MCHY endorses Obama!

Last week the MCHY Campaign Train rolled through Virginia, all hands on deck for our main homeboy, Barack Obama-ji.

I got the first call three weeks ago after Edwards let us know he was going to be dropping out to spend time with Liz while she deals with her breast cancer. I wished her well on behalf of the MCHY Political Alert Team. Levitas (our HNIC) sent her a get well bouquet with a good sampling of killer NorthWest buds tucked into the lilies. Liz rocks the blunts, no lie.

This last Saturday was the Washington caucuses. Since John bowed out, our pro-Obama-ji work was less than we expected. Ivan (HardCore Russki Invertebrate) got the call at 2:00am as he was mixing the Crulavethane. He works late. Good guy, just gotta watch the vodka.

Three words came across the line: “take her down.” To us, this meant no holds barred.

Within an hour, Oregon Jason was on his way up from the depths of the crusty gutter punk heaven known as Eugene. He had come down enough from his Ritalin-induced fly-high to manually control a motor vehicle and was bringing with him a crew of the finest rapscallions available on the Best Coast, each perfected in an art of domestic terrorism with a minor degree in misbehavin’.

The game was on. By the time Hillary got her decrepit staff into the warehouse on the pier, we had already epoxied most of the door locks around the building closed and had the phosphor pots set on the top of the entry pavilion.

Ivan, dressed in his Seattle City coveralls, was milling about the parking lot, acting the role, the whole time spraying the Crulavethane from a garden sprayer onto the cars of those assembled for the speech by her Majesty the Cold Hearted.

Later that night, as the cars drove across the tarmac, the tires would heat up to the melting point of Crulavethane and entire lanes of traffic would be caught in the glow of the ensuing conflagrations.

As to why we are supporting Mr. Obama-ji, let it be said by myself that we deem him worthy to effect change within our crumbling democracy by being enough of an outsider as to not be beholden to those who hold favors about one’s head. Let us remember Vince Foster, rest his killed-in-the-park soul.

Also, when it comes to meeting representatives of foreign governments, I would much rather prefer Mr. Obama-ji than the elder Mr. McCain or the Senator from New York. I think he would be more honest and receptive to the sufferings and causes of those worldwide. I think he would restore trust and honor to the country that the Bush administration has sought to destroy. And last but not least, it is about time we had a black President. Sorry Hillary, your haircut is cool and all, but you remind me of Grandma and that… is just too fucking weird for me.

Smoke it like you grew it!

Without further ado, I give you… more cats as captioned by yourself. Wait! There was not ado to begin with. And by making you wait, I have gone back on my word of ‘without further ado.’ If I continue on in the way I am, we shall NEVER get to the point, and there WILL be ado!

I told that kid, NO MORE SLEEPING PILLS, but did he listen? No. Now lookie what happened!

My ick! My ick! Found him in the trash and took him home to mother, stiff pricked! Poor little thing.


So this is it, huh? You think a new year is going to cure your disease? How long has it been? Last month? A freaking decade?

When are you going to cure what ails you my friends? Oh so many questions from your dear friend, Jim, here at Quirrah and all that. As an aside, we have now been here for seven Godforsaken years on the Internet. December 17, 2007 is our anniversary. Now what do we do? The same we always have. Give you icky spitty bubbah kittehs and crazy bullshit news to go along with it.

Like this one! What kind of crap is this I relay to you? So, there is a big turd floating about the city of Seattle. That is our hometown in case you did not know that. Yesca, and I DO miss Alex, my mate of many years. No, not like that. This is not the 80’s, foo! I was thinking recently about the havoc and love that him and I caused throughout our life. THIS website is one of those things. Nothing but love for others, though we might have hated each other at times. But always love for others, be it singing songs in L.A. coffeehouses about smoking weed and doing the doo or making up crazy comics or websites about fictional muthas, something was manifest. We made American Pie look like a fucking wet dream.

There was a particular party that I have in mind that involved him and myself and our best friend’s mother that did not end well. Ahem… it did not end well for her pussy. BUT… we still walked away (best we could) with a bottle of hella good hooch AND a bag of kind NorCal budz. She had to explain all the shit that was trashed around the house and how strange underwear things were laying around the pool area outside the bedroom. She thought it was nice discreet shiz, but Al and I are anything BUT discreet, and we made sure everyone knew it.

The only thing we did NOT do was tattoo our names on her ass cheeks. Sorry Missy ūüôĀ

Better hot blessed New Year to you all. Maybe this year you will have a gorilla of a good time. Che says, Fuck you all on New Year and ride THIS!

I never understand what the hell he is saying, but he does roll a good cigar.On that note, I go over here now and say hi to all on the other side of the Continental Divide!

Santa raped me in my sleep!

Fuck you Santa!

There I was, dreaming of sugar plum fairies and shit, when I hear sleigh bells outside my domicile.  Nay, good friends and fellow dung beetle collectors, it is not sleigh bells, but a rather large set of brass anal beads being slowly and seductively rapped against the screen door of my country cottage.  Quickly! I hide in my bed and feign sleep as to surprise my suitor and catch him unawares and soon it will be HE who will enjoy the penetration to which no man heretofore can attest!

Now, this sludgy, fifth-dimensional morning after, my last and only thoughts are off the serpentine hiss accompanying a thin mist creeping through the keyhole of my most ancient and irrelevant sole portal. ¬†As my memory struggles for purchase, it is now upon me. ¬†A sea of burgundy… the smell of last year’s St. Patrick’s Day… the sound of children at play. ¬†My very last vision before my unwilling repose: the toothless smile, mouth moving, asking for forgiveness. ¬†Then… darkness and pain. ¬†Merry Christmas from fucking Burien, WA !

I have a new roof put on my house last year. ¬†Santa passed me up last year because believe you me, I was quite the naughty boy. ¬†But this year, I have been gracious, kind, forgiving, only a wee bit of an asshole (with great apologies to all concerned), and for the most part incalculable. ¬†So, he comes down with his usual drunken crash landing and tears up a part of my not so fucking cheap composite torch-down… AND one of the reindeer puts his cloven foot through my double-paned, argon-infused low-E skylight. ¬†Next thing I know… through the NEW hole comes a poorly wrapped box of expired Trojans. ¬†I hear a mumbled apology, a dry heave or two and off he goes. Doesn’t leave a number or anything.

So my question is this: does this void my warranty on the roof?

It’s hella long, girls!

I found out in the oddest way possible that cat authors are privy to untold amounts of information that you, Joe Public, have to wait to see on that cocksmoking pile of steamy crap, Fox News, if you even see any of it.

That whole Led Zeppelin benefit concert last week sucking ass?! Hell brah, I knew about that 9 months ago. In fact, it was Bob Plant that sent out the memo: Most excellent cat writers. We are playing a ‘benefit’ show cause Page is getting blackmailed by his neighbor’s daughter and he needs the bread. We are gonna suck real bad. Just wanted to let you all know so you don’t waste the money on a ticket. – Yours, Bob.

Since I was sworn in last year at the Annual Cat Writer’s Conference as a member of one of the most elite groups in the state of Montana, I was not able to warn Jamie Moyer and wife before they wasted big time flow on it. Hey, he went to Cleveland… fuck him!

So, here is it, five months after the last cats were posted and I am blathering again about the sad state of affairs in the world of feline humor. Let me remove the ball gag and just say for the record; I have recently received a lot of questions about my possible demise, the end of the world in 2012, my new religious-fisherman best-seller, The Anchovy Code.

Now, you know that I am not dead because I was seen in Brainerd, Minnesota last week trying to break into the Holy Order of Molasses Convent, Mr. Johnson in hand. The 2012 thing sort of owes its notoriety to McKenna and his psilo-ridden, now-decayed cerebrum. But being the A-LIST mollafocka I am, it is understandable why people come to me with this shit. How do I put this simply for you all? 2+0+1+2 = 5, which we all know is the cube-cube-cube root of 1953125. Oh crap, I just almost violated my oath as a Cat Writer. I will say this though… Robert Downey Jr. had it right on when he said, “Oh shit.” Now, as for The Anchovy Code, it was really an accident. I happened to have been in one of those rare hallucinatory moments between Monday and Saturday when He came to me. No, not HIM, him, but the littler him, St. Anchovy himself. There he was, in all his silver, fishy, about to go on the pizza glory. He said to me, “Glurb glurb, Jim! GLURB GLURB!” And then it was over and he was in the fucking Caesar salad dressing! And man, did he taste good with romaine and croutons. At that moment I knew the truth. And when the movie comes out, the ‘berg already told me that he is going to cast none other than Coming-in-Nicole-Kidman’s-Hair Harvey Keitel to play me as the guy that runs the smoothie shoppe in Venice. $ 5.00 advance tickets available here first, folks… HERE FIRST!

Now, in the REAL world, all sorts of things have been going on… some not so fun, some very fun. The NOT-SO-FUN I will maybe share later, dunno. But the FUN stuff is the following news : there are new cats up as of NOW! We have finished the Bad Cat 2009 Page-A-Day calendar… AND… Bad Cat 2, the sequel to Bad Cat. My publisher has about 30 days left to determine if they are going to publish it or if they are going to send me on my merry One-Million-Books-In-Print way to another publisher to make big profits. How big are their profits? Well, I am not at liberty to say, but I get pennies on the dollar for each book sold, no lie. Can I get a high five?!

I hope the holidays are treating you all well and God has blessed you with virility, fertility, humility, calamity, enmity, sterility, abnormality, obscenity, anthropocentricity, generosity, and of course… hideosity. Much love from your benevolent Dick-Taster!