Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Tag: pets

Once Upon a Time…


…to the estate of MY BLUE HEAVEN, on ye Weste Side, by NICHOLAS ALAN, a laidly WYRM of fearsome aspect and underparts of dazzling whitenesse. The said BEASTE was accompanied by his trusty servant TUCKER, a dogge of brindle coat and cheerful demeanor, but without much of sense.

“Where are the COOKIES of which I heard tell?” the said Nick roared. “I would have them for dessert, for I have eaten many frogges.” But all was silent within. “Tucker,” said Nick to his faithful companion, “thou must go within and fetch the cookies in my stead, for I cannot breathe fire, and have not even a stinger on the end of my tayle.”

The said dogge then pushed the door open, to the shock and awe of all within. But he was repelled by the mighty GLAMOUR, a catte known far and wide (“especially wide,” Esmerelda whispers) as the Empress Calicula the First. The Empress emerged from the dark recesses to do battle, with blazing eyes and a tayle like to a brush used for cleaning bottles. (Esmerelda, ye Catte of Service, remained within the dark recesses, discretion being the better part of valor in her eyes.) (“And her eyes be slightly crossed,” the noble Empress reminds us.) (The Empress reminds us also that Esmerelda, like her Disney namesake, cannot be called a Princess, because of her questionable background.)

{Disclaimer: No animals were injured in the course of this story. If any had been, Nick would be in big trouble. And would have had to leave without cookies.} {Go away, or I will taunt you again!} {stolen from Monty Python}

{Other Disclaimer: The style of this tayle, I mean tale, was pretty much stolen from an episode of Cat Town [], but since the site hasn’t been updated since May ’05, I doubt he’s paying attention.}


(stolen from Eminem, because I’m in a mood)

…because I just can’t be eradicated completely.


–At McDonalds: “But I just cleaned the ladies’ room an hour ago!”

–At Walgreen’s: “Someone locked the bathroom stall door and then crawled out, so now no one can get in.”

–Also at Walgreen’s, manager speaking to another employee: “It depends on whether they have a better soda ad than we do. Across the street”–cocking head in direction of CVS–“they’re having a sale on Pepsi products next week.” I was tickled both by CORPORATE ESPIONAGE–how did a manager at Walgreen’s know what CVS will be putting on sale next week?–and by the euphemism “Across the Street” for their corporate rival. The Store Which Is Not To Be Named.


–A woman in tiny shorts and top which showed off her great big swastika tattoo.


Or Maybe I Am a Lifestyle Blogger


There was a gaggle of young rednecks in the back of the bus, discussing their lives of crime. One of them said, “When the cops stop me, I catch amnesia–I can’t even remember my last name.” I’m guessing officers get that a lot. I remember the story of one gentleman who, when asked his name, looked wildly up at the street sign and said, “John…Barker.” I’m hoping the officer then said, “And your middle name is Mount Vernon?” It’s like the popular saying, “Those drugs aren’t mine.” And I assume you don’t know how they got into your pants, either. This sort of thing doesn’t seem to me to be worth the trouble. But, as the sagacious 911SK noted, “You don’ t choose the thug life–it chooses you.”

The blooming rosebush is gone from the site of the new CVS-to-be. Maybe the construction worker who dug it up took it home and planted it. This is like thinking, “I bet that litter of kittens all got good homes.” I mean, I can’t adopt every cat in the world. I tried it, and it didn’t work.

Sign on cage of pair of ferrets at the Pet Food Center: “CAUTION, WE MIGHT BITE.” Good of the ferrets to let us know. I remember one occurrence, from that very store, where a 12-year-old boy grabbed a ferret, stuffed it into his pants, and ran. Now, no ferret I don’t know is going to get into my pants. But, as noted above, a life of thuggery is not for me. I can see the police report now–“Body identified by scars from ferret bites.”


In the fullness of time, I would prefer that my dead body not have to be identified by esoteric means. But, because no one knows the day or the hour, I leave the following pointers: [DIGRESSION: DO NOT DIE UNDER AN ELECTRIC BLANKET. YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE HOW GROSS YOUR BODY WILL GET. Don’t ask how I know this, although I hasten to assure you that it wasn’t from a ride-along.]

–The cobra tattoo on my left forearm is guaranteed for two weeks after death. A sign on the artist’s wall said so.

–I guess I have to say something about dental records. I have numerous gold teeth, as a result of soft drink addiction that started when I was 4. I suppose suing the soft drink companies is not an option, although it’s an attractive option, because I’ve spent thousands of dollars on dental work. On the other hand, I’m guessing that it, as well, is guaranteed for two weeks after death.

–I have a weird albino spot on my back. It once had a mole in the middle of it, which mysteriously disappeared, and what’s up with that?

–There is a scar on my right knee from falling off my bike onto gravel. I don’t recommend the practice.

–Something even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t figure out–the chronically nicked and roughened skin on my right palm. This is from having a cat who likes to knead with her claws on my hand while she…well, while she nurses on my hand like a kitten. Yes, at any given time while I’m home, I might have a handful of cat spit. I wash my hands as much as a surgeon.

“Gee, World Leader,” they say. “We sure know a lot about you, considering you never talk.” Well, some things are just easier to admit while typing in the dark. Refer to previous paragraph.

What a Bringdown     


I can’t believe I included “Fashion Pointers” in my last title, and then forgot to include any. Here’s what I meant to say:

You might have thought that my outfit the other day–light blue-gray shirt, dark blue-gray pants, denim slip-on sneakers–was the result of someone who didn’t want to figure out what goes with what, and/or had some weird compulsion about matching stuff (and the two are not mutually exclusive). BUT NO! MORE magazine (motto: “You’re not getting older, you’re getting blonder!”) assures us that slip-on sneakers are THE HEIGHT OF FASHION at the moment, and recommended the “light, clean” look of matching all your clothes to your shoes! Can do! You know what else is the height of fashion? Birkenstocks. Yeah, I got those, too.



I had to sit through these calls, so now you have to, too.

“My neighbor’s dog got loose, and killed my other neighbor’s cat. She’s pretty distraught.” Well, I hope she’s mostly distraught at herself, because you know how to keep that from happening? KEEP YOUR CAT INDOORS. Not. Rocket. Science. I’ve been doing it for years.

“I’ve got a dog that’s dying,  and I want Animal Control to take it away.”

I start to explain that she’s responsible for the medical care of her own dog, but–

“It’s not my dog. The owner died, and I’ve been taking care of it for 6 or 7 months.” She then starts to tell me all its pitiful symptoms, to convince me to act quickly, but I cut her off, because YOU KNOW WHAT? That dog had come to trust you to take care of it, and YOU BLEW IT. I did, of course, refer the situation to Animal Control, in the hope that something could be done for the dog.


You know that most-recent mass-shooting guy? (And aren’t you tired of the never-ending supply of them?) Turns out that he had been acting peculiar beforehand, so someone called the authorities to check on him. And who got to knock on his door? Four deputies…and a dispatcher in training. He acted sane enough that they had nothing to hold him on, but he’d already bought all his guns and ammo, and what if he’d come out blazing? That dispatcher’s not wearing a bulletproof vest. This should not be a job requirement for people other than law enforcement officers.


Fitness for the Position

Apparently the meaning of Memorial Day is to get just as drunk as you can and crash your motorcycle.


I do not want to ever again hear:

–“terroristic threatening”

–“he put his hands on me”

–“I want him escorted off my premises”

–“you better get someone out here”


–Subject was letting her dog urinate off the balcony, which dripped onto the residents of the group home in the apartment below. Animal Control came out and issued a citation. Subject expressed her dissatisfaction with this by dumping a bucket of water off the balcony onto the residents, and jumping up and down on her floor, which was the caller’s ceiling. This behavior was succinctly summed up as “generally acting a fool.”

–“A guy in an ice cream truck is following and threatening me. He said his supervisor told him to do this.” I said kthnxbye and hung up quickly because I was about to burst out laughing. Then a colleague took a call: “I drive an ice cream truck, and I saw another ice cream truck, and that guy keeps following and threatening me.” Yes, TWO ICE CREAM TRUCKS WERE DRIVING IN CIRCLES THREATENING EACH OTHER. AND EACH ONE THOUGHT THE OTHER HAD STARTED IT. You know the old children’s story where the tigers chased each other around the tree until they turned into butter? (You do know it, right? I’m not the only one?) I guess these guys went round and round until they turned into melted ice cream. I so, so didn’t make this up. But I wish I had.


If you’re going to do the murder-for-hire thing for insurance money, first make sure you actually are the beneficiary of the policy.


I’m not usually drawn to Disney movies, but that “Maleficent” one actually looks pretty good. However, it occurs to me…



..which leads me inexorably to…


Your Bestial Majesty:

You requested I send you my resume for the position of resident troll under your bridge. I am not entirely sure why you would trust me that close to your house, because  I will most assuredly look in your windows. Nevertheless, here is the information you requested:

Summer, 1972: feature writer for local women’s newspaper. My crowning achievement was a several-page spread on fashions for the different astrological signs. Paper folded after one issue. Surely I was not to blame.

Summer, 1973: rewriting press releases for local business paper. Duties included listening to Pink Floyd and narrowly avoiding getting my finger sliced off in a paper cutter. I was let go when the boss realized he could rewrite press releases himself.

Early 1974: typist at a typesetting service. I was let go for being a lousy typist.

1974-1976: carburetor repair factory. Got along so badly with other employees that I was put in a department by myself. Got so badly bored that I quit without notice, and buried my phone under my dirty laundry on the closet floor so I couldn’t hear when they called me back.

1977: alarm service. Alienated other employees by not following dress code, even though I was told when I was hired that there was no dress code. I was let go when I burst into tears when we got busy during a storm.

Later in 1977: Got a job with a dress code so lax that we could come to work in nightclothes, still managed to alienate other employees by not following it. Quit after being beaten up on the premises.

1978-1980: Started career in government service at the Recorder of Deeds office in St Louis. Quit to support myself by writing. Failed to do so.

Halloween 1984: Started in Police Records. Corrected officers’ deplorable errors in their affidavits of probable cause. Occasionally acted as a Notary Public, which got me out of the office, even though I didn’t want to get out of the office. Leaped at chance to transfer to Radio, which seemed glamorous and exciting.

Sept. 1986–present: THE BOSS OF YOU AND YOUR KIND.

–As you can see, my disagreeable temperament and inability to dress appropriately do indeed qualify me for the position, just as you suspected. We do, however, need to discuss my salary requirements, since I do not eat frogs.


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