The Rant

Yep, the report just came out that the Dick was suffering some shortness of breath and went to the hospital, but it turned out that it was not his bum ticker but a problem with fluid retention because of taking anti-inflammatory drugs for his foot. So they gave him a diuretic. So let’s see: Dick Cheney’s breath, feet, and fluids. There goes the most important meal of the day for me. Maybe I should have a dr- … Oh, never mind. Too early. The good news for me is that, despite waking up to news about his fat little white feet, I don’t think about the Dick anymore. I don’t care about the spying. The torture thing still bothers me, but I don’t think about it as much as I once did. I don’t even think about the Bush crime president anymore. None of it matters to me because I once again have kittens! And if you tend to get stressed out about the ways of the world and all the crap that goes on in front of your very eyes every day and how crooked people are and yada, yada, yada, I highly recommend that you offer yourself up as a foster parent and take in a rescued mama cat and some tiny little kittens. You won’t pay attention to anything else. Just a little while ago on CNN, the Bush was conducting a press conference in the White House rose garden with Sam Alito, using the phrase “uh” between every other word and barely able to complete a sentence, and all the media did was ask the Bush about the Dick’s feet. While I would normally moan in embarrassment for the human race, instead I was rolling around on the floor yelling, “Tum here! Tum here! I’m gonna kiss dem tummies! Y’all sure got some fat little tummies!” Instead of wondering if any of the congressmen who took that funny money from Jack Abramoff will get even the slightest slap on the wrist, I have a five-week-old fuzz ball on my face making biscuits on my eyes and I’m cooing, “Awe, doodness! You is so means!” I don’t know why everything becomes plural when it involves little kittens. It’s horribly obnoxious, but I can’t help myselves. As of this morning, they have begun the practice of jumping up and attacking the air and then flopping back down on the floor, only to look up as if totally surprised and bolt across the room running sideways. They are tumbling and climbing on each other’s heads and chewing on each other and falling asleep in a big pile, exhausted from their escapades. I am a jaded, crusty 46-year-old man and I am laughing so hard my stomach is hurting and I am screaming, “Y’all all get in that box and take some big poops!” Yesterday morning when I went to put on my shoes to go get the newspaper, there were big eyeballs staring out of them and I shouted, “How Daddy gonna go get the paper if y’all piled up in his shoes?!” One of them has ears bigger than mine. I hate to leave the house. I tell the mama cat what a good mama she is about 100 times a day. Every time I leave the room and come back in, I ask, “NOW, what y’all doing?” It is so pathetic. But I’m telling you, it is the greatest distraction in the world. As long as I can have four kittens on my chest and kiss all of their little feet, I don’t have to think about Dick Cheney’s. So there.