In less emergent news...

I should've mentioned this sooner, but Mentis playing FROGGER in the car park kinda diverted my attention.

2 retail exams, plus x-rays, and guess what we learned about the innards of my two spoiled-rotten, sublimely-overweight feline overlords?

Still owe the vet $75 after all of the kind and generous donations of Scott (WO'C), Unidiversal Susan & my Olympia bud Tom. And guess what we've learned after a month of barely-eating, barely-shitting, and lethargically ripping my heart out through my nose with worry?

BUPKIS. I shit y'all not, and in this case, I mean that literally. THERE WAS NOTHING IN THERE. No visible growths, bleeding, leakage, giant clog of festering hairballs plugging-up the works or any other forms of cloggage. Clean as the prototypical whistle, if it were wrapped in 16 or 20 pounds of gelatinous, hairy cat. (go ahead, guys, make the "gelatinous, hairy CAT" jokes now, I don't mind, I'm too tired...) I spent a large chunk of the donation money on acquiring the non-gourmet canned food recommended by another vet of long acquaintance (but who no longer actually PRACTICES, as he's found a way to get twit yuppies to pay him $300/hour to do PHONE CONSULTATIONS over what macrobiotic diet they should be feeding their peekapoos or weinerdoodles or what the fuck ever the Boutique-Of-The-Week pet that they've got!) and a big-assed bag of dry food for the outdoor cats/semi-ferals here @ L'Hotel du Fucktards. Everything else, I gave to Dr. Liz, and I'm still in debt up to my tits. Have run out of laundry quarters to buy cigarettes, too.

BUT IT WAS STILL WORTH IT. I'm sorry to have dragged the rest of y'all along with me, in my trying-not-to-break-down-crying-like-a-dumbassed-sot-with-worry freakout, not to mention having made a huge dent in several people's pocketbooks, only to find out that the damned cats are FINE, but to still have no explanation as to WHY they skeered the shit outta ME for a month. When I can, I'm gonna try to find somebody to scan the x-rays into a computer for me, so y'all can see my fatassed cats from the inside, as there's apparently nothing in there more dangerous than high cholesterol and one hairball that's congealed since I stopped the hairball treats.

The food-to-output ratio is still bizarrely out of joint, and yes, FALLEN UTERUS (metaphorically, I would NEVER inflict HER or HER KIND upon Y'ALL, 'cause Y'ALL actually LOVE ME), I *have* looked into and under every piece of furniture, nook, cranny & hidey-hole in all 420 square feet of my cell here @ L'Hotel du Fucktards AND HAVE NOT FOUND ONE SINGLE FURTIVE, STRAY, OR HIDDEN CAT TURD. 'Cause of COURSE, I couldn't possibly have SMELLED IT ON MY OWN, RIGHT. Couldn't be more thrilled, as the lights go on and off twice in 18 hours, for MERE THUNDERSTORMS, that those fat illiterate, hate-filled bastards gave me all of a WEEK to find a fucking PLACE TO LIVE before they put my shit out onto the street.

And despite their "family" legend (LIE) that I'm THE filthiest, most-unworthy excuse for a "woman" on the fucking planet (as I do NOT equate hausfrau "work" with "MORAL WORTH," and can think of a BILLION TRILLION THINGS THAT I'D RATHER DO, than worry about what OTHER MOTHERFUCKERS "THINK" of the way that I decorate, cook, store, think, act, speak, emote, express, or BE. They won't eat the meals I've cooked for their ignorant, ungrateful, arrogant-enough-to-attempt-condescension, palate-of-a-dead-GOAT ASSES, they rarely if ever set foot into my "filthy hovel" here @ the CRACK WHORE & CHILD-MOLESTER GHETTO where THEY FORCED ME TO LIVE, and amongst them and their obese gang of useless-as-tits-on-a-boar-hog pseudo "thugs" {playground bullies, minus the vocabulary}, the "family story" is that *I* am "the disgusting one. Remind me to post pictures as references, y'all might lose yer lunches.), it is not actually the case. Y'all have seen the pictures, y'all know me, you decide who might be lying their fat, ass-licking pustulent faces off.

ANYWAY, the cats ARE eating now, especially demanding the canned food, even though the dry food has more nutritive value, greens, and fiber, they're putting out SOME "output," they're moving more often than the tectonic plates now, and even SPEAKING on rare occasions (generally as I'm opening the canned food), which they never do here @ L'Hotel du Fucktards. I've grown them a fresh batch of kitty-grass, and they are tearing that shit UP. So I'd say that the prognosis is good, but their aging has thrown us a curve ball, or a left-handed U-ey on Tulane Avenue in afternoon-drive traffic, and that it'll take at least as long to get them back up to par as it did for them to get into this situation, what EVER in the FUCK it is/was/shall be.

Thank y'all all again and again, and as useless as it is to say it, if I ever hit that damned powerball, we are gonna RAISE SOME HELL, have no doubt. I'm tempted to put the old farts outside to duke it out with Lex Luthor & Bob, for having yanked me like that, but not in this weather, they're too old & wussified for that. As am I.