Alasliasolonik
Toilet of the Mod Elect
- 4,908
- 9,890
Folger's Extravagant Swatch Thread
- Thread starter BoozeCube
- Start date
The_Black_Log Foler
Stock Pals Senior Vice President
- 43,832
- 40,786
Someone needs to post in coronachan thread that the secret to surviving quarantine diet is a healthy stock of immodium.
I literally take it every morning now. Helps with my diet of spam, doritas and code red.
I literally take it every morning now. Helps with my diet of spam, doritas and code red.
- 1
Void
Experiencer
- 9,421
- 11,085
Sorry Foler, I typically only check the board during work hours (M-F). I wasn't ignoring you.Void I love this cat but it's kinda annoying when I need to get work done on my computer and he's being a little shit for attention.
I got him to play with a pen on the floor for 30 min while I worked so that was a big success. Probably another cat is an ideal solution? Unfortunately now isn't the ideal time..
I have a townhome with an upstairs/downstairs, and a small balcony, and Fabio would definitely try to balance on the one-inch railing if he had a chance. And then he'd fall off. I blocked off all around the wrought iron with chicken wire (you can't even tell it is there unless you look closely, so it doesn't look ghetto) so he can't slip between them, but the very first time I brought him out there, I could tell that he wanted to jump up. So I'm trying to figure out some way to maybe do like a mosquito netting type thing (bought some deer netting that might work) that would allow him to be out there by himself but not fall off. I guarantee he would see a fucking squirrel (they are all over here) and jump/fall off.
So yeah, don't let him out there unless you have a way to keep him off of the railing. He will definitely try to get up there, that's what cats do. Not sure about a harness, but if you can get him used to it early, that would be ideal. You can get animals used to all kinds of shit if you start early. All of my cats have been closer to a year old when I got them, so stuff like giving them a bath is next to impossible. I'd get ripped to shreds. But if you start early, you can often get them to think it is normal.
As far as getting another cat, it all depends. Don't do it just because you think it will keep him occupied. Do it because you want another one, and you can hope that they will get along and entertain each other, but if they don't that's still ok. My girl cat tolerates the other cat at best. When Rocky died, I doubt she cared, and she was probably relieved. Getting Fabio actually caused her to stress out to the point where she stopped eating and they had to put a feeding tube in her neck and I had to feed her through that tube 4 times a day (including coming home during lunch) for a couple of months until she started eating on her own. Your cat is likely young enough that he doesn't have much animosity to another cat, and hasn't gotten too used to being the only animal. So now would probably be the best time, if you're going to do it. Let them both get used to sharing everything, including your attention. Not that you can't wait, because people do that all the time, but if you feel you are going to do it at some point, earlier is better as far as I can tell.
In the meantime, get some boxes for him to plop himself in, paper grocery bags for him to hide in, crumple up some paper, etc. Buy real toys, of course, but we all know that cats will play with everything except the thing you want them to play with. So just have a bunch of shit that it can play with, and try to get it interested in some of those things when you need it to leave you alone. Hell, I think you're kind of lucky, because I have to give up half my chair any time I'm sitting at my computer so that Amira can scrunch behind me and fall asleep. So my ass falls asleep very quickly. But I can't say no to that face. She taps my hip and looks up at me like she might cry if I don't scooch forward, so I have to!
- 2
The_Black_Log Foler
Stock Pals Senior Vice President
- 43,832
- 40,786
Thanks for the reply man. Ended up buying him a bunch of toys. He loves to laser pointer which is super convenient for wearing him out. Got him an Amazon basics cat tree that he loves. Things are getting a lot smoother. Gonna put off getting another cat for now.
The_Black_Log Foler
Stock Pals Senior Vice President
- 43,832
- 40,786
Naw dawg. I started watching that big cat documentary on Netflix. Owning big cats is a gateway to becoming gay, doing drugs and dabbling in murder for hire. I'ma take a hard pass.
- 1
The_Black_Log Foler
Stock Pals Senior Vice President
- 43,832
- 40,786
My God. An African visits America, catches a virus and dies back in Africa.. what a time to be alive.
amp.cnn.com
Prominent 30-year-old Zimbabwe broadcaster dies of coronavirus
A prominent 30-year-old television journalist has died in Zimbabwe after contracting the new coronavirus infection, the first person to die in the country from the virus.
amp.cnn.com
- 1
- 1
Alasliasolonik
Toilet of the Mod Elect
- 4,908
- 9,890
The_Black_Log Foler
Stock Pals Senior Vice President
- 43,832
- 40,786
If we don't bail out our retarded airlines does that not leave major international routes exposed to be devoured by state-backed foreign airlines? U.s. airlines were just trying to push Congress on this shit a few years ago because of Emirates massive addition of directs from the u.s., many of these routes are running in the red but that's because Emirates can to gain market share.
I fucking hate our airlines but last thing I want is foreigners ruling international routes
I fucking hate our airlines but last thing I want is foreigners ruling international routes
- 1
Alasliasolonik
Toilet of the Mod Elect
- 4,908
- 9,890
Alasliasolonik
Toilet of the Mod Elect
- 4,908
- 9,890
Once upon a time – which is a terrible way to start a joke – there was a little boy named Billy.
Billy was six years old, and for the whole of his short life, he had been utterly and intensely obsessed with clowns. He had clown bed sheets and clown posters; he had clown toys and clown-themed games; he had towels with clowns on them, a toothbrush in the shape of a clown, and – if it had existed – he probably would have used clown-flavored toothpaste, as well.
Try not to think about it.
The point here is that Billy loved clowns, and his parents were well aware of that fact. (They'd have to be, right? I mean, how is a six-year-old going to buy all of that stuff on his own?) Thus, they decided that for their son's seventh birthday, they'd purchase front-row seats at the circus, which just happened to be in town at the same time. Upon hearing this, Billy was absolutely overcome with excitement, and he was scarcely able to sit still until his family arrived at the big top.
Billy and his parents walked in, took their seats, and waited for the show to start.
The music flared to life and the lights came up, and in a dazzling display of merriment, everything began. First came the lion-tamers with their whips and chairs... and yeah, they were intriguing, but they didn't hold Billy's interest. Next came the feats of strength with strongmen (and one excessively suspicious woman) smashing bricks and bending bars... and yeah, it was impressive, but Billy didn't really care. The sword swallowers followed, and the trapeze artists, and the tightrope walkers... and yeah, someone might have died at any moment, but it all seemed so boring.
Eventually, Billy began to worry that he wouldn't get to see clowns at the circus. After all, he knew very well that clowns usually only appeared when something went wrong. (You didn't know that, did you? Yeah, clowns are typically kept on standby in case someone screws up.)
Suddenly, all of the lights went out.
A single spotlight shown down to one corner of the arena.
A tiny car came puttering into view, while discordant, almost forlorn circus music played.
Deet deet deedle-deedle deet deet dee deeeeee...
The car's doors sprang open, and out poured the most amazing collection of clowns that Billy had ever seen! There were fat clowns, thin clowns, tall clowns, short clowns! Clowns with bright red hair and enormous red noses! Clowns in silly suspenders and oversize shoes! There were clowns wearing every color of the rainbow, and clowns that moved like psychotic ferrets on speed! There were more clowns than Billy had ever dreamed of watching all at once!
Then, just as it seemed like that tiny car couldn't produce a single soul more, another clown stepped out. He was too fat to be thin, yet too thin to be fat... but somehow wasn't average, either. He was too short too be tall, yet too tall to be short... but still managed to be both at once. He had pale, almost white skin – not the product of makeup – and deep, almost black, sunken eyes. He had a shock of bright red (and completely natural) hair, and a bulbous, equally red nose.
Billy looked on with awe and wonder as he realized what he was seeing: This wasn't a person in makeup who was putting on an act; this was a real clown. The man – if indeed you could call him a man – reached into the front of his pants, wiggled his hand around for a little while, and pulled forth a bright silver microphone. After offering a conspiratorial wink to the audience, the clown cleared his throat... and his dry, raspy voice boomed out for everyone to hear:
"I need a volunteer!"
Alasliasolonik
Toilet of the Mod Elect
- 4,908
- 9,890
Before Billy had even completely processed what he had just heard, he discovered that he had leapt from his seat and thrust his hand as high as it would go.
"Pick me!" Billy screamed. "Pick me!"
The clown extended a finger and cast it over the audience, drawing lazy circles through the crowd. After what felt like an eternity, he finally aimed his cracked fingernail directly at Billy.
"You there, little boy!" the clown barked.
A cheer went up as Billy clamored over the railing and dropped down into the arena. The smell of sawdust and sweat reached his nose, but he paid it little mind: He was focused entirely on this dream of his coming true; on the opportunity to meet and perform with a real clown.
"I need to ask you a question," said the clown. "Tell me: Are you a horse's head?"
Billy laughed aloud, as much from glee as from the absurdity of the question. "No! No, I'm not a horse's head!"
The clown nodded, apparently having expected this answer. (After all, who would say yes to that question?) "Well, then... are you a horse's body?"
"No!" Billy giggled. "No, I'm not a horse's body, either!"
Once more, the clown nodded, and his broad smile – his thick, red lips – grew wider. "I see. Are you a horse's leg?"
"No, I'm not a horse's leg!" Billy replied. His own smile grew to match that of the clown.
"So..." the clown said, pacing around Billy. "You're not a horse's head, and you're not a horse's body, and you're not a horse's leg." He paused then, and stood completely still. A hush covered the audience. Then, in a whirl of motion, the clown jammed his finger through the air and brought it right up into Billy's face.
"Then you must be a horse's ass!"
Laughter exploded from everywhere at once. Billy looked around, shame and betrayal filling his heart, and saw the faces of all those strangers laughing at him. He saw his friends from school laughing at him. He saw his own parents laughing at him. Something broke inside of Billy in that moment, and with a scream of agony and anguish, he ran from the arena and didn't stop until he had reached his house.
When Billy's parents returned home, they discovered that their son had trashed his bedroom. He had snapped his clown toothbrush and torn apart his towels with the clowns on them. He had smashed his clown-themed games and broken all of his clown toys. He had shredded his clown posters and burned his clown bed sheets. (I don't know where this kid got access to fire, but clearly he was pretty serious about destroying stuff.) Worst of all, Billy's parents found that their son – who had once been so cheerful and outgoing – had sunken into a deep and unbreakable silence.
Billy did not speak for a year. Therapists and counselors were wholly ineffective, and no amount of bribery, threats, or pleading could pull even the smallest word from his lips. His parents eventually gave up, resigned as they were to the fact that their son was lost to them... but then, on his eighth birthday, the little boy held up his head, blinked his eyes once, and spoke with a clarity and a maturity not heard from most adults.
"Mom, Dad," he said, "I want you to know that I'm okay. From now on, though... it's just 'Bill.'"
"Pick me!" Billy screamed. "Pick me!"
The clown extended a finger and cast it over the audience, drawing lazy circles through the crowd. After what felt like an eternity, he finally aimed his cracked fingernail directly at Billy.
"You there, little boy!" the clown barked.
A cheer went up as Billy clamored over the railing and dropped down into the arena. The smell of sawdust and sweat reached his nose, but he paid it little mind: He was focused entirely on this dream of his coming true; on the opportunity to meet and perform with a real clown.
"I need to ask you a question," said the clown. "Tell me: Are you a horse's head?"
Billy laughed aloud, as much from glee as from the absurdity of the question. "No! No, I'm not a horse's head!"
The clown nodded, apparently having expected this answer. (After all, who would say yes to that question?) "Well, then... are you a horse's body?"
"No!" Billy giggled. "No, I'm not a horse's body, either!"
Once more, the clown nodded, and his broad smile – his thick, red lips – grew wider. "I see. Are you a horse's leg?"
"No, I'm not a horse's leg!" Billy replied. His own smile grew to match that of the clown.
"So..." the clown said, pacing around Billy. "You're not a horse's head, and you're not a horse's body, and you're not a horse's leg." He paused then, and stood completely still. A hush covered the audience. Then, in a whirl of motion, the clown jammed his finger through the air and brought it right up into Billy's face.
"Then you must be a horse's ass!"
Laughter exploded from everywhere at once. Billy looked around, shame and betrayal filling his heart, and saw the faces of all those strangers laughing at him. He saw his friends from school laughing at him. He saw his own parents laughing at him. Something broke inside of Billy in that moment, and with a scream of agony and anguish, he ran from the arena and didn't stop until he had reached his house.
When Billy's parents returned home, they discovered that their son had trashed his bedroom. He had snapped his clown toothbrush and torn apart his towels with the clowns on them. He had smashed his clown-themed games and broken all of his clown toys. He had shredded his clown posters and burned his clown bed sheets. (I don't know where this kid got access to fire, but clearly he was pretty serious about destroying stuff.) Worst of all, Billy's parents found that their son – who had once been so cheerful and outgoing – had sunken into a deep and unbreakable silence.
Billy did not speak for a year. Therapists and counselors were wholly ineffective, and no amount of bribery, threats, or pleading could pull even the smallest word from his lips. His parents eventually gave up, resigned as they were to the fact that their son was lost to them... but then, on his eighth birthday, the little boy held up his head, blinked his eyes once, and spoke with a clarity and a maturity not heard from most adults.
"Mom, Dad," he said, "I want you to know that I'm okay. From now on, though... it's just 'Bill.'"
Alasliasolonik
Toilet of the Mod Elect
- 4,908
- 9,890
Ten years passed.
Bill went on to become something of a legend in his little hometown: He was a perfect student and a dedicated volunteer. He was involved in every extracurricular activity in some way or another. He was captain of the football team, head of the chess club, first-chair violin in the orchestra, and valedictorian. By the time that he was ready to graduate, Bill had been offered a complete scholarship to literally every college in the country (with some schools even offering free alcohol after he turned twenty-one).
It came as something of a shock, then, when after crossing the stage, Bill approached his parents.
"I know that you won't understand this," he said, "but I've decided that I'm not going to college. You see, all of my success and all of my ambition has been driven by a deep, horrible wound that I still carry. I've tried desperately to cover it, to let it heal... but each night, I still hear the voice of that clown in my head. That's why I'm leaving for Tibet. I'm going to seek out and join the monastery where they teach the ancient art of Comebackery, and once I have mastered all that they can offer... I'll come back and have my revenge."
Bill's parents tried to dissuade him, but he was adamant. True to his word, Bill boarded a flight that very evening. He landed in China and trekked on foot to a village at the base of a snow-covered mountain. A year passed as he learned the language and earned the trust of the people who lived there, until the day when one of them gave him whispered directions to the hidden temple. Bill set out again, carrying only a few days' worth of supplies, and finally found himself at the doorstep of the monastery he had sought.
A knock at the door was answered by the head monk; a small, wrinkled man with a bald head and a serene smile.
"My son," the head monk said, "I can see that you have been wronged." (This guy spoke Tibetan, obviously, but the general meaning was the same.) "Normally, you would have to wait here for three days and nights to show your devotion... but I sense that you are a special case. Come into the sanctuary, and we will teach you what you wish to know."
Thus began Bill's life as a Monk of Comebackery. He learned jokes, japes, and jeers. He learned witticisms and retorts. He learned insults, insinuations, dares, and double entendres. Before long, he was able to verbally spar with the very best of his brethren.
Yet still, even after another decade of training, Bill did not feel any closer to learning what he had hoped to find.
One cold winter morning, Bill approached the head monk with his concerns. "Master," he said, "have I not been a good pupil?"
"You have been exemplary," answered the head monk.
"And have I not upheld and embodied everything you have taught?"
"Indeed you have," the head monk replied.
"Then," Bill said, steadying himself, "I wish to learn the forbidden knowledge. I wish to learn... The Ultimate Comeback."
Bill went on to become something of a legend in his little hometown: He was a perfect student and a dedicated volunteer. He was involved in every extracurricular activity in some way or another. He was captain of the football team, head of the chess club, first-chair violin in the orchestra, and valedictorian. By the time that he was ready to graduate, Bill had been offered a complete scholarship to literally every college in the country (with some schools even offering free alcohol after he turned twenty-one).
It came as something of a shock, then, when after crossing the stage, Bill approached his parents.
"I know that you won't understand this," he said, "but I've decided that I'm not going to college. You see, all of my success and all of my ambition has been driven by a deep, horrible wound that I still carry. I've tried desperately to cover it, to let it heal... but each night, I still hear the voice of that clown in my head. That's why I'm leaving for Tibet. I'm going to seek out and join the monastery where they teach the ancient art of Comebackery, and once I have mastered all that they can offer... I'll come back and have my revenge."
Bill's parents tried to dissuade him, but he was adamant. True to his word, Bill boarded a flight that very evening. He landed in China and trekked on foot to a village at the base of a snow-covered mountain. A year passed as he learned the language and earned the trust of the people who lived there, until the day when one of them gave him whispered directions to the hidden temple. Bill set out again, carrying only a few days' worth of supplies, and finally found himself at the doorstep of the monastery he had sought.
A knock at the door was answered by the head monk; a small, wrinkled man with a bald head and a serene smile.
"My son," the head monk said, "I can see that you have been wronged." (This guy spoke Tibetan, obviously, but the general meaning was the same.) "Normally, you would have to wait here for three days and nights to show your devotion... but I sense that you are a special case. Come into the sanctuary, and we will teach you what you wish to know."
Thus began Bill's life as a Monk of Comebackery. He learned jokes, japes, and jeers. He learned witticisms and retorts. He learned insults, insinuations, dares, and double entendres. Before long, he was able to verbally spar with the very best of his brethren.
Yet still, even after another decade of training, Bill did not feel any closer to learning what he had hoped to find.
One cold winter morning, Bill approached the head monk with his concerns. "Master," he said, "have I not been a good pupil?"
"You have been exemplary," answered the head monk.
"And have I not upheld and embodied everything you have taught?"
"Indeed you have," the head monk replied.
"Then," Bill said, steadying himself, "I wish to learn the forbidden knowledge. I wish to learn... The Ultimate Comeback."