BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

A gentle reminder: I don’t just spout silliness here on this blog. I also write novels. Those are what put the bread on the table, but bread is just about it as far as that goes. My wife has to bring home the bacon (and broccoli, and eggs, and milk, and…) That’s not what this is about, however…

If you have read my official bio over on my regular “author type person” website then you have probably run across the part about us having a pair of rescued felines, both of whom I describe as “the competition.”

Why “the competition?” some have asked.

Easy. They’ve got a thing for The Supreme Redhead. Yeah… E K.

Now, I realize that sounds a bit paranoid, but let me tell you a story. A recent story, in fact, and not at all unusual around here with these furry lunatics.

Just the other night, E K was on the sofa, and Competition #1, AKA Asphalt (because we rescued him from the middle of a highway on-ramp) immediately climbed onto her lap. He does this every time she parks for more than two minutes. Yes… I can hear you now, “But, Murv, that’s normal for cats.”

Yeah… sure.

As usual, E K babbled at him a bit, making all those “wooja-wooja ai lub yoo” noises and scritching him behind the ears. Now, remember, Asphalt started life as a kitten the size of a large hamster, but has grown to better than 20 lbs and has a head the size of a small melon. So, with him sprawled across EKay’s lap, she is sort of trapped.

The bag of tuna breath waited until she was finished and had directed her attention elsewhere. Then, he looked around, stared directly at me for a moment, then shifted a little, raised a paw, and copped a feel.

Yes. Pardon the colloquialism, but the old lardass planted his paw on EKay’s right “boob,” and left it there. Then, he looked at me with an expression on the order of, “Neener Neener, What’re you gonna do about it?”

And before you tell me that it was just a cat being a cat, I’d like to remind you that I saw the look on his face, so I know better.

All I can say is that if he starts bringing her dead stuff, he and I are going to go out back and have a talk. I’m pretty sure I can take him…

More to come…

Murv

There are times when you have to clean out the old brainpan. Get rid of excess words, phrases, clauses, and other ridiculous stuff. It’s a battle writers fight constantly. Generally we do it because if we don’t get the unsaleable crap out of the way, then we can’t put the saleable crap on the paper.

Kinda like freeing up a log jam, so to speak.

So, I’m sure you are probably wondering what qualifies as a writer’s soluble fiber for the brain… The Ex-Lax for the cerebral cortex so to speak…

I have no clue.

All I can say is that when it takes hold, all manner of nonsensical BS  – AKA Brain Sh*t – will spew forth. If you don’t believe me, just read the other entries in this blog… I mean, it isn’t called Brainpan Leakage for nothing, ya’know…

So, anyway, on this particular day in history, my grey matter was cramping a bit, and the next thing you know I had… well… you know… an urgent brain movement.

Not having time to get to the blog, I took advantage of the first receptacle I could find… What follows here are a series of inane, nonsensical, brain sh*t expelling tweets sent forth from my Twitter account this morning, all including their original hashtag – #WTF…

BTW – I received three comments in the wake of this leakage – one person was horribly confused, another enjoyed them immensely, and well, the other commented by simply unfollowing me. Guess I was just a little too intense.

I wasn’t concerned when she pulled the handcuffs from her overnight bag. However, the spatula and pinking shears gave me pause… #WTF

There was only one way out that didn’t involve a body bag. Now, all I needed were some high heels, a spark plug, and a can of peas… #WTF

The stilettos, she had, even if they weren’t my size. It was the spark plug and canned veggies that seemed out of my reach… #WTF

The room smelled like toast, and she looked like prepackaged sex. It was when the pizza arrived that I understood her plan… #WTF

It was thin crust, with double anchovies and extra cheese. The aroma was intoxicating, but somehow I knew it wasn’t meant for me… #WTF

“You’re late!” she screamed. The pizza guy cowered, but it was too late. Now the pinking shears protruded from his chest… #WTF

If only there had been black olives on that pie, then perhaps I could have made my escape. But, the peas were still eluding me… #WTF

My luck held. She grabbed the spatula, then went in search of another victim. “Be right back,” she said, as she exited the room… #WTF

This was my chance. Maybe I could do this without the peas. But wait, what about the shoes? Damn, she was still wearing them… #WTF

I resigned myself to whatever fate had in store. Even if I could get by without the peas, the high heels and spark plug were a must… #WTF

I had just given up when the hotel detective entered the room. “Am I interrupting?” he asked. “Yes, but please do,” I replied… #WTF

It seems they had found her in the lobby, spatula in hand as she served cheesecake to the guests in her own special way… #WTF

“What tipped you off?” I asked, absently rubbing my wrists where the handcuffs had been cinched tight…. #WTF

“She wouldn’t let anyone have seconds,” the hotel detective replied, offering me a cigarette… #WTF

I lit the cig and stared off into space while muttering, “You know, if she’d left the shoes, I’m sure I could’ve escaped.” #WTF

The hotel detective shook his head. “Not likely. They were fuschia.” I looked at him sideways. “Fuschia?” #WTF

“Yeah,” he said with a nod. “If they’d been red, maybe. But fuchsia, not a chance.” I nodded my own head in agreement… #WTF

“So, how did this all start?” the hotel detective asked. After correcting my spelling of fuchsia I looked out the window and sighed… #WTF

“Well, you see,” I began. “There was this pair of handcuffs…”  – 30 –  #WTF

More to come…

Murv

Note: If you Twitter you can follow me @mrsellars. Be careful, I might follow back…