So, after a great deal of thought I've agreed to take Commander Koshka Kinderbottom home with me this weekend.

He seemed a bit shy, but mellow and so goddamned cute that he's sure to blow the pants clean off of any unsuspecting female (unless she's deathly allergic to cats at which point the anaphylactic shock will be the main event). Having missed the earlier parts of his first year, it's doubtful that I'll be able to teach him to poo in the toilet like I was hoping, but I can deal with scooping his clodded shit up with a spaghetti fork I'm sure. (do they make cat diapers?)

Being the domestic god of war that I am, having a cat just seems to make sense.

Since taz and I went our separate ways it's been a little quiet around the apartment. While the most obvious remedy to the situation would just to be to keep a steady stream of whores coming into my apartment, I decided to consider the radical alternative of getting a pet.

My 650 sq ft apartment and single living precludes me from having a dog (dogs deserve yards and families to play with), so the most obvious choice was a cat (only after it became apparent that I could not get myself a koala or panda).

I've had to consider quite carefully the impact of a pet as I don't assume getting one to be anything less than a lifelong obligation and in soliciting opinions of others, noticed that most guys are against and most girls are for the adoption of a cat.

Guys consider the inconvenience of finding cat sitters for weekend getaways, having to clean up cat crap, and having their toys scratched to shit by said cats, while girls just love the cute little bastards so much that they're just that much closer to removing their pants in your presence.

A good friend reminds me that the next girl I fall for is likely to have a cat or two even and I'll be up to my face in cat shit and hair before I know it which if anything is sound advice.

Unrelated: I want sloppy joes and the soundtrack of my life is currently Death Cab for Cutie.

BC Hydro confirmed my registration for an online account featuring online invoicing and payment by mailing me a paper letter telling me it was all good.

An oldie but a goodie back from my college days, the infamous Spacemoose.

For laughing so hard at this, I am doomed to have a retarded child.

Right now I'm two steps from being Tom Cruise on Oprahs' couch, fucking that shit up with my dirty ass cowboy boots.

All that without the scientology of course.

While I've often used my lack of patience and Xtreme Manliness® as my excuse for not being able to bake, I figure it's time to take the next step in my culinary evolution and break out the dry measures and silpats and get down to business. (Also, I notice I'm being called gay way less than usual and frankly, I miss it)

Now. seriously. no bullshit. Who's got the best oatmeal cookie recipe out there ever? Hook it up.

I often look at this picture to remind myself how much of a fat piece of shit I used to be before I took responsibility for myself.

Now I'm just a much leaner and healthier piece of shit.

Why I don't have a pet monkey, I do not know.

The work of Pieter Hugo (via metafilter)

Allan tells me I'm going to have to give up women if my blog is ever to return to glory.

Hope you all enjoy shitty posts.

If there's any one thing that drives my consumption of greens and high fiber cereals, it's hearing the second hand account of a 25 year old with colon cancer.

I can't imagine anything ruins the mood with the ladies as much as her accidentally rolling over your colostomy bag.

Well, possibly leaving your herpes and syphilis positive test results on your nightstand, but that's just stupid.

The chinaman in front of me at the Canadian Tire actually had a picture of Mao in his wallet. Not his wife. Not his kids.

Mao Tse Dong

It's glorious that the world is too busy watching GW's botched rescue and aid operations in his own country to worry about his botched blood for oil/imperialization campaign in Iraq now.

Either way, worst leader evar.

For christmas this year, I must have this.

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