Lay on top of the speaker that booms

Question: What music does Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat like most?

If you answered World Music, punch yourself in the crotch. Tina the Lesbian doesn’t even listen to that, and she has enough tote bags from donating to PBS and NPR to make sails for a yacht.

The correct answer is old school rap from the 80’s and 90’s. Bernie loves himself some Wu-Tang Clan, N.W.A., Ice-T, and Run DMC.  Not that he’s necessarily a fan of hip hop, but because he loves sitting on top of his stereo speaker and feeling the bass pumping from it. And no other genre of music provides the sort of groove that shakes his sub-woofers like a good old school Ice Cube track provides.

Not to worry. He doesn’t listen to it late at night. He does it in the daylight hours so he can sun himself while feeling the vibrations of his favorite Tribe Called Quest song coming through the speaker. He looks so content, sitting with his little kitty eyes closed. He looks like he’s dreaming. Probably of killing humans.

And that’s probably what has the most appeal to Bernie: rap and hip-hop’s gritty unapologetic depiction of urban violence.   Heavy metal’s violence is usually on a larger, more apocalyptic scale and thus is not as easily enjoyable to Bernie because he’s not in command of large armies or nuclear weapons.  That and a lot of metal’s warrior anthems are set in the age of swords and shields, while hip-hop’s arsenal is flush with guns.  And Bernie loves his AK-47 attachment.

His wife Marlie’s not much for rap, unless it’s House of Pain because of their Irish heritage. She says most hip-hop is unintelligible.  She doesn’t understand why we laugh when she tells us that. She doesn’t understand a lot of things after that second coffee pot of whiskey.

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Your lies are outright, but your fabrications aren’t wild enough

The story about the woman who ran a blog about her troubled pregnancy with a “terminally ill child” that turned out to be all lies naturally got our attention here at Renal Failure, seeing how fabrications and lies are our bread and butter.

“Fake pregnant mommy knew how to market this bullshit,” I say.  “She was getting 100,000 hits a week.  I don’t think we’ve gotten 100,000 hits total.  I’m happy when we get over a hundred in one day.”

“And she got almost a million hits on her ultimate post saying her imaginary baby died,” says Mikka.  “I think we need to kill more babies here.  That’s what gets people to visit.”

“No, it’s less about dead babies and more about emotional manipulation and giving an audience what they want to hear,” says Tina the Lesbian.  “In this case the audience in question were looking for an excessively Christian pro-life narrative to latch onto.”

“Well, Marlie and I are Catholic but we’re not very good at it,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat.  “Mikka’s a Universal Unitarian, but they’re the O’Doul’s of Christianity.  I doubt we can provide enough Christianity for that audience to like us.  Even with Black Jesus.”

“And the only time we came close to being emotionally manipulative was Halloween Week with that zombie apocalypse story,” says Ninja Vicki.  “The Wheatleys got eaten.  So did Mikka.  Everyone dies at the end.  But at least we came clean at the end of the week.  But that was just for fun and diversion.  What fake pregnant mommy did was for her own selfish need for attention.”

“Yeah, we’ve never given anyone false hope like fake mommy blogger did to all those women reading her stuff,” says Anonymous Doug.  “At least I hope we haven’t given people hope, because  I’m not sure I’d know how to deal with that.”

“Hope is where you want to find it,” says Avonia the Wiccan Pimp.  “You just need to be careful what you choose to find it in, because it can easily be dissolved by a sick attention whore lying about being pregnant.  And I know whores.”

“Well, there’s worse places to find hope than a blog of lies about a cyborg cat, a wiccan pimp, and an attractive samurai who kicks the holy hell out a clumsy ninja who no one will ever love,” says Samurai Cathy.

“Bitch, I’m going to send you to meet that imaginary dead baby in real Hell,” Ninja Vicki yells, going for her sword.

Bernie, Doug, and Tina hold Ninja Vicki back while Mikka, Avonia, and I hold Samurai Cathy back.  We don’t want to get kicked out of yet another chain restaurant, at least not until we get our fourth round of drinks.

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Haiku Friday 06/19/09 – Bernie the Half Cyborg Cat

Felines sometimes struggle with the haiku form because they don’t have five fingers on their paws to count on.

Cardboard box lair
Ruling with an iron paw
Taking royal naps

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Keeping the Fire Alive Part Zwei

With Avonia the Wiccan Pimp’s failure yesterday to help Mikka and Samurai Cathy rekindle the fire in their relationship, we are now forced to go to Plan B.  B for Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat, the only other married friend we have.

After explaining to Bernie that we’ve already eliminated romantic getaways, threesomes, and magic spells, we let the cyborg cat go to work.

“First off, if you’re stuck in a rut, it’s not going to break itself,” says Bernie.  “Whatever you’re doing, do the opposite.”

“So do the opposite of dinner and a movie?” says Mikka.  “What is that?  Fasting and a musical?”

“Where do you two have sex?”  says Bernie.

“In the bedroom,” says Mikka.

“Next time have it in a church,” says Bernie. 

“Catholic or Protestant?”  says Mikka.

“Doesn’t matter,” says Bernie.

“I don’t think I can sneak Cathy into a church,” says Mikka.  “People can see her kimono a mile away.”

“That’s not the point,” says Bernie.  “The point is to take your safe routine and flip it.  Force yourselves to do something brand new together.”

“We don’t have a lot to spend on brand new experiences,” says Mikka.

“Sex in a church is free,” says Bernie. 

“Unless you get caught,” I say.  “There’s fines, probation, community service… and possibly being put on the Megan’s Law list depending on if a minor finds you getting busy on top of the altar.”

“Maybe we’ll do something less illegal but still somewhat excitingly dangerous,” says Mikka.

“You know what else helps me and Marlie out when things get a bit dull?”  says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat.  “Role-playing in the bedroom.  Like the time Marlie was Madame Curie and I was Magellan, and together we discovered the radioactive sexy element Laidium.”

“Dude, I make love to a samurai,” says Mikka.  “That’s pretty awesome in itself.  I don’t think costumes are going to add anything.”

“But are you dressed as anything though?”  says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat.  “Think about her needs.  Maybe she’d like you as a pirate or a fireman or Sting’s character in the movie Dune.”

“That’s fair, considering she’s already dressed up,” I say.  “But don’t ‘roleplay’ roleplay.  No being a Level 3 Paladin with 50 hit points and a Ring of Fire that does +10 damage to ice elementals.   No amount of charisma points is going to make your woman think that’s sexy.”

“Also, pick a night to let her indulge in any sexual fetish she might have,” says Bernie.  “No matter how weird.”

“I’m not sure she has a fetish,” says Mikka.

“They all have a fetish,” says Bernie.  “Give them enough time to think about it and they’ll come up with stuff that would make Tag Larkin blush.  Marlie’s got this one thing-”

“Ah, no no no!”  Mikka says, holding his ears.  “Whatever it is, I don’t want it burned forever in my brain.”

“See, that’s why things have gotten stale with you and Samurai Cathy,” says Bernie.  “You gotta be willing to get nasty.  You gotta find out where you haven’t gone and then go there.  That’s where the excitement and adventure is.”

“I know that,” says Mikka.  “I just like my excitement and adventure to not involve a semi-mechanical cat getting wild with a human female.”

“And that is why you fail,” says Bernie.

“So why do I fail?”  I ask.

“Because you’re creepy,” says Bernie.

“Oh, right,” I say.

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Do you like me? If yes, please don’t start your car

So there’s something going on in Iraq where men who are unsuccessful at courting the woman of their desires are leaving bombs outside their object of affection’s houses.  Not to kill, but to scare.  They call ‘em “Love I.E.D’s.”

Seeing how I’m no stranger to rejection this story has my attention, so I find the only person I know who is well versed in relationships and explosives, Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat.

“I’m pretty sure if I knew how to make bombs that I wouldn’t plant some outside the house of the woman I was looking to date,” I say.  “Unless she was really into that sort of thing.  Some girls want a banker or a doctor or a lawyer; others might get moist for bombmakers.”

“I know I find my wife’s ability to make nail bombs somewhat charming,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat.  “But it’s not so charming when she keeps trying to bomb that Arthur Treacher’s Fish and Chips shop in the mall food court.”

“Well, it good to have a hobby, I guess,” I say.  “Some people collect figurines, Marlie keeps fighting to drive the British out of Northern Ireland.  I’m surprised she can even make remote-triggered explosives considering how much she drinks.”

“The booze keeps her hands steady,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat.

“Maybe the bombmaking is some sort of show of skill,” I say.  “Like if the girl doesn’t want to date the guy because she thinks he’s a loser and has no skills.  So he goes home and makes a bomb as if to say ‘Oh yeah, well check this shit out.  I got mad skills.’”

“At least they’re not using the bombs to kill US soldiers,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat.  “I’m surprised that killing a infidel is not an aphrodisiac in the Middle East.”

“Yeah, there are no stories about a suicide bomber exploding himself and killing a bunch of troops just to impress a girl,” I say.  “There’s no Iraqi John Hinckley Jr. with a bomb jacket trying to impress Jodie Foster, or whatever her equivalent is today.  Who would that be?  Dakota Fanning?”

“I’d like to see an Al-Qaeda terror cell that’s dedicated to trying to impress the cast of Laguna Beach,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat.  “I don’t think I hate those vapid wastes of flesh enough.  There are still tiny bits of my being that don’t feel the rage that the rest of me feels about them.  And if innocent Americans have to die because of it, well what do I care?  I’m a cat.  Fuck humanity.”

“Is setting a bomb off in front of your reluctant beloved’s home better than e-mailing a picture of your erect cock to her?”  I say.  “Because I don’t see either as the thing that’s really going to win over someone.  I have trouble picturing a girl saying ‘You know, I was ready to write this guy off but then he sent that picture of his cock and I was sold.’”

“It’s had to have worked before for someone,” says Bernie.  “Both the bomb and the cock part.  Otherwise guys wouldn’t keep doing it, right?”

“I wish I could say yes,” I say.  “But guys are pretty dumb.  The bombs, the cock pictures…they’re like The One Ring from Lord of the Rings.  Everyone thinks they can harness it for something really awesome but no one ever gets it to work and in the end it just fucks them over.”

“What if you sent a girl a bomb in the shape of your cock?”  says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat.

So we spend the rest of the day trying to contact of that Cynthia Plaster Caster woman who makes plaster casts of celebrity penises.  Yeah, she’s done Jimi Hendrix and Jello Biafra’s penises, but has she ever done one that needed to be filled with explosives for the purpose of melting a young lady’s heart, and possibly someone’s face?

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Commence to Speaking

Alice: It’s nice to meet you, sir. I’ll never forget the speech you gave at my high school graduation: “I just drank two bottles of tequila, my wife doesn’t know I’m here. Any of you girls over 18?”
Duke: I still give that speech today.
—The Critic

Hearing all the pearl-clutching about President Obama giving the commencement at Notre Dame (apparently if you’re pro-choice and you speak at a Catholic university, it summons the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man to destroy the world) got me thinking about what I would say if I was chosen to give a commencement speech at a graduation. The above quote would pretty much be it.

But that got us talking about who we would want as our commencement speaker if we were (either yet again or for the first time) graduating high school or college or an online pagan correspondence school in Avonia the Wiccan Pimp’s case.

“I’d want Gary Busey,” says Mikka. “If I’m going to sit through a long ceremony wearing a gown and a dumb hat, I want someone on stage to blow my mind with madness. And possibly assault members of the faculty.”

“Cats should give all graduation speeches,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat. “Someone puts the cat up on the podium, he sort of just lies around for a little bit, purrs into the microphone, maybe licks his paw to clean his face, then gets bored and jumps down to go sun himself. Now that’s how you commence a graduation.”

“I’d go to a graduation if Ozzy Osbourne was speaking there,” says Anonymous Doug. “Because if I’m showing up drunk, I want a speaker who sounds drunk too. That’s someone I can relate to.”

“I’ll take any speaker who doesn’t put the weight of the world’s problems on me during his speech,” says Tina the Lesbian. “Screw you, Jonathan Kozol. I’m an English major, I can’t fix shit. Says so right there on my diploma. English Major: Cannot Fix This Shitty World.”

“Ghandi,” says Avonia the Wiccan Pimp, elicting weird looks from everyone. “Hey, no one specified that the speaker in question had to be alive.”

The Wiccan is a sharp one; you have to be when you’re a pimp. So we compromise and put her down for the more awesome choice: Zombie Ghandi, who would be the most peaceful zombie ever because he wouldn’t eat your brains.

“If Avonia can pick a dead guy, I get to pick a dead guy too,” says Ninja Vicki. “I want Bruce Lee. He’d be the only commencement speaker who could stop me from killing him, and that’s the only person I want to hear anything from.”

“I really don’t think you can get a better commencement speaker than the President,” says Samurai Cathy.

“That’s not funny or clever or original,” says Ninja Vicki. “Way to ruin this whole thing, Catherine.”

“Yeah, like you were particularly clever with your Bruce Lee selection, Victoria,” says Samurai Cathy. “Like no one could have seen that one coming a mile away.”

“It was still better than yours, firebush,” Ninja Vicki retorts.

“Everything of mine is better than yours, carp-crotch,” says Samurai Cathy.

And this is where the swords come out and we end up getting banned from yet another Applebee’s. There’s something about chain restaurants that serve alcohol that brings out the worst in us.

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Oh Canada! Just a little more to the left… that’s it

Two weeks ago we discussed how Americans took a minor holiday in Mexico and turned it into a day-long tailgating party at Jimmy Buffet concert, except with more sombreros.  And that got us to thinking about how we could something like that for other nationalities that don’t get their own heavy drinking day.

Then I remembered we tried this before for our Canadian audience regarding Victoria Day.  First in 2006 we tried exchanging gifts, but that didn’t catch on.  But our 2007 Canadian drinkfest seemed to show promise so we resurrected it for 2009.

Apparently Canadians are said to refer to the day as May Two Four.  This is because Victoria Day usually falls near the 24th of May, Queen Victoria’s actual birthday, and because there are 24 bottles of beer in a case. We’re not sure if that’s because the Queen decreed that all cases had to have 24 bottles or not, but we’re pretty sure the Queen would want us to drink 24 beers each because the Queen rocks the party that rocks your body. 

So it’s me, Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat, Anonymous Doug, and Mikka (his girlfriend Samurai Cathy let him out) gathered at the bar to get our Canuck on.  We pound our first six beers while watching Jeopardy, as hosted by noted Canadian Alex Trebek. 

“Hey, he’s not saying ‘eh’ or ‘aboot,’” says Mikka.  “Are you sure he’s Canadian?”

“As Canadian as Shatner,” I say.  “Perhaps Alex has been in America too long and it sapped the Canuck right out of him.”

“It already took his mustache,” says Anonymous Doug. 

“He got off easy compared to Michael J. Fox,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat.  “He’s still shaking from his Canuckerectomy.”

The next six beers were spent trying to figure out the rules of Canadian Football.

“I get the 110 yard field and the three downs part,”  I say.  “But what’s this rouge bullshit?”

“If you kick the ball out the back of the other team’s end zone you get a point,” says Mikka, who has actually watched a few CFL games.  “Or if you kick it into the end zone and the other team can’t advance it out.”

“So you can miss a field goal and still get a point out of it?”  says Anonymous Doug.  “That’s red commie football.  Keep your socialist single point plays, Canada!  But let me get a taste of that nationalized health care because there’s been a lot of blood in my stool lately and I’m uninsured.”

“I want to sit in the Grey Cup,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat.  “It looks like a nice place to take a nap in.”

Beers 13-through 20 are spent singing Canadian karaoke.  The rules were that you had to pick two Canadian singers or groups.  I chose to rock out to Corey Hart and Bryan Adams because my penchant for 80’s nostalgia, Mikka picked BareNaked Ladies and Crash Test Dummies, Anonymous Doug went old school and hit up Neil Young and Rush, and Bernie got stuck with Avril Lavigne and Alanis Morrisette.  And Bernie had to reach to remember that Alanis was Canadian, or else he would have been forced to choose Canada’s worst import.  No, not Celine Dion.  Nickleback. 

The last four beers of our 24-pack celebration of the Queen are spent at Swashbuckler’s strip club trying stuff Canadian loonie coins into the g-strings of the topless dancers.  They didn’t appreciate that, nor did they appreciate my repeated demands for them to “TAKE IT OFF FOR THE QUEEN!”  or Anonymous Doug’s constant inquiries on whether he could get a Toronto Steamer (which we believe is like a Cleveland Steamer, except more polite). 

But we did finish off that 24th beer by the time the bouncers threw all of us out,  except for Mikka who had his 24th beer broken over his head during the scrum.  Samurai Cathy’s going to want to know why we’ve returned her boyfriend to her with blood dripping from his scalp.  I think I’ll blame it on the Queen.

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Tell Your Children Not to Buy Crappy Cards

I find it interesting that Anna Jarvis, the woman who came up with Mother’s Day (which was yesterday), “wished she would have never started the day because it became so out of control …” in regards to the over-commercialization of the holiday to sell flowers and greeting cards (instead of writing your own personal letter to mom).

“Well, obviously she hated America,” says Mikka. “Because taking things born of genuine love and emotion and then drowning it in a bathtub of commercialism and capitalist greed is what this country is all about.”

“The over-commercialization of Mother’s Day doesn’t bother me,” says Anonymous Doug. “Then again, my mom doesn’t remember me so I don’t have to get her anything.”

“Cats don’t have Mother’s Day,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat. “We don’t see much of mom after three months or so, let alone for a full year to warrant having a whole day for her. MAMA! WHY DID YOU LEAVE US?!”

“A’think itsa good thin’ ta have greetin’ cards ta buy fa’ Matha’s Day,” Marlie says, sliding a fresh saucer of gin in front of Bernie and scratching him behind the ear to calm him down. “I rathar ‘ave Hallmark do tha’ talkin’ far me when it cams ta santaments I wanna giv’ta me Ma. Else ma wants a banch’a varses abaut drinkin’ and cursin’ and shite.”

“Commercialization of Mother’s Day ensures that I have something nice to steal to give to my mom,” says Ninja Vicki. “The stores have such nice things out for Mother’s Day.”

“Considering my Mother’s Days are usually spent tolerating my Mom asking me if I’m still doing ‘that whole lesbian thing,’ I have no sympathy for Anna Jarvis,” says Tina the Lesbian. “Although this year now that a few more states have legalized gay marriage mom might be asking me when I’m going to settle down and get gay married.”

“I get Mother’s Day cards for my whores who have kids,” says Avonia the Wiccan Pimp. “I think that’s good pimp protocol.”

“Will restaurants grant you their Mother’s Day discount if you’re not a mother or you’re not with anyone who is a mother?” says Samurai Cathy. “Because there’s an Italian place in town that has a special menu for Mother’s Day and it looks fabulous and affordable too. But my Mom’s dead and I have no children of my own.”

Tag Larkin knows that Happiness is a Warm Gun, and so every year for Mother’s Day Tag Larkin buys a gun, shoots off a few rounds into his mother’s neighbor’s house, and then hands the gun to Mom Larkin with a bow taped to it. It sure beats flowers.

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My black trenchcoat still makes people nervous

So it’s been 10 years since the shootings at Columbine High School, which is just another reminder for me on how old I am. And it gets me thinking about high school again, which isn’t good because I hated high school. But at least I wasn’t alone in my loathing of those formative years, as seen in the gathering of friends here tonight at the local pub.

“Do you think you could have shot up your high school like that, for whatever reason?” I ask. My low opinion of humanity posits that there’s little that separates the monsters from the non-monsters of society.

“I don’t think I could have, seeing how I wasn’t in high school that long,” says Mikka. “Then again, high school was bullshit anyway and you don’t shoot bullshit. Otherwise it’s not bullshit, it’s something that actually matters.”

“I don’t know if I could shoot people,” says Tina the Lesbian. “But if I had those telekinetic powers like Carrie did, I think there were times when I would have burned the whole fucking place down with everyone inside. Plug this up, fuckers!”

“Well, I would have killed more people in my high school if somebody didn’t keep stopping me,” says Ninja Vicki, staring right at Samurai Cathy. “And seeing how some of the people in our class ended up, I would have been doing them a favor.”

“And you could have killed all the members of our class you wanted if only you could kill me,” says Samurai Cathy. “Too bad you lacked that skill, and the reasoning to know that high school eventually ends and is unimportant in the large scheme of things. Then again, when do teenagers use reasoning?”

“I was too stoned in high school to consider going on a shooting spree,” says Anonymous Doug. “Then again we had weed strong enough to drop a minotaur back then. That’s how I got out of the labyrinth that one time. You can’t take down a beast like that with the dirt kids smoke these days. I also remember the acid was pretty awesome too.”

“I would never use a weapon on anyone,” says Avonia the Wiccan Pimp. “But there were a lot of times I wished witchcraft didn’t have that threefold rule where everything you do comes back to you three times as hard. Because what’s the point in knowing a spell that would have made all of Tricia Helium’s hair fall out if it’s going to bounce back and hit you at triple the power?  What’s her penalty for telling the entire sophomore class that I sacrificed cats in satanic rituals out in the woods?”

“From everything you people have said about this high school thing, I think I should shoot high schoolers just on general principle,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat, who didn’t go to high school because cats don’t have to go to high school. “All teenagers are sociopaths to some degree. The Columbine shooters just happened to pin the needle on the nutter scale.”

“I wonder what Tag Larkin’s high school days were like,” I say.

Some say Tag Larkin was enrolled at an all-girls boarding school because of a clerical error and a nearsighted headmistress. Others say he went to a high school for wolves, and his mom used to dress him in meat. Then there are those who say Tag Larkin was home-schooled in an empty house. In any case, Tag Larkin didn’t graduate from high school, high school graduated from Tag Larkin.

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Freedom’s just another name for something dumb

So it appears as if the building that’s being built where the World Trade Center Towers once stood is not going to be called the Freedom Tower. This has upset a number of people, but the focus group I’ve assembled down at the bar are not among them.

“Like I said before, the lasting legacy of the Bush years is how they irrevocably ruined a good number of words and phrases,” says Ninja Vicki. “And one of those words was ‘freedom.’  Freedom fries, anyone?”

“She’s right, no one uses the word freedom without heavy amounts of irony and sarcasm on top of it,” I say. “Though to be fair, the movie Braveheart started that ball rolling years before, but at least you had to yell it at the top of your lungs for people to get the joke.”

“Why would office drones who are shackled to their cubicles by multi-national conglomerates want to work in a place called the Freedom Tower?” says Tina the Lesbian. “Let’s just call it the Orwell Center and be done with it if that’s going to be the case.”

“I don’t like the argument that calling it the Freedom Tower would make it more of a target for another attack,” says Bernie the Half Cyborg Cat. “That’s because I never bought into the idea that terrorists hate us for our freedom, and thus all vestiges of freedom and liberty will send a radical Islamic adherent into a feral frothing rage.”

“If they’re worried about the new Tower being a terrorist target, they should build like four other ones just like it elsewhere in the city,” says Mikka. “We already know it’s possible for terrorists to hijack two airplanes and fly them into two buildings that are standing right next to each other. But let’s see them hijack four planes and fly it into four tall towers in different parts of Manhattan.  Top that, bitches!”

“I wonder how cheap it’s going to be to rent space at this new World Trade Center,” says Avonia the Wiccan Pimp. “Considering the current economy and the fact that you’re not going to get a lot of people to work on a floor that will guarantee their deaths in the event of another attack, they might pay you to base your office there. A lot of non-profit orgs could get primo places to work out of.”

“Or they’ll put in some non-traditional businesses on the top floors,” says Anonymous Doug. “I would go to a strip club at the top of the Freedom Tower. Because there’s nothing freer than slipping dollar bills into the g-string of a topless 26-year-old girl with an MBA who can’t find work. That’s America to me.”

A stripper pole at the top of the New York… that makes a lot of sense. We as a nation need to implement this as soon as we can.

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