Diary of A Trapped House Cat

From La Casa de Los Gatos, a few fragments of a diary titled "Political Cat" have surfaced. They make for sad reading:

I am no longer mobile, unable to navigate the steep stairs leading up to my place of rest (or, let's face it, more meaningfully, down to the kitchen for food) without the aid of massive quantities of untrendy chemical accoutrements. A layer of cat hair on the already slippery hardwood of the floor and stairs, far from ensuring a soft landing, only contrives to add to my fear of slippage. Although food is brought up daily by my captors, I long to run, free and wild once again, over the carpet of slugs infesting what I once fondly thought of as MY garden. Life sucks. Six weeks left to surgery. I think I need better pain meds. Unfortunately they make it tough to function, and drooling meditatively has never been one of my favourite competitive sports. In the event, I must offer up this morsel for the amusement of all of us who really loved and admired Hillary Clinton before she went over to the Darth side and are so grateful she's back among the light. Notice, please, that the imprisoned myrmidons of one Bootsie Ferragamo, who last dominated the dungeons of the State Department, are celebrating their release with a fervor heretofore unseen in career diplomats.

To quote the late, great John Lennon, Labia and Genitalmen, I give you Secretary of State Hillary Clinton! Three cheers to the auld girl for pulling it off. Doesn't she look great? And sound great?

Yeah, yeah, I'm an unabashed Clinton supporter, have always been, probably always will be. She put me off for a while with her underhanded tactics, but yaknow, she wanted to win and although I didn't agree with what she was doing, nobody can say Baby don't got no balls. Hers are bigger and brassier than anybody's, and yes, that includes Rahm Emanuel. I'm still really glad President Obama won. He has the breadth and depth of vision to benefit the whole country and his "no-drama" style is more reassuring to us wot been beat down by 12 years of the screamfest that started with the Clintons and ended with Drunky McStaggers.

So, enjoy this clip of Hill getting lauded publicly by hand-kissing celebrants. You'd be kissing her hands too if she'd saved you from that gap-toothed thigh-booted Dominatrix Bootsie Ferragamo.

The news is this coming couple of weeks is surgery prep. First week of March is surgery. After that, ten days of recovery, and I should be back home by the end of the third week of March. Then it's physical therapy, at home for 8 weeks and at the PT's office for 8 weeks. I'm told replacement knees are tough on old farts, but anything has to be better than sitting around semiconscious and unable to enjoy anything but food, cigarettes, and the occasional sip of booze. Fuck me, fellas, sitting around on the old situpon smoking, drinking, and stuffing one's face is NOT all it was made out to be. What would I like to be doing? Hiking! Goddammit. Hiking. The weather is springlike, sunny with a little nip in the air, and if there was justice in the world I'd be down the hill checking my plum tree for blossoms and rooting out the sorrel grass by hand. Pfaugh!

Blogging occasional till surgery; restricted to the kindness of Ms. Manitoba and FoTPC and Sirenita Lake for about 4 months post-surgery; resuming again in full and aggravated mode sometime in late April or May, I think.

Don't desert me, goddammit, y'awl. It's pretty damn uninspiring crushing one's coccyx in a bed however comfortable. And people keep getting me books to fucking read!

Your comments, however rude, welcomed. No threats, please, unless they involve some lively slap-and-tickle in a humorous manner.

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