All tagged humor

I’m afraid that I may be a little of a Johnny-come-lately in a addressing this much talked about publication, but I also think that I would be remiss if I were to overlook it entirely.

My reluctance to review the 365 Kittens a Year 2010 Calendar until the summer of 2011 has a lot to do with my conflicted feelings on the book. But I will say straight out that there’s a lot to like here. Primarily, the cats. There are literally hundreds of them. Each one looks out at you as if to say, “I’m a cat!” or “We’re cats!” or “I’m tired!” or “I’m filthy!” and so forth. It’s all wonderful.

But you’ll notice that I wrote “cats,” and not “kittens.” I know that a very large portion of kittens eventually turns into cats, and that this is a necessity if we’re to maintain a functioning kitten industry, but the fact is plain that despite the title these are not all kittens. Many of them are cats. It’s not an insurmountable obstacle to enjoying the calendar in itself, but it’s perhaps indicative of contradictions yet to come.

So, it's Wednesday, July 27th, and you're not sure what you're going to do tonight.

You could come check this blog for a slurry of impractical ideas in crappy comic form mostly involving cats, Facebook, and getting drunk off bro beer...but unfortunately that's just not going to work this time. I tried to draw some double-penis snakes and prehensile penis hands for this blog last night, but I'm a busy woman, okay? I had a lot of important stuff to do. Writing a sentence of an article that was due three hours ago, checking Twitter, pretending you have to pee, rewriting that sentence, then wandering into the kitchen to eat your third bowl of Basic 4 is tough work, my friend.

Which means that this time, I'm not going to give you any options, I'm just going to tell you exactly what you're going to do tonight:

Get your pasties pasted and your ass chapped, because tonight you're coming (heh heh, get it? coming!) to the Summer Story Contest.

This year's theme? SEX. The big one. The kahuna. The nasty. The...guy..when he inserts his thing... like into another guy/girl...all sexily and stuff.

 I find myself at work, constantly refreshing my Twitter page, waiting for you people to give me something worth the energy it takes for me to move my eyes four inches across the screen, and I realize that there needs to be some damn rules for Twitter. Let’s face it, if you’re not Renée Zellweger (why did I pick her? She is neither young, nor attractive, nor culturally relevant anymore, but I can’t turn back now), nobody needs to know that “OMG just fedd pupsy wupsy and went on a jogg and dropped the cutest little #2.” I want barf into my own eyes just reading that.

      So, without further ado, here are the however many number of rules for Twitter. Follow them and don’t ask any questions. Stupids.