I guess things are starting to turn around, but the day to day stuff just won’t leave me alone. Fortunately I was gently reminded by a friend or two to go to my happy place and take a perspective suppository. So yeah. It’s a little weird and sticky right now, but ‘taint nothing I can’t handle.

Heh. I said “handle”.

Enough of the psychobabble.

The Skirt and I are moved into our new pad, and my biggest complaint is that it might be too awesome. I waved at a guy in a helicopter and he waved back. It was so cool I called my mom. The Skirt’s biggest complaint is that I regularly stand in front of our 12th floor window in my underwear, gently and seductively thrusting my pelvis for the enjoyment of downtown Atlanta. “DUSTY! NO! NO!” *rolled up newspaper* Thwap! “No one wants to see that shit!”

She doesn’t appreciate performance art.

The car accident -

Last weekend I was driving through a parking lot and was the object of possibly the slowest fender bender in history. For the record, I have had my car a little less than a year, and have already replaced both bumpers and had the driver’s side rear quarter panel modified by my cousin’s son when he excitedly opened the door of their Tahoburbascursion by thrusting both legs into it.

“I’m sorry, Duthty.”

“I know…accidents happen. But you need to be more caref- DAMMIT! THIS IS THE FIRST NICE CAR I HAVE EVER HAD AND I JUST BOUGHT IT A WEEK AGO! I TOLD YOUR PARENTS NOT TO ADOPT YOU! Sorry. Just lost it for a second.”

Anyway, I was driving through a parking lot, and a lady was beebopping across all manner of lines and other demarcations designed to keep cars from hitting each other. She had slowed down to avoid hitting another guy, and I was looking directly in her eyes as she began to pull forward. She gradually accelerated to .002mph and crept toward me. I looked at her and shook my head “no”, but she kept coming. So I put my hands up in a wavey manner that I was sure meant “stop all forward movement at this time”, but apparently meant “keep ‘er coming and crush my bumper as slowly as possible.” She did a great job, hitting my car so gently that I wasn’t really sure she hit it at all. She backed up and I heard her license plate frame extricate itself from my bumper and she mouthed the words “I’m so sorry” over and over. In return, I mouthed the words “How slow are your reflexes, for Christ’s sake? Are you driving a time machine or something?” I don’t think she understood.

She turned out to be pretty cool about it all and when we were leaving I said “Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime” and did that really stupid laugh you do when the joke was terrible and the punchline is in the follow-through. She laughed a little too hard.
So now I get to leave my car at the body shop and enjoy free use of a new Ford Fuckus or PT Loser for a few days. Joy.

The automatic cat box –

Cats are pets that are meant to be forgotten. They sleep and shut up really well, eat when they are hungry and don’t complain. As soon as human children learn some of those tricks I might buy or rent one or whatever you do to get them. I prefer to automate everything for the Queaser, especially her litter box. I bought one of those fancy boxes that cleans itself, and I ended up battling it to the death. I went to their website and wrote the following review –

Dear Littermaid,

I bought the Elite Super Mega Deluxe Bombsquad model a couple of months ago in an effort to further divorce myself form any of the responsibility that comes with owning a pet, and I am proud to say that it worked one time. I’m not telling you how to run your R&D department, but common sense and a smidge of experience tells me that it would be a good idea to test a product before selling it - just to make sure it actually works like it says it will.

The second time it attempted to operate, the crap rake thing did not return to its starting point, so the next few uses were punctuated by the rake going loudly and uselessly 3 inches above the nearest clump of cat shit. I am a pretty handy guy, so I risked voiding the warranty to modify it. I used all kinds of plastic and wire to try and guide the rake into its proper place. As a result of my modifyery, an entirely new problem manifested itself. The rake would seize up about halfway through the cleaning cycle and build potential energy until it would finally spring free and launch a volley of turds across the room like a 17th century broadside from the Cacafuego.

If anything can be considered more annoying than manually cleaning a $100 automatic litter box, it would have to be the discovery of cat shit in your closet, under your bed, and in one case snuggled up on my pillow next to my face. Turds are everywhere you look; it’s like an Easter egg hunt for kids who don’t finish their vegetables.

I finally remedied the situation with a heel kick to the rake mechanism, destroying it completely. I took the rake out to the parking lot and ran over it several times; insulting your organization in ways I cannot repeat. I soon returned to the remains of the litter box and used a 110v drill and a 5/8” speed bore to gut the LCD readout and all associated electronics. I have ordered a Litter Robot ™ as its replacement because it is reported to actually work and it has the word “robot” right in the name.

Robot Delivery –

The Litter Robot is huge and awesome. Picture the Death Star. Now imagine your cat shitting in it. Now imagine Darth Raider and a bunch of 38 year old virgins dressed in storm trooper outfits coming out of it covered in hot cat crap. That last part doesn’t really happen, but dreaming of a better life keeps me from drinking Drano, so yeah.

It showed up in a big box and I went to the security desk/concierge thingy to get it. She went to the back and lugged it out, saying “This is huge.
What is it, a refrigerator?”

“Nope, Mail order bride. Dammit. No air holes again…listen; I might have to ask you to forget you saw a couple of things.”

“It ain’t heavy enough to have a person in it, Mr. Scott.”

“She’s only six.”

Homeless people can either die or stop costing me money. Or both –

In the past 4 years, I have spent over $1500 repairing or replacing things that these filthy sub-humans have broken or stolen from me, and I’m about ready to fill a small cannon with rolls of dimes and give them all the change they want. In the face. “Well Dusty, you live in the city, and that’s just how it is. They’re just trying to eat.” Really? If you believe that crime should be excused in certain places, then you should just try to eat a bullet.

This morning I got a nice note and a $125 fine for leaving garbage all over the parking lot. Doesn’t sound like something I would do, does it? I mean, I have parents, a brain, and respect for people around me. Building management sent me pictures of boxes and packing paper and myriad other crap that was actually mine lying around the dumpster. The difference was that when I threw the stuff out, it was all inside boxes, taped up, and securely inside a closed dumpster.

Sometime last weekend one of these worthless pukes went digging through the dumpster and opened all of the boxes to get at the packing material, Color Me Badd box sets, and old papers I had left inside. In his gluttonous fervor over delicious bubble wrap, he pretty much slung whatever he didn’t want all over the parking lot like a dog. When building management found my name on an old paystub, I was the culprit. You know, because I have this unique combination of time, liquid income, and complete disregard for civilized behavior that it takes to do something like that. Sweet merciful Christ on a corrugated cross.

I don’t intend to pay the fine unless I broke a rule. If my rental agreement said “Any garbage dumped in the recycle bin on the east side of the building must be monitored 24 hours by the resident until such time as the pink recycling truck comes and gets it,” then I am at fault and this place sucks. I also want a job as dumpster area cleaner-upper if they are getting $125 to put four boxes back in the trash.

As I was leaving for work, I noticed a guy rummaging through the trash…pulling stuff out, talking to it, and throwing it on the ground. He looked over at me and yelled “HEYMAN! YOU GOT CHANGE IN YO’ CAR!?” My kingdom for some rock salt and a shotgun.

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