January 7, 2011; Idiots' Delight

Skeeter is happy and it's getting on my nerves in a big way and not just because his temperament is bouncy and sing-y and is one of those chirpy good moods that drives the sane over a cliff but also because it actually interferes with my life.

Skeeter was apparently some kind of journalist, before his health woes moved in and took over completely. Now that's gay enough but gayer still was that he was a theatre journalist. (And before that he was once of those prancey-fancy actors.) Well, the fat twerp decided a little while ago to pass his time by creating a web site where he and his pals talk theatre, review plays and do whatever a pack of queers do when they don't have actual physical contact.

The thing is, he and Boo-Boo have actually been going to plays! Three fucking plays in the last three nights alone! So I am not only left alone in the kitchen ("We can't trust you near anything we can't wipe the piss off!" Skeeter yelled at me the first night) but—worse!—I am fed and walked later than usual! Do you fucking believe this? All for the glory of a so-called art form that dates back to the dinosaurs and died with the arrival of the wheel!!!

Is that a pisser or what. And it's not, really—because I can't piss in the bed or on the couch and don't want to piss in the kitchen 'cause it's too near my foodbowl and, moreover, the whole fucking house is so crooked that no matter where you piss in the kitchen, it streams down to my sad, little mat. And if I'm going to be forced to be alone I'm going to snooze a bit and if I'm going to snooze it's not going to be on a fucking sodden little mat.

So he's dancing about and t'other is swinging along and I am solo.

"I don't like it," I told Skeeter as he tapped obsessively on his iPad one morning, answering his new business's emails and Tweeting and Facebooking. (Lordie, I hate Boo for having given him that fucking machine.)

"Hunh...?" he muttered

"WILL YOU PLEASE LISTEN TO ME JUST ONCE THIS FUCKING WEEK, YOU STUPID COCKSUCKER!"

He stopped then and said, "I hope you're using the term 'cocksucker' in the general sense."

"Don't start that fucking Queer as Folk bullshit with me, twat-face, when I'm making a point."

"And what is it you don't like exactly?" he said with a wintery voice and sour expression.

"This web site shit; this theatre shit; this leaving me alone in the evening shit," I said.

"You know, other dogs stay alone for eight, ten, twelve hours even—"

"—I'M NOT OTHER FUCKING DOGS!—"

It was then Boo came into the room, "I'm on the fucking phone, could you stop with the shrieking!"

"He doesn't like my work for the web site," Skeet said.

Boo lifted me up under the armpits and, dangling me in front of him, roared in my face, "Listen to me, you little piss-monkey—you are going to adapt to the fact that we have lives outside and away from yours and you're going to do it without pissing on my bed or couch or anywhere or chewing Christmas decorations, or flipping my shoes and slippers about the house or anything! Got it?!?!"

"—may I just say—" I tried.

"—I ASKED IF YOU GOT IT?!?!"

My armpits were hurting a little—the Christmas weight making this position harder than usual—so I muttered, "Got it." He threw me onto the bed and left and Skeeter snickered.

Then I understood this one might be a lost cause. If I fought Skeeter on this, I would probably win. If I went one-on-one with Boo, I'd be victor for sure. But they were presenting a common front and here's why:

When Skeeter was miserable he made all our lives a misery. Boo tried to knock him out of this by buying him iPads and Kindles and what not but Skeeter was still a bit of a mess and Boo was at his wits' end with his own problems too. So suddenly—for a little while—Skeet is happy. In terms of making Boo's life easier this must be worth its weight in high-end consumer electronics.

Sigh.

I am still the king of this household but one king never beats a pair of queens.