Tuesday, April 23, 2013

the twisted tale of bonkers the cat

There was one a strange little girl named Beatrice (name has been changed to protect the traumatized). Beatrice loved wolves, lisps, and most of all, her kitty, Bonkers. Bonkers was fluffy, soft, and mildly wolf-like, so naturally Beatrice adored Bonkers with every ounce of her tiny little frame. Bonkers and Beatrice were the best of friends, cuddling, playing with yarn, and sharing their deepest secrets. Beatrice’s favorite times were when she could stare into Bonkers’ eyes, which she was certain were full of admiration for her, scoop the tiny ball of fluff into her hands, and shower her with kitty kisses, or whisper gently, “You’re my only friend.” 

One day, Bonkers was playing in the dining room, just minding her own Bonkers business, like “yeah yeah yeah meow I’m a cat meow meow gimme some tuna I like to scratch becuz I’m BONKERS!” (Who knows what really goes on in the mind of a cat named Bonkers?) Bonkers was having the time of her life in that dining room, lounging, meowing, scratching, casting condescending glances at random, and just generally being a cat. That’s when things got truly bonkers. We don’t want to go into detail, but a dining room table leaf landed on Bonkers the cat, who was instantly reincarnated as Bonkers the pancake. 

Barring an inconsolable Beatrice from the room, Beatrice’s mom scraped the Bonkers pancake gently off of the floor with a spatula and somberly bade her farewell. Beatrice melted into a puddle of tears. In her journal, she wrote dark poetry that mourned the loss of her bestie and revealed her yearning to become a wolf so that she would no longer feel the pain of a broken heart. 

Today, adult Beatrice heard someone say, “That is totally bonkers,” and she cried. 

The end. 

In other news, Princess has been looking for opportunities to incorporate the word “bonkers” into her verbiage, and this post has been most helpful.

Saturday, April 13, 2013

the tale of the holy mole

This is the story of Beyoncé the mole.

Beyoncé the mole is a survivor. She lives in the backyard. She burrows and annoys and does other generally mole-y things. Today she was minding her mole business when suddenly, a giant furry face plucked her out of the ground.

“Let me down you curly monster!” Beyoncé wailed. “I am not a chew toy!” The monster ignored her.

Suddenly another curly monster approached. “DUDE gimme dat mole!” the second monster said. “Growl, growl,” said the other through his mole-clinching teeth.

The next thirty minutes were bonkers. When one monster was momentarily distracted by a squirrel or a pine cone or the urge to roll around in mud, the other monster would scoop her up before she could sing, “I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly.” She was slung about and argued over, gnawed on and pawed at. At one point a human came outside and reacted with such horror to the fact that Beyoncé was trapped in a furry mouth that the human gagged and made frantic phone calls. Beyoncé weakly kicked her weird little foot in an attempt to say, “I’m a survivor/I’m not gone give up/I’m not gone stop no/I’m gone work harder.” The human returned with a broom and a pinched face.

Finally the human’s broom antics entreated the dogs to return indoors without Beyoncé, who was thoughtlessly dropped into a pile of mud. Beyoncé kicked her little foot again and ignored the human’s poor control over her gag reflex.

Ten minutes later, the human looked out the window to check on Beyoncé—but she was gone! Had she really survived the clinched jaws of two furry beasts and retreated back to her mole hole? Or was she taken up to mole heaven on a fiery chariot like Enoch? Either way, Beyoncé is a survivor.

Beyoncé, you are one admirable mole.

Update: At the hand (paw) of two stealthy and fluffy beasts, Beyoncé is smuggled into the house. The human is forced to remove her with a dustpan. Afterwards, the human discovers a severed foot and says, "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEK." The human is forever scarred. She apologizes for the graphic nature of this post.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

a five paragraph essay

                Princess does many stupid things. In fact, she has created an entire pink and fluffy blog world to record these stupid things because it’s in her nature to confess everything. Certainly, she should never be asked to lie under oath because she would tell the truth faster than you can say, “This Tory Burch bag is a $20 fake from Chinatown!” To continue on in her tradition of overzealous honesty, Princess has a confession. She has severely limited capabilities in three areas: telling time, discerning her left from her right, and maintaining general coordination.

                If time is money, then it’s Swedish money that Princess has no idea how to count. Princess is a digital girl in a digital world, and yet her very beautiful watch is analog. She dreads one question the more than her husband getting a buzz cut, and that question is, “What time is it?” Imagine her horror two days ago when the cashier at Swanky’s asked her this very thing. Staring at her watch for a full thirty seconds, Princess finally proclaimed “5:45!” just as the cashier said, “Oh, it’s 6:45!”  Red-faced, Princess shuffled away mumbling foolishness how Daylight Savings Time is antiquated and devilish. Clearly, the minute hand and hour hand are Princess’ evil nemeses.

                If time is the enemy, telling the difference between left and right is like reading Princess’ dream journal, i.e. the sheet of paper that Princess once placed beside her bed to record late night brilliance. Some people hear “left” and think, “Oh yes, I will turn this way,” while Princess hears “purple snarfy waffles.” Just today, when Princess donated blood, the nurse asked for her left arm, and Princess stood quite still until the request was fully processed by her brain forty five seconds later. It was uncomfortable. Before her own bridesmaids’ luncheon, Princess accidentally drove her out-of-town bridesmaids to Arkansas when she most certainly meant to remain in Tennessee. She now drives with her hands in the shape of “L”s as a precaution. Lefts and rights, you are so very wrong.

                For a girl with 14 years of classical ballet training under her belt who was often praised for her balance and control, Princess has endured several bouts of severe miscoordination. One week every few months, Princess totally loses her marbles. Just this week, she sliced off a knuckle while attempting to peel a butternut squash, rolled over her own foot with her rolling chair, and accidentally kneeboarded down half of her wooden stairs to an audience of ten. She is currently (and stylishly) wearing five different Band-Aids. Similarly, when Princess’ husband came to see sixteen-year-old Princess play basketball, she face-planted three times. He regularly reminds her. Coordination is a slippery, evasive fellow that cannot be trusted.

                If Princess’ brain is Swiss cheese, the areas of time, direction, and coordination have fallen into the dark black holes of stupidity. If the reader were to place that Swiss cheese between slices of rye bread, add tomato, and ask Princess to eat it at 12:30 p.m. using her left hand, she would slap that person with the sandwich. Fortunately for the reader, she would likely miss. Unfortunately for Princess, she would then give in to the overwhelming temptation to tell everyone about the stupid sandwich-slapping thing she did. In conclusion, yikes.