“Alli-cat” Get it? LOLZ!

i’s did itz myslvs!

The Sopranos ending was brilliant, and everyone else is wrong

I’m seeing all the hate out there.

You haters best be stepping off.

Tony *was* whacked (is my theory). His death will parallel Phil’s death. Note that Phil was with a woman and two children at the time he was shot, as was Tony at the end.

Note that Meadow, the “good” one, wasn’t in the diner until the very last second. She was too busy trying to park *legally*–and that left an empty space by Tony so the dude could come out of the bathroom to kill him.

Did we need to see Tony get killed? No, we didn’t. We knew it happened. In film, that’s what happens to gangsters. Tony was doomed to die.

I’m assuming the wife and AJ got it, too, with Meadow being spared.

We didn’t see it, but, come on. We know.

Hello, Periplaneta americana

Yesterday morning I saw my overfed and fluffy jet black cat, Pluto, staring off into the hallway from his perch on the back of the couch. He stares at things often. But something about his expression made me turn and look into the hall to see what he was looking at. I don’t know why. I don’t know if Pluto has eyebrows, so I can’t really say he had much of an expression. And he wasn’t growling, mewing, or hissing. He might have been looking at nothing in particular, and was instead lost in peaceful musings on milk bottle cap rings or the passing of Vonnegut. But there was something that made me turn to look, too, and there I saw it.

Go on, click the thumbnail. Cute, huh?

I checked Wikipedia. It’s where I got this pic, and so I’ll properly credit “Paul Hirst” for this image of an American Cockroach, which he snapped himself in Hilo, Hawaii. Thanks for the image, “Paul Hirst.” I do not live in Hawaii, but I guess Hawaiians are Americans and so can have American cockroaches, just like I can.

I don’t live with a female now, but after many previous years of living with various varieties of them, I guess it’s just part of my makeup (no pun intended) to dispose of such varmints posthaste before I am screamed at, yet again, to dispose of the varmint posthaste. Or, as chicks say, “now.” Plus, who wants cockroaches around?

But Pluto looked to me like he wanted a piece of it. It, which was as big as my index and middle fingers together, crawled up the doorframe, and over it, onto the wall in the hall, with a cocky swagger as I debated Pluto’s expression and whether to handle this problem, or let Pluto handle it.

I ended up simply shaving calmly, wondering whether Pluto was going to come bounding into the bathroom with a wriggling half of a roach in its mouth, or whether the whole thing might make an appearance atop my bare foot.

But, it was somehow liberating to not do anything about it myself. It needed handling, but I decided not to handle it and not worry about it and continue about my morning constitutional (or devotional, or whatever you call that shit you gotta do every morning so people know that you know that it isn’t the weekend).

When I came home that evening, I didn’t see half of a roach, or half of a cat. I saw one whole Pluto and not a sign of the roach. I don’t know if Pluto devoured the sexopod (mm, nice term. Sounds like furniture one might suspend from one’s ceiling) or if the sexopod merely passed through en route to the next apartment.

But it’s gone and it’s like it never even happened.

The lesson of the day is Sometimes problems solve themselves.

(Unless it shows back up. If it does, please amend the Lesson to include the words “do” and “not”.)