60 Minutes

Well, it's been a while. I should let my adoring public know what I've been up to. Firstly, the peasants have been busy staging a revolt. It's my job as Food Manager to collect all of the food and treats out of the food bowl and stash them, then dole them out to the others as needed.

This policy works well and nobody goes hungry (I don't see you getting any thinner, GERALD), but the others are being really pissy about it lately and nipping the sides of my face. I have bald spots and scabs both cheeks. Jeezus, it's like the opposite of having really bad 70s-era Elvis sideburns. I need Ratty Rogaine.

The 'rents decided to keep me away from the others for a while (how they are going to manage their own food, I don't know. Gerald will weigh 10 pounds by the time I get back). So they took me out on the couch with them for something called 60 Minutes. As far as I can tell, this involves them watching the TV while I sit between them and get the area behind my ears massaged. BOOYEAH. I climbed up to the back of the couch, nestled into a soft yarn afghan, stretched out, and let the massaging commence. This act of communion has totally washed away Mom's sin of trying to put that harness on me, let me tell you. It was just THAT DAMN GOOD.

I was almost asleep when Dad asked me if I was ready for Andy Rooney. I didn't know what an Andy Rooney was, but apparently this is what happens. An old man with eyebrows longer than my tail came on the screen and started blabbering about how he has too many kitchen gadgets. Uh, WTF. Does this moron have something against food? So he starts showing all his kitchen gadgets, and complaining that he has not one, but TWO bread knives that he doesn't use (then send them here and I'll eat yer fuckin' bread, ya dope), then he complains that he has this grabber-thing and doesn't even know what it's for (it's obviously for grabbin, ya nitwit), and something about a honey dipper, maybe the bees could use it. Look, you dumbfuck, bees make honey. They don't care how you dip it out of a jar. For that matter, neither do I.

At some point, he shouted something about pee-cans, which as any self-respecting nut-eater knows is properly pronounced PE-CAHNS. Lord. Senile old men!

Then he began insulting italian food, which was the last straw. He's got two ravioli makers, and he's bitching about it! "If we wanted to eat ravioli, we'd go to an italian restaurant!" I don't know what horrified me more, his flippant attitude about the importance of pasta (oh my heavenly pasta, manna of the gods!) or the use of the collective "we", implying that he might be married, which in turn would mean that SOMEBODY MARRIED THIS TWAT. *sob*

This whole abortion of a TV segment was so preposterous that I turned and buried myself underneath the afghan for the remainder of it. The sound of his yapping still got through the layers of yarn, though. Geez. It's true, OK, I yap a lot. But I yap about relevant topics, and more importantly, I YAP TO MYSELF and don't inflict it on others. And now that I've been Andy Rooney'd, I've learned that this is a lesson others could stand to learn.

I've learned that life is full of ups and downs. Yes, sometimes there are wondrous surprises in store, such as an hour's worth of neck massage. But sometimes, you can get Andy Rooney'd afterward. C'est la vie.