Your Psychic Fiend

As I continue to slog away tidying the apartment and listen to the landlord doing god-only-knows-what to the building next door, I have found ways to amuse myself. On Tuesday, for example, I had the task of parsing through an enormous pile of Chinese take-out condiment packets. In so doing, I discovered a handful of old, stale fortune cookies. Yummy. Instead of simply throwing them out, I decided to play a little game: fortune-telling for felines.

First up, Bodhi.

You would make a good lawyer.

This is very appropriate. As it happens, Bodhi regularly humps our female cat Uni (or any other cat in this apartment— male or female— that will sit still long enough) despite having no berries to power his twig. Having dealt with attorneys on a number of occasions, I am of the opinion that persistence, not intelligence, is the defining characteristic of those who engage in this profession. I will refrain from making any wise-cracks about their propensity for ‘screwing people’ because it is simply too easy.

Next up, Uni.

The great pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do.

Once again, this is right on the money. After being severely chastized by our vet for having overweight pussies, my husband and I put them on a diet. This endeavor has been for the most part successful. I say “for the most part” because Uni has only managed to get fatter. I honestly don’t know how she does it, but firmly believe this is an act of spite on her part.

Last up, Tortilla.

You will have good luck and overcome many hardships.

If I had to liken Tortilla to a person, it would be George W. Bush: neither is endowed with much in the way of intelligence and both are bullies. You will notice that the above photo appears to show Tortilla drooling. He isn’t; I took this photo after I caught him trying to eat liquid laundry detergent. Not. Very. Bright.

Whereas our fearless leader has an army (and god) to back up his little big man agenda, Tortilla is a quite large and exceptionally strong animal. He makes this known to the other cats here at Chateau de Ghetto on a regular basis— which is why my husband and I have erected a barrier between the bedroom and the living room. Not satisfied with merely picking on someone his own size, Tortilla takes great delight in accosting Uni.

On the evening of this psychic reading, dear readers, Tortilla got a break. Sort of. After exercising his god-given mandate to be a colossal asshole all afternoon, Tortilla managed to tear down part of our fortifications. Instead of diving into the bedroom and getting down to business (which would get him shot with the water gun immediately), he decided to stand on top of the gate and stare down at Uni menacingly. Subtlety is not one of Tortilla’s strong points.

Upon hearing the noise, I wandered into the bedroom to see what was going on. I found Tortilla pacing along the top of the gate and got the water gun. Despite his cognitive challenges, Tortilla knows this item by sight. He also knows I take great delight in shooting him in the face with it and turned his body around so as to make clear aim at his face impossible. And there he stood, looking over his shoulder at me with a “Fuck you, what are you going to do now?” expression on his face.

What I did was shoot him in the ass. Repeatedly. Bulls Brown eye! Tortilla didn’t know what hit him. He just stared at me with a mixed expression of confusion and abject hatred. I spent the next 15 minutes laughing my ass off while Tortilla fast and furiously cleaned his.

Feel free to call the ASPCA, PETA, Animal Care and Control, the FBI, CIA and/or the regulatory agency of your choice and report my ass. I dare you. You can rest assured that after the various and sundry authorities parade through this apartment and become acquainted with Tor Dubya Bush they will all walk away with the same opinion: this cat deserves to have U.N. sanctions levied against him.

Miss Heather

Little Dick Men Photo Credit: Miss Heather. For the life of me I cannot understand why I didn’t post this earlier. Maybe I got busy, who knows? This morning I emailed this fine image to my husband with the suggestion that he post it on the conference room door in his office. I don’t think he’ll do it though: he uttered some nonsense about liking his job and not wanting to get fired. Oh well.

I wish I had me some little dick men. I bet they’d help me clean all those hard-to-reach areas behind the toilet that gross me out to no end. Perhaps I should ask the landlord next door for some? SHSH!

This is so wrong, yet so very right…

For those of you who like to piss on flowers, this man’s products may be of interest to you. I for one like the California Poppy Urinal. I’d pay cold hard cash to see the Governator piss into that badass motherfucker.

Miss Heather

Idiotarod

I’ll be upfront: my responsibilities as The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint are such that I do not cannot keep track of what our local hipster population is up to nowadays. Thankfully, the Idiotarod was brought to my attention I rode the L train last Saturday.

What these peeps lacked in presentation was made up for by attitude (and one big-ass pole). As Theodore Roosevelt once said:

Speak softly and carry a large stick.

Very cool. But not as cool as this. Or this. When given the choice, I go with “Super-Absorbency”. New York Shitty needs as much as absorbency as it can get.

Miss Heather

My Date with Sunshine

Last Friday my husband asked me what I wanted to do for Valentine’s Day. I told him that I honestly not giventhe matter any thought. My peculiarly macho temperment is perplexed by sentimentality (and other such slop). My husband learned this the first (and only time) he brought me flowers. I tried to be gracious —and failed miserably. I handled that bunch of flowers the same way I handled the garter my mother sent me before we got married: “Um, thanks.” (READ: What the fuck am I going to do with THIS?!?). My husband ended up putting them in a vase and finding a place where the cats couldn’t eat them.

It was not my intent to come off as an asshole (though I did), I am simply not hard-wired to appreciate such things. Give me an old mug shot, clock components, power tools or some weird (and preferably vulgar) piece of garbage found on the street and my eyes will light up with glee. Give me flowers and my mind goes 404 Not Found. I felt (and still feel) pretty bad about this.

Karma works in strange ways. I learned this the following Saturday when I checked the mail. My lack of planning has been rectified courtesy of the Kings County Judicial System. I have a date this Valentine’s Day. 10:00 a.m. at 320 Jay Street, 2nd floor. As a juror. Lucky me.

Yes, I know it is my civic responsibility— and I suppose I don’t have anything better to do. According to the brief questionnaire on the back of my summons anyway, which wants to know my occupation, employer, “regular days off”, etc. I have yet to come up with answers to any of these questions that won’t get me jailed/fined for contempt. (Any suggestions regading this matter would be greatly appreciated.)

I busted a gut when I noticed this summons was signed by one “Nancy J. Sunshine”, the County Clerk. This was the crowning turd. Whoever generates these notifications, unless he/she is totally bereft of ANY sense of irony (which is entirely possible) probably laughs their collective asses off at this. I know I would if I were in their shoes.

Amusingly enough, I knew a girl named “Sunshine” in grade school; she was anything but. A better name for her would have been “Overcast with freezing drizzle”. Suffice it to say that she was not a very happy person. I blame her (ex-hippie) parents for this. (BTW: I hate hippies.) That said, I hope I get to see “Ms. Sunshine” during my ramblings in the Kings County Courthouse. I envision her as either a dour and humorless office frau or a burned out ex-hippie. Maybe both.

As far as I’m concerned we have a date— and I am not the least bit happy about having to call her the night before to confirm it. If Ms. Sunshine wants to play the field that’s her prerogative, but don’t expect me to go along with it. Asking me questions about my employment status or demanding that I wear proper attire only fuels my ire: I got enough of that crap when I dated. The fine bachelors of this city (in all their resplendent “Peter Pan” glory) are what moved me to import my (now) husband from out-of-state.

Then again, if juror selection is anything like the dating scene I have little to worry about. If personal experience repeats itself, I will be quickly and resoundingly rejected. Probably for being an over-educated weirdo who won’t put out.

Miss Heather

Photo Credit: Destiny Crider

Booty Call: Shout out to Hollaback NYC

A couple of days ago I found this on the way to the supermarket. It pissed me off. A LOT. I must have yelled at my husband over the phone about this item for at least 10 minutes. This is something I rarely do: usually when I bark at my husband it is due to something (real or imagined) that he did. He was a good sport though, and took one for the team.

After I collecting my senses, I forwarded this item to Hollaback NYC… and they ran it January 24th! Thanks guys gals, from the bottom of my little heart!

While it is not the purpose of this blog to flog my feminist beliefs, I suspect that even the more moderate among you would find this offensive. The year is 2007, not 1957. This is not funny; it is pathetic and degrading. Not just to women (who it clearly objectifies), but also to the Hispanic market this item is clearly geared towards.

I would like to congratulate the creator of this masterpiece of racial stereotyping: I hope you realize (wherever/whoever you are, pendejo) that Hispanic males are not the only users of your product. I can only imagine what goes through some poor Latina’s mind when she shops for a phone card and finds THIS in the offering. I have no doubt that any children she may have in tow will find it instructive: a piece of ass is worth two bucks. With the pervasive racial discrimination and illegal evictions (among many other things) blighting my neighborhood, I am certain this is just the thing to make my Latino neighbors feel empowered. Way to go, guys!

In closing, I would like to state that IF I had the stomach to do so, I’d sit on my ass eating Ho-Hos for as long as it takes in order to achieve the ‘critical mass‘ necessary to smother you in the folds of my fat white liberal butt.

Miss Heather

P.S.: Fuck you.

1/25/07 5:28 p.m.: Holy shit! I just realized that the previous missive is about class politics. I s’pose being married to a card-carrying Commie has colored my view of social issues after all. And I am the last one to figure it out. Silly me. Color me pink(o)!

Rat Burger

I found the above UBER rat on Mott Street last weekend. Appropriately enough, he and his companion grace a storefront occupied by an exterminator. If the purpose of these Bens-on-steroids is to invoke fear in my person (and move me to make a date to implement the final solution of rat-kind), it fails miserably. Had this store been open I would have asked the proprietor if he would be willing to me sell one of his rats. Nevertheless, ever since I saw these two bad boys (or girls?) I have had rats on the brain…

The newer readers (of this blog) may not be aware of my affection for rats. Hell, the picture my husband and I emailed to our respective families announcing our wedding was taken in front of a scab-busting rat. Miss Heather likes her some rats. And you should too.

Contrary to popular belief, rats are highly intelligent creatures and I for one find their resourcefulness inspiring. If one was to discard all prejudice and take a broader view of things, I doubt he or she would find any real difference between our society and that of our subterranean counterparts. In fact, I would go so far as to say that there is no better representation of the resilient New Yorker spirit than the humble rat. Just like New Yorkers, rats are constantly thinking, adapting and on the make.

Sadly, the same cannot be said about most of our American brethren; a populace epitomized (in my opinion) by an obese dowager at Wal-Mart loading up her rascal scooter with Michael Landon movies and Precious Moments figurines*. There is a very sound reason why most of the world thinks Americans are fat, lazy and stupid: most of us ARE. FAT. LAZY. AND STUPID.

But not the fine citizens of New York Shitty: we are a city of Do-ers. We may not always do good things, but I’d rather cast my lot with eternal damnation than be forced to watch “Highway to Heaven” for five minutes, suffer ‘salads’ made of iceberg lettuce or a Jell-o concoction with all manner and variety of processed food product suspended therein. ‘Nuff said.

The previous pedantic rant out of the way (and boy do I feel better), I’d like to share a little nugget of joy (in the form of a letter to the editor) I received recently from a fellow enthusiast of the absurd. NOTE: In the interest of maintaining the anonymity of my source, names and locations have been changed.

Dear Editor:

Why not solve the rat problems in a fairly neutral way. Man has been hunting since caveman days. We could open up the main dock walkway for hunters only between dusk and 8 p.m. on Monday nights. The city police could supervise. Rat hunting permits could be issued at a cost of $100 per month adding revenue to the city. Only .22 caliber rifles would be allowed and night vision goggles would be required. Hunters would line up along the pier and shoot the rats as they came out of the rocks.

Since the invention of dumps, rat hunting has been a sport loved by millions. Why not let the city make some money and solve the rat problem in a way that would create joy for our citizens and allow them to get their aggressions out in a way that would benefit the public. An antiques dealer on the Upper East Side has adopted a similar plan to battle the vexatious homeless people blighting his storefront and it appears to be working!

(Name withheld)

This made my day. Although I am a vegetarian and abhor animal cruelty, I do like good satire. What’s more, senseless violence gives me a serious case of the giggles. (I chock this up to being raised in Texas; I can’t help myself.) Being the kind of person who has to have the last word on everything, I generated a counter-proposal:

Back in the old days, there was an establishment in NYC called “The Sportman’s Hall”. Kit Burns (the proprietor) would pay street urchins a nickel a head for rats to stock his rat pit. Yes, I said “rat pit”.

Not having television (ipods or radio), people back then had to get a bit creative (and repulsive) when it came to an evening’s entertainment. And I ask you, what could possibly be more entertaining than betting on how many rats a man can stomp to death wearing steel-tipped boots in a set period of time?

The way I see it, you could conscript your local juvenile delinquents/jail population to procure the rats. To spice things up a bit, local government (city council?) could be determined by who can kill the most rats (in the above manner) in two minutes. No costly elections— most people (in my opinion) shouldn’t be allowed to vote anyway. Just look at our president elect.

Feel free to pass this idea along to your local authorities.

H

P.S.: I have had an intriguing afterthought; why not take the rat pulp and whip up some rat burgers? These can be served at the local jail, day care, soup kitchen or via Meals on Wheels.

Many of the problems we Americans face today can be solved with a little footwork and good ol’ New Yorker know-how. This is what makes us feel superior to everyone else (and we are). If any small town yokel begs to differ, dear readers, say what any real New Yorker would say: Fuck You! It’ll give him/her a rousing tale to tell their grandchildren about going to the big shitty (during commerical breaks).

In closing, I would love to see the New York City Council ‘elected’ chosen in the previous manner. The sight of Christine Quinn stomping rats in a pit might make me queer for life.

Think about it.

Miss Heather

*Those little angels your Aunt Tilly finds so precious are representations of DEAD BABIES for crying out loud! And some people have the audacity to suggest that I have issues?!?

Long Island Shitty

Perhaps it was my encounter with a subway masturbator at Queensboro Plaza (and the five hour layover at the Queens County HQ of the Transit Police needed to prosecute him)?

OR

the crackheaded driver that plowed into me and my two buddies while crossing 46th Street (RIGHT BEFORE MY WEDDING and being told that since I didn’t go to the hospital— FOR A BRUISE ON MY ASS they wouldn’t investigate/prosecute)?

But I find the development rampant speculation at play in Long Island City mystifying. Personal safety concerns aside, I cannot for the life of me figure out why. Quick access to Manhattan and skyline views are to be had there, but little else. For a ‘nabe that likes to market itself as being “hip” and “artistic”, it isn’t. Sure there’s P.S. 1, Silvercup Studios and a number of art galleries there, but where are the cheap digs, liquor stores, bars, and other facilitators of vice my artistic brethren crave?

Unlike Williamsburg (which had real struggling artists in residence not too long ago), LIC appears to have made the quantum leap from being an industrial wasteland to the playground for the artsy fartsy elite. Where are the dives? Where is the quirky art supply store? Shit, where’s a fucking grocery store?

Needless to say, I was rather pleased to find the following poster at the Vernon-Jackson stop of the 7 recently.

Long Island Shitty people— they’re just like us!

Miss Heather