Thursday, March 31, 2011

Entry 137: Squeeks, Squirms, And Maybe A Dogtrocity.

Remember how I told you that my cat had a bit of a weight problem?  While there were some good suggestions (get her some new cat toys) and some austere recommendations (feed her dryer lint), a common refrain from most people was "get another cat to keep her company."

Sounds good, in theory.  But I was reluctant for a number of reasons.  First, I'm still shocked that I've managed to keep one animal alive for 5 years.  Beyond that, Squirms is already a responsibility as well as a pain in the ass.  Did you know cats want to eat every day? I just fed you *last* week!  Sheesh.  And remembering to take out 2 litters?  Some nights I don't remember to make myself dinner.  Let alone deal with this mess:

While I was opposed to a new cat, LJ decided that a kitten playmate for Squirms was definitely the way to go and that I could be persuaded.  Convinced that if I only saw how cute the little bastard was I couldn't refuse, she went in search of the cutest kitten on Earth.  Well, her plan was sound in most respects, but she overlooked one fatal flaw:

Thank God I didn't end up with that little tyrant- he's a huge (literally- I think his mom was a street liger) ass-clown that thinks it's funny to play the "spill any liquid around" game in the middle of the night.   Sometimes I hold him up by the tail and blow cigarette smoke in his face just to assert dominance.  Hey- my dad did it to me, and that worked out just fine. 

While LJ's plan had failed, Kimmie had a different approach.  She knew that two of my weaknesses- Bengal cats and irony- could eventually be my undoing.  The first phase of her plan was to make me jealous by inheriting two Bengal cats, which are *fricking awesome* and normally very expensive.  Where LJ's Leaf Coneybear inspired what I call "not jealousy" I was smitten by Kimmie's 2 awesome Bengals.  

My cat defense softened by Bengal-envy, Kimmie began phase 2 of her nefarious plan. She suddenly "found" a cat that she had to care for, yet she didn't "want" to because she had already just gotten two new cats.  She asked me to take this new cat "temporarily" but then began dropping ironic coincidences that she knew I couldn't refuse.  She found a cat so similar to my own cat that I couldn't in good conscience say no.  Here you go:

What was I supposed to do?  Squeeks?  You know I can't pass that up!  Squeeks and Squirms?  Identical cats?  Oh you're good, Kimmie.  Maybe too good.  Whatever, she won this round and I have had Squeeks at my house since Saturday.  Now I'm working on getting him and Squirms to get along because, well, my cat's a bitch. 

I read on the interweb that introducing a new cat into a house is a lot like setting your friend up on a date.  Lock the new one in a room for days so they can smell each other without fear of physical contact, manipulate both into thinking that they're your favorite, and slowly introduce them to each other while banging pots and pans if a fight breaks out.  Most of my married friends actually started out this way. 

I have been working this approach since Saturday, and have just recently allowed both of them to be out during the day together.  So far, Squirms has not been amused or pleased with this development.  Though I'm seeing definite signs of improvement- for instance, her hiss-radius has gone down 50%.  That's progress.

Not drawn to scale

Not bad.  Sadly, Elizabeth Hurley's "call the police" radius on me has remained steady.

I think the final bonding moment between Squeeks and Squirms is going to be when they finally find common ground.  Specifically, a common enemy.  
Let me pause right there and tell you about the most annoying pack of mongrel half-breed dogs the Earth has ever seen.  To get you in the mood (heh), and to explain why I call this pack "The Bumpuses," here's a video:

While they haven't stolen my Christmas turkey, my neighbor's dogs do have what I call "The 24 hour bark-cycle" similar to how CNN has a 24 hour news-cycle.  And they're both equally annoying.  These dogs WILL. NOT. SHUT. UP.  They bark in shifts, so as to never have a gap of constant mongrel yapping.  They will get quieter just to lull you into a false sense of peace, then crescendo their symphony number #9 in Db-shutthehellup right when you're getting ready for bed. Their favorite recent trick is to yowl along every time I sing (loudly) in the morning.  Everybody's a critic. 

Fuckin Dogs. 

In a show of solidarity Squirms has always hated these dogs as much as me.  Well, I found out that Squeeks couldn't move with his family because there were going to be dogs, and Squeeks HATES dogs.  You see where I'm going with this, right?

"John Stamos!"

Hopefully this is how things work out, because it'd be cool if there was one good thing to come out of me not throatpunch-murdering these dogs.  I'll keep you posted. 

Damnit, spellcheck! I thought I added "throatpunch" already.

In other news, the Cubs (aka "real baseball") start tomorrow, and my birthday is Saturday.  Thinking about a photo-year-in-review.  Sound interesting?

Caleb "yes I promise no naked photos" Shreves

PS Congratulations to GothBiotch and T-Rav on their engagement!  I think this means beer for life though.

Monday, March 28, 2011

Entry 136: "S" For Espanol!

This is a story about my friend, Sanders.  Here's what you need to know about her for the purpose of this story:

1. She's very smart, and very bitchy.  In a good way.
2. She has very, very low tolerance for stupidity or slowness.
3. She's short.

Okay, I don't know about #3, but the other two are definitely relevant.

Sanders, now happily married, was recently divorced when I met her.  She said it was amicable, but I knew there were things she wasn't telling me.  It was odd, for instance, how the ex still did all her outside chores and work.  I think she paid him in M&Ms and Star Trek action figures, but still.  Seemed like slave labor.

Over time I chipped away and found things out that helped explain the situation.  They dated in high school, there was a military wedding benefit sort of thing, she was young, they were friends, blah blah blah.  Still, I knew something was missing.  Some key element to the story that would make the whole "friendly ex, slave labor, still boss him around at will" thing make sense. Finally, one day I got it out of her.

Caleb: "So really though.  You say he's not that sharp, he's like a little brother that you just boss around at will, yet he goes along with all this.  You can't stand dumb people as a general rule, yet you married this guy.  What's the deal?"

Sanders: "Well... okay.  There is more to the story.  He wasn't just a *little* slow."

Sanders: "Okay, you have to understand... I didn't know."

Sanders: "He was- only technically- sort of, ... in the special ed class in high school."

Sanders: "No let me explain!  I didn't know! Sort of... well, I kinda knew, but I kinda didn't!  

Sanders: "Stop!  No, I knew he was in a program, but but I thought it for being dyslexic!"

Sanders: "Caleb?"

Sanders: "..."

Sanders: "Shut up! No, you don't know.  No- he- shut up!"

Caleb: "So wait... you knew he was in a 'program' but then he said it was because he used to be dyslexic?"

Sanders: ::pause:: "Well, no.  When I knew he was in a 'program' I snuck into the office and found a list of students, some of which had an "S" by their name- his included.  He's Mexican, so I thought it meant Espanol.  You know, Spanish?"


Caleb: "S... for..."

Caleb: "S... you thought... was for... Espanol?"

 Sanders: "No, I know it sounds dumb, I knew he was in a class, I just thought it was the dyslexic thing and that maybe he's Mexican so- I didn't know what the S was- I didn't know -Caleb stop laughing!- I

didn't know that it was for Special Ed. Program -Caleb SHUT UP!- and plus it's not like he was full-blown Rtard or anything he was just -

SHUT UP I HATE YOU!- he was just a little slow!  He's totally normal, just like, you know, a twinge below the line!"

Caleb: "You mean the... Rtard line?"

Sanders: "I hate you!  I knew I never should have told you!"

Caleb: "So let me get this straight.  You thought he was a little slow.  Then you find out he's in a 'program'. You ask him, and he says it's for dyslexia.  You break into his records, see an 'S' by his name, and figure it means Espanol."

Sanders: "Well, pretty much, but-"

Sanders: "Ohmygod I hate you."
Caleb (eventually): "So when did you find out that he was short-bus special for realz? After you married him, right?"
Sanders: "Well no, before, but-"

Sanders: "Okay, yeah, I guess it's funny.  But you have to understand, by that time it was just convenient.  He was gone in the Reserves, he did all the chores, and we were pretty much just friends married for the benefits."

Caleb: "So what kind of dumb are we talking about?  Give me an example."

Sanders: "For instance, if you gave him like $20 to go to the store for something simple, he'd be back like 5 hours later.  You'd say "where's the fucking milk I asked you to get" and he'd be like, "Well, I forgot that, but I got this comic book and some M&Ms."

Caleb "if you don't hear any more from me, it's probably because Sanders read this and killed me" Shreves

PS this post is dedicated to Sanders, her new Cub fan husband, and their soon-to-be-arriving child.  Congratulations!  

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Entry 135: Your *MOM* Can Use The Correct Change

I have some... history with the vending machine downstairs.  It's basically a fucking dewsh.  If it were a person it would be the love-child of Tucker Max and The Situation.  With Justin Bieber's hair and Kristen Stewart's face.

As with any cliché vending machine problem, it started by hanging my snacks up on the coils without actually releasing them.  And they HAVE to release, both because my arm is not long enough to reach all the way up to grab them and because everyone knows that snacks taste better when they fall.  But that's just average douchery for a vending machine.

Also, I love blue Doritos.  Do you think they stock them regularly?  Nope.  Like a great sexual metaphor, they just put it in once to let you enjoy it and then tease you by never putting it in again.  Yeah, I *GUESS* I'll have fucking red Doritos, but I'm not going to be *HAPPY* about it! IWANTCOOLRANCH!!  5 months, 2 weeks, and 3 days now.  No Blue Doritos.

Where the *FUCK* are my blue Doritos!!!

But check this out.  If you put in 4 quarters (that's 1 dollar, Becky) and buy something that's .90 cents?  You get the item and .10 cents change back.  If you put in a $1 bill and try the same thing, it says "Please use correct change"  Um, what?  It's the same fucking thing!  Are you anti-bills, you racist piece of shit machine? I hate you.

I figured out last week that it gets even weirder. If you put in that same $1 bill and one nickel, it will give you the item plus .15 cents change!  So I guess "using the correct change" was a fucking lie, wasn't it?  Wasn't it, Douche McSucks-at-vending?

And for you smart kids out there, no.  It won't give you 4 quarters back if you try and get change for your $1 bill.  It just spits it back out (and it's never nice to spit, kids). 

This didn't get elevated to "I have to share how much I hate this machine" status until this past week.  I saw some Grandma's brand fudge cookies, which are awesome because they're the only type of cookie Grandmas makes that don't use "Sawdust" as their #1 ingredient.  When I ran down there to buy them though... some mark-ass trick had put some peanut butter ones in front!

Wait a minute... I can see another peanut butter one behind the front one, but what's behind that?  Can't... quite... see... maybe I'll just buy the front one to get a look back farther.  Surely the fudge ones are back there.  

So I do.  I use my $1+nickel scheme to buy the front one.  No luck.  The one behind it is another peanut butter.  Curses!  Foiled again!

But I look closer and I think I see the "C" of "Chocolate," which probably means it's my "chocolate fudge super chocolate chip fudgy awesome cookie."  And I ain't goin' down like no punk bitch.  I whipped out my wallet and started buying.

I finally get to what I think are the good cookies, only to see that they've been totally replaced.  By chocolate chip.  Which, in any normal setting, are my favorite cookies ever.  But I think "Grandma" got senile and royally fucked up the recipe because HER chocolate chip cookies taste like Ashton Kutcher's career.

Defeated, I trudged up to my friend's desk to break the news that the vending machine had won again.  There would be no fudge-awesome cookies today.   Just this pile of shitty cookies, a stack of nickels (it only gives change in nickels, wtf?), and my shame.   God. Damnit.

It was at this point that I thought I would expose and humiliate this damn machine for the dewsh it is.  But, I needed proof so I brought my friend to watch as I put a $1 bill in and it demanded "correct change."

I think you know what happened.  It decided to work.  First time ever.  EVER.  I got the chips, the change, and instead of "Use the correct change" I got "Have a nice day."

Fuck.  You.  To.  Hell.

It's hard to capture the full sentence since it was scrolling, but you get the idea.

Caleb "yeah I know I could just buy blue Doritos from the store, but I don't *want* to" Shreves

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Entry 134: Too Much White Powder Can End A Party In More Ways Than One

Duh! Winning!

I'm thinking of starting every post with that from now on... what do you think?

Okay, kidding.  But I WILL show you this picture:

But I digress.

For the following story I'm going to hearken back to the days of yore...

Back in 2002-2003ish, I lived in a charming duplex with one of my BFFs, Jenkins.  Click his name to read about some of his shenanigans... and know that I could probably make my next 30 posts about stories of him or the two of us polluting the universe.  His hobbies include Fa-Donking, Bomb Burritos, and drunken gymnastics. He's also the reason that Nair now comes with new warning labels:

Jenkins and I lived in the main floor and basement of an old house, and a girl we knew lived in a separate apartment upstairs.  Since we were young idiots we thought the house was great, though my dad still speaks of the place with the same tone he reserves for hooker-filled crack houses or dumpsters full of hobos in Moldova.  I'm paraphrasing based on memory, but if you ask him about it now he usually says something like:

"I'll never know how you spent a single day in that shit-heap of a house.  It was the worst thing I've ever seen.  Had I known how bad it was from the beginning, I would have faked my own death to collect the life insurance and put you up in a decent apartment for a year.  And Jenkins lived in the basement- THE BASEMENT!  You were at least spared from some of the millipedes, dirt, mold, and what-have-you by being upstairs, but that poor kid could have DIED!"

It really is just a matter of perspective though. For instance, the stairs down to the basement included a  very green and trendy feature:

My first attempt at drawing stairs.  

As you can see, the stairs were actually built directly into the ground.  So, in essence, the outside was part of the inside.  Which, kids, is how babies are born.

While we didn't make any babies in our shit-hole house (well, probably not), we decided one day to celebrate our "holy shit we're, like, fucking ADULTS!" house by throwing a massive party filled with underage kids.  Though for the most part each group of music students sort of partied on their own, Jenkins and I thought we could use our powers to summon them all together into one party.  Like how the Planeteers summoned Captain Planet.

That's how you draw black people, right?

It worked, we had a massive amount of people show up at the house, and we perfected the "frozen lemonade but use beer instead of water" drink for all to enjoy.  I'm not naming it, because I've seen fights break out because people disagree on what to call it.  I call it delicious. 

Oh, speaking of Asians.  There were two of note at this party:  our great friend, Natty, who once beat me out of a 1st place trophy at a high school jazz fest (no, I'm not bitter, fuck off) and my ex, Ethyl, when we were just starting to get a bit more serious about things.  Read: she hadn't done anything crazy yet.

Everyone was having a grand ol' time, the music was hoppin', and I was downstairs telling hilarious jokes to young co-eds.  As it usually does, the universe decided to break up my game and throw in an event of awesome and unbelievable scale.  All of the sudden, the group of us in the basement heard from upstairs what sounded like a Dance, Dance, Revolution contest between a herd of wildebeests and Godzilla.  That was followed with screaming and what sounded like a rush to the front-door side of the house.  One drunk guy was heroic enough to scream down a warning to we basement-dwellers, but provided little in the way of information.

I'm working on the stairs.  Suck it. 

By this point we realized that everyone was stampeding towards the door, something was terribly wrong, and there was some sort of smoke cloud starting to fill the doorway and seep into the basement.  Jenkins and I ran up to investigate, and saw one of the most fucked-up scenes I've ever seen in my life.  Since I don't have a picture of the old house, and I'm certainly not capable of drawing it, I will show you the scene via a random picture of a house.  Before:

This looks, literally, nothing like our house.  Great job, Caleb.   

Here is the scene of devastation we saw when we got to the top of the stairs:

What the fuck, right?  It's like Charlie Sheen just sneezed in our kitchen.  As we cough and sputter, waving our hands in front of our face and finding the stereo to turn the music off, I see what you might see in the second picture there.  Yup.  Look closer.  CLOSER.   I'll zoom in on my drawing:

Our very old house had been equipped with a very old fire extinguisher, and poor half-drunken Natty accidentally knocked it off the kitchen wall where it fell to the floor.  There, its safeguards against accidentally going off failed and it flooded our entire upstairs with a cloud of white, cocaine like powder that I read is some combination of baking soda, water, and Justin Bieber's hair.

What was extra funny is that Natty was completely covered in white powder.  He looked like the scene in Ace Ventura 2 where Ace dusts for prints in the cage of the sacred bat.  In his typical unflappable manner, Natty held up the fire extinguisher and said "I think I know what happened."


Apparently huge commotions, screams, dozens of people stampeding out of a house, white powder seeping from the windows, and a fleet of getaway cars screaming down a residential street is enough to warrant the attention of the police, who showed up promptly about 30 minutes after the incident.  Whoever hadn't scattered, scattered.  That left me, as usual, as the "reasonable" person left to explain to the cops what the fuck had happened.  Which is awesome, because I love telling cops an outrageous story that is perfectly true.  I even showed the main cop the empty extinguisher.  When he saw how fucked up our entire house was, he had pity and gave me a warning.  He gave ME a warning, not Jenkins.  You know why?  Jenkins had vanished.  Ninja-style.  Gone.  I asked him the next day what happened:

No, I suppose they don't.  Lesson learned. 

If you were wondering, most of the white dust finally settled and we spent a day cleaning and vacuuming.  The shit was honestly everywhere though.  Everywhere.  When we moved out and two friends of ours moved in, they STILL complained that they found the white "Natty-Dust" everywhere.   Probably still some there today.

Caleb "It WAS an accident, right Natty?" Shreves

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Entry 133: I Should Probably Just Stop With The Whole Making-Out Thing

Why is it that when you put your life on the line to, say, save a child from a speeding car or a baby falling from a tree (they do that, right?) everyone thinks you're a hero.  Yet if you put yourself in harms way for the sake of a little 1st-3rd base action, it's "irresponsible" or even "hilarious?"  Well if "crazy you-almost-died-trying-to-get-some" stories come in threes, then I put the icing on the cake last week.  Fuck you, people who like metaphors to go together correctly.

Some of you readers already know the first 2 stories, so I'll only provide a brief recap.  Plus, I'm assuming- since you're reading this- that you're at least a little... slow, so I'll add some drawings to help you understand.  The first event was what I like to call "if a Caleb falls down in a hallway and only one half-dressed girl is there to hear it, does it make a sound?"  Here's what happened:

*not drawn to scale.

While making out with LJ (aka The Lizard) I had her pushed against the hallway.  I wanted to lean back against the other side of the hall which, as you can see, would have been completely fine given where I was in the hallway.  The problem was that I drank lots of Tequila and I was actually in a different part of the hallway:

Basically I toppled, flatfooted, into my living room and bounced several times on the floor.  I managed to take a picture of LJ laughing at me:

She likes hats.

While embarrassing, this event wasn't as bad as the second event.  Well, they were both bad, but the first one had a lot less blood and more time spent conscious. 

Yes, I'll explain what happened for those of you too busy winning (duh) to read old posts.  I'm, uh, getting it on in bed (yes, drunk again, what's it to ya?) with LJ.  Here's the setup.  Note the very dangerous dresser filled with dangerous objects.  Oh and in case my drawings are hard to decipher, the dangerous items on the dresser- clockwise from the Liger- are: Liger, poison-tipped spear, war mace, TNT, ninja-sword.

I was going to go back and add some poisonous spiders and nun chucks to the dresser, but I'd be belaboring an already exaggerated point.  Because, you see, none of the dangerous items on the dresser actually posed the real threat.  No friends, allow me to zoom in for you on the corner of my dresser. 

5,000,000x magnification.

See it?  I knew you would.  A CORNER!  A sharp corner, too.  I think you can already put together the fact that I smashed my head on it.  Bad.  The graphic part of the story is that it occurred AT THE SAME TIME as... another thing.  Ok, pervs, yes- I was just about to get mine.  And did.  Except I passed out... a little bit.  Luckily I came to (OMG! OMG! OMG! Entendre overload!!) after a brief spell and went to the bathroom to check out my head.  I thought I was fine, but saw this:

Yeah, I know kids, graphic.  Oddly enough, in the throes of passion LJ hadn't realized what had happened until she came into the bathroom after to see what was up:

My grossest drawing yet.  Yay me!

No, I told her what happened.  And I'm sure she was sympathetic and concerned, but it was hard to tell with her crying laughing and me wiping blood from my face. 

Then I thought I was free from incidents for a while.  Until last week.  Tell you what, readers, I'm going to show you 4 pictures and you see if you can guess what happened.  Ready?  Go. 

My car.

Lots and lots of these.

4 Lane one-way road with side street parking. 

Car MO action.  (MO= making out for you noobs)

Got it yet?  Huh?  Okay, how about one more for you slow ones out there:

Surely you have it by now, right?  And for the last one of you out there to get this (I'm guessing... Andrew?  Becky?) I'll submit this:

Yup, 3AM, thought I was parked in front of LJ's house, just getting my MO on, when I hear that alarming yell.  Cars move really slowly when they're just drifting in drive, so I figure it must have taken me a good while to get 3 blocks down the street.  Here's where I thought I was parked in relation to LJ's house:

Now we'll send our bird and his eye higher up in the air so you can see where I actually was:

Sigh.  I know there's some sort of moral to this story- probably about sobering up and being "responsible"- but I just can't help but feel that all of these incidents aren't my fault.   I haven't figured out how they aren't my fault yet, but I'm working on it. 

Oh, and I wanted to thank my bird friend for telling me what this all looked like from above.  He has a keen eye for detail and a fantastic ability to relay what he sees so I can draw it accurately.  Thanks, friend.

Will do, buddy.  Will do.

Caleb "Winning! Duh." Shreves