You know what doesn’t work like it does in cartoons?

Toothpicks propping your eyelids open.

That so totally hurts.

The number of people that I stun with my computer prowess grows daily.

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…

It was a glorious and sunny Monday morning. I was chugging along in the Aerio, coming up to the intersection of Windsor and Quinpool on my way to work, when who do I see in front of me but Ramzi! “Yay, Ramzi!” I think to myself, “I’ll pick him up and we’ll drive to work together! We’ll chat and joke and have a fine 5 minute trip! Yay!”

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.