Thursday’s dinner: Leftover baked ziti.
Hey, you can’t have salmon every night.
The leftovers don’t quite explain why the evening update became the morning update again after a mere day. I’ll admit to having nothing to say last night — which is sort of like being speechless — after hearing the weather report. Ready? Yes, snow! Snow! Big fluffy flakes of snow-a-licious snowiness! I glowered at it until I took the dog for his morning walkies. Hard to feel bad about new-fallen show when you have a happy dog nearby. This is perfect snow for a little dog — about two inches, not enough to impede progress, plenty to roll in. He always enjoys a good roll in the snow. He makes dog angels.
And it will melt soon enough. I have this on good authority.
In the meantime, Hank leads us through the slime of the Jacko trial, and please, no Jacko-jackoff jokes, OK?
Although you’ve been forewarned.
Jon Carroll reads the morning newspaper. I bet he’s fun to have breakfast with:
Oh, it is so exciting to read the newspaper. I wonder why more people don’t do it, because it’s a real mood-enhancing device. For instance, here is a story about 19 illegal immigrants from Mexico who died (apparently of heatstroke and thirst) in the back of a truck on its way to Houston. The truck driver, one Tyrone Williams, has said in court that of course he would have helped the hapless victims, who were screaming for help, but he did not understand Spanish.
Yes, that’s a plausible defense. There are, after all, so many different ways to say “Sacame de aqui” or “Tengo sed” or “Tengo hambre.” One could speak it very tenderly, almost like a love song: “Get me out of here, my darling, I am hungry for your large eyes and thirsty for your red lips, and I suffer, oh, how I suffer, for your love.” It could be like a festive folk tune: “Get me out of here and we will dance around the hat and laugh about our hunger and thirst!” And even if they were screaming in abject terror — hey, they were screaming in Spanish, the mystical secret language of the ancient conquistadors.
It’s a tough state: Michigan cat shoots owner. Well, me-OW.
Me, I’m off to spend a chunk of the morning reading about William Wells, the original little big man. Do you know, if you ask the Indiana Magazine of History for a back issue, they just send it along, and tuck a hand-written invoice in the pages? What an antique idea.
Have a swell weekend.
Bob said on March 11, 2005 at 11:03 am
“State police said he was cooking at his stove when the cat knocked the loaded gun off the kitchen counter behind him.”
I wonder what he was “cooking,” that he kept his piece handy while at the stove? Sounds like the cat may have performed a public service.
alex said on March 11, 2005 at 11:34 am
Good pussy, nice pussy. I’ll do anything you say. Heck, I’ll even let you walk on my countertops after you shuffle your feet around in your poop box. I’ll feed you canned from now on. But please oh please put that thing down.
mary said on March 11, 2005 at 12:26 pm
There was that case a few months ago of a dog shooting its owner and saving the lives of a couple of its littermates. I own cats and dogs, and frankly I’d trust a dog with a gun much more than a cat with a gun. This cat seems pretty irresponsible and cavalier about the whole thing.