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Rube Goldberg, eat your heart out

I'm sitting here writing progress notes, and was getting bored, so I tied a bandana that was lying here around the cat's neck. So far so good. So I was typing and rubbing the cat's tummy, and he was rolling around like a freak. Then, as typically will happen eventually with this idiot, he liked the tummy rubbing so much that he fell off the couch. Whoever said cats always land on their feet apparently never tried rubbing a kitty tummy on a couch. Or a bed. So the cat fell to the floor with a thud as usual, except that this time the bandana flipped over his eyes. When cats get blindfolded, they back away from the blindfold, which is why it's especially fun to put socks over their heads. So then I have this cat backing all over the floor in circles at hyper warp speed. Amusing, until he backed into my beer. I heard the all-too-familiar beer-spilling sounds of "clunk" then "ffsssshht." And then "cheepcheepcheep." Waitaminute. So I look down, and the beer has made a puddle on the hardwood. Right underneath one of those damned easter chicks that chirps when the two sensors on the bottom have their circuit completed. Ah, apparently beer is a pretty good conductor. The cat, meanwhile, still can't see, and is furiously deciding whether to be terrified of the possessed chicken, fall madly in love with it, or to drink the beer. So he chooses the smartest option and does all three. Which leaves me writing this instead of my progress notes. Yyyeah.

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