kind of slipped my mind…yeah, I promise to develop better work habits. Again.


Days Late, Dollars Short

I woke up thinking, What’s on the agenda for today? Then I realized, Going to work! Aaiiee!! I’ve been on vacation so long, I almost forgot. Then I fell asleep again and dreamed I forgot to go to work until, like, 9 hours after the start of my shift, and I thought I’d be in Big Trouble. But no one seemed to notice that I was grotesquely late. I woke up again and already felt worn out, which is quite the accomplishment when one has yet to get out of bed.


Someone was asking a clerk at Walgreen’s what they felt about the imminent arrival of CVS across the street. (Well, he didn’t use the phrase “imminent arrival,” but you get the idea.) She said she was sure they’d pick up all the smokers, now that CVS has stopped selling tobacco. There’s a slogan for you–“Walgreen’s–your unhealthy choice!” (The previous statement does not reflect the views of Walgreen’s.)

Speaking of which, the Bad Customer of the Week award goes to the woman at $ General, who found out her preferred brand of cigarettes was not available there except in the mentholated version, and said, “I’m not paying for that $hit! I don’t do menthol! What do I do now?” I’m guessing the clerk was thinking, “How the hell am I supposed to know? Consider it an opportunity to give up smoking?


–brought to you by Redd’s Apple Ale, which is probably the reason why I forgot to report them.

“Crush With Eyeliner” by R.E.M. came on Rom’s IPod, and I said, “I love this song!” Nick encouraged me to sing it for him, which actually wouldn’t have been hard, because the verses are more-or-less spoken, and only the chorus involves any actual singing. But I refused, because apparently 2 bottles of R.A.A. isn’t enough to make me feel comfortable singing. I felt on the verge of singing, though, which means that 3 bottles is (are?) the magic number, if consumed in rapid succession. Interestingly (or maybe not–I wouldn’t want to assume), although Nick and I have encouraged each other to sing on various occasions, neither of us has yet done so.

“Meddle not in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and good with ketchup,” as the old saying goes. During his guided tour of my bedroom, Nick spied my service cat, Esmerelda, lurking in the corner. “Can I pet her?” I assured him she wouldn’t bite or scratch. But as soon as she saw that beast lumbering toward her, she thought, “Aaieee! He knows I’m crunchy and good with ketchup!” and fled in terror. I was sorry he didn’t get to pet her, as her fur is very soft. After they left, she devoted an unseemly amount of time to sniffing where they’d been sitting. “Obviously you don’t get many visitors,” said Nick. Of course, he also called me “wretched and rather crazy,” so maybe that’s the problem.


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