Back to School

I see pictures on the interwebs showing children on their first day of school and I feel gypped. These kids look happy with their backpacks, boarding a big, yellow babysitter. I am home schooled, so I am missing out on the glee that is the first day of school.
The morning after Labor Day is the first day of school in Michigan. The Governor passed a bill that made it so. Apparently, tourism dollars were lost when school started before the holiday.

I don't get it. People are always boarding tour busses to get a glimpse of my home! No matter what day of the year. Of course, I refuse to share those profits with the state, so I guess it makes sense.

The first day of school was terrible for me. First of all, Brach got sick. All over the floor. He was so psyched about the day, he ate his food without chewing. Ass! So, the morning began with The Agent cleaning up his moderately-digested food from the floor. She was not happy. With good reason!

Then I had issues with the flat iron. I thought I had it set on 15, but, as my fur began smoking, I realized it was on 30. Waaaaaay too hot! I needed to look foxy for the first day of school in my own livingroom! After all, paparazzi were lingering to capture my special day.

So, with singed fur, I went downstairs. With a nervous look towards The Agent and a don't-you-dare-say-anything-about-my-hairdo look towards Brach, I was ready to learn.

But, why no big, yellow babysitter? Why couldn't I have a school bus transport me from my bedroom to the livingroom?! The Agent explained that it was not necessary because I wasn't leaving the house.

Sigh.

Of course, I passed my entry exams and of course, I was a star student.

The Agent keeps saying that, by my age, I'm about the 7th grade level. She says she expects shouting matches, crying jags, and slamming of doors as I head into teenager waters.
I don't understand. WHY MUST SHE BE SO DIFFICULT! IT IS NOT FAIR TO MEEEEEEEE! *sob*

So to sum up, I singed my hair. Brach horfed. I was resentful that I didn't get luxury, yellow transportation, and my mom started a fight with me that ended in tears and a slammed door.

All in all, it was a good day.

My fur will recover.

Where's Kukka?

Hint: Look behind the shower curtain.

Lovaaaaaaahs

Bristled Brach O'Lee

In the throes of brushing ecstasy.

Red Flags Fly

Sometimes you need help from the experts.

Even though I have a husband, I need to

maintain the health of my dating life!

Sunbathing in Stages

So what if my husky and sturdy bootie causes an eclipse!

And then...

The Agent: Kukka-Maria! What happened to this new bag of food I just bought for you!

Me: I'm sorry...huh?

The Agent: This torn up bag of food! THIS one! What happened?

Me: Funny story. Well, not so much FUNNY as...scary. Yeah! SCAAAAAARY!

I came aound the corner from the hallway and saw him.

The Agent: Who him? Him who?

Me: This big, um...dog. And then, as he tore through the bag, his eyes glowing red with rage, I politely asked him to stop effing with my food. And then he turned around, apparently not a fan of the f-word, and glared at me. Foamy saliva pooled at the corners of his mouth. The stench of his breath filled the air as he panted and panted and panted and...

The Agent: Kukka, get to the point.

Me: And then I was all "You better check yourself, beast. The Agent will have your head on a stick if she catches you messing all over the counter with scraps of paper and shit, yo." And then...he turned back to the bag that was desperately trying to contain the kibble and spat. Yes, SPAT on the food! And then I went into a blind rage and batted my claws at his tail. And then one of my claws hooked into his wagging appendage and he yelped and ran away.

AND THEN...Oprah walked in, head moving about as if she were a life-sized bobble-head doll. She was like, "OH NO YOU DI'INT!" And then I was all, "What, bitch?"

That sent her off the edge. Over the next few seconds, amidst her high-pitched, shrill shrieking, I think I learned:

1. The kitty-kibble-crunching dog was hers.
2. That Oprah's dogs are allowed to do anything they wish because "...they are Oprah emmer-effing Winfrey's babies, skank!"
3. That one of "Oprah's Favorite Things" is to viciously and repeatedly swat innocent cats on their super-sexy and robust hind quarters with no remorse.

And then...AND THEN, Oprah started clawing into the bag! Yeah! And then she was shoving cat kibble into her gullet like it was the last meal she would ever be granted for the rest of her life. And that's why it clearly looks as if much of the food has been eaten!

She was all, "NOM, NOM, NOM! *belch* NOM, NOM, NOM!"

And then I was going, "No, Oprah! STOP!"

She was like, "NOM, NOM, NOM! OPRAH...HUNG...RY!"

And then she heard you coming up the stairs, jumped upon the window ledge, sprouted demon wings and leapt into the air. The wind from her flapping wings is what blew all the cat bag paper around and made a mess.

And then...

The Agent: So you expect me to believe that a wild dog, belonging to Oprah Winfrey tore open your bag of food, you swore at the dog, clawed him on the tail after which he ran away. Then Oprah showed up, yelled at you, engorged herself on kibble, sprouted demon-like wings, and flew from the window.

Me: Wait! I haven't even scratched the surface of the Willy Wonka angle and how the water was splashed from the dish and splattered on the floor! Those Oompa Loompas are a fierce gang of hooligans!

The Agent: So, Kukka, how long did it take you to obliterate the bag of cat food?

Me: About 4½ minutes. WAIT! NO!

Dang.