Osama Bin Catten

Posted by Phildo | Labels: , ,

Let me begin by saying that I'm truly not even comfortable saying I'm a cat owner. I was raised with a dog by my side; hell, I was told I was not ever allowed to own a cat. It's sort of one of those things that my family was unanimous on. That, and tattoos, smoking and drinking. Let's review the four things I'm not allowed to do lest I face excommunication from the family:

  • Drink (check)
  • Smoke (*sigh* check)
  • Have tattoos (check)
  • Own a cat (check)
By all accounts, I'm fairly certain the eleventh circle of family-hell is reserved for me. However they've all been very supportive of the first three...it's just this damn cat thing that has been a bit tricky.

Let me begin by telling you how I got mixed up in this crazy world of cat ownership. See I have this friend who has this boyfriend. And this boyfriend was all "Hey you have two cats. I don't even like one cat so two cats is like...no bueno." And she replied "Well I mean I love you so I guess I'll have to get rid of the newer one of the two."

Weeks go by, she petitions everyone she knows to see who can take the little bugger, but there are no bites. She doesn't even think of me, knowing full well that I'm not too keen on the kittens. Well fast forward another week or so and I have a big bichon-frise shaped hole in my heart from not being able to see my God-dog very often and think "Well shit. There's this cat that's about to go to a shelter, Phil. A freakin' shelter. They rape animals in shelters (I know this is true because I watched a episode of The Wizard Goes to Oz on HBO (the lesser-known spin-off of Oz, featuring the cast of The Wizard of Oz)).

Pause. Double-parentheses-five! *slap* Resume.

So there I go. "Sure, gimme the cat." Meet Rambo (he has since been through several name revisions), aka Ninja-Cat, known for sneaking up on you and suddenly being on your freakin' face, purring like a jackhammer. For more antics and history on Rambo, check my twitter and search for "Ninja-Cat." We're not here for the full history lesson, we're here to talk about how my cat ended up on the FBI's most wanted list.

Tonight I come home from a totally sweet fourteen hour day at work (this is sarcasm, folks) and pour myself a nice stout adult beverage and prepare to dissolve into the fabric of my couch. I fully expect to hear the persistent meowing of a cat that spends more than half of each day completely devoid of any type of contact (don't report me to the humane society...yet). This is why I named him Cicero. The cat likes to talk.

A half hour passes and there is no yawning. No mewing. No meowing. There is no jackhammer on top of my head. So I start to wonder. I do a few cat-calls. But that was while on my porch wearing a hard-hat. I came inside to call the cat, and kept calling and calling but there was no response. I checked all his favorite hiding spots: my laundry hamper(s), the top shelf in the laundry room, under my bed, in the only open nook on my bookshelf and behind the TV. There is no cat. Relying on the lessons I learned from reading the Hardy Boys as a young lad, I first checked for a black sedan in my rear view mirror, and upon discovering none, I turn to Frank and say "Gee, where can this wily feline be?" I deduced through the brilliant use of observation that his food had barely been touched all day (a rarity) and there was not a mountain of poo in the litterbox. These both indicate an AWOL cat.

Like a mother in a grocery store who starts screaming "BOBBY!!! BOBBY!!!!! BOBBY WHERE ARE YOU!?!?!?!" when their kid disappears behind an Easy-Mac display, I switch straight into freaked out mother mode, lactating and whatnot. I try to call my estranged roommate who is notorious for never answering his phone, and you guessed it...he didn't answer his phone. I left him a few burly, frustrated messages asking him if he had been back to the apartment that day (which was obvious, the door to his room was open, Cicero does not yet know how to do this). No answer. I frantically searched the hallway, realizing that to escape he'd still have to have mastered the whole doorknob catastrophe (thank God I don't have a pet velociraptor). I proceeded to tear my entire house apart. No joke, I dismantled my roommates bed, moved his dresser six feet away from the wall, broke off a chunk of drywall to get to where my water-heater is...I mean I was busy. All the while I'm making a fool of myself, dancing around the apartment going "Cicero...Cissy? Meowsers? Bowser? FUCKING CAT! WHERE ARE YOU?"

I'm just about to give up hope when I realized estranged roommate is at his girlfriend's apartment which means that his girlfriend's roommate is probably parked on the couch next to them both. A quick ringy-dingy brings me to the person next to roommate, and eventually to roommate, who in a slightly intoxicated, overtly "duh, dude" tone says "Man, he's probably like, in my dresser. Check the drawers."


"Yeah, check the drawers. I bet that's where he is."

Because I haven't already done that. Regardless I check again. I come back and report my findings.

"I'm telling you, he's in my dresser."

I'm feeling like I'm in Zoolander and need to think dumber instead of smarter. "He's in the dresser!" I hit the floor like a NAVY Seal and instead of feeling underneath the dresser in a downward motion I sweep up. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Wait...was that an opening? Was that fur!?!?!? You BASTARD!

I proceeded to drag that cat out of there so quickly it was almost like a cartoon. His claws were dug into the carpet and I think I probably stretched his whole body a bit more than its meant to stretch. I shot him a dirty look, smoked a cigarette, chugged a whiskey and thought to myself: "What have you become, Phil? You just went fight-or-flight over a cat?"

If only my family could see me now.

As I contemplated water-boarding Cicero to make him understand that this hiding place was now and forevermore off limits, it occurred to me that the only other creature I've ever thought of that has hidden as effectively as this would be Osama bin Laden. So I'm seriously considering changing this cat's name for the third (or fourth?) time. Osama's a great cat name, right?

For those with the humane society's number in front of them and an itchy trigger finger, I decided not to water-board him, instead of that I gave him a ton of catnip to drive him out of his mind. Hunter S. Catson, you see. I'm pretty sure he has no idea where he is right now. So don't call the pet police on me, alright?

That's my story. I'm tired. But at least we know that if we want to truly find the real Osama Bin Laden that he'll be in someone's dresser.

Today's story was a lesson in thinking dumber, so now more than ever, please don't think too hard.


I Think I Have a Stalker...(Hint, click "Play")

Posted by Phildo | Labels: , ,

Yeah...not a lot to say here. Don't check your voicemail at 4am on a Saturday. That's what I learned this weekend.

That and if it looks like a lesbian, acts like a lesbian and tells you you're a cute guy - almost cute enough to not be a lesbian, then odds are, it's probably a lesbian, Chuck. So thanks for playing. More to come soon.

Until then, please cease all thought.


Poker is Better than Soccer (alternating Capital letters Title)

Posted by Phildo | Labels: , ,

OK, listen. We need to talk. So pull up a chair, put some shaving cream on that upper lip so I can laugh at you if I start to feel uncomfortable, and let's do this.

Wait, dammit. Two prefaces just to make this post work, we're off to a bad start, people. I just want to say unless you watch The World Series of Poker, this post will make absolutely no sense. I'll try to make it entertaining even if you don't watch it.

There are two hosts for the WSOP main event, one guy is sort of like your Uncle Jeff, who's a nice guy, has a barbecue grill at his house and is always hosting the family 4th of July gathering. The other guy is sort of like your Uncle Ted, the weird one. He's had six wives, has held random jobs ranging from car dealer to puppet-seller and thinks a short-sleeved collared shirt with a tie is "dressing up."

We're here to talk about the Uncle Ted guy. His name is apparently impossible to find on Google because God knows I've tried to find it. If you've ever watched WSOP, you know who I'm talking about, he's the guy who will hear someone put 330 down on a bet and say "I hate the sound of 3:30, it's when my kids get out of school," followed by the chuckle of Uncle Jeff.

What in the hell is going on with this guy?

"He can only win the pot by betting on it, kind of like how I lost my car to my ex-wife in a game of 21."

Who? Who writes these jokes for this guy? And how are they so readily available? I refuse to believe that one man can have so many one-liners about his marriage and not have a team of divorced, Jewish writers whispering to him in an earborne microphone. And the nasal voice, the awkwardly excited moments? I just...I'm sorry. I'm not all here right now, it's been a weird night. I probably should've written about that instead, but if I got paid for writing, my third ex-wife would have a lot more than my dignity right now. Hey ohhh!

I dedicate to you that at least once a week, as long as poker is on television, I will try to post one of his one-liners to help bring you up to speed with what I'm talking about.

I think for once, you are probably thinking harder than I am.

So shut up.

Oh and thanks for wearing the shaving cream on your upper lip. That really made it easier for me.


An Open Letter to Ben Stiller

Posted by Phildo | Labels: , , ,

Thursday, July 9th, 2009

To Whom It May Concern (And It May Concern None Other than Ben Stiller and Those Whom He Concerns):

Let me begin by saying that Ben, we love you. We really do. Your movies over the years have made us laugh, made us cry...or actually more likely made us cry from laughing too much. You have played some of modern cinema's most beloved characters, including (but not limited to) everyone's favorite trainer, Tony Perkis in Heavy Weights, Ted in There's Something About Mary and the ridiculously good-looking Derek Zoolander in Zoolander. You have written and directed or otherwise co-written and/or co-directed some of Hollywood's biggest comedies. You come from Hollywood friggin' royalty, man. And this is why I have to ask you:

Please stop making the "Awkward Comedy."

For many of us, life is awkward enough as it is. There is plenty of irony all around us, plenty of bizarre, uncomfortable situations (who can say they've never had to take a dump in a public toilet while the person in the stall next to you is performing an anal exorcism?) that we find ourselves in on a day-to-day basis that we don't need any more awkward. I got preposterously sunburned today, had to get on a flight piss-drunk and deal with TSA searching my bags ("Yeah, look, oh! Surprise! Shaving cream! What're you gonna take that, too?" And yes, he took it.), and have proceeded to turn into a burnt piece of flesh over the last 48 hours, but I'm not going to go and make a movie out of it. Maybe I should, though.

My point is, with the exception of There's Something About Mary (and the arguable few other moments of exemption in other movies), your most critically acclaimed (though often most financially unsuccessful) roles have been ones that exist in a world and within a script where the humor is not based off of situational irony, or your character's zany differences with other characters. The movies that come to mind as gleaming examples of commercial success but comedic lethargy are There's Something About Mary (largely carried to success by Matt Dillon's extremely dastardly Healy and the accessibility of Cameron Diaz's hotness), Keeping the Faith, MEET THE PARENTS (DID I MENTION MEET THE FRIGGING PARENTS? OH MY AWKWARD - IT's NOT FUNNY WHEN IT HURTS THE VIEWER!!!), Along Came Polly, Tropic Thunder and to a lesser extent the Night at the Museum movies.

I'm not going to insinuate that there are not memorable or comedically applaudable moments in any of these movies, but I will go so far as to say that based on what I know you can do, I'm not mad. I'm just disappointed.

So this is it, Ben. You and me are on our last ride together. IMDB says your next project is called The Marc Pease Experience. If I flinch, grimace or otherwise feel my testicles retract inside of me even once during that movie, we're done.

With love, hugs and kisses,

P.S. - "The Heartbreak Kid?" Really?? One of your worst, Ben. But I watched it all the way through. As Stan Bush once said: "You've got the touch. You've got the power." Just don't squander it on mindless scripts anymore, eh? Make me laugh with actual irony, actual satire and actual comedy.
P.P.S. - I would not be able to function as a writer without the existence of parentheses.