Geez, you know this site has really gone downhill lately.  I haven’t had a single spam comment for a week now.  In the old days, I would get a good 20-30 a day.  Now?  Nothing.  I think that is telling me something.  That something is very very wrong.  When the spammer’s can’t even be bothered to send their penis size increasing wares your way, there is something not going right with the world of WTHD.

Is it that there is not enough cutesey wootsey posts?  Not enough interesting posts?  Not enough posts about the tribes in the Amazon, now that they have Internet access, and feel they are being left out?

It is because this blog isn’t about cats isn’t it.  See, I just googled “Blogs about cats” and there are thousands of them.  Do a search for “Blogs about hamsters” and the results are different.  You lot are hamsterest aren’t you. 

Fine.  If that is what you want, I will do a damn post about a cat.

Called Yogi.

Well, not a cat yet.  He is still a kitten.

When I look in to his eyes, I see emotion.  I see love.  I see someone who wants to be cuddled all the time. 

But most of all, I see tumbleweeds rolling. 

He isn’t “all there”. 

In fact, he is a hamper short of a picnic.  Hell, you could even say that the wheel is turning but the hamster is dead.

Yes.  Poor Yogi the Kitten is a little on the “stupid” side.  Normally, as people and animals get older, they get wiser.  As he gets older, he is getting more and more stupid. 

Or is he?

I think he has a plan.  His cutesey wootsey thing is a ploy.  A ploy to inflict damage to me in the most heinous way.

You see, Yogi has sharp kitten claws.  And I am a man.  So I have an appendage which I am very close to, and love like that toy you have as a kid that goes everywhere with you.  In fact as young as a year old I was happily playing with my favourite toy.  As any man will attest, this does not change with age.  Just the way you play is different.  But you still care for it (or “him” or “Neville” if you have named him). 

So claws and appendages mix as well as me and religion.  They just don’t work well together.  A great distance should be left between us.

Yogi doesn’t get it.  He doesn’t understand.  Which you think he would being that he is a boy.  But he just doesn’t.  Instead, it is his “holy grail”.  It is his Everest.  It is him standing in front of an army of 500 cats, but being outnumbered, he has to prevail.  Against all odds.  The odds for him in this case is a 33 year old man who is getting mighty pissed that he has to walk around cupping his nuts in the name of keeping them safe.  And when someone knocks on the front door and I go answering it with a handful over my goodies, it can get mighty uncomfortable, especially when I have to sign for something.  Or the Women’s Lib are asking for me to sign a petition against those sexist men in the area.

It is sad that I have to inform you that he is doing a damn good effort.  The little shit.

Every single day that I have a bath, he walks around the edge of the bath purring his head off.  And then falls in the bath.  He struggles to get out, being that he is all wet and now under water.  So his claws come out.  And strangely, he is always in exactly the same place.  He never falls in by my feet.  Or my chest.  Or my knees.  It is ALWAYS by my waist.   You would think that if this was not a planned attack, we would learn that he is going to fall in to the bath.  But no.  He falls in.  And what does he do when he falls in?

He goes claws out and goes on the attack.

It doesn’t end there.

The other night I had a nightmare that he had chopped off “Neville” and was beating me on the head with him.  I woke up in a cold sweat, I look over and he is looking at me. His big round black eyes penetratign my every being.  Why was he looking at me?  It was 3am.  It was pretty dark.  Why wasn’t he asleep?  He is haunting me.

But it isn’t just the bath when he does manage to inflict pain.

When I am in bed, I am apparently free game. “purr purr purr” he goes as he cutely wanders under the covers.  *slash*.  “OOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!! DAMMIT!!!  YOGI GET THE HELL OFF” is often heard shortly afterwards.  A few days ago he figured biting is much more fun, so went that way. A few seconds later, young Yogi took a flying lesson.

This morning, as I was getting dressed, he decided as the tumbleweed went passing through his brain that “Heeey…if I jump high enough, I can get there!” and then thought “Tell you what, how about I just climb up his leg to get there.  He has that fleshy skin that my claws stick in to which help me climb!”  So I am so bothered about the pain being inflicted on my leg that I completely forget his actual target.  So he got a swipe in.  I needed a plaster and a hug.

What have I done in life to deserve this? And why, when whoever it is that is planning the demise of Neville, did they choose to use a kitten?

I would post a picture of young Yogi.  But you know, the only pics I have are the ones my wife takes while laughing her head off as me and him are playing tug of war.  Well, no, let me rephrase that.  He is playing tug of war, I just want him to leave Neville alone. 

I feel bad writing this post.  I have friends who are vegetarians.  And I have no problem with vegetarians (well…).  I just enjoy having a go at vegetarians.  Thus:

Are you a vegetarian?  Do you actually remember if you are a vegetarian?  Have you committed mass lettuce murder?  The chances are that you don’t remember.  This is because being a vegetarian and having that “holier then thou” attitude like a couple that I know is actually because you don’t remember your heinous crimes against vegemanity.

That chances are that after you committed the murder of tearing from the ground that poor lettuce or carrot or whatever else was grown in a big pile of stuff that came from the rectum of a horse, that you tucked in to a nice tofu burger.  Or added Soy milk to your tea.  And calmly looked at the world with a disapproving eye. 

Had you not read the signs up everywhere when you were a kid?  Soyvent abuse can kill.  It can kill because you forget who you are and you might do something stupid (like being a vegetarian?)

Between you and me, I squeeled like a piggy who was just named prize piggy in the Piggy-Go-Lucky carnival fair and won a prize of free sausages for life when I read THIS story (on a serious note, dont read it all, it is all about Alzheimer’s  which is a sad thing, but I only needed the first paragraph to write this post!) which has the greatest start ever to a news article ever when it says:

Eating high levels of some soy products – including tofu – may raise the risk of memory loss.

Of course, I believe that the occasional vegetarian uses it to their own advantage, and chows down on a steak and then conveniently forgets all about it while snorting soyvents out of the packet and going on a winter wonderland trip to Brocolliville in their head while downing shots of soy milk.

Remember and live by this slogan:  JUST SAY NO! to being a Vegetarian.  Do not fall to peer pressure. 

Eat Meat.  Be Normal.  It makes you attractive to the opposite sex.

This post is best read while imagining beaker from The Muppets is talking.  Well, meeping.  Thinking about it, the following clip is more like what I hear and see when I think about the following people!

In the last 45 minutes, all I have heard is people moaning.  The thing is, all I am watching is the news channel.  I also heard about the following, which people moaned that police resources were used for.

Police were called after a person saw a UFO hovering across a mountain.  It was a bright stationary object.  Before I give you the link to the answer, can you guess how many big bright round still objects you see in the night sky?  Apparently the person wasn’t under the influence of alcohol or drugs.  I do believe they were under the influence of being a complete idiot.  If you haven’t guessed the answer yet, it is HERE.  This person is giving the human race a bad name.  Of course, in the same story it mentions that someone rang the emergency services because they wanted a pound coin for a supermarket trolley.  Or my favourite of someone wanting help to vote with some future one hit wonder on X-Factor.  I am hoping that they sent the police round to that person and removed the TV from the house under the obscene TV act which I just thought up.  Part 1 of the obscene TV act is that anyone watching shows like that will have their TV removed, and then given electric shock treatment via the genitals, power supplied by a nuclear reaction, and a naughty giggling male dwarf dressed in a nice off the shoulder evening dress pulling the lever.

Anyway.  Back to the moaners (which I guess includes me as I am moaning about them!).

Someone wrote to the BBC because a game at Wimbledon over ran and the news was 15 minutes late.  Like most countries, we have 24 hour news channels.  But a news bulletin on a normal TV channel was late, and the end of the world is nigh!  Actually, a lot of people moaned that sports “are taking over the tv channels”.  They then went to watch the same BS soaps they watch eeeeeevery damn day, seven days a week and never saw the irony of their statement.  (On a serious note, people with autism require a routine.  The same routine. Day after day.  Perhaps a little more testing is required on the general public)  For this, I have decided that part 2 of the obscene TV act is necessary.  For this, they will be forced to watch 12 days of different TV shows.  No repeats, or soaps.  They will be forced to watch some original TV programmes, be it sports or a documentary on the toilet habits of the “ubby gubby gom gom tribe” in Alaska.  It will be pure hell for them.  But they deserve it.  Much like I deserve to win the lottery. 

I swear, when I was listening to them moaning, all I heard was Beaker going “Meep mee mee me meep”.  The next thing I heard was a “thud thud thud” noise as my head hit the desk continuously at listening to them moaning.

I am quite the self opinionated little <insert whatever word you decide on>, aren’t I!

So I have decided that the already overpopulated stupid island is to get some new occupants.  The occupants already living it up in the stupid lane can be seen HERE, HERE and even HERE.

 

*ring ring*  Phone displays “Wifey Calling”.  Actually, I started off with a blatant lie.  My phone doesn’t go ring ring.  It plays a song called On March the Saints by a band called DOWN.  You should go listen to the track, and report back to me telling me how awesome I am for introducing that song to you.  I am sure you can get a clip on the amazon website or something.  I wont tell you the name of the album.  Work for your money will you.

“Heeeello”, I say in a romantic sexual voice.  Think Daffy Duck meets blender.  It was 2am on a sleepy nightshift after all.

“Hey, it is me.  Ummm…we have been burgled.  You don’t have to come home, I am here with a load of firemen while we wait for the police to arrive.” she replies in a quite calm voice.  Thinking back, it may have been more of a “I am here with a load of firemen.  On my own.  If only I wasn’t 8 months pregnant!!” kind of voice.

So my wife is alone with a bunch of firemen and telling me to not go home?

Shortly after, I drove home at the speed limit.  I am not sure what countries speed limits I was following, but I am sure they exist.  I mean, my wife is standing there with a load of firemen late at night on her own.  A woman’s dream.  we had just been burgled.

Sadly, this is actually a true story.  She was indeed standing in the garden surrounded by firemen.  Erm.  I mean we had been burgled.  Actually, even worse, it only happened 8 months ago, and was the content for the very first post on this site.  I have been burgled twice in my life.  Both in the last 8 months.  Both by maybe the same people, who are incredibly stupid…as you will see.

Strangely, as per the very first post I wrote, there were a lot of similarities.  I will list them in order of importance:

1 – They stole an empty bottle of whisky (it was in a box).  It was standing next to an expensive bottle of whisky.  I have determined this is due to anti-drinking campaigns being a success.  And to make them look hard in front of their mates by saying “I drank a whole bottle and am still standing”. 

2 – They stole an EMPTY bottle of whisky.  Yeah, I know I said that for the 1st one, but holy hell.  How stupid are people these days. 

3 – No really.  It was empty.  They picked up an empty bottle next to lots of full ones and legged it.  How brain numbingly stupid do you have to be?  Sadly, about 15 years old, kind of reeeally stupid looking and have the future of an asthmatic ant entering the 100m dash.  Nothing.  Nada.  Squit diddly going on in the head. 

How do I know this?  Well, I saw them leaving when I was doing the speed limit on the way home, and when I got home, an eyewitness told me what they looked like.  Me, being able to count to an impressive 2, put 1 and 1 together.  Sadly, part of my job is that I am not allowed a criminal record, so when I went after them, it was lucky I didn’t see them again.  Your trusty site writer was not a bunny of the happy variety.

So anyway.  Back to the firemen and my wife.  “Oh.  Why did you come home?  I told you not to!” she said to me.  Dressed in nothing but a black sexy negligee.

OK, so maybe that part didn’t happen (the being dressed in a negligee bit).  But I could read her mind!  I saw the look in her eyes!  I knew exactly what she was thinking.  I know this because I remember when the coachload of playboy bunnies broke down in front of my house, and I begged my wife to leave for the day to make space in the house for them to put their feet up, and being a warm day, I got the hose out and offered to help cool them down.  I am of course sensible and not a pervert, so I offered them all white t-shirts to wear instead of getting their own clothes wet, or end up naked.  See, I was doing a good deed.  She had nothing but naughty thoughts with the firemen.

I don’t know who is worse.  The inept burglar idiots, or my wife’s dirty DIRTY mind.  You know, I am going to ring the playboy bunnies up and ask them to come round and help me decide.  They were so helpful and insightful, and according to every single one of them, they want world peace.

Things I have found out from recent Antenatal classes, when me, a man (honest!) got to sit in a room full of hormonal women, and got really scared.

After the birth, whenever my wife sits down, do not talk to her about anything she needs to know for at least 3 minutes, as it is highly likely she will be doing her Pelvic Floor Muscle exercises.  She wont be listening to me, she will instead be clenching things and counting how many, and slooowly release, and then tightening, and repeat.  I will be using this time to talk about football, work and asking how her Pelvic Floor Muscle exercises are going, as she wont be listening to me. (The more I think about this, the more I think she may have been doing these exercises since we met…)

Women are always expecting it to be a couple of inches bigger then what you give them in everything in life.  It seems that Cosmopolitan even tells women how big an epidural needles size should be.  “ooohh…I was expecting a lot more!” one woman said.  And then a few years later, it was echoed in an antenatal class.  Oh cruel world, why do you hate me so.  I didn’t even know the woman.  Have all my ex’s been talking about me?  I googled “Sy’s tiny penis”, but all I found was a story about Wall Street becoming a Linux Stronghold.  Really! 

I should wear a nice light cotton shirt during the birth.  This is because it gets warm in there and I may be there some time.  Oh yeah, for sure.  That was written by a bitter woman if anything ever was.  Well, toooooo bad.  I got my full armour body suit already ordered.  I have gone for the deluxe model which has an open crotch (because it can get warm down there you know!), and has a sensor, which means every time wifey reaches for my MummyDaddy department, a shutter will come down and stop any Michael Jackson on Helium voices I may acquire from her grabbing a handful of my goodies.

I am not allowed to faint.  But my wife wants me to watch the birth, and if my body armour crotch protector fails, she may well have her way.  I have fond memories which I like to think about when I am alone.  I am not sure how much my memories will be tainted by seeing this.  I am going to take in a camera, and take photos and look later.  When I am sitting down.  And alone.  And can’t be pointed and laughed at and called a wimp when I say “Ohhh….nooo….no not there…but that is….I miss you. *sniff*”

Are any of you in PR?  I may have a story to tell.  The story of a man who had his testicles reattached after the birth of his child.  A time when a man cried for a good reason (his first child being born) and a bad reason (the removal of “the lads” from his body).  The story of a woman who played “Hide the sausage” with her husband privates in a very less then erotic way.  I am figuring that the UK is too small a market, so if you are in the States and are in PR, drop me a comment letting me know your prices.  It is going to be a best seller.  Don’t miss out now! 

In fact, even if you aren’t in PR, just leave a comment saying hello!  You can do it anonymously.  Give a fake email address in the comments section.  It is not like it gets used anyway (WordPress has it there by default for some really stupid reason), and would be good to hear from you all.  Especially you.