I started to sing to my cat.
Usually I’ll sing to myself anyway. Classics like The Bacon Song, and I Dropped an Egg on the Floor Again. (Hey, Feynman did that sort of thing all the time, so I am in good company)
Today, it was Ode to Polyethylene:
Polyethylene, oh polyethylene
you are my chosen polymer
that’s a bonded monomer
but not like styrene
Polyethylene, oh polyethylene
you are my chosen polymer
that’s a bonded monomer
and you aren’t Green
What, you don’t like that? Should I stop?
Fine.
The buttons on my automated floor droid make it easy for anyone to use, even a small cat.
Twice now I’ve come home to find the thing roaming around with Chiclet stalking as best she can. It sucks up the smaller cat toys, which I’m sure she didn’t intend to happen, so I have to pry them loose from the innards.
Still, it would be nice if I could somehow train the little beast into turning it on when she kicks kitty litter all over the floor, but we are still working on “don’t jump into the fridge while I’ve got my back turned or else I will shut you in there”.
It is a little known fact, but cats can sleep four times their own body mass in a day.
ARGH.
The one problem I have with BSG is that it is episodic, and forces me to wait for the next installment. I do not want to wait for the next installment. I want the story NOW. NOW NOW NOW.
So even the LA Times rags on Obama for his 57 state remark. That’s funny. I nominate Wakko Warner as an advisor:
Already it has become an issue of who owns who, and where the poop should go.
Like all cats I have known, the first obvious place to relieve the bladder is on the freshly laundered clothes. So, the past few days have been educational, filled with positive reinforcement and a good bowel movement. Its mostly solved, I think. I just spotted a small log behind a bookshelf.
Sigh.
It will make my kid sister happy to know that I started watching Season 1 of Lost.
Internet, meet Chiclet. Chiclet, Internet.
I’m doomed, now.