“There’s an inverse relationship between the amount of cable news I watch, and the soundness of the sleep I get.”

— Henry David Thoreau, Walden Revisited After Death

 

Stuff I heard too much about:

  • Bible Verses.  Just when I thought the world had lost interest in religion, everyone became a New Testament scholar and Twitter transformed into a new desk reference to scriptural interpretation.  Jesus wept.
  • Canada.  Yes, some were still talking about US/Canadian relations, though I’m guessing most people know little about Canada other than it is supposed to be clean and polite.  Adding to their wholesome image is their good looking and well groomed French president who always appears so calm, sophisticated, and sincere.  Keep in mind, though, that it is always the quiet neighbor who keeps to himself that is dragged off in cuffs for being a psycho killer.  Qu’est-ce que c’est.
  • Royals.  A new royal person wore a hat and rode in a carriage waving at peasants; another planned a christening.  Yet another one is reported to be old or something.  These stories were supposed to distract us from all of the news about children in cages, children left in hot cars, and people yelling at each other like children in the supermarket.  Frankly, I’m not sure which I lost patience with sooner. 

Stuff I cared about:

SImpsons AliensThe possibility that octopuseruses (I refuse to use Latin plural constructs due to the recent hubbub over the book of Romans) are alien life forms:.  I mean, this couldn’t have been a surprise.  Look at them.  Now that the Human Genome Project is a few years behind us, scientists have found time to concentrate on the more meaningful Octopus Genome Project.  Turns out they have little in common with anything else on the planet–both the octopuses and the scientists.  An ear of corn and your drunk uncle share more dna than an octopus and a turtle.  Don’t quote me on that.  Apparently, these kraken-like dwellers of the deep have 10000 more genes than we do, and they like to brag about it.

Once you read past the headlines of this story, you get the bad news that scientists are saying they have so little in common with us that they might as well be alien–not that they are alien.  Damn those lab coat guys and their click bait.  I’m going to continue to believe anyway.  Kang and Kodos, the Simpsons‘ aliens tipped me off to this fact years ago, and we all know how prophetic the Simpsons is.  The alien heritage of the octopus also explains bovine mutilation.  Obviously, it is revenge for eating their earthly cousins.  To be safe and to keep my cows safe, I am off my octopus diet.  Zero to four leg meals for me exclusively now.

Canada:  The Canadian conversation reminded me once again that I get too much Canadian change at the store.   No one will accept it if you try to spend it, yet I am fooled sometimes into carrying it home in my pocket.  I have a small box of Canadian change in my closet, since it doesn’t seem right to throw it away.  Maybe I’ll mail it to a random address in Manitoba one day.  Maybe when I accumulate enough of it, I’ll drive over the border and blow it all at the first casino I see.  Regardless of what I do eventually with my lifetime collection of this fake money, I will do it with a sense of vengeance.  I am convinced that the Canadian government designed their pocket money so that it could be easily passed as legal tender in the U.S.  You go to other foreign countries and their nickel feels like a piece of plastic or their quarter-like coin has a dozen sides.   Not in Canada.  The Canadian Mint plays copycat–one could almost say counterfeiter.  You can’t tell me that the beaver on the back of their nickel doesn’t look like our capital building.   

I would guess that the reason they do this is so their residents can sneak over the border and get things for five or ten percent cheaper.  In the old days when juke boxes were all the rage, Canadian drifters were probably crossing the border and scamming hard working American (that’s right, American) bar owners for several cents in dancing hits a night.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the Canadian Kramer on the facsimile Canadian TV Seinfeld show hatches a plot to bring a truckload of nickels over the border into Michigan.

catnipHigh on the Nip:  The drug problem in America has hit home.  I won’t beat around the bush.  Chauncey loves the nip.  It started with the processed type found in toys.  That’s how the industry gets cats hooked.  Get ’em while they’re young.  Put the drug in their toys.  Let them associate fun with the sweet smell of the weed.  It worked.

The weak processed powder lost soon its appeal for the cat.  He needed more to get the same high.  Chauncey was no longer a kitten who could satiate his need with toys.  Organic dried catnip entered the picture–stronger, chewable for short periods, more odiferous.  His craving was satisfied for a short period.  Unfortunately, the slight remnant of freshness found in the new variety made him aware of what he didn’t have–the real stuff.  More becomes the one word mantra of the addict.  

He’s now hooked on giant stalks of fresh weed.  Sniffing it isn’t enough.  Chewing it is no longer enough.  Now he needs to wrestle the whole plant, infuse all of his hair with moisture from the leaves, eat each leaf whole.  It is a full body experience–internally and externally.  I expect to open a giant Amazon box soon and find that he has ordered a hydroponic kit so he won’t jones too bad during winter.  The good news, of course, is a drugged cat doesn’t act much differently from a non-high cat.  Crazy eyes, burst of playfulness, hours of sleep.  That’s my perspective, though.  Perhaps it intensifies the experience, making him aware of his cat nature on an entirely different level.  Is he a spiritual or purely recreational user?  More to come.

 

Until Next Week, News Yourself!