That was fun.

Move along now. Please allow the ushers to clean the aisles.

You tired of it by now? Yeah. Me too.

(In fact, in reviewing many of the recent posts… I think I’m going a little stir-crazy. But then again, we’re just talking matters of degrees here.)

But… it seems only fitting that we approach the end of this experiment with one more Ubiquitous Blog Meme, inflicted upon me sent from the lovely and talented mikestand.

A Memememememe of Threethreethree!

3 things you wish for (just for you)

1. Superpowers.
2. A spaceship.
3. A roast beef sandwich. (What? I’m hungry.)

3 things you would do to/for yourself if there was no one to judge you (or if you had the guts to do it!)

1. Eat a whole cheesecake. Naked. On a spaceship.
2. Eat a whole pecan pie. Naked. On a spaceship.
3. Eat a big steak. Naked. On a spaceship. (It seems I’m REALLY hungry.)

3 bad habits you have

1. Procrastination
2. …
3. …

3 insecurities you feel

1. Is something wrong?
2. Is it me?
3. Is it my feet?

3 talents/skills you wish you had

1. Singing.
2. Dancing.
3. Show-stopping.

3 things that you would do if you had more time

1. Chores. (Hell — the only way they are all getting done is if I suddenly get magical free meme time.)
2. Play videogames. (Everyone else seems to enjoy them so much. And Free Cell doesn’t count.)
3. Win the world record for the most paper-airplanes. (Don’t laugh — I tried this at the age of 8. I got bored after 32.)

3 things that bring you peace/relaxation

1. My Lovely Wife.
2. The Large One and The Small One.
3. Total and utter exhaustion.

3 things that spark your creativity

1. Lack of sleep.
2. Desperation.
3. Deep-seeded emotional issues.

And now… to pass it on with great fervour and determination to…

• Sarah!
• SassyK!
• Aaaaaand… David!

The torch has been passed. Get cracking, folks.

Do we all remember the brief rundown on the pros and cons of our cats being zombies that I jauntily posted this past Zombie Tuesday? I thought I was so clever with my masterful photoshopping of our little boys into ravening ghouls, I awarded myself four cookies. And then I ate the cookies while doing a little dance. The dance was quite elaborate.

Well, later that night I was in the kitchen with My Lovely Wife. I was starting supper. She was checking through our mail. Suddenly, her head pops up, as if she has just remembered something, and then her arm swings out and whacks me on the shoulder.

My Lovely Wife: You jerk! You’re horrible!

Me: Ow.

My Lovely Wife: I can’t believe you did that to our boys!

Me: Ow. What? Oh… the zombie picture. Heeheehee! [Ed Note: Yes -- I actually giggled. Hell, I practically tittered.] Funny, eh!

My Lovely Wife: NO! It was horrible! Look at them! Look how sweet they are! Now all I can think of is their poor little zombie faces! That was horrible! You’re a jerk!

Me: Bu-

My Lovely Wife: Jerk!

And so I looked down at out two boys — who, as we were in the kitchen, were also in the kitchen in the vain hope that we might actually give them food.

And our two boys both looked at me.

And I thought about the picture.

And I felt really bad.

And I thought about the picture some more.

And then I giggled again.

And then I felt even worse.

And that’s how they week has gone. I’ll call the boys zombies and then I will giggle. Then they’ll look at me. And then I’ll crawl into a deep hole of shame.

Thanks, Zombie Tuesday. Thanks a lot.

Lately, I’m feeling a little like this boot.

Sitting on the tracks as everything shoots past me.

Let me elaborate:

Sitting on the tracks — with no opposable thumbs… or legs… or any visible means of locomotion… or even a flicker of sentience… since I am just a freaking boot sitting on the tracks — as everything shoots past me.

Too much work, not enough time, and coffee has just stopped working.

Meh.

Toothpicks propping your eyelids open.

That so totally hurts.

Printers stop working, programs freezing, perplexing error messages in ancient Sumerian, jets of black flames spearing down from the heavens, lemurs chewing on the cables.

I fix them all.

People think I’m a freaking wizard. They love me long time.

And I can thank my number one piece of troubleshooting knowledge:

90% of all computer problems can be fixed by a restart.

Here’s what you do:

1. Turn it off.
2. Turn it on.

Presto! You’re done!

Then just sit back and bathe in the tithing of wine and goats.

And I don’t keep this wisdom to myself! Oh no! Every time, after the dragon has been slain — again — and after my supplicants bow down before me — again — I bestow them with this wisdom — again —

“REEEEEEEESTAAAAARRRT…”

And they never, ever remember.

However, the other 10% of the time is when things get dicey.

Thankfully, I do have a brain.

It’s called Google.

I was initially apprehensive when our cats became zombies, but it’s not really all that bad.

I mean, yes, we do have to buy a special brain-formula cat food from the vet, which is a little more expensive than regular cat food, but no more than the weight-reducing formula we were buying previously.

And yes, there are a few more blood stains to clean up around the house.

But, along with the mindless compulsion to eat brains, there has also been a definite reduction in the number of hairballs they’ve spit up recently.

Also, the coating of brains and viscera has made their coats really glossy and thick.

And the fact that they seem to be limited to a soul-deadening craving for feline brains is also a benefit. They’ve totally stopped begging for human food. Being able to eat chicken in peace is a real treat.

All in all, we’ve decided to look at this as a plus. It is a heck of a conversation piece at parties.

However, we are trying to be a bit more vigilant to ensure that they remain indoor cats. I don’t think our relations with our neighbours could handle that development.

And the meows are a little creepy…

So, right at the crosswalk, I honked at him and opened the door for him to get in. He saw that it was me, smiled, and jumped in the car. From the moment I saw him to the moment my foot hit the gas, 7.37 seconds elapsed. It was almost military in its precision and speed.

And during the entirety of the 7.37 seconds, the driver of the crappy black minivan behind me drove his fist into his horn like it was an arterial wound he was desperately trying to close.

Which made what happened next all the more shocking.

As I pulled out of the intersection, he squealed around from behind and shot by us to the right, his middle finger tattooed to the driver’s side window.

And then he drove full-speed into a flatbed truck carrying a load of flaming pig feces.

And then as he got out of the car, his wife leaned over and said she was divorcing him. And that she had faked all her orgasms.

And then his dog threw up on his shoes. And then bit him. And then ran away.

And then his father drove up and told him he was a failure as a son. And that he was a mistake.

And then his mother ripped the head off his childhood teddy bear. And ate it.

And then a cop stopped by and arrested him for exposing himself to senior citizens.

And then a marching band on the sidewalk played a jaunty version of Beck’s “Loser”. And pointed at him.

And then a breeze blew his jacket open, revealing a pink and sparkly shirt that read, “I’m A Little Pony — Can I Give You A Ride?”

And then five supermodels walked up and said that the mere sight of him had just driven them to celibacy.

And then a team of paleontologists rolled up a blackboard and proceeded to demonstrate how he was an actual present-day example of the missing link between monkeys and modern-day humans.

And then he pooed his pants.

And then Ramzi and I laughed and laughed and laughed all the way to work.

…

Of course, this may be one of those instances where I skip off the rails of reality and drift into the Marvelous Land of Fantasy and Wish-Fulfillment. You should go. It’s awesome.

Every morning, when I finish my shower and leave the bathroom, The Small One is outside waiting for me.

I bend down and rub him.

I head into the bedroom. He follows.

I go to my dresser and grab some socks and undies.

Then I bend down and rub him.

I put on the socks and undies.

Then I bend down and rub him.

He jumps on the bed. I go to the closet and grab a shirt and put it on. He rolls over on the bed and exposes his belly.

I bend down and rub him.

I grab some pants and put them on.

I bend down and rub him.

And then the attack begins.

Every single sharp bit of him closes on my hand like a bear-trap — his front paws wrap around and dig in with his still kitten-sharp claws, his teeth begin gnawing on whichever finger is closest, and his back legs just start kicking at my hand like it’s a calisthenic and he’s trying to work off some extra slices of pizza.

I move my hand around the bed, and he gets dragged along with it, not letting go one iota.

So, just when the pain begins to sidle up to unbearable, I tap him on the head with my other hand. His attention is immediately shifted to the new target and he releases the now psychologically-scarred war refugee that used to be my hand. But before he can fully unleash a new can of whuppass on the new hand, I pull my whole body away quickly, with him swinging madly for whatever body part is closest.

Then I grab my belt and put it on.

And then… I bend down and rub him again.

And he attacks again.

And so on, until I’m fully dressed… or I pass out from the blood loss. (Thank goodness for hardwood floors.)

This happens every morning. He never attacks me or anyone else at any other time. Just me and just when I’m getting dressed.

Sometimes I put a thick sock over my hand and really let him go crazy. Sometimes, I don’t put the sock on and he still goes crazy. And then I need to visit the Good Ship Bandaid.

But it’s our thing, and so it shall continue.