Operation Rush Limbaugh

OK, I've got a plan.

Karen's last day of work is Monday. Since she doesn't have anything better to do, I have a task for her.

We shall call it Operation Rush Limbaugh.

Here is the plan:

Since I started dropping Mr. Limbaugh's name in my headlines, I've gain almost a third more blog hits daily. Many of these are even returning fairly regularly.

I have not found any rhyme or reason for this, by the way.

Whatever, I want Karen to call into his radio show next Friday to thank him for bringing us such an increase of readership.

"So basically you expect me to sit on the phone all afternoon so that I can wait on hold to thank Rush Limbaugh?" she asked me.

Well, yes, and there's more. . .

"You want me to THANK Rush Limbaugh?" Karen asked again, not wanting to hear anything more. "I don't see that I have any reason in my life to thank Rush Limbaugh."

This is why I need a new assistant. I ask Karen, who won't have anything better to do next week, to perform such a simple task. And now she's mocking me.

I didn't even get to the part about suggesting that she be his honorary mistress in Texas.

"Excuse me?" I can hear her saying all haughty. "I'm not even dignifying that suggestion with a response."

Anyway, I'm working on Karen. In the meantime, keep your midday calendars open come Friday. I expect all of you guys to listen.

Go 'Stros.

Rush Limbaugh is a Spirit in the Material World

It's been quite a busy week.

Let me recap for you:

Saturday: Sadie, Karen, and I went to her parent's house to celebrate our collective birthdays (Karen and I have May birthdays and Sadie's is in late April).

I appreciate the party and all, but why do I have to share a celebration with Karen and Sadie? Don't they know I'm a celebrity? We should be flying out to New York for dinner at 21. Barbara Walters would come, I'm sure.

Interesting little fact: I'm getting blog hits out of Palm Beach, Florida. Because of this, I am assuming that Rush Limbaugh is regularly reading the blog. Thus, I bet he'd come to my birthday party.

Evil Jeff brought his small one to the party. This isn't that big of a deal except the small one saw me and started making loud, overstimulated noises. She slithered towards me, excited and squealing, and wouldn't stop, despite my hissing and glaring looks.

Karen trapped Sadie and held her so that Sofie could see her. Sadie told me later that this was the scariest moment of her life next to her kitten hood memories of living under the deck in the home inhabited by the unnuetered daschund.

I'll admit it. I was scared. She wouldn't respond to hissing. In fact, she started mocking my hissing as she moved closer. Plus that kid outweighs me by ten pounds easy. And she moves really fast now. That is my issue with the small ones: eventually they begin to move and become predatory.

Anyway, Karen's mom bought Sadie and me this climbing thing. It's pretty cool. Of course, I merely sniffed it in her presence, but it is pretty cool.

Sunday:
Sunday was Karen's birthday. We celebrated by watching TV all afternoon.

Someone suggested that I clean out the liter box for Karen on her birthday. This is a ridiculous idea. If I start performing such menial household tasks, then Karen might develop a sense of entitlement and misunderstand her place in the universe.

We really don't want that, do we???

Monday:
Nothing particularly monumental here. Karen left for work. Sadie and I chilled at the house all day. Karen came home from work and did some laundry, took out the trash, and cleaned our liter box (not necessarily in that order).

Tuesday:
Karen saw The Police reunion concert last night at Cynthia Woods Mitchell Pavilion. She's been talking about it since she got home at one this morning.

We here at I Don't Pretend to be an Ordinary Cat, love The Police. They rock. Karen said it was amazing sitting in an audience that large when everyone knew all the words to all the songs.

On a much sadder note, Hamilton Jordan, the man behind the Jimmy Carter presidential campaign, died Tuesday. He was 63. With the exception of Face the Nation, all of the news carriers got it wrong. Yes, he was the youngest chief of staff ever and masterminded the 1976 election of the unknown peanut farmer when he was merely 32 (two years younger than Karen is now). But he fought off six forms of cancer and dedicated most of his adult life to children with cancer. Amazingly enough, I only heard this fact mentioned by Bob Schiffer.

Anyway . . .

Wednesday:
Karen went to work on three hours sleep. Sadie and I sunbathed in the kitchen.

Over the weekend, Karen bought 1000 thread count sheets at Linens n Things for like 85 percent off the original price. Finally, she put them on the bed. The sheets are freakin fabulous. The problem is now that Karen is having trouble getting out of bed, which becomes a problem for me, as I don't particularly want her there in the first place.

Thursday:
Karen came home from work, sat down on my bed, and fell asleep. She woke up the next morning at five, still in her work clothes from the day before. Pretty freaky, right???

Friday:
Karen left for work, in shock that she woke up in work clothes. Sadie and I fought over a stray kitty treat we found on the floor of the dining room.

And that pretty much catches us up to date.

Have a lovely Memorial Day.

Go 'Stros

Little Pig, Little Pig has nothing to do with Rush Limbaugh

I have created a meme.

Yes, I, Penelope, the all knowing and ever so fabulous cat, created one of those wretched little games, which I so love playing.


Actually, this meme came from Karen. Actually, this isn't a meme at all, but merely an activity Karen saw in a workshop about a month ago. She thought it was fun so I'm passing it on to you, my readers of discriminating taste.

If you didn't know this already, Karen is a high school teacher. She attended a seminar referencing "choice theory", a concept in which students are given options for assignments. In theory, if the student gets to "choose" what they do, then they are more likely to do it.


Makes sense.


But that really isn't important to us. This is the meme:


Listed below are four assignments. You choose one and complete it on your blog. For our purposes we are using the children's tale: The Three Little Pigs.

Assignment One:
You are an insurance adjuster. You are writing a letter to the pigs in regards to their policy not covering "wolf breath".

Assignment Two:
You are Mrs. Pig (mom of the three little pigs). You are emailing your husband regarding the fact that the three pigs have returned home, due to the fact that their homes have been destroyed.

Assignment Three:
You are the wolf. You are writing an apology letter to the pigs regarding the destruction of their homes.

Assignment Four:
You are a local city councilman. You are giving a speech, advocating removal of all wolves from "Pigville".

Anyway, after looking over these options I like assignment three.

Dear Pigs,

As part of my recovery, it is time I make amends for my wrong doings, which is the purpose of this letter. Today, pig friends, I am begging your forgiveness.

I wish I had a good excuse for my behavior that night. I was out with Prince Charming and we were trying to impress these really hot princesses. Well, all of us had a few too many and the next thing I knew I was bragging about how I could blow down the houses on pig row. Ole Charming kept goading me (you know how he is-- such a frat boy), and I couldn't back down. I got the house of straw-- easy-- barely winded myself. The girls were cheering and a crowd of people from the bar heard the commotion and gathered to watch. They were chanting my name, "Wolf. Wolf. Wolf . . ."

So then, of course I couldn't stop. Once you've experienced the drunken glory of the inebriated hot chicks of fairy tale land shouting your name, jumping up and down with glee, bouncing . . .

But I digress.

The crowd followed me as I headed next door to the house made of sticks. In the midst of the shouting and screaming I once again huffed and puffed and low and behold the house of sticks came crashing down like a house of cards. With that, two of you pigs come running down the street squealing with fear like something out of Deliverance. (Enough similes for you???)


Again, the crowd behind me screamed my name-- louder than before. I was pretty winded this time, so Jack (as in Beanstalk) brought me another beer. Charming, persuasive as ever, convinced me to go for the gusto.


Gusto being the brick house.

"Come on," he said to me, his arm around Cindy, as in rella. "You know you can do it. It's just bricks. Besides those pigs don't know squat about bricklaying. I bet we can knock it over with no more than a puff."

Since you all know Charming, I'm sure it is obvious that "we" in this scenario means "me".

With the support of the crowd I huffed and I puffed and nothing happened. So I tried again. Nada. Everyone stood silent. I tried again. Still the brick house stood like, well, a brick house.

The silence was both palpable and awkward as hell. Snow, as in White, brought me another beer. God love Snow, she's got a heart of gold. Lets face it: by this point I was pretty 'faced. And as we all know, I'm not a happy drunk.

I was pissed.

Pissed at the house that wouldn't fall down.

Pissed at you pigs who wouldn't stop laughing from inside that brick house.

Anyway, Charming was back at the bar, now hanging out with Goldy, as in Locks. (It was getting close to midnight-- I'm guessing Cindy had to split.) I wanted to go home, but well, you know Charming.

So I got another beer and soon Beauty came over. One thing lead to another and the next thing I know ole Beauty was talking about some party back at the castle. Then a shadow was cast over us in the darkness of the bar.

It was the Beast.

Holy Crap.

I can't stand Beast. He's moody. And you know what, if you're going to get involved with a tramp like Beauty, you should at least have a sense of humor about her shenanigans.

Anyway, so the ridiculous Beast was all questioning me about who I was and what we were talking about in that brooding deep voice. He is such a baby.

If it weren't for the fact that Beast is like twenty times bigger than I am, I'd lay him out fast. However, he is and I'm a realist, so I just excused myself to the john. Since I didn't want to deal with that thug of a creature, my inebriated self decided it was wise to climb out of the bathroom window.

Due to my tendencies towards excess, I kind of got stuck in the window. So once again I huffed and I puffed, and well I was stuck. And it freaking hurt. After some squirming, I finally fell head first out of the window and onto the concrete parking lot.

So there I was, lying underneath the bathroom window, wondering about what the heck I was doing. It was then I decided to go the path of the straight and narrow. I checked into Promises, got a room with with "the Hoff", which brings us to today: me sitting at step nine.

Anyway, I'm sorry about trashing your houses. It was wrong. I'd say come over and we could chat about the old days over pork chops but that seems tacky. So hang loose, little piggies, and please consider upgrading your standards on building products so such things don't happen in the future.

I gotta go. I'm supposed to have dinner with Little Red Riding Hood tonight. I really hope she doesn't bring Grandma . . .

The Wolf

So that is my story for today. I hope you enjoyed it. I've seen some pretty creative minds out there (Shife, Travis . . . to name but a few). Take a gander at it-- it's kind of fun.

Karen's Mom is not Rush Limbaugh

As most of you are probably aware, this is my 100th post.

Is that not exciting or what?

Anyway, Karen suggested since this is mother's day weekend I should write about her mom.

Now explain to me why I would want to spend my 100th post writing about Karen's mom?

"Because it would be a nice thing to do," Karen said. "Plus it might score you some points with her after that little attempt on her life last month."

First of all, since I am a cat, I'm not into "scoring some points". She should think of me like those Vogue interns consider Anna Wintour: complete and total fear.

"But she's nice to you," Karen told me. "She feeds you when you come over to visit. She buys you treats and toys at Christmas. You even have a stocking."

Big deal. She also has a fit if she find me on the kitchen counters. I once took a nap in a mixing bowl inside a kitchen cabinet and she started freaking out. (Mixing bowls were made for naps-- why isn't she aware of this?) In the morning she expects me to get out of the recliner so that she can sit and read the paper. She won't even let me sit on the newspaper. What makes it worse is that she's too chicken to deal with me herself. Oh no, Karen's mom is a tattler.

"Karen can you get your cat out of my chair?" she asks. "She won't jump out."

So Karen moves me out of the recliner and onto the couch. In the process, I usually glare at Karen's mom.

A couple of years ago, Karen went out of town and left Sadie and I with her parents. Since Karen's parent's house was under construction and the entire back was open to the world, Karen locked us upstairs in the master bedroom before she left. Sadie didn't care about this too much, as time spent at Karen's parents is mostly under a bed anyway.

Karen's mom opened the door when she got home from work and, of course, I walked out, as I didn't think it was appropriate for me to be confined to one room of the house. Karen's mom chased me down and grabbed me and then we got into a little bit of a wrestling match, which resulted in Karen's mom getting scratched.

That's the price you pay for confining me.

"That cat is mean," she told Karen. "Everyone is scared of her."

What's her point?

Anyway, happy Mother's Day to all the mothers out in cyberland. And, I guess, since Karen mentioned it, happy Mother's Day to Karen's mom as well, even if she won't let me sit on the newspaper in the morning.

Go 'Stros.

Rush Limbaugh: in the Midst of Chaos

I actually have no intention of discussing anything about Rush Limbaugh. However, the post regarding Rush Limbaugh's cat Pumpkin gets like three times as many hits as anything else in the I Don't Pretend to be an Ordinary Cat archives. For this reason all of my next few entries will contain Rush Limbaugh's name in the title.

Pretty smart, right???

Today is Mike Wallace's birthday.

Wanna take a gander at his age???

Mike Wallace is freakin' 90.

Who wuda thunk it.

Anyway, we here at I Don't Pretend to be an Ordinary Cat would like to wish Mr. Wallace a happy birthday.

In fact we think today that CBS should spend all of prime time commemorating Wallace. However, probably CBS has other plans for Friday evening like game shows involving random guessing or twenty somethings eating worms.

To commemorate this event, I wanted to show you a Mike Wallace interview via YouTube, but guess what-- there are so freakin' many I didn't even know where to start. So go to YouTube and pick one out, as there are a plenty.

Go 'Stros

Achy Breaky Skanky

I started this post on Thursday, planning on making a few mullet jokes. After some research and exploration, I changed my mind.

Statement regarding creepy photo before people started freaking out:

"Annie took, like, a beautiful shot, and I thought it was really cool. That’s what she wanted me to do, and you can’t say no to Annie . . . I think it’s really artsy. It wasn’t in a skanky way."
-- Miley Cyrus

And statement regarding creepy photo after people started freaking out:

"I took part in a photo shoot that was supposed to be 'artistic' and now, seeing the photographs and reading the story, I feel so embarrassed."
-- Miley Cyrus

Ole Miley doesn't get it: the portrait is artistic. Furthermore, this picture might be the most important statement Annie Leibovitz ever makes about our culture.

Look a little closer. The picture is basically in the style of a turn of the century European nudie postcard, typically featuring a child prostitute, one might pick up on the streets of Paris during that same time period.

Can you say IRONY?

Annie Leibovitz just made a statement about our culture, its infatuation with youth and celebrity and the willingness of some to sell their children for money. You might not like it, as it's an uncomfortable sight, but important messages are sometimes disconcerting.

Suddenly, Disney is making me nauseous in a way I would never expect.

Nothing good comes of selling your children for money. A myriad of what should be cautionary tales parade across our television sets hour after hour. But still, some of us aren't listening.

Disney, who produces Cyrus' television show, had a different take altogether:

"Unfortunately, as the article suggests, a situation was created to deliberately manipulate a 15-year-old in order to sell magazines."

Disney is whining about exploiting a child for money. Disney created many 21st century cautionary tales, in a complicated exploitation, all in the name of money.

I saw the picture. I've heard the arguments about art and subjects and sexuality and all that jazz. But I still think it comes down this:

Where the hell were her parents and why are they agreeing to photo shoots with Annie Leibovitz?

Granted, Leibovitz is a very relevant artists/ photographer. Her portraits hang in gallery exhibitions all over the world and are displayed as cover art on and in such magazines as Rolling Stone, Vogue, and Vanity Fair. Her recent photographs of the Queen of England were said to create a "regality no other recent royal portraitist has achieved".

But just as I wouldn't allow my child to be photographed by Robert Maplethorpe (if he were still alive) or painted by Lucian Freud unsupervised (if at all), under no circumstance would I agree to such with Leibovitz, who has also exploited Cyrus for her own agenda.

By the way, I am in no way comparing the works of Leibovitz to Maplethorpe or Freud for any other purpose other than to say she is a controversial artist as are they.

But what about the rest of us? I have five references alone to Britney Spears and a couple more to Lindsay Lohan. Am I adding fuel to the fire by freely and openly mocking them? What about those parents who cough up $500 bucks a pop for Hannah Montana tickets? "The Man" can't exploit these kids if we don't allow kids to be exploited.

Something to consider . . .