Dec 30 2009

Wubert.net (Misc)

Here’s the last of the stuff from the old wubert.net site. I figure why let all this stuff just disappear when I can archive it in a couple of posts here on mikeandjill? For wubert pics, click here.

Wubert: Exit Stage Left from Mike C on Vimeo.

Wubert: Driveby from Mike C on Vimeo.

Yes, I’ll admit it—I’m a little spoiled. Toys, friends (hi, Shmacky!), slow-moving fleshy targets, tasty toenails, good looks—I’ve had my share of good fortune. However, it is in the arena of sustenance that I consider myself especially blessed.

My primary diet consists of ‘crunchies’—highly textured, spherically shaped, nuggets of flavor. However, the crunchies are incidental in this tale. Incidental because today I wish to speak of my magic bowl.

Each morning, I slither through the sheets of my bed, bounce to the floor with catlike grace, and make a purposeful scoot over to my beloved food bowl, my magic food bowl. To the untrained (i.e., weird, non-elliptical) eye, there is nothing notable about my bowl; just an innocuous little plastic tub. However, I know better (DUH—I’m a cat.)

I know that in the night, in between my nightly rounds, sometime after my midnight recitals, my magic bowl performs its…uh…magic.

It gathers my sacrifices.

It retrieves the sacred bottle caps I’ve deposited beneath the couch, fetches the eyeliners and pens I’ve batted down the bathroom sink drain, grabs the old, oh so last year toys that I’ve banished from my toybox to the nether regions of the condo.

It takes these sacrifices and transmogrifies them into something crunchy, something tasty, something that fills my bowl every morning when I awake.

It’s my magic bowl.

They’re back. I knew it was only a matter of time. Every year or so, I’m bombarded by a maddening array of univited guests. It always starts the same way:

Big, dumb, red socks inexplicably begin popping up, adhering themselves to the walls (Yes! Just like those flying pizza-deals that attacked Spock in that one Star Trek episode! You’ve got it!) Anyway, these big dumb socks start sticking to the walls, like it’s real cool or something, and I’m like, “Pffft…whatever.” However, my cloak of insouciance barely masks the torment that they do indeed wreak upon my gentle soul. They dangle, just beyond my fuzzy reach, mocking the compact efficiency of my inseam. The bastards! Once my knitted nemeses make their appearance, it’s only a matter of time before their pine-scented master comes calling.

Have I told you that their master is a coward? He never shows up during one of my (4) waking hours (per day.) Nope! He always slinks in and gets situated while I’m napping! Yep, I’ll wake up from a nap, knock out a couple of slow blinks, then take a leisurely stroll toward my crunchy bowl…and encounter a strange plastic tree thingy shmack dab in my living room! Yeah, right, like tree-thingys belong indoors, on carpet, like they’re cats or somethin’! To make things worse, my neon and needled intruder will be sporting the most gaudy, obnoxious “bling-bling” jewelery one could imagine. Yep, we’re talking blinking this, flashing that. I swear, the thing couldn’t look worse if it started rocking a Member’s Only jacket.

Anyway, the only thing that gets me through the long hard days of “surly socks and testy trees” is knowing that I’ll awake one day and they’ll all be gone. And my home will be at peace again, or at least until those loud, disfigured brats come banging on my door, demanding sugary bribes!

The National Resources Defense Council sucks. Why? Let me explain. Okay, so we’ve established the fact that I’m used to getting my way. What can I say? I’m charming, fuzzy, and I can sing. That’s called a triple-threat. I’m a regular Sammy Davis w/ whiskers.

Anyway, it’s in my contract, right after the “signee agrees to be charming, fuzzy, and agreeable to performing singing recitals while roaming through the condo each morning between the hours of 1:00 AM and 4:00 AM” part. Yep, right there in black and white it also mentions this sweet payoff: “in exchange for the performance of said tasks, the signee will receive love, shelter, food, companionship, amiable-but-plodding targets, and tuna treats.” Yep, you read that right: T-U-N-A!

Well, when I first started working, the tuna dispersal averaged out to about once a week. I immediately realized a change needed to be made, that the tuna production needed to ramp up considerably in order to ensure that this particular supply/demand model didn’t end up a total sham. We’re talking economic integrity here!

Through the years, I argued my case re: the need to correct the tuna/cat supply/demand imbalance whenever a fridge-opener entered the kitchen or touched a can opener. My due diligence paid off, the tuna gates opened wider as my dim targets slowly realized the flawlessness of my arguments. My booty? Until recently, I’d chowed down on tuna every day! I’d long considered it one of my grandest conquests.

Alas, my days of tuna and roses have ended. The cause of this injustice? The NRDC. One grey day, one of my fridge-openers skimmed through an article concerning mercury contamination in fish. To corroborate the story, he visited the NRDC site and discovered this alleged “fact”: “the average 16 pound person should only eat a can of tuna every 32 days.” I remember the day all too well. I remember the words he uttered as he viewed the NRDC site:

“MY GOD! WUBERT’S A WALKING THERMOMETER!”

I can’t go into detail on the attitude my fridge-openers adopted regarding tuna dispersal once they visited that awful site. It’s much too painful to revisit. Let’s just say that a darkness has fallen over the mayor of Wubie-Town, and the NRDC is to blame!

Yet again, we’re nearing the debut of a brand spankin’ new year. Like many other nitwits, yours truly usually lobs a few trite, not so very well thought out resolutions into the ether whenever a glossy new, fresh off the clearance rack, cat calendar appears in my work area.

“Lose a few OZ’s”
“Decipher the intricate series of machinations that allows one to open the fridge”
“Eat a vegetable”

Ultimately, resolutions like these have about as a much impact on my life as a tuna-giver yodeling “Ouch! Bad cat! Bad cat!” in my general direction. That is: nada, zilch, no impacto whatsoevero.

Why is this? Why are the best of intentions routinely reduced to so much nothingness on an annual basis? I gave this question a good half minute of contemplation between naps the other day and found the answer.

Brace yourself.

It’s ‘cuz the resolutions we make are too tough! Lose weight? Learn new things? Eat vegetables? Puhleeeze! Just thinking about choking down a brussels sprout makes me wanna hork! Now, just ‘cuz of some goofy ill-conceived resolution, I’m supposed to treat ‘em like a dead fly (YUM!) I find by der windower? I don’t think so.

Now, I’m not saying we should do away with new year’s resolutions (at least not yet.) All I’m saying is we should be a bit more realistic when we make ‘em. The worse thing you can do is make something nearly impossible (ex.: being as kewl as me) a resolution for the coming year. You might as well skip the resolution part and go straight to “setting up reservations for an indefinite stay at Loser-Land” my friend!

Remember, just think baby steps and you should be ok—unless, you’re a dog, ‘cuz in that case you’re just gonna have to face up to the fact (as soon as you get a break from kowtowing to the man) that that “L” on your forehead is there for the long haul, Woof-Boy!

Don’t get me wrong. 99% of the time owning four sets of big ol’ sharp talons is a good thing. Really, what’s not to like? With claws I can:

• go from full on sprint to sudden stop in mere milliseconds (while simultaneously introducing cool new textures to the carpeting.)
• stir the sleepiest of rommates to full “how may I serve you?” attention with a quick, simple “ptoink.” (My usual response to their query: “Refill my crunchies and give me $2, my pajamad servant.”)
• successfully integrate my abstract expressionist leanings with my thoughts on society (and the living room couch.)

I think you get it. Being pointy can be pretty cool. But alas, there is that 1% of the time when having claws is about as much fun as a trip to the vet (aka “that weirdo w/ the thermometer.”)

That 1% of the time can usually be summed up as a ‘bad eye’ day. Yep, every once in a while a hair, dust particle, or whatever, gets a hankerin’ for a little R&R and decides that one of my pupils looks like a good place to get room service and a complimentary bathrobe.

And once this happens, I’m pretty much stuck, ‘cuz in terms of removing this unwanted tenant, two of my biggest assets: being covered in hair and pointy things, become as useful (and fashionable) as the old dude in the hemp shirt across the street shouting “the tofurkey’s ready and in the hizzzouse!”

Yep, a bad eye day is indeed that bad. And yes, I’m wearing a tie dyed shirt as I write this.

By mike • by Mike, Time Capsule, Video, Wubert • 5 • Tags: archive