I've been in Phoenix for a few days, at a trade show where Hacidic Jews didn't want to shake my hand because I'm a woman. It was a slow show, so when our booth seemed deader than, well, Phoenix, I walked the floor and purposely brushed up again men in yarmulkes. I know, I know,abstaining from hand shakes is a cultural thing, but hey, that doesn't stop fat women from wearing tube tops.
While in Phoenix, I surrendered to the temptation of road food, and my idea of exercise was pulling up the covers on my bed around my head. So I came home tonight, ate a salad during Malcom in the Middle, then went upstairs to exercise. I left the TV on, and about an hour later I heard my cat, Sammy Davis Jr., YOWLING as if he were being slaughtered. I rushed downstairs to see little Sammy hunched up in front of the TV listening to W's State of the Union address. He turned around, looked at me, dropped a little, um, gift on the floor, then ran into the next room. Sammy leaves these little gifts when I've angered him. Obviously, I pissed kitty off because I allowed W on our TV.
What's the point of this story? It's not that I have a smart cat or even a bad cat. The point is that even my cat hates W.
Good kitty.
