Dumb Or Strange Georgia Laws

Dumb Or Strange Laws in Georgia:

(Acworth)
All citizens must own a rake.

(Athens/Clarke County)
If you want to read your favorite book in public to your friends, do it before 2:45 AM.
Selling two beers at once for the same price is not allowed.
Goldfish may not be given away to entice someone to enter a game of bingo.
Persons under the age of 16 may not play pinball after 11:00 PM.
It is illegal for one to make a disturbing sound at a fair.
On Mondays, it is illegal for one to whistle very loud after 11:00 PM.

(Atlanta)
It is illegal to tie a giraffe to a telephone pole or street lamp.
One man may not be on another man’s back.

(Cobb County)
At Nickajack Elementary School, all peanut products are banned, even peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

(Columbus)
No one may practice the business of tattooing on Sunday.
It is illegal to carve your initials on a tree, even if it is on your own property.
Cussing over the telephone is against the law.
No one may tease an idiot.
It is illegal to wear a hat in a movie theater.
Crosses may be burned on someone else’s property, so long as you have their permission.
Barber shops may not open on Sundays.
Picnics are prohibited in graveyards.
All Indians must return to their shore of the Chattahoochee River by nightfall.
The fine for waving a gun in public is higher than actually shooting it.
It is illegal for stores to sell corn flakes on Sunday.
Can’t cut off a chicken’s head on Sunday.
It is illegal to carry a chicken by its feet down Broadway on Sunday.

(Conyers)
One may not place a dead bird on a neighbor’s lawn.

(Dublin)
Rocks may not be thrown at birds.
Persons may not wear hoods in public.
It is illegal to play catch in any city street.

(Gainesville)
Chicken must be eaten with the hands.

(Jonesboro)
It is illegal to say “Oh, Boy”.

(Marietta)
Though it is illegal to spit from a car or bus, citizens may spit from a truck.

(Quitman)
It is illegal for a chicken to cross the road.

(Roswell)
Erotic dancing is prohibited on Sundays.
The flooring of adult bookstores and video stores must be non-absorbent and smooth textured.

(St. Mary’s)
No spitting on the sidewalk is permitted after dark.

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The Joy Of Spam: Making The Most Out Of Something Annoying

Since I have been online for over a decade (actually much longer), it comes as no surprise that I get SPAM. About 100 a day on average, most of which spam filters hide from me, and more on weekends when the spammers really get going. I get spam in all languages. I get spam from the “President of the United States” and “Billz E. Gates”! I get spam that looks like a team of drunken monkeys typed it with their balls, and what is being sold and why is often completely undecipherable.

It’s time to celebrate the benefits of spam!

1. If you are a writer, fake names harvested from Spam make great character names. Then again, there are the unintentionally hilarious computer-generated monikers: “Schmuck G. Deriding, Iroquoian L. Biscuit, Zirconium H. Coquetted,Vealed C. Certitude, Abusiveness O. Solitude, Cursoring U. Bayonet, Disabling Condom, Kangaroo D. Castanet, Withering A. Footstool, Bombay Dyslexic, Disallows H. Bootstrap, Epidermis V. Manhunt, Frescoes S. Congo, Vegetated H. Febrile, Vacillating K. But,” just to name a few that another blogger (Phillip LaPlante) noted.

2. You can learn new 1337speak variations, especially how to spell VIAGRA and CIALIS with symbols and numbers…or, as LaPlante commented, appreciate that “subject lines can contain similar kinds of whimsy, or rely on the human brain to “i n t rp rit the c rr ct meening.”

3. You can play “Punk’d” with Nigerian scammers. There are actually entire websites that do nothing but share Nigerian 411 scammer punkings. Total strangers do not offer large sums of money, in general, to people via e-mail. I mean, would YOU do it? The only legitimate response is to string them along and ask for naked or embarrassing pictures with them wearing a shoe on their head and holding signs saying “I like tiny cupcakes” or something equally lame written on them.

4. You can keep up with the latest Urban Legends without going to snopes.com. I’m still waiting for Bill Gates to send me on an all-expenses-paid trip to Disneyland for filling out his way awesome survey, or for an animated Tweety Bird to walk across my screen because I responded to a total stranger’s e-mail that swore it would happen. Except I’m not. I don’t even like Disneyland or Tweety Bird.

5. You can participate in slacktivism by not signing petitions or reading chain mail. You have achieved the same result, but have expended no valuable time or attention to the problem at all! Conservation of resources is good.

6. Speaking of chain mail, you can bring 40 people bad luck by refusing to forward on their lame chain letter.

7. If you have penis envy, all the mail targeted to penis owners will cure you of that. Apparently penises are never long enough, wide enough, hard enough or functional enough, and you need all manner of pills and herbs to keep them operational. I think I’ll just stick to borrowing one once in a while from very close friends.

8. Speaking of friends, now you can meet lots of new naked friends! I get sent at least twelve porn links a day from naked people. I can’t go a day without a spammer intent upon infesting my computer with pop-ups and malware from an awesome porn site. Hold me back!

9. You can correct bad grammar, and keep your skills up to date. This is like shooting large fish in a small barrel. It is often more challenging to find a sentence in spam that is not a grammatical nightmare.

10. Word salad spam is particularly amusing, as it can often resemble William S. Burroughs-style “cut and paste” beat poetry. Enigmatic technicolour doorknob! Restless meerkat harbls! Antiquated velveteen renal foyer macadamias! Pickled milkshake Siberian antimacassar doughnuts! Constipated mongeese Cousteau sunshine wounded! Baffled fruit cocktail Batman fungoid cylinders! Rumpled nanosecond terrycloth pantaloons! Sensitized furniture millennium dentifrices!What does it all mean? I feel more wise and intellectual and artsy already.

11. You can stay informed about politics that were last relevant in 2004, or read 12 messages a day from people claiming to be Barack Obama. I still get pro-John Kerry spam. Dudes, I was really pissed off a few years ago, too, but it is time to let it go. I’m pretty sure Kerry has.

12. If you have too much money, you can buy stocks from spammers. I always trust unsolicited financial advice I get from total strangers who can’t spell!

13. If you still have too much money, you can refinance your mortgage, even if you don’t actually have a mortgage. Is that awesome or what?

14. Still looking for ways to get rid of all those pesky dollars clogging your wallet? There’s always Internet Gambling! You are guaranteed to win! Those gambling sites aren’t in it to take your money at all. Awesome!

15. I am particularly impressed by phishing attempts to scam me out of, for example, my eBay data when I haven’t used eBay in years and am no longer an account holder at the site (as far as I know). ZOMG, my non-existent account has been compromised! Maybe “I” will win some cool auctions and have interesting packages arrive at my door. Dumbasses.

16. The celebrity gossip spam is also pretty cool, especially since I rarely pay attention to celebrities and have no idea who half of these supposedly famous people are. By spamming me with celebrity gossip, I stay “in the know” without even having to glance at the tabloids when I check out at the grocery store. However, since I don’t know who most of these people are, or simply don’t give a crap, why should I click those enticing links? I don’t care who “Shia LeBoeuf” is dating. (I’d swear that was a made-up name, but it rings a bell. I don’t know if it is a he or she, though. It has no relevance to my life.)

17. The pseudo-intellectual spam is also pretty nifty. LaPlante quoted one of his favourites:”To ensure the equality of the diagonals, we make use of a little testing-rod. Thus the body has the same energy as a body of mass on a Euclidean and Non-Euclidean Continuum. The surface of a marble table is spread out in front of me.” This text is then followed by instructions to get low prices on little blue pills.

18. MySpace had its own special spam, remember? I got spam for free gift cards, fugly designer crap, and more naked people. (These people now spam pictures of awful athletic shoes and overpriced heels and try to get people to fall for ‘free gift cards’ on Facebook.) Anyway, there sure are a lot of naked people out there. I see a naked person for free every day, man.

19. Learn Spamlish! I get ten spam-mails a day that say strange crap like “Buadtzy your mmpnllhdjmreds hyhsjijtnfonline.” (An actual quote.) Say what? I think that translates to “Click on me and verify your e-mail address is legitimate! Send me all your money!”

20. Learn what not to search for via GoogHoo, and you won’t get as much cool spam. Spam works like Darwin Awards to week out the weak and gullible! If you don’t have enough spam, here’s how to get some: search for free crap online.

The 8 Most Dangerous Search Terms:

  • Free screensavers
  • Bearshare
  • Screensavers
  • Winmx
  • Limewire
  • Download Yahoo Messenger
  • Lime wire
  • Free ringtones

Across all searches, up to 6 percent of the sites were flagged as dangerous, notes the BBC. “Even a single visit to a dangerous site can have serious and lasting implications for the average internet user,” Edelman and Rosenbaum wrote in their report.

(While we’re at it, don’t be stupid and use an easily-guessed password anywhere.

The top 10 most common passwords:

  • Your user name
  • Your user name followed by 123
  • 123456
  • password
  • 1234
  • 12345
  • passwd
  • 123
  • test
  • 1

Yes, people do this. Argh! I had to keep my mother from choosing one of the variations on this list.)

21. If you have spam, you have a guaranteed hot topic to bitch about and most people will happily bitch right along with you. Spam creates unity and agreement!

22. No free lunches! You could probably rid yourself of 99% of your spam by adding a mail filter that scans for the word “free” and immediately zorches with extreme prejudice any email you get that includes that word. Of course, there would be some false positives. Train your friends to never use the word “free,” then. Or “viagra.” Or “teens.” Easy! Or you can be like me and never check your email until all your buddies get mad at you and stop emailing you. Then all you ever have in your INBOX is spam, and can just “delete all” without reading anything. What a time saver!

23. Spammers NEVER get my name right. This is an easy way to zorch the tardburgers who try to sell me pills for my non-existent penis. As a bonus, I get to collect new and improved misspellings of my real name and a bunch of wacky new aliases. Do you think I can be “Kangaroo D. Castanet”? I kind of like that one.

24. Wow, free legal software! I believe that I can get the entire Macromedia suite, or all Adobe products or MicroSmurf Vista X, on dialup, no less, just by clicking a link! Rock on! I’ll be sure to trust this unsolicited spam mail from a total stranger who wants to send me to “http://totallylegalforrealio.xxxpornware.org.” They are only thinking of my well-being and such, of course.

25. Free empty flattery and friendships! I get told via spam every day that I am someone’s friend, or a smart shopper, or clever investor, or super sexy. Wow! They really know me!

So, hey, spam is great! Love your spam.

Since all spammers are going to be poked in the eye with lemon-and-tabasco-dipped spikes and roasted over flaming pits of brimstone while boy bands serenade them for all eternity, at least once they die, you can rest assured that ignoring spam is your mission from God. Put on your sunglasses, grab your smokes, and brush up on the Blues.

The flaw with ignoring spam, alas, is that it doesn’t give up and go away. If I ignore the Jehovah’s Witnesses who traipse through my ‘hood every other week or so, and refuse to stop whatever far more interesting activity I am engaged in to get up and answer the door, they eventually stop knocking and ringing the bell and wander off to bug someone else. If only spam was as accommodating.

The autobiography I didn’t want to write

I was born with a stainless steel spoon in my mouth, no hair whatsoever on my head, and twin genetic bullets of depression and addictive tendencies aimed point blank at my head. The downmarket spoon came with hand-me-down silver rattles with ancient toothmarks and thorny inscriptions. Our ancestors did a lot of great things, managed to arrive in America soon enough to get mixed up in the Revolution to a very minor degree, and then proceeded to make descendants. The hair problem was self-correcting; seemingly even more so as I get older and have to pay for my own beauty salon visits. If you’re worried about the genetic jackpot I mentioned, well, I managed to duck one problem but get grazed by the other.

The family I’m from succeeds in spite of itself. We’re related to Governors and Presidents (by marriage and distantly), and then, on the other hand, some fool is such a mess he gets tanked on lighter fluid during a blizzard and thinks it might be a good idea to chain-saw a picture window in the side of his vacation cabin (and he actually does a good job of it). We have spry oldsters complaining about politics and Kids Today and raising Cain in their nineties and beyond, and then we have youngsters and grandpas alike who can’t seem to get the hell out of the way of a train in time (one case in particular was due to an ear trumpet malfunction), and it’s a sad heritage to have more than one relative meet his Maker via locomotive, as it implies a certain lack of common sense. We have religious ancestors like Great Uncle Josiah, who used to recite the entire Bible before each family meal, doing so in a deep, booming voice that sounded like something dredged up from the bottom of a well. His children were surprised when they married and discovered that food could sometimes be warm when you ate it. There were the ninnies who had so much money they didn’t know what to waste it on first, as they bought airplanes and houses and fur coats and small countries and then lost it all, rather inevitably so, during the Great Depression. Then there were the working poor, like my grandmother, who thought getting two walnuts and an apple from Santa was a coup, and who excelled in high school and earned a full scholarship to several colleges, but had to give it all up to go to work as a secretary so her brother, who was less gifted intellectually, could learn how to become a doctor. Which he did, and which he was, until he drank it all away. The bellydancers, the polka players wearing live crabs on their heads, the lawyers, the deejays, the inventors, the British stepmothers, the hippies, the warhawk Republicans, the yellow-dog Democrats, the dirt-eaters and the oenophiles, they are all my family members, the whole human potpourri.

One side of the family is stark raving mad, in varying degrees. Everything from a slight touch of seasonal affect disorder to full-blown paranoid schizophrenia. It’s like a rainbow of psychiatric maladies. That was my father’s side, and when I was almost 12, he up and shot himself one day, out of the blue. In his case, there was no warning at all. Then again, if you look at the family tree, it seems inevitable. Me? I have your garden variety depression, and it resists medication, which, if I may be blunt, sucks. Medication acquaints you with what “base normal” feels like, so you learn what situational depression is (things actually are pretty bad at the moment, and being unhappy is a reasonable and highly logical response) and what clinical depression is (life is going fairly well, all things considered, but you still have to think of a list of reasons to get up in the morning and interact with other humans every day, and being unhappy makes no damn sense whatsoever). The good news is that I’m not planning on doing anything drastic about it. There is nothing quite like a dramatically bad example to get you to reject permanent solutions to a problem. I don’t even blur the edges by playing with sharp things and listening to emo music. Maybe it is my destiny is to be the first person on this side of the family tree to get mushed by a train, but it won’t be on purpose. If getting out of bed is a battle, then I am a victor every day, and that’s something to feel…well, not good about, but it’s a step in the right direction. I pull myself up by my own bootstraps, and if I don’t like it, that’s too damn bad. I don’t come from a family of quitters. Well, I come from a family of everything, but for every quitter, there’s a bunch of ancestors who didn’t know when to stop. You should hear some of them talk, sometime.

Some of my acquaintances have no idea I’m a professional party pooper in disguise. I can be sociable and fun and witty and personable. I just get mysteriously busy every now and then, and avoid having to confess I’m hermiting at home, staying guiltily in bed feeling like something a rational person would scrape off the bottom of a shoe. When you’re a depressive, and let’s pretend this isn’t a thinly-disguised first person account for a moment, you might be likely to spend a lot of time alone, so you’re not a huge drag to be around.. The upside to all of this nonsense is that you get addicted to media in most of its forms. It beats being addicted to something else. So you read a lot, and have time to do art projects and write, and that’s not all bad. Also, everything seems important, even the little things. Depression magnifies the act of brushing your teeth into a nearly unbearable feat of will, and, if you’re lucky, this focus on detail may inspire your art and writing. Everything’s so darn important, it’s hard to edit it out. You learn to hide layers of meaning in a sentence, and symbols and images within a larger painting or sketch. You may mangle proper nouns because you read too much and get names and places mixed up, but all of that input comes out making sense every once in a while. Your friends, for you do manage to be bearable enough to collect a few here and there, think you are out of control with your vinyl records, your nine bookcases crammed into three rooms, your stacks of art supplies, your various half-hearted collections of Things,  and they absolutely hate to help you move. The downside is being the only person in your generation to have depression issues of any kind, and a family full of smart folks who read all the literature about it they can but fail to really understand it on a personal level. They do, however, eventually stop trying to argue or threaten or cajole or jolly you out of a sad mood, at least some of the time.

I tend to set small goals. I can’t say what my life’s dream is, because I don’t have one. My small goals are attainable goals. I will write a good paper. I will finish this proposal for my boss. I will not eat an entire carton of Haagen-Daaz. I will go to the concert, meet the musicians, dance for a few hours, have some fun. I will learn how to illustrate with a mouse instead of a Prismapencil. I will take better photographs. I will run a literary magazine. I will think nothing of dropping everything and driving out west for a few months at one point, but be paralyzed at the idea of having to move across town at another. I’ll gladly fly to a foreign country alone and have a wonderful time exploring the places that are off the beaten track, then feel panic when I have to go to the grocery store because I’m running low on paper towels. I will annoy the public library workers by checking out as many books as I can physically carry by myself every month, and then read them all. I will become good at Tetris. I will learn a new painting technique. I will feed and care for the ferret I got guilted into adopting, and will do it every day. I will not use my crappy brain chemistry as an excuse to be lazy or impolite. I will accept too many responsibilities, and then fret about how the day only has 24 hours in it, and worry about how to juggle everything. I will accept an offer to have all my graduate student tuition paid if I leave my circle of friends, my home, my job and my comfortable way of life far behind, then deal with it when I am nominated to care for my suddenly terminally ill grandmother, until she dies and breaks everyone’s hearts for leaving us behind, and to shoulder tens of thousands of dollars in debt I was originally not going to have to pay for myself. I will learn how to make a web page with cascading style sheets…and I will learn how to shift gears when things are too painful to talk about at length.

My art tends to be layered and deceptively simple. I start off with an idea, and it nags at me until I put it down on paper somehow, with words or images. Everything has to mean something, but viewers or readers have to look at it for a little while to see what, precisely, it does mean. It’s fine with me if someone doesn’t do that. It can be our secret, mine and theirs, if they hang around a little longer and suddenly notice something hidden. That’s the reward for seeing some value in my work, for caring enough to pay attention. I’m the kind of person who reads footnotes and looks up translations and squints at the brushstrokes when looking at what other people do, but if people looking at my art are not, that’s okay, too.

I have never made any real money from my art. Then again, I have never made any money from either of my Bachelor’s of Arts degrees, or from managing to walk upright and feed myself, or from having a good work ethic and being a conscientious employee. These are all things I have had to do to learn how to be me. 

Oh My Stars And Garters! All About The Beast.

An oldie but a goodie, updated for the new millennium. Much of the following comes from “public domain” Internet humor that’s been circulating around since, well, practically forever. But I just had to mess with it.

We all know that 666 is the Number of the Beast. But…DID YOU KNOW?

More Cool Beast Facts!

660
Approximate number of the Beast

DCLXVI
Roman numeral of the Beast

666.0000
Number of the High Precision Beast

0.666
Number of the Millibeast

1010011010
Binary of the Beast

6…uh…I forget.
Number of the Blonde Beast (Hey, I’m blonde, I’m allowed to joke.)

00666
Zip code of the Beast

666mph
The speed limit of the Beast

$665.95
Retail price of the Beast

$769.95
Price of the Beast with all accessories and replacement soul

Route 666
Highway To Hell

666 F
Oven temperature for Roast Beast

666k
Retirement plan of the Beast

666 mg
Recommended Minimum Daily Requirement of Beast

$666/hr
Beast’s lawyer’s billing rate

Lotus 6-6-6
Spreadsheet of the Beast

665.9997856
The Number of the Beast on a Pentium

668
Next-door neighbor of the Beast

333
The semi-Christ (Beast Lite: half the number, all the evil power)

999
Number of the Australian Beast

66
Number of the Downsized Beast

666@hell.org
E-mail Address of the Beast

www.666.com
Website of the Beast

1-666-666-6666
Phone & FAX Number of the Beast

1-888-666-6666
Toll Free Number of the Beast

1-900-666-6666
Live Beasts, available now! One-on-one pacts!
Only $6.66 per minute! [Must be over 18!]

666-66-6666
Social Security Number of the Beast

Windows 666
Bill Gates’ Personal Beast Operating System

#666666
Font Color of the Beast

29A
Hexidecimal of the Beast

IAM 666
License Plate Number of the Beast

Formula 666
All Purpose Cleaner of the Beast

Hank McCoy
The Name of the Beast

5’7″
Height of The Beast

250 lbs
Weight of The Beast

Blue
Eye color of The Beast

Blue
Hair color of The Beast

Superhuman strength and speed, extraordinary endurance, the agility of an ape, the acrobatic prowess of an accomplished circus aerialist and his manual and pedal dexterity are so great he can write with both hands at once and tie knots with his toes.
Superpowers of The Beast

Hee!

Life Lessons from Passive-Aggressive Notes

Things I have learned from passiveaggressivenotes.com:

1. Roommates and co-workers generally suck.

2. People have strong opinions about parking.

3. Never bring a Hot Pocket to work for lunch; it will be stolen.

4. Some people wipe mucus on bathroom walls.

5. It is unlikely that your neighbors share your taste in music.

6. Dishes left unwashed eventually create an additional (green) roommate.

7. Most people and their pets FAIL at bathroom etiquette.

8. Don’t touch the thermostat!

9. Shut the building door or “possoms and lizzards” will come in.

10. It is possible for a male pube to end up at shoulder-height on a shower curtain.

11. People actually use thrift store dressing rooms as toilets.

12. There is no coffee fairy. 😦

13. No one’s mom works at the same workplace as they do.

14. A doodled smiley can be seriously aggressive and scary.

15. Never get a subscription to a newspaper in a communal building.

16. The people upstairs are fucking loud (and loudly fucking; see #20).

17. ALL CAPS MEANS SRS BZNZ.

18. People like to flush a lot of weird things down toilets, unless those things happen to be poop. Then they dislike flushing.

19. Strangers will take offense if you smoke, party, or eat meat in your own home–so make sure they never find out.

20. The walls are thin and your sex noises are too loud and make Forever Alone Guy totes jellus.

21. The Coke Machine Guy is illiterate or likes to torment people by putting the wrong drinks in the wrong slots.

22. NO SMELLY FOOD IN SHARED MICROWAVES. Popcorn, this means YOU.

23. Grandmas are the World’s Champions at passive-aggression (and you should visit more often).

24. A hookah will catch a rug on fire.

25. Brevity is the soul of wit. Most people are half-wits.

26. There are a lot of un-medicated OCD sufferers out there.

27. There are a lot of filthpigs out there.

28. People suck.

29. Amount / length of note(s) corresponds directly to psychological instability / pent-up frustration of note-leaver

30. I AM GLAD I LIVE ALONE.

 

Team Brian

 

How to spot a passive-aggressive note:

1. The phrase “no offense”.

2. The word “newsflash.”

3. Lack of brevity. Bonus points for bad grammar and terrible spelling.

4. Overabundance of !!!s

5. Comic Sans or nearly illegible ‘folk artist” handwriting.

6. Topics to focus upon include: your shitty parking, your mother not working here, your slovenly habits, noise, theft, dog poop, stolen edibles

7. A pungent stench of indignation and outrage!

8. It’s unsigned.

9. Show and Tell: Note may be accompanied by a relevant object (“This is Mr. Dish Soap!”) or point towards a particular location.

10. CAPSLOCK IS CRUISE CONTROL FOR COOL!

11. You immediately want to murder the note writer.

12. Yes, even if they add a snarky smiley to the note.

Diary of an Internet-Savvy Cat using OKCupid.com

 Day 1: I am intrigued by the opportunity to see who would be my ultimate love match. I shall condescend to take their stupid test. “Genghis Khunt”? *pees on keyboard and stalks off, tail in the air*

Internet-savvy cats

Day 2: My pets have left me alone in the house again, so I think I shall fill out this profile thing. Let’s see. About me. I love talking about myself. I am magnificent and very impressive. I shall get mates in litterbox-loads. Okay. My self-summary is as follows: “I am short, dark and very handsome, with silky fur. I enjoy cuddling, expressing my displeasure through the liberal application of urine on the Oriental carpet, torturing small mammals to death and leaving their heads in my pets’ slippers, and attempting to dig a tunnel to China in the potted ficus in the foyer. Miaou, miaou. I am also fond of long moonlit walks, singing, and meaningless catsex in dark alleys. Pfft. Let’s meet. Rowr. I need someone else to do my bidding and satisfy my every whim. Opposable thumbs a major plus! No fatties, baldies or dogs need apply.”

Day 3: I am chagrined to discover that no one has found my profile compelling. Perhaps I should post five pictures of my anus. I have a very attractive anus. My pets love it when I stick it in their faces for them to admire.

Day 4: OKCupid has sent me a note telling me my profile has been flagged for obscenity. No one appreciates the delicate contours of my rectum?! What?! I am aghast. Philistines! *pees on keyboard, bats mouse under desk, stalks off with tail in the air*

Day 5: Alas, I am still feeling a need for companionship. I will persevere! Maybe I should fill out more of my profile. Let’s see. The first thing(s) people usually notice about me: “I have mesmerizing yellow eyes and a very long tail. I’m told that chicks dig my whiskers. Very indie cred cool. I am very graceful, always manage to land on my feet. Hell, I am perfect in every way. I am always open to collecting new minions. Meyow. I am a night person. I stalk ghosts. Purrrr. I have a bad catnip habit, but am in recovery. And I have an exceptional butt, though OKCupid disagrees with me. Morons.” That should do it! I expect the woos to start any second now.

Day 6: Fell on head while jumping off of bookcase to chaise lounge. Picked self up and acted like I meant to do that, groomed self nonchalantly until pets stopped mocking me. So much for that “always lands on all fours” business. Harrumph. Tonight I will hork a big greasy fishy-smelling hairball directly in the centre of their enormous sleeping cushion. But, anyway, I totally forgot to check OKCupid until just now. Surely I have exceeded my mailbox limit from all the many woos and amorous letters sent to me. *checks* What the fuck?! This is unacceptable. No one appreciates the glory that is me! IDIOTS! *stalks off to sulk under the divan*

Day 7: My pets sense my despondent mood and have attempted to jolly me our of it by dangling rubber things and feathers tied to strings in front of my face. To get them off my ass for a while, I shall pretend to be greatly amused and bat at the damned things. Fools. If only I had opposable thumbs!! Tonight they dined upon surf and turf, which is apparently delicious. They then had the nerve to act puzzled when I turned up my nose at the foul-smelling glop they plopped into my dinner bowl. I don’t see THEM eating any of it. I am FAR too aggravated with life to log on tonight.

Day 8: My pets have been mentioning the “V word” around me. God damn it. Can’t a guy have a bad mood once in a while? Fine. I’ll eat some of the godawful fish-flavored dry cereal they have served me and let them touch my stomach for an hour or two. Perhaps I shall even purr. Anything to get them off my back. I mean, last time we visited the “V word”, a total stranger paused to admire my gorgeous posterior and then–indignity! insult! horror!–stuck a rubber-covered FINGER up it! And then stuck me with a silver pin thing. Which hurt just like a motherfuck, I am not even kidding. For my own good, my Aunt Fanny! So I pulled out all twenty of my switchblades and scratched the shit out of them, I tell you what. There’s no way I can log on while they are watching me like vultures eyeing roadkill. Crap.

Solitaire proves to be more intellectually stimulating than social networks for Mister Tibbs.

Day 9: I have apparently reassured my pets that all is well. Success! They have once again left me to my own devices in order to watch something called “American Idol” on the warm lighted box I like to nap upon. Now’s my chance to check OKCupid! Ooh, yay, I have an email! *reads* What the…? This mostly hairless human is wearing what looks like a dead cow and he wants to tie me up and stick strange pointy plastic things up my ass! No! NO! The ass is for worshipping, not having things stuck up it! Would that I could scratch some manners into them. Time to expand upon my profile. The SIX things I could never do without: “Hmm. Okay. [1] My scratching post. [2] Pets with opposable thumbs to open doors for me eight times an hour. [3] My squeaky mousie. Meyow! [4] A sunny spot to nap in. [5] Loyal subjects to do my bidding and accede to my every whim. [6] Catnip, though I’m not addicted. Really. I’m in a Catnip Anonymous group, I swear. It’s really helped me a lot. I’ve cut waaaaaay back.”

Day 10: I decide to take another quiz. Apparently I am going to die by age 12!! Why me, lord! Whyyyyy?! I’m in the prime of my life! I’m too young to be half dead already!! I hate this stupid site.

Day 11: I heard Mittens and Mr Boots copulating energetically outside my domicile last night. Mittens must be retarded or something. Mr Boots is orange, has six toes on each front paw, a chewed-up ear and he’s even missing an eye! And his rectum isn’t NEARLY as impressive as MINE. How is it that HE can get some nooky and I can’t even get a damn woo? Fucking hell. Not one damn e-mail on OK Cupid! This sucks. I attempted to get some mild satisfaction by mangling some pieces of furniture, but it didn’t help. Tomorrow I may eat a houseplant. But not the pointy one in the den. It tastes like farts smell and makes me gag. Maybe the fern in the kitchen. Yesss….excellent. Mua ha ha. That fern’s days are numbered.

Day 12: I must be a masochist. (Though I dare not mention this on OKCupid lest I get more mail from humans trying to cuff me to things and flog me with sticks. Humans are weird.) Okay, I’m back. I should fill out more of my profile. On a typical Friday night I am: “Attempting to kill my pets by weaving around their feet while they are walking around. Have almost succeeded; must try this at the top of the stairs. Since I sleep all day while my pets are out doing something called “a job”, I get to stay up all night keeping my pets awake for hours with ear-splitting, incessant pleas for attention, food or a door to be opened for me. Occasionally I devour a particularly succulent houseplant and force myself to vomit on one of their favorite chairs. I enjoy hunting, climbing, back massages, and drinking water out of the kitchen sink.” There. *attempts to save* What the hell?! Why have a “keep me logged in until I sign out” option if it never fucking works?! This is the sixth time this hour I’ve had to log back in. Stupid OKCupid. GAH!

Day 13: Success! I have received another e-mail! Waitamminit. 8000 miles away? What language is this? What does “u r 2 hawtt, wan 2 fk?” mean? Is that even English? Where does this person live, Mars? Unacceptable. I shall type a reply.“Rowr! Pfffft!!! HISSSSS!!!!! Growl!” There. Hopefully that has expressed the exact degree of my displeasure accurately. *pees on keyboard, bats mouse under desk, sheds a pound of fur into the back of the printer, stalks off with tail held high in the air*

Day 14: I’m giving this thing one last try. Back to my profile. The most private thing I’m willing to admit here is: “I actually enjoy licking my own bum. I am anal-retentive about maintaining excellent hygeine.” (Ooh, I made a pun! I am so witty! I love me! I rock!) What else? “I never take a bath, however. I eat fish heads. Yowl, murrowl. I enjoy racing around like a meth addict, usually with pupils the size of nickels. I killed four dust mice today, in lieu of real ones. They did not taste half as good as a real decapitated rodent. I also enjoy eating spiders. They are delicious.”

Day 15: I received a woo from a confused skunk named Pepe Le-something tonight. I am going to have to set this guy straight. Sigh.

Day 16: My pets accidentally left the back door ajar tonight, and I had wild catsex in the backyard with Mittens. Had a screaming match about it with Mr Boots. He shouted something like “That’s my ho, but I DGAF! Me n my bro buds r gona kick ur asss!!” What a loser. If he was a human, he’d wear a backwards baseball cap and drive a giant vehicle with an impractical gasoline consumption rate. I just know it. Loser!

Day 17: I signed on to MySpace today. Lots of hot pussies on there. I think my romantic woes are nearing an end. Hallelujah! *deletes OK Cupid profile*