On Cat Crapping

Fucking next door neighbour’s three-legged cat has just crapped on the grass.

Smug little bastard.

Wouldn’t mind so much if he were to give me the time of day and be friendly in a purry-scratch-me-love-me way, but no; the bugger just runs off, …..no,…. hobbles off… if I as much as put in an appearance outside.

Little shit was looking straight at me while he was doing it too. Well, it was less of a ‘look’ as more of an unfocused, slightly boss-eyed, thousand-yard, Fuck-Me-I’ll-Never-Get-This-One-Out stare as he heaved and squeezed.

He also had a silently panicked expression, like the countdown to launch had already started and missiles were heading his way any second. Y’know the expression….. The one with the whiskers well forward on Full Alert, fur slightly bristled and flanks heaving repeatedly from the effort.

We’ve all been there. For some reason or another, time is of the essence, you’ve got one stuck half-way, and It’s not budging any further without half your bleeding rectum coming out with it. To make matters worse, no matter how much welly you give the old sphincter you can’t cut the concrete-reinforced bugger in half and nor can you chicken out and back the bugger up again and save it for later.

Y’know…… shitting is a great leveller. Even levels out the lovely Nigella.; she who cooks like she’s working up for a shag. She sure works me up for one anyway. (Sigh)

No, …..on second thoughts…. surely not the lovely Nigella…… or the lovely Kylie. No, that wouldn’t be right, would it? But the rest of us….. shitting…. it levels us all out. I used to think of many of my bastard bosses sitting there with one stuck half-way…… or finding there’s no paper, and no bleddy grass handy either.

Try it…. the bastards don’t seem so bleddy powerful and smartassed then. Just don’t tell them, when they ask what you’re suddenly smiling at…..

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the cat crapping on my bleddy grass…….

I think he did just the one.

Seemed like a long one…..

Might have been split in two for ease of delivery. Y’know, so he could take another breath. I couldn’t tell from here.

All I know is he had to stumble forward to lay it out, on account of it was that long. Kinda awkward move to make with just the one front leg. He must be developing a new technique, because usually he rotates and gradually elevates his ass to spiral it…. It’s kinda mesmerising to watch in a way that takes some explaining. You gotta be there to see it really.

I ought to charge admission.

Put a placard up on the road.

Serve bleddy tea and soddin’ yeast buns……..

Anyway…. Finally, all finished and rising from The Assumed Position with a flank-quivering finale, as he clipped free the last squidgin that may have been dangling. Whiskers back into neutral position again and with eyes now fully functioning, he looked straight at me as if to say “Wot?”.

I’ll give you bleddy “Wot?”, you little sod. Just you stay there for a minute and let me find a bleddy rock.

After the awkward moment had passed between us, he hopped off with his hoppy gait, adding insult to injury by glancing down during the turn and giving his efforts a lingering backward look, as if hoping the points awarded were going to be worth the strain to his precious pencil sharpener.

I’ll give the little shit some points…..

Better go out and scrape it up before I forget it’s there and tread in it, …..like I usually do.

Have to do that walking-on-heels- thing then, or the sides-of -shoe thing…… or on tiptoes, all depending on the Area of Spread, to a suitable spot to be able to go to Boots-Off Mode. Then make with a twig to dig it out from the tread, (WHY can you never find a nice strong twig when you bleddy want one?), and finish off with the old water and scrubbing brush routine.

Cheers me up no end, it does. Oh joy, is me.

Still, I guess it could be worse.

Mustn’t grumble, eh? {:oI

N.B.
It could be a ‘she’ I guess, but I prefer to think of it as a ‘he’ since I’m pissed at it…… If it was all purry-scratch-me-love-me then it would be different.

In that case, it would be better then, if ‘he’ was a ‘she’…….I could call it ‘darlin’ and stuff.

Well, I would anyway, but, ….y’know,…. it gets kinda complicated….. affection between males and all that. It’s different for we Boys.

I just pretended with my buddy, Lomax, …..the little darlin’.

I still wonder where he got to, y’know….. {:oi
K. {:o)

Women make life complicated………. (But don’t tell them we love kinda them for it) :o)

I wrote this a while ago………. Took it out of an email I was writing at the time, and made it stand up on it’s own. Go on……… tell me I’m wrong. :o)

Women make it complicated

That’s the one thing that worries me about getting the love of my life………. women have a gift for making things real complicated……… for example, you fancy something to eat, and they start insisting you heat your beans in a saucepan, transfer them to a clean plate, add lettuce, cabbage, cucumber and stuff like that, and lord knows what else. Most of it has to be bloody opened / peeled / washed/ cracked / prised / sliced / diced / grated / mashed / tossed / whipped / stirred / folded / buttered / oiled/ fried/ boiled/ blanched/ grilled and heated in many other weird ways, and in several other saucepans, casserole dishes, you-name-it, too.

Then you gotta make up some gravy / sauces / dressings and things called ‘garnishes’; I ask you, what’s a bleddy garnish? All this makes a helluva mess, and so then you’ve gotta wipe up all the clutter, clean the damn chopping board(s) (just the one will never do!), and all the stuff you used to mutilate, sorry ‘prepare’ the food.

Even though you’ve been up to your elbows in soap and water for half the day, you have to wash your hands for the tenth time, get out knives / forks / spoons / chopsticks and other things you never knew existed before you met her, and lay the damn table, using a nice white Irish linen cloth. That’s the one that has to be washed every time you as much as look at it, and not to mention ironed as well afterwards.

I mean…… IRONING a table cloth??? Jees!

Then, because it’s now fast becoming a ‘romantic’ meal, when you thought it was just ‘fancy something to eat’ you gotta turn the telly off, find the candles, fix them in the holder, and light the soddin’ things. Bugger, burnt your fingers. Now you gotta run your hand under the cold tap, and suffer the indignity of being told you’re “such a baby” into the bargain, and not to make a fuss ‘cos it can’t hurt THAT much, (It bleddy well DID!) as she holds your hand under the tap with all the grip of a hairy-assed Sumo wrestler. Strength mysteriously absent when she didn’t have the strength to carry the four-tons of shopping she made you bloody buy yesterday, and on your day off too.

Then you gotta dry your hand in a clean towel, get told off for getting garage grease and stuff under your nails, then get a real bollicking for being vulgar, when you nuzzle up close to her scented long neck and suggest to her that dipping them in some fresh, warm, Pussy Juice would get it off it real easy. Her sensitivity is pretty rich considering she spent half of last night with her legs over your shoulders, shouting “FUCK ME!! FUCK ME!!” to the neighbours.

There were you, thinking that it was what you were doing all along, surprised and dismayed that she hadn’t noticed you were doing your bloody best! She shouted “DON’T STOP, DON’T STOP!”, so you’d tried to get a few more revs up, without falling out and missing a stroke, despite the cramp in your left calf and splitting a couple of toenails scrabbling for some grip with the other leg on the damn slippery black silk sheets. The ones she suggestively mentioned would be soooo sexy. The ones you knew bloody well were going to be trouble the second you looked at the price tag, as you coolly flourished the plastic to impress her with your New Man Spares No Expense style.

Anyway, by the time she’s got the Burneeze cream out, and struggled with the plasters that won’t stick because of the overzealous application of the cream plastered on your fingers, everything has gone all to pot, quite literally. The gravy’s gone all weird, the stuff you opened / peeled / washed/ cracked / prised / sliced / diced / grated / mashed / tossed / whipped / stirred / folded / buttered / oiled/ fried/ boiled/ blanched/ grilled and heated in many other weird ways, and in several other saucepans/ casserole dishes/ you-name-it, has gone all to hell too, and the candles have dripped wax all over the bloody Irish linen white thing you’d been forced to spread on the table.

She’s started to knock up something else, to replace the burnt stuff, and for sure-certain you can feel a good few more laps of kitchen-based domesticity coming up. You resign yourself, and start to scrape the burnt pans, after being told not to “just-stand-there-looking-at-it-if-you-hadn’t-made-all-that-fuss-and-been-more-careful-in-the-first-place-it-wouldn’t-have-burnt”. Your helpful suggestion that maybe if you could “sort-of-just-stir-it-all-together-and-see-what-it-tastes-like, babe”, meets with a disgusted “Don’t be stupid; you can’t do that!”.

“Actually you can”, you think to yourself, but know full well that such thoughts won’t overwhelm her powerful Girl-Logic software systems, and so you strategically keep the thought secreted well away from the Brain-to-Mouth short circuit, that has dropped you right in it so often before.
At long last, after a repeat of the whole performance, you finally sit down to eat. You find yourself thinking “What a bleddy price to pay for a regular shag”, and just in time shut the thought down in blind panic, only too aware of her sensitive telepathic and intuitive skills. The ones have seen right into your thoughts so many times in the past. HOW does she do that?
Then there’s trying to see what you’re doing in the soft, dimpsy candlelight, whilst attempting to look into her eyes romantically, and not spoil it by being a wuss, and wincing at the pain of the damn fork pressing into your burnt fingers. When you see how she is looking back at you, you realise, with the fixed grin that you desperately try to warm up, that lovemaking that night is going to call on every ounce of proficiency you have at your disposal.

Too late, she’s triggered your simple and hair-triggered Primary Man Circuits. The Member for Bathpool is stirring, albeit pretty half heartedly like mortally wounded old soldier making one last effort to rise up and salute the distant call of the Bugle; loyal to a fault, and willing to fling himself into the breech one last time for Honour and Valour. You find yourself wishing, not for the first time, that you’d avoided introducing the Ferret again that morning, close thing though it was, after climbing aboard twice last night. Doesn’t she realise the damn Well isn’t bottomless? “Not really” is the obvious answer, by that look of “You’re going to be a Lucky Boy tonight!” in her Make-Sure-He-Notices furtive glances at you.

Then she goes and reaches up and does that thing with her hair. The thing she does without knowing how it leaves you helpless, and at her mercy every single time. With an inward sigh of contented resignation you smile at her, knowing she’s always going to have her way without even trying.

Still, you remembered dreaming of one day meeting a gorgeous nymphomaniac just like her, but sometimes realise it’s resulted in life being much more complicated, and an awfully long way off the simple life you once enjoyed. For instance; Getting up out of the armchair when the adverts start, opening a tin of beans, shoving a spoon into the tin, and back to sit down again before the film kicks in again.

Food.

Done in a jiffy,………..and if you lick the spoon clean, absolutely no washing up.

Simple.

Quick.

No Wucking Forries! 🙂

© Kevin Udy.

Life, losing it……..and on getting it back.

Just a few lines to at least add something to this blog. Completely blank mind, as per usual, but sometimes if I just start writing, something will happen across the synapses.

A good friend of mine, Sally-From-Over-The-Hills emailed me some real cute pics of a baby hedgehog……. let’s see if I can get them on here……….

Cute as hell, eh?

Just about anything is cute when it’s young, isn’t it. Shame it doesn’t stay that way in a lot of cases, don’t you think, although we all see ‘cute’ (for want of a better word) as something different I guess.
Jees, I really can’t get the inspiration today!

Ummmm

Errrrr

Soddit!

Not been much happening to me lately, as per the usual, so that doesn’t help a whole lot. I’m someone who really needs to Get A Life, although I have to say it’s harder to do than most people seem to think. The trouble with a Life is that, once you’ve lost it, finding it again, or getting a new one isn’t so easy because they seem to be in damn short supply. Like everything in life, reality doesn’t hit until it hits you.

If you’ve actually got a Life……… hey, what’s the problem, man?

If you haven’t got a life, you’ll soon be able to tell the asshole/smug bastard/sonofabitch/lucky blighter with it, what the problem is! …………. Once you get to be able to figure it out, that is.

Funny thing, life. Maybe it’s the Universal Law applying, that says it takes a lot or energy, power, whatever you want to call it, to move something when it’s stopped, and maybe that ‘law’ applies even to something as unambiguous as ‘Life’.

Yup, anything which is stopped takes far more of that precious energy to get it rolling again, than it takes to keep it rolling once it’s moving. What’s more, you’d better have some momentum on board to allow the energy to overcome the bumps, slopes and hills, or you’ll grind to a halt when you hit them, which will need more of that energy, and so on and so on.

Pretty much most of my adult life, once I’d finally learnt some of life’s basic lessons as a late teenager/ early twenties, I’ve always kept a mind to that momentum and had some in reserve to cope with the hills. You have plenty of that energy to overcome the obstacles anyway when you’re young, unless you hit too many cliffs and sheer mountain faces.

I’d always take care of the smallish ho-de-hum daily stuff that can cause problems, or big trouble if enough stacks up on top of the other. Taking care of the money, keys, credit/charge cards, maintenance of my bikes and cars, paying the bills on time, keeping out of debt no matter what I had to go without, maintaining good(ish) health and fitness, keeping in work despite hating what I did most of the time; ………. y’know, standing on my own two feet, and doing all the stuff most people do to avoid their Life grinding to a halt. Or worse…….. breaking down, or crashing into bits.

If you keep on top of it all, it’s not so bad, or so hard to do, BUT if something knocks you off your perch, and if you don’t have the momentum or backup to lever yourself back up to speed, THEN it all becomes a whole new can of worms.

I hit depression as a result of pressures of work………. mostly the result of weenies (small ‘w’), Bullshit and Political Correctness, and all the ammunition it gives people with no experience, talent or ability to step all over those who do have these things. With hindsight I realise I’d suffered from depression on and off since late childhood, but it didn’t last long; usually a day or so at the most and not especially debilitating even then. When it did hit me for a good solid length of time, grinding me down no matter how hard I tried to keep going until I finally just couldn’t crawl into work one day, it was a surprise. It wasn’t as bad as it can get by any means, but bad enough that I lost the energy to keep this life moving as smoothly(ish) as it was.

When I was off sick with it, and doped up on those fucking pills that seemed to help only by way of doping me up, then it was all I could do was keep Life going at a slowest crawl. I was on my own with it, and so only the very barest essentials were maintained. Sometimes I wouldn’t even wash for days on end, let alone bath or shower, and as for everything else, ………well forget it.

Although much better now, and back to work now for some three years part time, I have lost all that Vim I once had. Everything’s too much damn trouble home here. I’m doing ok, but only just in the eyes of many ‘normal’ people. I don’t eat well, hardly ever clean the place, although that means as in dusting and hoovering. Nothing’s rotting in a corner, or going mouldy in the kitchen. I go to work, and work hard there, but I come home and just grind to a halt as soon as I walk though the door. Like I said…….. it’s better than it was, and even then not as bad as it CAN get ……….. I’m not by any means just sat here looking into space and crying into my beer (I don’t drink anyway), …….. I read a lot, and spend time on the computer and internet, not games and things, but as regards writing the blogs and reading about all the things I’m interested in.

Living alone with no Chick doesn’t help one bit, because if I’m prepared to put up with whatever needs to be done, eat bugger-all food, (as in a good diet), housework, etc etc, then I don’t have to do it. There’s only me here………. although there was Lomax, my kitten, here too, but he disappeared a month ago at seven months old, and I sure do miss the little chap. He was great company, and we were glued to the hip, me and him.

So, with not bothering with this, and not bothering with that, and having few friends who want to do much that involves me, slowly Life erodes and deteriorates until it’s as stripped-down a life as you can have and still resemble someone ‘normal’ with a life.

Don’t misunderstand me here……….. It could be far worse, but it could also be a fuck’s sake better too. …….. it’s just bad enough that skies are never as blue, the rain and the cold feels that bit worse, and There is just never enough energy and inspiration to fire you up for much at all.
And, yes, thanks all you smug bastards out there,……….. but I do realise it’s my fault, and that only I can get it all going again……… (and I WILL …..soon(ish)),………. so bugger off back to your Ikea kitchen and your perfect life and do us all a favour.

(Hey! Don’t get so pissed……… I was just (kinda) joking around, ok?) :o)

All it would take is the impetus, energy inspiration and initiative to make about 500% more effort, and I’d be back up there bouncing along with the best of them. I can’t explain it, but the nearest I can get to explaining it is by saying that it’s like an invisible wall you just can’t get over, under, around or through, and you just can’t see why not either.

Bit like a housefly on a hot day, hammering against a glass window and trying to get out. I often watch them and feel sorry for the little blighters. ………….. (That’d be just before I kill them spectacularly dead with a Ikea magazine then!)

(Did you see what I did there, eh???) :o)

Still, what keeps me going, and moving towards cracking it, is the fact that you never know what’s around the corner, …….. as my dear old Daddy used to say.

That little hedgehog didn’t know someone was going to find him, did he? ………he’s one very lucky hedgehog, because she’s going to be the backup that gets him back up to speed again. I sure hope so anyway.

OK, that’s gotta be it, or I’ll be here all day……… I finally got the Muse, and got going, y’see?

If you’ve got a life, and especially if it’s a Good One, (Complete with that Ikea kitchen and the perfect kids) then take real good care of it.

The worst thing you can do is think it can never happen to you…………. falling off your Last Twig, that is. One minute you’re surrounded by thick leafy branches, and the next all you can hear is that last twig breaking……………… and the echo of a sudden yell on the long way down.

If you’re real lucky, the most precious thing you have is your Woman or your Man……….. Take THAT for granted at your peril.

I know……….. because I once did.

Bye, bye y’all

K.xxx :o)