The spay/neuter clinic is across from the infamous and utterly terrifying $1 CHINESE FOOD sign. The sign was not actually associated with any establishment that I could see. I will know the hour of my death is near if that sign starts following me around, peering at me over rooftops and the slopes of mountains. Also that I will not enjoy my afterlife assignment much.
Here is the entire reason for this post: the clinic had a giant banner hanging up to advertise their special $10 holiday rate for neutering male cats, dogs, and rabbits. It said.... wait for it .....
DECK THE BALLS.
Now you have suffered as I have suffered. :)
The feral kittens needed names for record-keeping purposes. I said we hadn't named them and suggested "Feral #1", "Feral #2", et cetera. The intake technician had a moral objection to that, and started naming them after the Beatles (the fluffy mellow white one was Ringo). For some reason, while I was perfectly happy for them to be "Feral #4" I didn't like the Beatles idea.
So now, at least on paper, they are multi-fandom wizard kitties. The sweet fluffy white one is Gandalf, the evil grey demon-kitty (who bit my thumbnail so hard this morning that blood is pooling underneath it, is that even a possible thing?) is now Voldemort, the shy grey runt is Dumbledore, and the grey kitten of no particular personality is Sauron, but I should have written down Radagast, The Wizard-Kitty Not Even Appearing In This Book. I don't think they'll be able to tell the grey kittens apart once they are sedated (and not trying to Bite The World And Every Good Thing That Is In It) anyway.
I am going to experiment with more frequent inane posts. Tremble before me!
Also, I don't think I've ever recommended a fanfic before, but I grow bored with all my existing depravities and wish to commit a new one. You should read this awesome fanfic about Anthony Bourdain In Narnia if you are familiar with the source materials; the writer very convincingly apes Bourdain's voice. Marsh-wiggle cuisine! Metaphors involving lines of coke! You need nothing more from fanfic: read it and sin no more.
I’m crammed into a burrow so small that my knees are up around my ears and the boom mike keeps slamming into my head, inhaling the potent scent of toffee-apple brandy and trying to drink a talking mouse under the table. But is it really the boom mike that’s making my head pound? I know for sure that my camera man doesn’t usually have two heads. I have to face facts. The mouse is winning.