F
Fenian_Bastard
Guest
...until the opening of Crossed Giblets Of Death III -- The Reckoning.
slappy4428
Active Member
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2004
- Messages
- 38,815
Re: Only Three Days Left....
Be sure to change the title of this thread on Wednesday to reflect the event. You know, like when College Gameday changes from hype to the Big Ten game at noon...
Be sure to change the title of this thread on Wednesday to reflect the event. You know, like when College Gameday changes from hype to the Big Ten game at noon...
H
hockeybeat
Guest
Re: Only Three Days Left....
If 21 is game, I'd like to make a trade. I experience a 21-family Thanksgiving and she can spend the holiday with my clan.
I am willing to throw in draft picks and cash considerations, to sweeten the pot.
If 21 is game, I'd like to make a trade. I experience a 21-family Thanksgiving and she can spend the holiday with my clan.
I am willing to throw in draft picks and cash considerations, to sweeten the pot.
slappy4428
Active Member
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2004
- Messages
- 38,815
Re: Only Three Days Left....
Poopies?21 said:
Z
zeke12
Guest
Re: Only Three Days Left....
Guacamole?
slappy4428 said:
Guacamole?
J
jgmacg
Guest
Re: Only Three Days Left....
Where's the cat?
Where's the cat?
slappy4428
Active Member
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2004
- Messages
- 38,815
Re: Only Three Days Left....
Lou's salad? Maybe those preservatives aren't as remarkable as she thought...Zeke12 said:
J
jgmacg
Guest
Re: Only Three Days Left....
Where's Lou?
Where's Lou?
Re: Only Three Days Left....
Lou is in big trouble. The plug on the left was attached to the basement refrigerator. You do not ever unplug the plug on the left.
I wasn't prepared for this today. I need some Cocoa Puffs first.
We don't have to start a whole new thread on Thanksgiving, right? We can keep it all here?
Lou is in big trouble. The plug on the left was attached to the basement refrigerator. You do not ever unplug the plug on the left.
I wasn't prepared for this today. I need some Cocoa Puffs first.
We don't have to start a whole new thread on Thanksgiving, right? We can keep it all here?
J
jgmacg
Guest
Re: Only Three Days Left....
I hope she has some baking soda for that smell. And another turkey.
I hope she has some baking soda for that smell. And another turkey.
F
Fenian_Bastard
Guest
Re: Only Three Days Left....
That was my intention.
As slap said, think of this as the GameDay 21's House thread.
Next...Ed Werder goes to Guatemala for an exclusive interview with a star of an earlier game...
21 said:
That was my intention.
As slap said, think of this as the GameDay 21's House thread.
Next...Ed Werder goes to Guatemala for an exclusive interview with a star of an earlier game...
Re: Only Three Days Left....
My Thanksgiving started last week.
Interesting you should ask about the cat. I need to give you a little background before we get to my mother’s house.
There was this cat. I found it when I was a senior in high school. It was sitting on the driveway in the pouring rain, collar but no tags, no claws, all white and all wet. I brought it into the house and gave it a can of BumbleBee Salmon, which had apparently been intended for dinner, which meant my father would have to go out in the rain to pick up hot dogs from Fluky’s.
So my father hated the cat from the get-go, a) because he hated all cats, and b) because he had just read that hot dogs can give you cancer, despite my mother’s insistence that this did not apply to Kosher hot dogs, only the kind made with hair and rat droppings.
But my mother loved this cat. Named it Kitzie. My sister called it Klitzie.
Kitzie ended up staying a dozen years. Hours before my dad died, in intensive care unable to speak because of the breathing tube, he wrote notes to everyone. On mine, he wrote, ‘Your ****ing cat gave me cancer.’
The cat died two days later.
Which brings us to the smell.
Like everyone else in the house, the cat was afraid of the basement, which was unfortunate since that’s where the litterbox was. Maybe she was afraid of the electric organ that played ‘Little Brown Jug’ whenever the power went out and came back on, maybe she was afraid of Beatrice the One Eyed China Doll, who knows. She would not go down there.
So she found this corner in the living room, behind the big record player where my mother kept her Broadway albums. And this is where the cat peed. Horribly, consistently, reliably. No one ever went in there anyway, on account of all the all the furniture being covered in three inches of plastic slipcovers, but still, the smell was so overpowering people would walk around with turtlenecks—in the summer—pulled up over their noses. My sister would test out new boyfriends by having sex with them next to the Klitzie Corner. If they pretended not to notice, they were history.
And while everyone else tried politely—and later not-so-politely—to point out the horrific smell, my mother completely denied it. There was no smell. (‘Sweetheart, I just don’t know what you mean, perhaps your sweater needs dry cleaning, my goodness, they certainly do feed you college girls well, don’t they!’).
The smell lasted ten years longer than the cat, when my mother finally decided to rip out the orange carpet and put in wood floors. When the carpet was removed, it revealed the cat pee had permeated four inches of concrete. ‘It must have been from the previous owners,’ said my mother.
I apologize for the length. but needed to tell you this before we get there. Also, there's grass growing on the garage floor.
My Thanksgiving started last week.
Interesting you should ask about the cat. I need to give you a little background before we get to my mother’s house.
There was this cat. I found it when I was a senior in high school. It was sitting on the driveway in the pouring rain, collar but no tags, no claws, all white and all wet. I brought it into the house and gave it a can of BumbleBee Salmon, which had apparently been intended for dinner, which meant my father would have to go out in the rain to pick up hot dogs from Fluky’s.
So my father hated the cat from the get-go, a) because he hated all cats, and b) because he had just read that hot dogs can give you cancer, despite my mother’s insistence that this did not apply to Kosher hot dogs, only the kind made with hair and rat droppings.
But my mother loved this cat. Named it Kitzie. My sister called it Klitzie.
Kitzie ended up staying a dozen years. Hours before my dad died, in intensive care unable to speak because of the breathing tube, he wrote notes to everyone. On mine, he wrote, ‘Your ****ing cat gave me cancer.’
The cat died two days later.
Which brings us to the smell.
Like everyone else in the house, the cat was afraid of the basement, which was unfortunate since that’s where the litterbox was. Maybe she was afraid of the electric organ that played ‘Little Brown Jug’ whenever the power went out and came back on, maybe she was afraid of Beatrice the One Eyed China Doll, who knows. She would not go down there.
So she found this corner in the living room, behind the big record player where my mother kept her Broadway albums. And this is where the cat peed. Horribly, consistently, reliably. No one ever went in there anyway, on account of all the all the furniture being covered in three inches of plastic slipcovers, but still, the smell was so overpowering people would walk around with turtlenecks—in the summer—pulled up over their noses. My sister would test out new boyfriends by having sex with them next to the Klitzie Corner. If they pretended not to notice, they were history.
And while everyone else tried politely—and later not-so-politely—to point out the horrific smell, my mother completely denied it. There was no smell. (‘Sweetheart, I just don’t know what you mean, perhaps your sweater needs dry cleaning, my goodness, they certainly do feed you college girls well, don’t they!’).
The smell lasted ten years longer than the cat, when my mother finally decided to rip out the orange carpet and put in wood floors. When the carpet was removed, it revealed the cat pee had permeated four inches of concrete. ‘It must have been from the previous owners,’ said my mother.
I apologize for the length. but needed to tell you this before we get there. Also, there's grass growing on the garage floor.
slappy4428
Active Member
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2004
- Messages
- 38,815
Re: Only Three Days Left....
I don't think there's a NEED to tell us... Have you told "your Boom?"
I think it might be important to your Boom so he doesn't walk in the house and exclaim "HEY, It realy smels like cat pe in hear!"
I don't think there's a NEED to tell us... Have you told "your Boom?"
I think it might be important to your Boom so he doesn't walk in the house and exclaim "HEY, It realy smels like cat pe in hear!"
slappy4428
Active Member
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2004
- Messages
- 38,815
Re: Only Three Days Left....
I wasn't insulting Boom, just tweaking his spelling a little. I have no problem with Boom (and if anyone can appreciate an obsession for what a writer does, it's me), but I seem to remember posts by you with your mother calling him "your Boom", I think involving a penchant for kosher Coke.
I wasn't insulting Boom, just tweaking his spelling a little. I have no problem with Boom (and if anyone can appreciate an obsession for what a writer does, it's me), but I seem to remember posts by you with your mother calling him "your Boom", I think involving a penchant for kosher Coke.
Re: Only Three Days Left....
Just saying: I know lots of total pricks who spell great. I'll take the typos and creative spelling. Let us speak of this no more. 8)
As for 'my Boom,' your memory is a blessing. Like this, you mean:
'Darling, I found the old Partridge Family linens for your little bed, won't it be wonderful to sleep there again, remember when you loved David Cassidy so much, although I think he turned out to be gay, is that true, dear? His poor mother Shirley Jones, she was so wonderful in The Music Man, remember when you used to use toilet paper rolls for little trombones, I think I still have the album here somewhere...so you'll be here in the Partridge Family room, where will your Boom be staying?'
Just saying: I know lots of total pricks who spell great. I'll take the typos and creative spelling. Let us speak of this no more. 8)
As for 'my Boom,' your memory is a blessing. Like this, you mean:
'Darling, I found the old Partridge Family linens for your little bed, won't it be wonderful to sleep there again, remember when you loved David Cassidy so much, although I think he turned out to be gay, is that true, dear? His poor mother Shirley Jones, she was so wonderful in The Music Man, remember when you used to use toilet paper rolls for little trombones, I think I still have the album here somewhere...so you'll be here in the Partridge Family room, where will your Boom be staying?'
W
wickedwritah
Guest
Re: Only Three Days Left....
Almost sounds like my mom. Almost.
Almost sounds like my mom. Almost.
