Great news for rats!

"EPA Aims to Keep Rat Poison from Children, Animals"

CNN has the most awesome-ist headlines.

Week in Review: Open letter to Barack Obama

Senator Obama, I embrace your message of change. I really do. And I think it's time to CHANGE CHURCHES. You know, everyone around here thought Rev. Wright was pretty entertaining, and sometimes he even made good points (in his sermons, not in his Tourettesian media outbursts), but this Michael Pfleger is another story altogether. I'm a cat. And cats don't have much use for church, seeing as how we're constantly told that we don't have souls. But it seems to me that if you are a churchgoer and a member of a church, then you should go to that church. Because things may have changed quite a bit since you were there last. If you don't like what you're seeing and hearing, you can get yourself off the rolls and outta dodge.

In the YouTube video of his histrionic "homily," Father Pfleger is introduced to the congregation, as if a prize fighter, as a "preacher par excellence, a prophetic, powerful pulpiteer." Then he steps into the ring and delivers what comes off like a white man doing a bad impersonation of Muhammed Ali taunting an opponent. The crowd loves it. After the three-minute fit, the (current pastor?) says, "Thank God for the message and thank God for the messenger." But I couldn't figure out what the message was. No, wait ... it's coming to me, it's coming to me .... the message is ... Barack, run for your life!!!!!

Seriously. Run for your life, man.

Week in Review: Alienating his potential viewers

Jeff Peckman, who promised to unveil a video of a "living, breathing alien" to the media today is a big fat liar. He's decided to keep the video under wraps for his upcoming "documentary." Instead he offers us a still from his video of the alien looking in a window. Peckman's former college roommate, Slater McSalamander, informed Henry's Travels that Jeff was quite a fan of the wacky tobaccy.

Detroit hockey fans: Two paws down!

When I heard about the tradition of Detroit Red Wings fans lobbing octopi onto the ice during playoff games at their home stadium, first I thought: Why? And then I thought: We are talking about stuffed animals, aren't we? But then I heard on the news that the arena's zamboni driver has been threatened with a $10,000 fine from the NHL if he swings any hurled octopus over his head in celebration. The reason? Bits of octopus might get on the floor and trip up a skater. Then I realized ... these aren't the fluffy innards of a kids toy. We're talking gooey bits of boiled cephalopod.

I know that people eat octopus. Eating is necessary. I do it myself. But pranks that waste food, especially food-with-a-face, are abhorrent, and you humans should be ashamed. This applies to people who make sculptures out of Spam, talk-show hosts who catapult cutlets and Mythbusters who blast pig carcasses to test some infantile ballistics theory. Every year, some 15 million children around the world die of hunger. Could you look even one of them in the face and explain how you squander the very resource that would give them life?

Dan Wholey, a Pittsburgh fishmonger, announced that he won't sell octopus to any Red Wings fans. And I thought, good for him. Then I learned the reason for his moratorium. It's not because he doesn't want to see such an end come to a creature that can remove a jar lid to retrieve treats hidden inside. No, it turns out Wholey's a fan of the Pittburgh Penguins, who will battle the Red Wings in the Stanley Cup finals this weekend in Detroit. He doesn't want to make it any easier for Red Wings fans to show their "team spirit."

In the name of all that is holy, people: Stop playing with your food. Or at the very least, when you're done playing with it, eat it. That's what I do.

Was there life on Mars?

The Phoenix Lander touched down yesterday on the Mars Arctic Plains to a scene that resembled nothing so much as a giant litter box. The substrate appears to be made of clumping cat litter, and those little rocks? Well .... I think you can work that out. I'm providing this anatomical visual aid for the benefit of NASA scientists, who may need help articulating the bones of the skeletal remains they will surely discover.

My Martian cousins undoubtedly went the way of the dinosaur due to the polar conditions in the loo. A subzero sphincter can create a serious logjam, and we all know what happens when Meow Mix can't exit the lower GI tract.

The lovable Virgin Inc. mogul Sir Richard Branson and Google co-founder Larry Page are planning to send a spaceship filled with pioneers to colonize the red planet, and I have a bit of pre-trip advice for the passengers: Arrive at Virgle City with scoops and a generous supply of plastic baggies to make room for your huts. Oh, and lots of heaters for the latrine. Bon voyage!

It's here!

$4/gallon gas. Belly up to the bar!

It's been a mere three months since Bush said he hadn't heard that analysts were predicting gas prices to rise to $4 a gallon by this spring. "That's interesting. I hadn't heard that," he said to a reporter who asked the president's opinion of the prediction during a February press conference. It's always good TV when a reporter briefs the commander-in-chief. Should we wake the president and give him an update?

Does this make sense to you?

Why is it that I'm not allowed on the kitchen counter but this poor-excuse-for-a-feline is given free reign to terrorize the Lady's wedding dress?

George Michael doesn't look like this anymore

After the Lady of the House insisted that the man introduced as GM on the American Idol season finale Tuesday night was an impostor, I decided to do some investigating. It took only a few minutes of browsing the photos that popped up via Google Images to prove to her that she was sadly mistaken.

You see, the LOTH is stuck in 1983 and thinks GM couldn't possibly betray the days of Wham and, gasp, change his look. I mean, heck, Simon LeBon and that ghost-faced guy in Duran Duran still don't have a shellacked-hair out of place from the Reflex days, she whined.

Is it really so horrible to go from a crocheted Jacob's Coat-of-Many-Colors-esque sweater to a sharkskin suit? I wouldn't be caught dead on that 70s-era Sears pullover. (Max would love it though, if only to get his mincemeat-making claws in it. It's the only thing I know that would stop him from shredding the tulle skirt of the LOTH's wedding gown.)

Once she realized he has a new album and tour approaching, the LOTH did some googling of her own. (I mean, the song he performed on AI really wasn't that bad if you could forgive the over-emoting.) And she learned that Mr. Michael didn't really blend into oblivion after the 80s. In fact, Wikipedia claims that he is Britain's 10th richest musician. In between perennially falling asleep at the wheel in London traffic and seeking out more than toilet paper in public restrooms, he has produced a respectable amount of decent music (streaming-audio samples of which you can hear here).

The funniest part of this whole affair is that the MOTH was bewildered to learn that GM had this effect on the LOTH. I think it surprised even her. She said, I guess when you've danced to "Wake Me Up Before you Go Go" atop rickety tables in the study lounge at 3 a.m. when you should have been cramming for the all-important college exam, you don't forget easily the architect of that delirium. Could it be that the LOTH is not alone, and that GM is to other 40-something women what Rick Springfield is to grandmotherly generations and Tom Jones to great-grandmotherly generations? I guess we'll find out when the tour hits State-side.

And the winner is ....

Donna Summer!

The erstwhile disco diva trumped all the American Idol performances on tonight's season finale. She would have lost to Gladys Knight's 1973 archival video, but because Ms. Summer appeared in person and proved that her pipes are still as good as or better than they were in the '70s, she takes the prize. (I wasn't alive in the 70s, so the latter assertion is attributable to the Lady of the House. I trust her, for the most part, except when she says something like "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty." That's when I know she's on the sauce.)

Oh, yes, where's my head, The Davids. I've digressed (I seem to be doing a lot of that lately). Cook wins the vote, and we are satisfied, if even pleased, with that. America, you got it right. You'll have another chance, in another sphere, in November, and we hope you'll get it right then too.

With your indulgence, I'd like to give out the following supplemental awards from the evening, voted on by all in attendance in our living room.

• Best Trainwreck. Not even the superb vocal stylings of David Cook could lure the boys of ZZ Top from the land of catatonia. Maybe it was just hard for them to sing "Sharp-Dressed Man" with conviction while looking like something the cat dragged in (not a cat such as I though, as I do not drag things in—I have my servants do that). I also think they should replace their drummer with a drum machine. Carla said she believed there was someone missing, as she distinctly recalled the band had three beards.
• Best Candid Shot of a Uterus. Since hers was the only babymaker on display, Carrie Underwood wins this award by default. But we suspect she would have won regardless. (Unless, of course, L'il Kim made an appearance.) Underwood's "I Drank Quervo Then Went Home With a Guy I Met in A Roadhouse" song was a far cry from "Jesus Take the Wheel." We think her next single should be "Jesus Take Your Robes and Drape Them Over My Lady Bits Before American Idol is Forced to Carry a Parental Advisory Warning."
  
• Best Fashion Choice That Worked Despite All Reason. David Cook is just racking 'em up because he really rocked the French cuffs at the end. I kept blinking and blinking. Are those .... French cuffs? Peeking out from his jacket sleeves? I look around me——everyone is nodding, yes. Is it possible they look .... good? More nodding.
  
• Best Crack Heard About Tonight's Show. Carla's father, for saying that when the Idols go on tour, Amanda Overmeyer will carry the luggage. Pa-DUM! And speaking of Miss O, was it just us, or did she look like she had been forced on stage at gunpoint?
• Best Practical Joke. Jordin Sparks announcing Disneyworld's newest E-Ticket ride, The American Idol Experience. April Fool! Oh, that's past. May Fool, perhaps?
• Best Surprise of the Night. George Michael! Or someone they introduced as George Michael. Carla says he was most certainly an impersonator. A bad impersonator. He had Sean Penn's hair, the Unabomber's sunglasses, a decidely un-Wake-Me-Up-Before-You-Go-Go solemnity, and a herky-jerkyness that suggested the work of a puppeteer under the impression that his marionette was William Shatner. Nonetheless, the impersonator sang well, even though he apologized unnecessarily afterward for having a cold. Carla refused to believe it was he, and nothing short of him taking his shoes off would convince her of his true identity. Apparently, George Michael had really awesome feet. As awesome as my dainty paws? I doubt it.

That's it, kids. See you back here for .... dare I say it? .... Season 8.

DA KO's DC on AI

Much to my surprise, David Archuleta brought it on American Idol last night. He was poised and non-awkward and his vocals were spot on. (Overused idioms and idiotic phrases in italics.) David Cook was a bit bedraggled and pitchy (in a real sense, not in the sense that the music theorially challenged Randy Jackson would say). I agree with Cowell that the bout was a knockout for DA. And that's ALL I'm gonna say about the ungoddessly display of boxing imagery, metaphors and re-enactments. It would be like making fun of a court jester because he's dressed funny. I guess you get what you pay for, so you can't expect a pay-per-view spectacle of heavyweight proportion. For the record, it was 15 minutes into the show before any singing began. Accounting for that and commercials (including the amount of time it took for the judges to say the word "Nokia" a bizillion times), we're looking at 20 minutes of show.

So back to my point. Based just on last night, DA was victorious. But we as voters have to look at each contestant's body of work. It's sort of like America's Next Top Model when one of the girls gets the stomach flu and is not able to pose on the elephant like Danielle did even when she had cholera. Tyra will urge the panel not to eliminate the sicko, because she performed so well at the bullfight and the spider-on-the-face challenges previously. I digress again. Boy, can you tell how much I miss ANTM?

So given the body of work, maturity level and stage presence, I think DC is the one who can represent America best, though I bet this renegade won't wear a flag pin.

Other random notes:

• Thank you, Clive Davis, for being the only person who chose fantastic, appropriate songs for the Davids. "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me," a magically delicious concoction by EJ and Bernie T., was perfect, and DA did it justice. "Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" was another fabulous pick, and DC pulled it off without doing a Bono impersonation (vocally I mean—there was that jumping up on the ledge part).
• Randy, get a calendar. This is not the battle of 2007.
• Paula said to DC: "You're standing in your truth." All that space on stage and DC couldn't keep his feet out of a puddle of truth. Ewwwww.
• A late comment, but necessary nonetheless: I happened to catch Cowell on Leno, and he said Fantasia's performance last week was atrocious (or some other A word he's fond of). Check this out, dog. Fantasia TORE UP the stage, delivering a performance of a caliber not seen on the show in years. That girl was standing in a puddle of whup-ass. She was so smoking, molten hot, I'm surprised the whole room didn't go up in flames. Thank you, Fantasia, for reminding us of a time when AI was hot, baby, hot!

That's all for now. Sorry this post is late, as there are mere hours before we learn the results. Let's just hope it's not a tie because I'd hate to have to see the superdelegates step in.

Please Auntie Em, dumb it down for us

The mistress has been out of town and so I've had no access to the computer for days. To add insult to injury, we had to pull the plug all evening because of widespread thunderstorms and tornadoes, or the possibility of tornadoes, or the probability of tornadoes, or the likelihood of tornadoes. I'm not sure which because of the infuriatingly oblique terminology used by the talking heads who are supposed to keep us informed. What, pray tell, is the difference between a tornado watch and a tornado warning? And how are we supposed to remember when our apprehension has our knickers in a twist?

According to Wikipedia (and I quote Wikipedia as opposed to the National Weather Service, because the latter's Web site is craptacularly difficult to navigate):

A tornado warning is an alert issued by government weather services to warn an area that a tornado may be imminent. It can be issued after either a tornado or funnel cloud has already been spotted, or if there are radar indications that a tornado may be possible.

A tornado watch (SAME code: TOA; sometimes referred to as a "red box" by meteorologists and storm chasers) is issued when weather conditions are favorable for the development of severe thunderstorms that are capable of producing tornadoes. A tornado watch therefore implies that it is also a severe thunderstorm watch.

Wiki continues:

A tornado watch must not be confused with a tornado warning.

Not confused?! By the time you figure it out, you'll be flying debris.

I think conditions are favorable for the development of some less ambiguous language, so we don't have to be doing a version of "i before e, except after c" in our heads when the wind starts blowing. I suggest the following lingo. When the weathermen say, "Keep your eyes peeled" (that's KYEP for all you texters), that means a tornado might happen. When they say "Run for your lives!" (RFYL), it means an actual tornado has been spotted.

Much better, no?

Before and after

What a difference 12 years and 17 extra pounds can make.

I would like to sit in this chair, but there is no room for me. Not to mention that it smells.

This . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . is American Idol.

The only remarkable thing about AI last night was that Ryan Seacrest, for the first time ever I think, didn't insert a transatlantic-size pause between "This" and "is American Idol." I've heard that the producers are talking of ways to buoy the show's dismal ratings. So maybe RS, in his own little way, was trying to change it up a bit. Rumor has it that producers are considering bagging Randy and Paula (paper or plastic?). I wouldn't miss Randy one iota. He's awful, but totally predictable in his awfulness. Paula, on the other hand, keeps things fresh—you never know what hallucinations she might be having from week to week.

Now that Idol is down to three capable singers, it has lost its horror factor (although Sayesha's faux-sexy dancing is mildly scary). I miss the Nanny and The Stoner. I even miss Chikezie, who raised the element of surprise to an art form. Ahh, those were ................. the days.

You're getting verrrrrrrry sleepy

I heard a promo on the radio today for an upcoming episode of Oprah, in which a guest will hypnotize the audience. Funny, I thought her audience already was hypnotized.

John McCain is no friend to me

I haven't had a thing to eat today because no one is home to feed me. My mistress is out getting better education and training so she can deserve pay equity with the men in her field. Let's see if I understand this right. A woman in the same job as a man, with the same level of experience and time served, needs more education and training than her penised counterpart. Listen here, JC. Please cease and desist peppering your conversation with "my friends" this and "my friends" that. And stop advising women to get out of the house. I'm hungry, dammit.

The answer to rising food prices: portion control

I'll never forget the tirades around here when the Madame realized that Hill's Science Diet was pulling a number on her and other pet owners. She'd been buying 20-pound bags of their cat food for quite some time at a price of about $27. Then one day while emptying the remains of a bag, she noticed that the stated weight was 17.5 pounds, though the price was still the same. Yes, Hill's had been snookering its customers for apparently quite some time by skimping on contents rather than charging more money.

Well, if you think the catfood caper had the household up in arms, you should've heard the caterwauling when Sir came home this weekend with two tubs of Edy's ice cream. No, your eyes aren't playing tricks on you. The new-and-improved container at left, the one that looks slightly shorter, is 1.5 quarts. The old-school container on the right is 1.75 quarts. You guessed it: same price. Save for looking at the old and new tubs side-by-side, I'd wager most folks wouldn't notice a difference. The resident bill-payers were further affronted because they realized they haven't even been getting a full half-gallon all this time.

What with the rice wars and corn shortages, it's time to start scrutinizing more than the list of ingredients on the label. Those corporate hash-slingers are sneaky bastards.