tt tom
The history of mankind is littered with sayings, words of wisdom that play with language and state the obvious in a cute, quirky way that can all be collected in a cute, pocket-sized book and placed next to the toilet where they will be read by the bored.
I would like to make the following contribution to that lexicon:
"Never let anything whose name begins with Trailer Trash into your house in the early hours of the morning."
It's not quite as catchy as catching the tiger by the tail or sleeping dogs, but it's apt. I descended the ladder of the new treehouse/belfry/bed this morning to find the local stray sitting on the couch. He stared at me as though I'd interrupted something important. Then he meowed, piercing, like the alarm clock that won't snooze. Which, incidentally, is what my alarm clock was refusing to do. Perhaps the cat was trying to talk to the alarm, tell it in meows to shut the fuck up.
The alarm off, I pondered the cat. He pondered me. I like cats, I really do. Someday, in the reasonably distant future, I will have a cottage in the country with cats, dogs, a big family and a mahogany/leather clad writing room where I will create great literature. What I won't do, ever, is get wrecked on fine champagne and think its a good idea to bring the local stray in to the house and then dump him in the guest room at two in the morning.
It seems I don't have to do that, as my housemate's doing it instead.
The stray's name? Trailer Trash Tom.
Pondering over, I threw the cat out and checked the Red Sox score.
They won, but I didn't go for my run.
I would like to make the following contribution to that lexicon:
"Never let anything whose name begins with Trailer Trash into your house in the early hours of the morning."
It's not quite as catchy as catching the tiger by the tail or sleeping dogs, but it's apt. I descended the ladder of the new treehouse/belfry/bed this morning to find the local stray sitting on the couch. He stared at me as though I'd interrupted something important. Then he meowed, piercing, like the alarm clock that won't snooze. Which, incidentally, is what my alarm clock was refusing to do. Perhaps the cat was trying to talk to the alarm, tell it in meows to shut the fuck up.
The alarm off, I pondered the cat. He pondered me. I like cats, I really do. Someday, in the reasonably distant future, I will have a cottage in the country with cats, dogs, a big family and a mahogany/leather clad writing room where I will create great literature. What I won't do, ever, is get wrecked on fine champagne and think its a good idea to bring the local stray in to the house and then dump him in the guest room at two in the morning.
It seems I don't have to do that, as my housemate's doing it instead.
The stray's name? Trailer Trash Tom.
Pondering over, I threw the cat out and checked the Red Sox score.
They won, but I didn't go for my run.