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Kittenish
By briantologist | November 24, 2003
There oughta be a name for the condition wherein one is unable to do anything but stare at one’s tiny kitten, marveling at how unbelievably goddamn cute he is. I’ve got a severe case of that at the moment. I don’t know what it is about li’l Trucky, except just that he’s tiny and stripey and gray and a kitten. That’s usually enough, come to think of it.
In other news: Agent Foxxy Boxing’s surprise return to town was met with whopping happiness on the part of everyone involved. This was accompanied by whopping drunkenness. Good holiday rockin’ is in the works, I’m thinking.
I watched some quality high school football this weekend. Sitting there in the oddly balmy autumn afternoon, yelling at the top of my lungs for my 15-year-old brother-in-law’s team, it occurred to me that not only had I developed more school spirit in a single afternoon than I managed to develop during four years of actual high school, but that I had not, in fact, ever actually attended an entire high school football game prior to that day. Ah, the things you develop later in life. Beats developing syphilis, or male breast enlargement, I guess.
It’s finally cold out. I got to celebrate said cold by driving in to work and figuring out why our station was “off the air,” as we say in the business. I’m gonna be real goddamn pleased whenever we hire somebody to do this part of my job, ’cause I’m losing my affinity for these little late-night sojourns.
In conclusion, as this post demonstrates, I can’t seem to focus on any one idea for very long at a stretch, it seems.
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