You Are 68% Evil

You are very evil. And you're too evil to care. Those who love you probably also fear you. A lot.

That's how I felt this weekend - smashed against a pane of glass and alternately getting raked over by the windshield wipers: Stretched too thin, smeared and blurry. So, to amuse myself, I got to thinking about some of the tenants for the Tao of Mantis Fu.

Mantis Kung Fu, though an ignoble (ahem, excuse me)- noble - art, can only be stretched so far. Though Mantis Fu allows me to easily blend in with my surroundings (thereby avoiding detection from talkative coworkers), stay immobile for hours on end without strain (perfect for that one position that has to be held to survive the back breaking chairs in the office that everyone claims are posturepedic ), and excellent vision from those buggy multi-faceted eyes (allowing me to see everything in my immediate surroundings except for when I'm sleeping or daydreaming - which is most of the day), it has it's down sides too.

One of which is, of course, from the Official Mantis Mantra Guide to Healthy Fu: Chapter 4: Mantis Dating and Mating Practices - A Short Affair.

The first step in Mantis Dating is to attract a potential mate. This is easily done as all practitioners of the Mantis Way are taught how to trap semi-wild game.

The quickest return method to date has been to paint a strong adhesive on the cushions of a soft couch that smells faintly of cheese whiz, turn on a 54” flat screen HDTV and open the front door.*

*Note: This method only works for the Mantis Fu-er that is seeking a dinner partner. Those that wish for intellectual stimulation should read a book, watch a documentary, or rub yellow wallpaper. To quote Miss Manners: "It is generally considered bad manners to play with your food".

The second step in Mantis Dating is to distract the male. This has already been achieved by step one. Step one will keep them occupied as the Fu-er prepares to enter step three – the total commitment phase (complete with complimentary life insurance).**

**Note: This is where that super duper adhesive comes in handy.

Step three, while enjoyable, lasts for a prompt five minutes before the man is motionless on the couch incapable of any movement, utterance of sweet words, or even a groan – ever again. Mantis Fu-ers do not give head, we take it.

This weekend, however, we both lost ours – F and I.

In All Seriousness
After spending three weeks working long days, including working the weekends while we were at the beach and not allowing ourselves a moment to relax and unwind (alone), we finally hit the relationship wall (in my case, the windshield).

So, this bug flew solo Monday night to relax and unwind, but ended up waking at 2 a.m. and, after fruitless attempts at returning to sleep, cleaned the house from top to bottom until it was time to leave for work four hours later.

Now, if you'll all excuse me, I see my boss coming. I have to hide behind the filing cabinet until it's time to clock out.

I found this on a website today and just had to post it.

Some people say cats never have to be bathed. They say cats lick themselves clean. They say cats have a special enzyme of some sort in their saliva that works like new, improved Wisk - dislodging the dirt where it hides and whisking it away.

I've spent most of my life believing this folklore. Like most blind believers, I've been able to discount all the facts to the contrary - the kitty odors that lurk in the corners of the garage and dirt smudges that cling to the throw rug by the fireplace.

The time comes, however, when a person must face reality; when he must look squarely in the face of massive public sentiment to the contrary and announce: "This cat smells like a port-a-potty on a hot day in Juarez."

When that day arrives at your house, as it has in mine, I have some advice you might consider as you place your feline friend under you arm and head for the bathtub:

Know that although the cat has the advantages of quickness and utter disregard for human life, you have the advantage of strength. Capitalize on that advantage by selecting the battlefield. Don't try to bathe him in an open area where he can force you to chase him. Pick a very small bathroom. If your bathroom is more than four feet square, I recommend that you get in the tub with the cat and close the sliding-glass doors as if you were about to take a shower. (A simple shower curtain will not do. A berserk cat can shred a three-ply rubber shower curtain quicker than a politician can shift positions).

Know that a cat has claws and will not hesitate to remove all the skin from your body. Your advantage here is that you are smart and know how to dress to protect yourself. I recommend canvas overalls tucked into high-top construction boots, a pair of steel-mesh gloves, an army helmet, a hockey face mask and a long-sleeve flak jacket.

Prepare everything in advance. There is no time to go out for a towel when you have a cat digging a hole in your flak jacket. Draw the water. Make sure the bottle of kitty shampoo is inside the glass enclosure. Make sure the towel can be reached, even if you are lying on your back in the water.

Use the element of surprise. Pick up your cat nonchalantly, as if to simply carry him to his supper dish (Cats will not usually notice your strange attire. They have little or no interest in fashion as a rule. If he does notice your garb, calmly explain that you are taking part in a product-testing experiment for J.C. Penney).

Once you are inside the bathroom, speed is essential to your survival. In a single liquid motion, shut the bathroom door, step into the tub enclosure, slide the glass door shut, dip the cat in the water and squirt him with shampoo. You have begun one of the wildest 45 seconds of your life. Cats have no handles.

Add the fact that he now has soapy fur, and the problem is radically compounded. Do not expect to hold on to him for more that two or three seconds at a time. When you have him, however, you must remember to give him another squirt of shampoo and rub like crazy. He'll then spring free and fall back into the water, thereby rinsing himself off. (The national record is--for cats--three latherings, so don't expect too much.)

Next, the cat must be dried. Novice cat bathers always assume this part will be the most difficult, for humans generally are worn out at this point and the cat is just getting really determined. In fact, the drying is simple compared to what you have just been through. That's because by now the cat is semi-permanently affixed to your right leg. You simply pop the drain plug with your foot, reach for your towel and wait (Occasionally, however, the cat will end up clinging to the top of your army helmet. If this happens, the best thing you can do is to shake him loose and to encourage him toward your leg). After all the water is drained from the tub, it is a simple matter to just reach down and dry the cat.

Do *NOT* try to use a blow dryer. You might as well use a vacuum cleaner.

In a few days the cat will relax enough to be removed from your leg. He will usually have nothing to say for about three weeks and will spend a lot of time sitting with his back to you. He might even become psycho-ceramic and develop the fixed stare of a plaster figurine.

You will be tempted to assume he is angry. This isn't usually the case. As a rule he is simply plotting ways to get through your defenses and injure you for life the next time you decide to give him a bath. But, at least now he smells a lot better.

I got back to work on Monday and found out that the office I work for had blocked access to almost all internet web-sites. It's more motivational for employees to stare blankly at the padded walls of their cubical cell when their work is finished than to surf the 'net.

The morale of the office was at it's lowest point for the next two days until my cannibalistic coworkers revived a once lost art - communicating verbally with one another. It was a revolutionary rediscovery. Of course, in an sterile office environment, conversation cannot consist of enlightened topics such as existentialism, literature or even something as aggravating as politics. No, my dears, the "how is the wife and kids?" queries quickly took a nasty turn - gossip.

Gossip was transmitted on text messages prior to the internet blockade. Now it was tossed like a verbal volleyball through the air from one desk to another. At first it was relatively harmless - "___ is dating ____", but (like all airborne viruses) it evolved over a short amount of time. It was no longer the common cold. It was now the take-no-prisoners H5N1 of the gossip world.

To escape learning which person was supposedly incapable of flushing the toilet, had bad hygiene, and was cheating on her husband with the man in cubicle #34 I decided to read our company intranet. That's right - intranet. It was published by our company. It held important links to company documents that were vital to employees - like access to our direct deposit pay information and ISO propaganda.

...It was blocked.

In it's zealous and ignorant rampage, the company had blocked itself.

It was at this moment that I realized something that will haunt me and follow me for the rest of my life: I will forever be working underneath a directory of highly payed individuals with long pseudo-important sounding titles that make the smallest and most simple task daunting and broken forever beyond repair.

What to do when you find yourself and your dog in a big yard (unaware that your mother has a binocular camera aimed at you from the well hidden confines of her house):

Step One: Throw a toy for your dog to fetch and, while his back is turned, quickly hide.



Step Two: Refrain from making any loud noises (such as snickering, giggling or snorting in derision at your four-legged friend) to avoid early detection. Upon discovery, run like hell to escape his slobbery revenge.



Step Three: Critique his "seeking" skills with constructive criticism. Then, by goly, grab a cold beer and enjoy the rest of the day!



I'm going to beach for the rest of the week. I'll see you guys on Monday! I just had to leave something silly up (okay, okay, it was a quick job - sorry! ) before leaving.