Johnny Bosco, my long and lean tomcat, was curled around toaster, coffee can and some mysterious gadget Beloved must use to make homemade bread. A clumsy human, my ungraceful moves awoke JB from his cat dream. He looked through me with bottomless green eyes. In that moment I understood mankind’s greatest delusion is accepting as fact our divine superiority over the animal kingdom. Because of my rude intrusion JB made me fumble for his Fancy Feast before reloading the Bunn with life saving Uban.
Speaking of buns, Sarah Palin’s cable television self-promotion is shredding viewers, losing 40 percent of last week’s audience. I have no idea why viewers decided to opt out, but its well within the range of possibility that voyeurs were disappointed Hootie Belle wasn’t topless or no High-Definition beaver close-ups were included with gratuitous moose and squirrel. I guess her clown-punching admirers forget that she’s a Christian and it’s cold in Alaska. Exposing the state’s natural beauty without wearing Carhartt finery is physically risky, even if zooming in on our next president’s chilly nipples jutting out like crimson birthday candles honors everything real about America. Although it’s probably incongruous with TLC’s mission statement, producers might consider filming Hootie Belle mud wrestling Eskimo drunks should ratings continue to plummet. True, it’s an extreme interpretation of dramatic license to sell the idea that a sociopath rolling around with Nanook is educational; but keep in mind Vince Neil will soon be showcasing his athletic skills on “Ice Dancing with the Stars.” I can’t wait until the “rock legend” cuts a frozen rug to “A Rat like Me.” Snookie’s weak ankles and malt liquor addiction made padding her impressive resume with spectacular pratfalls impossible. Fortunately, ABC will soon feature the orange bombed-shell and Joe the Plumber in “Tennessee Williams for NASCAR Fans.” An anonymous source told TMZ that network executives were pleased with production costs, since both would be performing “A Streetcar Named Desire” in their street clothes.
Babs Bush went out of her way to set her eldest son straight about his riveting glass-entombed fetus story. I thought the macabre encounter was George’s first experience with delirium tremens. I’m not sure why the fetus was in a glass jar, unless Babs was bored with collecting shrunken heads and found a creepier coffee table objet d’art. Or maybe George Senior kept the floating curio in his office to taunt his son.
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Little Spike has more brains than you ever will. Now quit drinking my Old Spice! And if I ever catch Jeb wiping your ass again I’ll have you lobotomized, not that it would make much difference.
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Since tomorrow portends a solid month -- and then some -- of Holiday Cheer, I’ll save time and publish the annual Chow Acre year-in-review Christmas update.
Dear DNA,
If 2011 is anything like this last hellish abomination, I’ll make some “family” happy and put a gun in my mouth. (You know who you are, assholes). On second thought, maybe I’ll take a few of you out with me. What? Not laughing now? Remember, I know where all you pikers live.
Dear Friends,
Ho, Ho, Ho...Chi Minh, NLF is ‘gonna win!
I could blow smoke up your butts about how well Gomez is doing in school, how Beloved is off the anti-depressants and how I’ve found inner-peace through complete, cynical indifference, but you know better. Just be glad I haven’t asked for more money. Believe me; I’m as tired hearing about the shitty economy as you are of saying it. I’ll remind everybody, once again, that supporting the arts isn’t just writing checks to PBS. Kind words and smiles are nice, but they don’t pull any coin at May’s City. And so I’ll expect enhanced Christmas cards. And yes, I do accept Visa and Mastercard. (Frank, you were MIA last year; I know for a fact that you inherited your Mom’s Wal-Mart stock. Be a sweetheart and step up to the plate).
And please, just don’t assume that I prefer tequila over vodka. I don’t.
