October 18, 2004

Now With 30% More Tolerance!

A Contest!

Okay, kids. It's time for a Random Yet Amusing Contest.

These are pictures of the pitcher in our kitchen, with a Diet Coke can to give you some perspective. The bottle caps inhabiting the pitcher are from the MANY MANY beers that Calvin and I have consumed over the past (mumble) months. Really, just him and me. We didn't even have one of our World Famous Happy Hours to add to the quantity. You don't need any more proof that we may be lushes.

Readers: "May be, she says! Hah!"
Laura: "Hush, you."

The contest is simple -

Part The First: Guess how many bottle caps are in the pitcher.
Part The Second: Guess which kind of beer has the highest quantity of bottle caps.

The first person who e-mails me with the closest number of bottle caps, and the first person who e-mails me with the name of the most-often-drunk beer, will each win a tasteful (and probably Arizona themed) prize. If the guesser for both parts happens to be the same person, then they get TWO prizes. Exciting stuff, huh? You don't need your whole seat, just the edge!

Please e-mail your guesses no later than midnight November 15th. The winner will be announced on or before November 19th.

DISCLAIMER: People who lecture me about our drinking habits and/or disparage our taste in beers will be automatically disqualified. People who send us gift subscriptions to the Beer of the Month Club will be invited to our next World Famous Happy Hour, now with Optional Nekkid Hot Tubbing(tm).

Gratuitous Ozzy photos!!!

"Woman, I'm trying to take a nap, here."

"Seriously. Again with the camera?"

"I'm shedding on your side of the bed as we speak."

"I shall ignore you, and see if you get the hint."

"Look at my bellah!"

He looks so sweet and innocent, doesn't he? Little did we know that in less than 24 hours, he would have an episode of Explosive Diarrhea the likes of which haven't been seen since Gadget's Notorious Shit Storms of 1999/2000. To quote a prior entry:

"Oh, lordy me. My mini-pin, Gadget, is hands down the winner of this contest. When he was a puppy - envision being able to hold him, curled up, in the palms of your cupped hands - we left him locked in the bathroom while we went out for two hours. Just. Two. Hours. In that time, he *coated* the entire bathroom with runny, greeny-brown, puppy shit. I'm not kidding folks. It was smeared all over the floor. Poop prints as high up on the door as he could jump. On top of the toilet. *Under* the toilet lid (we have no idea on that one). Inside the tub. Up on the counter and sink. Along the mirror. Smeared among the tangled up remains of a roll of TP. And of course, all over him. It took me two hours to clean that damn bathroom. It took Calvin an hour to clean *him* up.

And then, a few months later, we went camping. We took the dogs' crates with us, and kept them crated inside our tent at night. We awoke at about 2:00 in the morning to a *ghastly* odor. Gadget again. He had a veritable *poop storm* inside his crate. It was oozing out the airholes. Seeping under the door. Every. Square. Inch. of the inside, including the top, was coated in a half inch sludge of poop. I started swearing up a storm. Took the idiot dog (and his crate) out by the water bucket (again, at 2:00 am) in the *middle of the woods* in the *pitch black darkness* to clean his ass up as best I could (no light, no hose, no puppy shampoo, no patience), freezing my ass off (it was, like, 40 degrees). Calvin was laughing at me hysterically - I was pretty colorful in my language. At him *and* the dog. You see, I get relegated to poop-and-vomit cleanup duty, since it makes Calvin gag. Damned wussy."

Now, Oz's Shit Storm wasn't quite that bad. More of a poop tropical depression, really. I was laying on the couch in the living room reading a book, when I got wind of a righteous odor. "God, Oz!" I muttered, burying my mouth and nose under the collar of my shirt. Offensive, but normal, because Oz is a Boy and makes daddy proud. Oz came sauntering into the living room, jumped up on the half-wall between the living room and dining room (where we keep his food out of Gypsy's reach) and proceeded to eat. The odor continued, and I assumed he must've had a gleeful time of it in his litter box.

I caught a motion out of the corner of my eye, and looked up from my book to see Oz sitting on the arm of the love seat. He looked at me oddly, and started shaking his front paw. Then he stood, and shook his back paw. Then he hopped down to the floor and sat there, looking at me.

I saw something brown on the arm of the love seat, and I got up to investigate, figuring it was cat food. It SO wasn't cat food. Ew.

I looked down at Oz. "What happened, big boy?" He blinked at me and chirruped. He started to walk toward me to wind between my legs, and I noticed poopy kitty paw prints trailing behind him. Oh, crap. Literally. I picked him up, flipped him upside down, and held him at arm's length with my hands under his back and the back of his head. I investigated his dangling, waving paws. I did not like what I saw.

All four feet, plus hind end and tail, COATED.

"Uh, Calvin? I'm going to need your help," I called, carrying Oz and walking over to investigate Oz's litter box, now residing at the foot of the stairs in preparation for the CAT-FLAP induced location change.

Holy shit. Literally. A spray of doodie, like miniature Hershey's Kisses, coated the floor, lower stair, and closet door, in a fine spray pattern. There was nothing in or on the cat box - it was like he ran, tried to make it, and lost it as he was heading in. The spray was directly opposite of the opening into the covered litter box, in which direction his ass was pointing at the time of the unfortunate incident.

Those hours of watching CSI: reruns on Spike TV have really paid off. Can't you just HEAR Grissam telling me to "break it down"?

Calvin called from the bedroom, "What's the matter?" I yelled back, "Come out here and LOOKIT THIS."

He came, he looked. "Holy shit," he gasped. Then cracked up. Oh yeah, sure, FINE. Laugh, because he KNOWS he's not the one that has to clean it up. Roles were established right from the get-go in our household - all pet vomit, poop, pee, drool, or any other excretion falls under my sole ownership to clean up. If you ever saw Calvin gag HIMSELF by just THINKING about something gross, you'd understand why I acquiesce.

So, I'm still holding the cat up. Calvin and I rush to the bathroom, Calvin turns on the tap in the tub (while gagging dramatically), and I set Oz down. I was surprised to find that I did NOT have to maintain a strangle hold on the loose skin of his neck, or tie his feet together, or put a sock over his head, or give him a Xanax. He just stood there, letting the water wash over his feet, and didn't even really struggle much when I flipped him upside down and held him under the faucet to rinse off his hind end. I sat him down on one towel, dried him off with another, let him race off, and spent the next twenty minutes cleaning up. To be fair, Calvin cracked out the mop and came in behind me as I 409'ed.

The cat was a nut-case for the rest of the night, leaping up behind me every time I walked past him, trying to bite me on the butt. It's weird how much he likes the water, and how frisky he gets after a bath. Maybe I should get him one of those kiddie (kitty?) pools and put it in the living room. Calvin will probably veto that.

Beer and cat poop. What an entry.

Comments on this entry? Head on over to Colloquial!

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