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[02 Apr 2009|12:36pm] |
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Cuba might be the bane of my existence. But then again, maybe not. All I can tell you is that after two months of "Miguel, Recibe los expedientes relativos a América." "Miguel, Señor Timmons tiene hambre, y lo que necesita para alimentar a él." "El embajador del gato necesita más camas, Miguel. Ella necesita para sentirse cómodo. Que ella es embarazada, usted sabe." "Miguel! ¿Dónde está mi café?" I am well past ready to be home. It's one thing to be barked at in English, but quite another to receive bitch orders in a language I barely understand. And for the last fucking time- MY NAME IS MICHAEL!
However, my superiors will be happy to know that Mr Timmons (or that Randy Bastard, as I've come to know him) has been reunited with the Minister's wife at long last. And I am now in custody of one of his kittens by the Guantanomo Ambassador's feline. Contrary to conspiracy suspicions, the kidnapping was merely an attempt to breed the pets. Unfortunately for me, Mr Timmons was shooting blanks for a while, and it took several goes for a successful pregnancy.
I was never much for cats to begin with, and this experience hasn't improved my disposition. Anyone want a kitten?
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| "Life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death, that's all." |
[25 Jan 2009|08:29pm] |
Certain things I've learned to be true, thanks to great works of fiction. When Death (the Grim Reaper, or whatever name he/she goes by) speaks, it shall always be transcribed in CAPITAL LETTERS.
When God speaks, it's always in a very perfunctory manner- and while polite, seems mostly cold and informal.
America is the only country in the world that worries about what it is.
There are only two certainties in life- insanity and death. And even then God makes exceptions.
Death is but the next great adventure. I will not say rest in peace, Celestina Warbeck. Frankly, m'dear, I hope you're having a fucking blast. |
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[23 Jan 2009|02:23pm] |
"It wasn't a dark and stormy night. It should have been, but there's the weather for you. For every mad scientist who's had a convenient thunderstorm just on the night his Great Work is complete and lying on the slab, there have been dozens who've sat around aimlessly under the peaceful stars while Igor clocks up the overtime."( ... ) |
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