Collusion

When we first brought home our faithful hound, Softie, I had little hope that she and the cat, Sophie, would ever be able to co-exist.

For the first three weeks we had them both in the same house, but hardly ever in the same room. The few times we did have them in the same room together, it was under rigidly controlled circumstances. There were leashes, treats, and tranquilizer guns involved. To her credit, the cat handled everything pretty well. She was mellow.

Softie, though, was not. Every encounter meant tugging on the leash and an incessant string of barking. Sometimes Softie says the meanest things. I suspect there’s some alcoholism in her past.

Then, one day, as if by magic, they were chill. Just chill. Softie stopped barking incessantly, and Sophie stopped running away (because we have a scratchy rug in the living room that she likes and refuses to abandon under any circumstances, not even a hyper-sniffing-licking 25-pound dog).

It’s pretty clear to me now that they’ve been planning what went down last Sunday night for a couple months now.

Now, I thought I’d seen the weirdest thing in my life when the Raiders beat the Steelers with less than 100 yards of total offense. But you can explain that (The Steelers suck this year. There. I said it.).

Anyway, I was making a couple turkey and cheese sandwiches for my lunch on Monday. Wheat bread, spicy whole grain mustard. Heck yeah. De-frickin’-licious. I had one of the two sandwiches secured in a plastic bag and was readying the second for insertion when I heard Jen screaming upstairs in the bedroom.

When I got upstairs, Jen was holding her clock radio in her hand. It was unplugged. I repeat – unplugged, but it was still somehow managing to play I Will Survive at an unreasonably high volume. The clock radio was unplugged because the cat jumped on Jen’s nightstand and knocked a glass of water on it. So Jen’s holding an unplugged, drenched electronic appliance that is playing I Will Survive at an unreasonably high volume.

I decide instantly that I don’t feel comfortable with a devil-clock radio and decide to take it out to the dumpster. I do so, and as I close the lid, Gloria Gaynor gets in the last words: “Go on now, go. Walk out the door. Just turn around now. You’re not welcome anymore.”

My thoughts exactly.

When I walk back in the door, I head upstairs to make sure Jen’s alright. She’s calmed down. Apparently everything happened very fast and it just startled her. No problems. She’ll use her phone for an alarm clock for a little while.

When I go back down to the kitchen. My second sandwich is gone. Just gone. Not a trace. There’s nothing to suggest that it ever existed. No crumbs. Nothing.

Nothing that is, until the next morning when Softie "delivers the goods." We only feed our dog one diet. So when she deviates from it, it's pretty obvious.

So the dog got my delicious turkey sandwich, and the cat got rid of the alarm clock that startles her every morning.

Well played, Sophie and Softie. Well played.

The dog is now on double-secret-dog probation and the cat, well… the cat is probably going to just go on being a cat.

What can you do?

Shameless. Utterly Shameless...

Fox had a nasty little surprise in store for baseball fans tuning in to see game four of the World Series .

Rain Delay=Let's show re-runs of The War at Home.

Their reasoning: We have a captive audience. The rain could let up at any time, so people have to stick around to make sure they don't miss a single pitch. We'll show them The War at Home and they'll have no choice but to watch, laugh, and fall in love with our comedic tour de force.

For shame, Fox.

For shame.

May your herpes grow boils.

Sad news. I accidentally taped over two un-critiqued episodes of The War at Home with episodes of The Office. Interestingly enough, when the intelligent and witty plots and dialogue of The Office met the stale, tired and cliched plots and dialogue of The War at Home, the casing melted and the tape itself was sucked into an extra-dimensional vortex.

This was not covered in my VCR's warranty, where the fine print specificallys says: Taping The War at Home automatically voids any warranty and can be used against you in a court of law.

Interestingly enough, segments of tape where The War at Home was taped over by My Name is Earl were unaffected.

Excellence in mediocrity

What follows are some updates for my spite-filled crusade against the Chicago Cubs.

The big news out of Pittsburgh (in the wake of a Stillers bye-week) is that Freddy Sanchez won the National League Batting Title with a final average of .344. Many hearty congratulations to Mr. Sanchez, who becomes the first Bucco to win the batting crown since my all-time favorite Pirate player, Bill Madlock.

For me, though, I'm more proud of the fact that the Pirates officially aren't the crappiest team in the National League Central Division. Nope. That distinction belongs to the Cubbies, who unabashedly charge $70 for a bleacher seat that anyone can take if you get up to take a whiz because you needed to drink four beers just to cope with the awful brand of baseball they play.

I'm especially proud of this accomplishment because, heading into the weekend, the Cubs and Pirates had identical 65-94 records. The Bucs played host to a Cincinnati Reds team that was still mathematically in contention for the Division title. The Cubs welcomed the god-awful Colorado Rockies to Wrigley Field. Still, the Pirates managed to win two of three games from a division rival while the Cubs could only win one game against the hapless Rockies.

Enjoy last place, oh ye Cubs who aren't as good as Pittsburgh. Let that fact sink in, contemplate it fully, then kill yourselves.

In other news, only one wall of our place remains to be painted. Order is gradually being restored. It'll be a tough wall due to shelves, a big-ol couch to move and all the crap that goes with moving a computer desk, but I'm confident we can get it done in an afternoon. After that, it's ceiling time... Still, the end is in sight.