2004-04-26

Hello, little night bandits. As a public service, I'd like to announce that belly flops can kill. Sadly, the guy taken down "roasts pigs for many benefits and is one of the few people in Rock County to be certified to do so." Pig roasting certification, sign me the fuck up!

I had hoped there wouldn't be a conclusion to The Night Rocco Ransacked, but since I haven't the heart to close the back door at night (my cats own me), I set myself up for the inevitable.

The typical pre-game ensued. Calamity Clam bit my fingers until I awoke, I stumbled into the kitchen and found dog food, foot prints, etc. But this time I turned out the light and went back to bed.

Not more than two minutes later, I heard the smack 'n' crunch of a goin' to town chow-down. I crept to the kitchen, turned on the light, and, lo, two fat raccoons "ran" out the back door. Really, it wasn't a sprint, but more of a leisurely waddle. I went out back and turned on the light. One meandered up the stairs (hello, neighbors!) and the other climbed on the railing and watched. I clapped at him and he pretended to move away, but didn't.

Bastards. Have they no fear? Have they no dignity? Have they nowhere else to pig out?

Rocco and Rockette have not been back to my kitchen buffet because the back door has been closed. I sense I'll soon have a feline revolt on my hands.

In other Betaweek notes, I recorded an accordion track on our fancy pants version of "La Vie en Rose." If, in reality, I could play accordion and guitar at the same time, there'd be no stopping me. Every musician's dream, I know.

It's been a lame weekend. Hot as fuck out with anipals and girlies as one, passing out on cool kitchen floors.