Ever wonder whether or not you’re prepared to wake up one morning and discover that you’re a tiny helpless kitten in a canvas with a bunch of other tiny helpless kittens being transported on the lap of a grizzled trucker to a gas station where you will be sold (“There’s a $10 re-homing fee”) to a stranger who may or may not understand the basic tenets of Not Accidentally Killing Your New Kitten? ME TOO! Thankfully I’ve compiled this list of helpful rules for if and when you accidentally become a 4-week-old kitten.
- OH MY GOD YOU ARE A FRAGILE BALL OF FUR AND MUST REMAIN IN A PAPOOSE FOR AT LEAST A WEEK UNTIL YOUR NEW OWNER ISN’T UTTERLY PETRIFIED THAT YOU MIGHT GET STEPPED ON OR THAT YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO KEEP YOUR TINY BODY WARM ENOUGH OR THAT YOU’LL DEVELOP ABANDONMENT ISSUES.
- Insist on mushy food. If no mushy food is available demand that your new owner chew up crunchies in her mouth until they are warm and soft and then feed them to you like a baby bird.
- Accidentally step in your own poo? That’s okay little bro. Someone will come along and wipe you with a washcloth eventually. Until then go take a nap in that warm pile of clean laundry.
- You’re adorable, so feel free to lick your own anus wherever and whenever you want.
- Pant legs are for climbing. Once you get about a quarter of the way there someone will scoop you up and give you a lift the rest of the distance.
- Laps are for sitting. Don’t worry about falling asleep. Once you pass out the owner of the lap is obligated to remain completely still and quiet until you wake up again because kittens need lots of sleep. EVERYONE ELSE’S NEEDS CAN TAKE A BACK SEAT.
- Enjoy being the center of the known universe. I’m sure things looked pretty grim initially when you were nearly crushed under the weight of your litter-mates in that canvas bag with a gut full of intestinal worms and a desperate need to love and to be loved in return, but now that you have a new owner whose destiny is to become one of those lonely old cat-whisperers with no children and no one to grow old with except a menagerie of rescued animals named after Futurama characters, you’re in good shape as long as you don’t mistakenly get tumbled dry with a load of towels.
Apparently when paired like a good house wine with the appropriate proportions of rock appreciation and encyclopedic geekery, my particular brand of amateur mixology/estrogen/indignant white liberalism is funny enough to download for free onto your iThing or mobile device in the form of the newly-minted Figures Sold Separately podcast
Our fearless leader Ken of MULTIVERSE Asheville fame was voted by his fellow seniors Most Likely To Begin a Sentence with “Actually…” in Hill Valley High School’s class of 2316. Ken is capable of leaping tall buildings in a single bound and recalling facts with alarming accuracy. In addition I’m pretty sure this whole thing was Ken’s idea. I just show up and drink.
Joining us is Jimmy, 1/2 of the dynamic duo that curates the only “Stuff ___ Like” blog to survive the Mayan Stereotype Apocalypse (StuffMonstersLike.com) and the #1 draft pick of the Rock Trivia Quiz Bowl League. Together the three of us form a Voltron, or a Megazord, or a giant robot of origins yet to be determined that has the capacity to consume staggering quantities of alcohol and unearth fanfiction so bizarre it boggles the mind and confuses the senses.
Occasional special guest and podcast editor extraordinaire Matt of ZaPOW! makes an appearance is episode 2. Matt has his own podcast, Illustration and a Beer. Matt is a devoted and knowledgeable Trekkie. He’s also really, REALLY good at tracking down vintage commercials for the toys wee nerd boys and wee nerd girls remember from a bygone era when OHMIGOD LOOK AT HIS EYES AT 0:17! It is also worth noting that Matt is concentrating REALLY hard in this photo. Generally he is quite jovial.
Also lending us his talent in episode 2 is our photographer and graphic design wizard James, seen here during his dramatic reading of romantic Pong fanfiction.
So that’s our crew. Find us on ZaPOW’s site or on iTunes or FeedBurner and like us on Facebook, and please continue to support Asheville’s geek culture through events hosted by MULTIVERSE Asheville like GeekOut 2013, Video Game Fight Club, and Attack of the Audience.
THIS IS YOU RIGHT NOW, READERS. THIS IS ALL YOU.
TODAY WE ARE ALL DEAN FROM SUPERNATURAL LIP SYNCING EYE OF THE TIGER.
As of this morning, less than 24 hours after beginning the GREAT GARDASIL PLEDGE DRIVE of 2012, readers have donated $350 which is enough to cover the cost of my last Gardasil shot in the vaccine series plus a dollar for candy because shots make me faint. HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT? ARE YOU WIZARDS? I cannot thank any of you enough for sharing my post and donating. You are a wonderful, amazing group of people and I cannot believe you’ve stuck with me all this time and I’m grateful for your support.
In related news, a nurse accused me of insulting the children and the families of children who have suffered adverse reactions as a result of receiving the Gardasil vaccine. In my time as a blogger I have insulted a lot of people. Really, a lot of people including General David Petraeus, hippies, red heads (SORRY GUYS I’M JUST JELLY) the Uterati, Diane Sawyer, the Deep South, the South Korean government, Penn State, One Direction, Representative Frank Foster of Michigan, the Bible, Franklin and Billy Graham, anyone who has ever posted a Craigslist personals ad, and myself. And that’s not even the complete list. That’s just three pages in to the archives.
But I’ve never insulted anyone suffering from an autoimmune disorder as a result of receiving a vaccine because that would be a dick thing to do. And I genuinely sympathize with anyone suffering from an autoimmune disorder because I have witnessed first hand the destructive havoc our own immune systems can wreak on our bodies. It’s terrible and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
I am also an adult woman making an adult decision about my reproductive health. If you are an adult making medical decisions of behalf of your child that you believe are in their best interests, may the Force be with you. Parenting is hard and that’s why I stick to raising livestock.
And in case any of you were wondering, here is what the CDC and the FDA have to say about Gardasil.
Thank you again, readers.
HOW SHE GET HER BRA AND PANTIES TO MATCH LIKE THAT?
Today’s Body Positive Mirror Cellphone Pic of the HEY GIRL HOW YOU DOIN’? comes to us from the purveyor of fine composition and literary appreciation, J of My Raven-like Writing Desk fame, who is totally fucking over it with negative emotions of a chemically induced nature.
After a month of feeling “less than” thanks to horrible medications, I decided to take control and start being sexy again. And see? It worked!
We’re glad to have you back, madame. Do not ever stop writing or being scantily clad. These are fine ideas if I may say so myself.
If you would like to submit your unclothed self-portrait to be part of a Body Positive Mirror Cellphone Pic of the Day, email me at PluckyChickenBlog@gmail.com and I will make you (moderately) famous.
REMINDER: For the entire month of December the GREAT GARDASIL PLEDGE DRIVE of 2012 will be a thing, and you can participate.
Now that I have everyone’s strictest attention, it’s time to talk about lady health. Specifically, my lady health. This year I was fortunate enough to receive the first two vaccinations in the Gardasil series despite being uninsured because the drug company that manufactures Gardasil for whatever reason decided to give the vaccine for free to uninsured women and men making less than $25,000 a year. That is awesome. A drug company giving away a vaccine that helps prevent CANCER is fucking awesome. And that’s what Gardasil does, in case you weren’t aware. It helps protect men and women against the forms of HPV that cause 75% of cervical cancer, 90% of genital warts (ew!) and 70% of cancers of the vajayjay. That is all sorts of wonderful and a huge medical advancement if you sit down and really think about it.
In addition to the good fortune of receiving 2/3 of the shots in the Gardasil series for free this year, I also scored a pretty sweet job managing the living daylights out of a luxury apartment complex, and with gainful employment comes health insurance. AW YEAH! Unfortunately, I still have one shot left in the series and my insurance company, wonder of wonders, does not cover Gardasil. I can break my arm and visit the dentist (at the same time!) which is a luxury many Americans can’t afford right now, and for that I am tremendously grateful, but I really do need this last shot and it’s definitely $349 and some change. Not even kidding. That’s over half of my rent.
So here’s the plan. I know that December is a rough time for everyone’s wallet. It’s certainly a rough time for mine. Heating bills, Christmas presents, and travel expenses all conspire against us. I’m not asking for the world here, but if you are a frequent visitor to any of the sites in the PluckyChicken Pantheon Of Goodness including PluckyChicken.net, mule diaries, or No Bad Residents and you would like to show your appreciation through a monetary donation (see PayPal link in sidebar) that money will go towards paying for my last Gardasil shot in January. No amount is too small and everyone who donates will receive an email expressing my deepest gratitude and a donation of $10 or more will earn you a PluckyChicken.net bumper sticker and a hand written thank you note.
So for the entire month of December I will be gently reminding you that I am holding the Great Gardasil Pledge Drive of 2012 and I will still be bringing you the content you’ve been enjoying on all three of my sites.
Of Monsters and Men may be old news (circa 2011) for most of you hipsters, but when I’m neck deep in the sludge of mid-twenties ennui and intense anxiety about the general size and shape of my thighs, this song elicits all sorts of emotions. Plus I like to pretend that the metaphors for much grander adventures than I’ve ever undertaken somehow apply to my own life, which is comparatively mundane next to houses that talk and ships that will deliver our lifeless bodies home to a welcoming coastline with or without a solid story.
In news only relevant to people who enjoy reading about this sort of thing, I had a spectacular meltdown on Thanksgiving Day that could only be quelled by combining Vicodin and Klonopin with the vodka salad that is my mother’s version of the Bloody Mary. I spent the first half of Thanksgiving dinner smiling and pushing food around my plate and replying with polite, content uh-huh’s and it’s-so-great-to-see-you’s (but most importantly NOT CRYING) and the latter half in a vegetative (but somehow still completely upright and in control of my own bowels) state. It was marvelous and there was no crying. Lots of crying beforehand, but then none during the actual dinner with family portion of the afternoon. And then lots of sleeping when it was over.
And then I got rid of my scale, because if you didn’t already know this about me, I have this crippling preoccupation with my body and how it looks in clothing and not in clothing and from various angles because there is a part of me that believes the message that the consumer culture in this terrible world is working desperately to bore into the brain of every little girl within range of a tv or the interwebz: That my entire worth as a woman, as a human being, as a sentient creature on a pale blue dot floating along in the vast emptiness of space, is determined by how my body compares to a dangerously out of reach standard of beauty.
I have been letting the angry, flat little robot that lives in my bathroom tell me how I feel every day, often twice a day. I have been letting it determine whether I am a success or a failure at life and whether I deserve to have breakfast or not. I have been allowing it to convince me that no one I admire will ever admire me back, that no one I love will ever love me back, and that nothing I do will ever be good enough unless the angry, flat little robot says so. The angry, flat little robot that lives in my bathroom knows everything that anyone could ever need to know about me, which is a number that is subject to change.
And now the angry robot has been banished to my mom’s closet. It won’t stay there. I have a plan for the angry, flat little robot.
You’re welcome, ladies and gay men.
Today’s Body Positive Mirror Cellphone Abs of the JESUS CHRIST LOOK AT HIS FUCKING STOMACH come to us courtesy of my friend Scott who bravely volunteered his abdomen for your sexual objectification. So go ahead, ogle Scott’s 6-pack. Put him in your fap bank. We’re all about being ecumenical and inclusive here.
If you would like to submit your photo to be a Body Positive Mirror Cellphone Pic of the Day, shoot me an email at firstname.lastname@example.org and don’t be skerred, you sexy, sexy bitch.
Looks pretty accurate to me.
If I were a four-star general and the head of the CIA with a bad-ass last name that makes me sound like I at some point may have been the emperor of Rome, you know who I damn sure wouldn’t want bouncing around on my four-star penis? My biographer. Specifically, my biographer who writes fanfiction about my military exploits and looks like one of those girls from high school who did a lot of slut-shaming and always had an in-season Coach bag and the dirtiest gossip. In fact, I’m almost certain that the boss battle in Level Don’t Fuck Up Your Illustrious Military Career And/Or Your Marriage in The Game of Life is basically just not having sex with things that aren’t your wife. You run around for 2 minutes with an 8-bit throbbing erection avoiding inserting your dick into electrical outlets and farm animals and unhinged biographers while an 80′s synth-pop soundtrack plays in the background.
I’m not a huge fan of monogamy personally because I know (and am willing to admit publicly) that I’m kind of terrible at it. I have no illusions about my inability to bump uglies with only one person for the rest of my life. Armed with this knowledge, I can go about keeping my work life at work and my fuck-like-a-rabbit life somewhere else. If you can’t do that, if you can’t beat the boss at one of the lowest levels of The Game of Life and be the dick slangin’ playboy over the weekends without any of it bleeding into the part of your life where people depend on you to make judgement calls with your big head and not your little one, then yeah, feel free to step down and let a grown up handle your shit from here on out.