~~~~~~~~~~ Thursday, Auggie 24, 41 A.B. ~~~~~~~~~~

Gee, such a pretty title line.  Seems a shame to mess it up by adding an ugly little entry, doesn't it?  Ahh, well.  There are kids in Africa and India starving for reading material.  Just remember that as you hold your nose and scan the page and MAYBE are rewarded with a nice graphical dessert at the end....

There are worse things than poorly prepared journal entries which leave a bad aftertaste in the mind, you know.

I found out what at least one of them is first thing this morning.

    "Jester, what's this taped to the bedroom door?"
    Those are the results of last night's secret meeting.  By a vote of 3 to 0, it's been decided that you are the one to be expelled from the house.
    "Funny, there are only 3 of us living here and I don't recall casting any vote...."
    That's because we voted 2 to 1 last week to expel your long-term memory.  You really ought to exam the minutes of our meetings more closely now.
    Unable to think of (or remember) a way out of this situation, I packed my bags and relocated myself to the garage.
    That's where I found my wife, Amy, already spread out across the workbench I'd planned on using for my slumbers.
    Seems we'd both been miraculously expelled from the house by a 3 to 0 vote neither of us could remember.
    "JESTER!" we squealed in shocked unison.

    The scene we discovered after forcing open a door barricaded with crates of Meow Mix was not a pretty one.  Jester was on the computer engaged in ardent kitty chat with a feline whose nickname I blush to recall and refuse to repeat.  Apparently he had been far  too preoccuppied to hear us coming.
    Needless to say, action was taken.
    Jester heard what I firmly believe to have been the firmest "No no no!" of his long life.
    And my wife and I went out tonight and got ourselves fitted for a matching set of all-weather neck bells in an attempt to reduce future cases of near-terminal embarrassment.

    Not much else happened today worth writing about, so I thought I'd take the opportunity to go to the pile of notes I have on my desk - notes that have been patiently waiting for internment in an entry here for months, if not years.
    Fair to a fault (as always), I went to the bottom of the pile and selected what I thought to be the oldest and therefore most deserving note to round out today's entry with.
    Although that note turned out to be written on a 5" by 7.5" sheet of paper, it contained but two short words.
    Rat hole.

    I have no idea what the hell ever possessed me to jot those two words down.

    We do not have any rat holes here.
    To the best of my knowledge, I have never seen a rat hole in my life.
    True, I used to wonder about that expression "Pouring money down a rat hole," but it has always been my intention to fill these pages only with proven, objective truth and not mere wonderings, speculations, or fantasies.  And it's far too late to teach this old dog any new tricks in this regard, I assure you, though taking fat from my thighs and injecting it into my lips to give them a fuller, sexier look remains a very live option.
    Really, though, when you stop and think about it, do you suppose anyone has ever actually poured money down a rat hole?  Even granting for the sake of argument that money can be poured, even granting that one might find a rat hole that's generally in a downward direction from the nozzle of the old money spigot or the lip of a coin-filled pitcher, who would ever perform this operation with their hard-earned cash, dough, wampum, or moolah?
    Ok, fine, that's it.  I'm done.  If I can't fill this space with anything worthwhile, I'm simply not going to try to fill it up at all.
    Since I asked you, my readers, a pretty heavy duty question back there about the wampum and the moolah, however, I feel obliged to quickly answer two questions from you, my readers, before taking my leave.
    So, to Mrs. R.L. from Rockland Park, NY: "I don't care how much you may love someone, I still always recommend separate inoculations."
    And to Sister T.B.S.E. of Our Lady of the Bloody Sponge, Montmartre, Spain, I have this to say:  "Clothes were made to be hung, so please - start crying over something that's rather more deserving of your sweet, sweet tears the very  first chance you get."

    But suddenly there came a taping, as of someone gently wrapping, wrapping up my bedroom door.
    Only this and nothing more?
    Ha!  Only if you've never  had a cat!

Back To Relive An Old Itch
(I Won't Tell)


Forward To Rub Ye Olde Orbs
Across More Nefarious Brain Stubble, Aye!


(©Now by Dan Birtcher just so he can cross one thing off
today's "To Do" list before going to bed)

Photo courtesy Rent-a-Purr, Inc.

Somebody's Ye Olde Chat Partner
(complete with irresistible "come hither" stare)