So it's 5am the morning after a slight over-indulgence with clear, potato-based liquor.... Blaugh.
Now, why the heck would I get up at 5am this morning you ask? Let me introduce you to Rosey, also known by his nom du blog, Rastacat:
So this morning he got up on my nightstand, found the button for the radio, and stood on it waking me up. Yesterday he started meowing pathetically at about 3am. I put him in the bathroom and shut him in, only to be woken up again a half-hour later by the sound of him basically eating his way through the door. So into the garage he went(with the steel-core security door, let's see you chew through that!).
I can hear you now; just get rid of the cat. If only it were that easy. See the whole family is very attached to him. As a matter of fact, if push came to shove, I think they'd choose him over me. Afterall, it only seems to be me that he gets up at oh-dark-30 or whenever he has his feline-version raves. (I'm guessing this is to do with my natural male saber-tooth tiger fighting gene...)
So I think the solution is clear. One of you needs to adopt me. Here are my qualifications: I am a middle-aged (listen, getting to 70 with this body is achievement enough, so technically I'm middle aged at 35), slightly corpulent and quite hairy male, with short (disappearing) hair and affinities for Star Trek, Jethro Tull, 1980's nostalgia, and the Madden football games. No known food allergies.
I can do laundry and light housecleaning, and if you're a person of the female persuasion, well, let's just say.... No, no, let's not say anything... Wifeypooh has an internet connection at work now, you can never be too careful...
All offers will be kept confidential, until appropriate husband neutralizing (I'm talkin' to you, Penny) actions can be taken...
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