Unbagging the Cats 1

Unbagging the Cats 1

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Rumors of My Absence Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

I'm still here. Just a bit late tonight. I got all caught up in submitting a contest entry. It's not the entry itself that bogs me down. It's the formatting. I'm a technology simpleton. At one point, I called on my son, Genius, to help me get rid of a header on the first page, and get my page numbers flowing. Alas, junior Einstein was no help. That's one for the record books. That boy never met a computer app that he couldn't wrestle into submission. Or fart in its face, give it a titty-twister, frog-punch it to tears, and make it lick a Big Red wrapper and stick it to its forehead. Until tonight. Word had him flummoxed. Lucky for me, I had seen the solution once, and finally figured it out. I think Anne Mini, of Author, Author provided that info. So kudos, Ms. Mini. I am indebted to your sidebar.

I feel like a bit of a heel. I have two new followers today, and all I had to offer was that old spider post from Monday. Shame on me. What's next, I trot out some stale crackers and moldy cheese? Throw a barbecue and ask them to pat out the hamburgers? Invite them to the movies and then ask what time they're picking me up? Next thing you know, I'll show up in a question for Backroads Miz Manners. Shame on me. My momma raised me better.

Most of the time, I post every day, at a reasonable hour. Sure, I could plan ahead, and set my posts to show up bright and early, sparkling with morning dew. But that would require planning ahead. Which is a bonus for Val where her job is concerned, but bogus when it comes to this little writing hobby.

I vow to make a more concerted effort to entertain. Not to get by. It's hard to have four boobs on a consistent basis. Though thankfully it is also rare to have a run-in with the Butcher of Seville.


Linda O'Connell said...

You sure it's your son who lives at your house and not my grandson? fart in its face made me laugh out loud.

Val Thevictorian said...

Last time I checked, he was mine. He got his fart-face handed to him on a royal platter several summers ago. His half-brother, The Veteran, paid a visit between Iraq deployments. The Veteran had Genius tied up like a pretzel, and gassed him for good measure.

Genius begged off, saying he had to go to the bathroom. The Veteran sat on the couch, chatting with me. We heard Genius behind the bathroom door, saying, "I know you're right outside the door waiting for me. I'm not coming out." Talk about paranoid!