March 11, 2009; Running Around

Spotted Dick (a British dessert)

Spotted Dick (a Canadian desert)

Everyone in Mook Manor is running around. Mook A is running around trying to get on social assistance (which, from the look on his face when he came back from the government offices today, does not look like a fun thing). Mook B is running around like he is always running around; fifty things at once and all dipped in hysteria. Even their friend, who came on Sunday and was so much fun, also lost her job and is running around for another one too. The world is nuts.

What this means is that I have to do my own running around. (Go to film—and a darker, muddier, cheaper looking film you haven't seen...but you'll get the picture.)

I wonder if the running around will ever stop on their parts so they can spend a little time paying attention to me. Might be time to anoint a bed or a rug again.

February 25, 2009; Adjustments

Things are not good at Mook Manor. A was laid off of his job. (I'm starting to think that two shoes to the head of that fucking idiot wasn't enough—for what he did to the world economy he deserved the Imelda Marcos collection at least.) 

A is a sad case. He is still being seen by a nurse three times a week to deal with the wounds of a surgery he had four months ago. (This has the added benefit of me getting kitchy-koos from a bunch of disease-carrying Florence and Felix Nightingales.) Then A's dog died. Now he has lost his job. 

Meanwhile B is at least employed. Too employed. He has two jobs, is president of a professional association and is trying to start up a business. When he isn't on the phone or answering his e-mail he is climbing the walls with stress. Can you say: heart attack?

"Singing" (turn down your sound...this one blasts)

Mook A took me in his arms when he got the bad news about his job and said, "No matter what, you'll be taken care of. I'll starve before I stop feeding you." I should hope so, you fucking loser! Get a job!