I rarely get sick. I thank my mother for subjecting me to an onslaught of germs at a young age and refusing to take me to the doctor to get antibiotics, thus bolstering my immune system to super human strength. I also credit my unwillingness to rid my shower of mold, which I believe aids me in not getting AIDS. The last time I was sick was back in February when I had a wicked case of Cabin Fever caused by the fifteen god damn snow storms we had. Unfortunately, poppets, I’m sick again. This time I’ve caught myself a terrible case of Dry Spellitis.
Dry Spellitis is a medical condition caused by not getting any action ever for an extended period of time ranging from one month to infinity. Symptoms include being sexually frustrated and being convinced everyone is getting more sexy times than you (because they are). The initial stages of Dry Spellitis are the most severe as sufferers who were at one time used to getting laid, now do not. As the Dry Spell continues the patient begins to accept their condition. In the latter stages of the disorder it is common to find those with Dry Spellitis slowly hoarding newspapers and semi-feral cats.
There is no known treatment for Dry Spellitis beyond making out with oneself, which only temporarily alleviates the symptom of the disorder. Loved ones should be aware that although Dry Spellitis is not contagious, it is best to not speak of one’s own sexual conquests in front of them lest the patient rip your fucking face off.
Hi. Can I be perfectly candid with you for a hot minute? You guys positively (without having feline AIDS) find the CD by searching the weirdest shit on the internets. It seriously creeps me out, but love you/mean it anyway!
Some of you found us by searching “Harrisonburg smells like dog food.” And you’re damn straight it does. The home of my alma mater (GO DUKE DOGS!) smells like dog food like woah. It’s gross. Think about that smell the next time you bite into some juicy chicken, ‘cause that’s why. Chicken farms, y’all. Chicken. Farms.
Small children and very pregnant women scare me, thus I am confused and scared as to why “children playing cricket” brought you to Café Darkness, but while you’re here, sit down and enjoy yourself!
A few you “want a divorce” and that makes me have a sad for you. JK. I don’t care. Get a divorce and go live your life.
I’m not sure who “Peaches the cat” is but that’s one pussy I’d like to meet! MEOW! RAR!
Cheers to whoever actually typed the words “dance floor ooooooooooh” into Google and hit “enter”. Call me! Let’s dance!
You guys are bananas. Now get me another drink. I’m still sober and it’s Thirsty Thursday and I’ve been sober since last night.
Wow, it’s been a minute since we’ve answered your questions! Sorry, y’all! I’ve been busy drinking wine and taking shots of tequila on a school night. (Blech). Anywhoos, after sifting through nonehundreds of your questions, here are the ones I feel require the most attention. Side note: I’m punchy today because of tequila, so I apologize for my sassitude.
Dear Café Darkness:
Why does TLW only speak in a cockney accent when she’s deep in her cups? It’s annoying and not nearly as funny as she thinks it is.
Over it in the Southside.
Dear Over it,
First off, you live in Southside, so stfu. Second of all, we couldn’t agree more. It’s irritating and we’re not quite sure what to do about it. There is currently a small group of people talking about going all Intervention on her ass like they did back in the fall about her semi-ferals. I.e: Your addiction to speaking in cockney has affected me in the following ways: It makes me want to slap the shit out of you, it makes boys look at you funny, etc. If you want to get up in on it, hit us up at cafedarkness@gmail.com!
Dear Café Darkness,
It’s Memorial Day weekend and I don’t have any plans. What should I do?
Lonely in Lakeside
Dear Lonely,
I don’t understand you people. How many times do we have to tell what you need to do to make some friends? Jesus. Christ. Turn off your god damn Xbox and get your ass out and about! Shake what your mamma gave you! Buy some people some shots! I’m not answering questions like these anymore because you have the tools (liquid courage) in your tool belt (this blog) to help you. GO LIVE YOUR LIFE!
Hi, guys. Guess what? Our little baby blog is turning one on Friday. Can you believe it? I would like to take a trip down memory lane if you don’t mind and revisit some of my favorite posts from the past year.
I tickled myself pink when I created my own bar guide. A year later it is still shockingly accurate. Kudos to me!
We took it really hard when Terrell Brown left NBC 12 last summer. Barista and I still wax poetic about infamous time our main man did a snow angel on the side of Midlothian Turnpike in two inches of snow with his microphone still on. God damn, that was great.
We are good at generalizations and stereotypes (they save time). Nowhere is this more evident than our Virginia College Retrospective series. Barista’s tribute to Randolph Macon and my ditty about JMU are my favs. Please note, these posts still receive comments which cause me to LOL/ROTFL/LMBO forever.
Remember when I got Billy Mays? I do, too. Longest relationship I’ve had since my big D.
Remember when RVA was obsessed with naming our new baseball team? I still wish the Richmond Hambones won, but whatever. Screw it.
Cat Scratch Fever took over my life in November. Barista had to get all intervention up on my ass with the help of a few of our friends. R.I.P Little Jerry Seinfeld!
Stop bitching about the heat. Remember allofthis bullshit?
Bob McDonnell and The Cooch really step up the crazy, making my job a hellofaloteasier. Thanks, guys!
I tried to leave UMOT out of it, but was quickly scolded on my decision. The thought of getting called bitter one more time made my skin crawl. But hey, it’s a great post. Plus also, two different people are now committed into buying me all the tacos I can eat if I get called something I deem nasty. Cheers!
Here’s to another year of snarky badassery. See y’all at the club.
In light of recent events it’s become clear that my semi-feral cats are an “issue”. Allegedly. I blame my emotionally distant father who never told me he loved me and forced me into competitive tumbling at a young age. The only time he would pay me any attention was during my tumbling tournaments. I get the love I never received from my father from my cats. Also, I was kind of fat. JK, I was never fat.
I would like to take a moment to address the people involved with my intervention:
To Barista: Thank you for your concern about my semi-feral cat collection. I think we can both agree 2009 has been a trying year. I suppose I can concede that I was using my cats in order to not face the reality of being so incredibly good looking and intelligent. It is hard being me. Plus also, the semi-ferals are great company during all of the furlough days we had this year.
To my dear friend Jocelyn Testes-Harder: Thank you for refusing to be swayed by others. Although the only addiction I have to “hillbilly heroin” is watching documentaries about it on TV, I appreciate your concern. Also, I have a bunch of expired Women’s Everyday Sponges I bought from Big Lots last week. I tried one but it gave me a rash real bad. Do you want them? Just let me know and I’ll drop them off this weekend.
To my mother: I appreciate your support during this difficult time. You are right about my clowder attracting alcoholic comb hoarders. I do not want end up divorced a second time and the only thing I can lay claim to is a bunch of those little black combs. It may be time I got rid of a few cats so I can meet a decent guy to marry me and knock me up proper like. I need a few good casserole recipes, by the way.
To Matt: To start, let’s go with “looks young for her age and is really, really good looking” as opposed to “seasoned”. Granted, I may or may not make biscuits inappropriately on people’s bellies as of late, but I do not think that in and of itself makes me “crazy”. Yes, on Saturday nights we all get together and have dance parties. “My Prince Will Come” is just one of the songs we sing including, “Over the Rainbow”, The Brady Bunch theme song and “All I want for Christmas is You” (now that the holidays are here) but that is before I head out to my S&M parties. The dominatrix outfit goes on easier after I’ve sweated a bit dancing.
PS-I have a confession to make-I think hipsters are cute. BUT THAT DOES NOT MAKE ME ONE OF THEM!
I will help kick this semi-feral cat addiction and accept treatment today. Honestly I am more excited about a month at Promises in Malibu than anything. I could really use a vacation and have always wanted to meet Lindsay Lohan. Maybe I can be her next girlfriend? She’s cute for a ginger. I’m dropping everyone off behind WRLH Fox 5 later today on my way to the airport except for Mr. Paws, Coco Chanel and Lil Johnny Dep. I hope Fox 5 finds them good homes to loving families. I hear Michael Vick is trying to start up a cat-fighting ring!
Today I have gathered a number of your closest internet friends and family together to talk to you about Cat Scratch Fever. When you got your first 5 kitties, we all were hoping that you were just going through a little phase, like the one you went through when you renamed yourself Lady Nasty (pronounced La Dynasty) a few months ago. Lady Nasty was a great sidekick, except for that habit she had of smoking old cigarette butts she found in parking lots. Look, I know that The Year of Aquarius has been a real letdown, but you are officially out of control. You say you only have 24 cats, but it’s actually 38 now. I sat outside your window and counted yesterday. Your cat Mr. Snoop Dog invites bitches to the living room whenever his Mama ain’t home. A few bitches have moved in, incase you hadn’t noticed.
We are here today in the hopes of making you see that you can live a full and healthy life without 38 feral cats. I have letters from your Mother and MattOnFire that I want to share with you. Your good friend Jocelyn Testes-Harder also wrote an intervention letter, but it was about kicking your meth addiction. When I reminded her that you don’t have a meth addiction, she wrote another letter to you describing how to give the perfect blow job with or without your dentures. When I sent it back for the second time and said that you have an addiction to feral cats and unconditional love, she punched me in the baby maker and told me to tell you to feck off. But I know she is thinking of you today.
I hope you can accept these letter in the spirit in which they were written – mild affection.
TLW,
Jesus H. Christ pull yourself together. What? You’re lonely? You want me to make you a little brother or little sister so you have someone to love you? Aww, poor you…toughen up. I didn’t raise a Crazy Cat Lady, that’s for sure. You probably got all those insanity genes from your father. Did I ever tell you that your father was schizophrenic when we first started dating? I beat the psychosis out of him and so help me God I will do the same to you if need be.
It’s normal to be depressed at your age. Especially since you don’t have a husband to be openly hostile towards at social gatherings. Speaking of marriage, how are you ever going to land another man with all of those goddamned cats around? The only kind of man you are going to attract is an alcoholic hoarder who just needs a little bit more space for his collection of pocket combs.
Get rid of the cats, TLW, or you will be dead to me.
Love you,
Mom
TLW – This is a hard letter for me to write.
Ever since I met you all those months ago, I’ve known you to be vivacious, engaging and fun young woman. Maybe “young” isn’t the right word. Distinguished? No. Seasoned? That works. Anyway, I know deep down in my heart that you are a good person, but your addiction has taken control of your life and turned the free spirit I once knew into a housecoat-wearing, gnarly-haired, emotionally-unstable cat lady. The semi-feral cats have become your life, and I fear you are too far gone to realize the toll it has taken on you and your relationships with those that love you.
I first realized that you had a problem when we were out at that lesbian bar you drug me to because you wanted me to see that battle of the bands thing. I told you that hipster guy playing the guitar seemed too good for you, and you responded by hissing in my face and scratching my arm with your freakishly sharp nails. Then you proceeded to “make biscuits” on my belly. I knew then that your 27 (let’s be honest – it’s more like 46 if you count the dead ones rotting in your pantry) semi-feral cats had a tight grip on your life and even affected the way you respond to fellow humans.
Walking into your house is like walking into a cat shit factory. I know you have 14 litter boxes, but do you have to put them all in the kitchen? And you know you’re supposed to clean them out every once in a while, right? The stench hits you like gigantic wall of ammonia and cheap vodka. The cheap vodka smell is probably from all the cheap vodka you drink. But the ammonia is from the cat piss for sure. The walls are stained with a turkey soup/cat food mixture, which you call “Clowder Chowder”, and your fridge is full of industrial-grade meat byproducts and cheap vodka. This is not a healthy environment for a lady. Lady? For a… For a person? Whatever. You know what I mean.
Remember when I popped in for an unexpected visit and caught you twirling around the living room singing “Some Day My Prince Will Come”? You were dancing with the cat who only has one eye and half a tail. I think his name is Lil’ Johnny Depp. Anyway, the other cats were meowing wildly, almost singing along with you. Except for Admiral Nibbles, who was sharpening his nails on your curtains. Then he looked at me and I swear he did the “suck it” motion and ran off. It was the freakiest damn thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen some shit.
The saddest part of this whole situation is the pain and heartache you are inflicting on your boys. The dogs. What this comes down to, quite frankly, is abuse. We are all aware that you dress your dogs up like cats and then allow your semi-feral cats to gang-hump them. You can hear the whimpers and the howling from a block away, and it breaks my heart. Your dogs are frightened and scared, and begging to be rescued by Robin Starr and left in the back of her car on a hot day outside the SPCA. A far better fate than the pain they are forced to endure living with you.
Please, TLW, it’s time to change your lifestyle and start euthanizing these disease-ridden monsters. I know it will be hard, but I have faith in you. You can do this! With the support of your friends, you’ll get rid of those little bastards and start living a cat-free life. You’ll have to buy a new house, because the one you’re in now smells like pee and dead things, and you just can’t get that smell out without some serious bleaching. You’ll have to get some new clothes, too. The scraggily housecoat really shouldn’t be worn in public – especially if you’re trying to find that prince. Good luck with that! I mean, just get rid of the cats first then you can focus on finding a man. Let’s be realistic, here!
We love you, TLW. Well, we LIKE you. This is an opportunity for you to choose healing and health over cat turds and hairballs.
PS: I swear to Christ, there’s something demonically wrong with Mr. FancyFur. I don’t like the way he looks at me. He’s always plotting! I think he wants to steal my breath.
In the interest of fairness, we agree that you should be allowed to keep 3 of your ferals. Are you ready to end your dependence of a couple dozen feral cats? If so, we are here for you. Well, I am. Matt will be there if there’s nothing better going on. And your Mom will be there if you promise to take a picture in the Hanukkah sweater vest your Aunt Sally made for you, even if the cats have been using it as a bed for a few months.
Come on now. You can do it. Pick 3 kitties and drop the rest off behind WRHL, the Fox affiliate in Richmond. They have plenty of bad press experience in euthanizing caring for semi feral cats.
Recently some friends and family have expressed concern over my 24 semi-feral cats. They claim that no one should own 24 cats and to that, I agree. I don’t trust even numbers and 25 is an unlucky number so I am actually going to need 27. Technically I already have 27, but only if you count the dead ones in the freezer. I hope to round out the family this weekend with some good old fashioned alley hunting. Who else is going to care and love for those helpless kitties if not for me? They would die on the streets if I did not save them and take them home to my one bedroom apartment!
Apparently some crack pot doctors have done studies proving that cat feces can lead to schizophrenia. I have never heard of anything more ridiculous in my entire life! How could the droppings from my little alley treasures ever make someone go crazy? These “studies” by these “doctors” are always proving something and then disproving the exact same thing a week later. Next thing you know we’ll hear that smoking is bad for you! What a bunch of nut jobs. I think they need to have their heads examined!
Honestly, I just don’t see what the problem is. They are well fed and loved. I feed them a mixture of turkey soup and wet cat food I prepare fresh each night. I make sure I don’t make enough for them all to eat because I don’t want them to lose their ability to hunt for food. I toss the soupy mixture on the floor and let them fight over who gets what. Survival of the fittest so to speak. On Friday nights we do feeding time a bit differently and I feed them off my stomach! As for paying for the food I just use my welfare checks or just steal donations left outside of the SPCA. The SPCA has a ton of rich people donating money to it, so I don’t feel bad grabbing a couple of cans of Fancy Feast for my Littles!
Cleaning up after them can be hard since I only have room for two litter boxes. I used to clean the litter box up to five times a day and even set up my alarm to wake up at night but I got tired of doing that so now I just let them go wherever they can find a spot. I’ve gotten rid of most of my furniture and even sleep on a plastic lawn chair that I can just hose off every so often. They don’t seem to mind that I only sweep up after them once every few weeks and they tend to make their business in the corners anyways. I try to limit their water intake to cut down on that “cat pee” smell. I don’t notice it anymore but apparently it is “offensive to the neighbor”. When it is time to clean up I just open up my back door and sweep all of their poop onto the balcony me and my other neighbors share. My neighbor’s toddler thinks it’s Play Doh!
And for all of you that say I’m using a “wall of kitties” to hide any personal pain I may be feeling I say you’re the crazy one! Just because I’m thirty years old, single and have 24 (soon to be 27!) semi-feral cats does not mean I’m lonely. Who could be lonely with 24 little love bugs around hopping up on every possible surface of my apartment? Not this girl. Sure, it can tough to explain to guys but most of the guys I meet off Craigslist don’t seem to mind when a few cats hop on their backs during lovemaking. Everybody likes a ride now and then!
I sure hope I was able to clear up any misunderstandings. I am most definitely not a “crazy cat lady”. Now excuse me while I start my nightly ritual of singing “Milkshake” to Mr. Paws. It’s his favorite and he gets real bitchy if he has to wait.
Little Jerry Seinfeld in the middle of an intense biscuit making session
1-Overreacting to the weather– RVA is famous for overreacting to any and all weather events. Water falling from the sky (this is called rain) causes a panic that could only be compared to impending nuclear disaster. The shock of heat and humidity in the summer is an annual event. Side note: I’m still waiting on clarification from my besties at NBC12 to tell me what the hell the “Comfort Index” means. What the hell is a “five” Comfort Day versus “nine”? Anyone? Of course there’s the mother of them all, winter weather, causing 24/7 news coverage and an “all hands on deck” approach to the slushy rain that will cause a run on bread and milk at groceries stores throughout the Commonwealth.
2-Sweater Vests. It has been my experience that anyone wearing a sweater vest is a douche. Barista fondly named such a lover of the sleeveless sweater “Bitchy McSweater Vest” who is King of douche-baggery. Several weeks ago we sweetly and politely asked to borrow McBitchy’s lighter when he snippily responded, ‘I DON’T SMOKE!” and stomped away. He then proceeded to light up just several steps away from us much to our shock and horror. We’ve got your number McNosleeves .
3-Little Jerry Seinfeld. In the Best and Worst of 2009 I mentioned my worst semi-feral cat acquisition. Like his namesake, I brought him home to usurp Mr. Paws, the leader of my semi-feral cat colony. It was my belief that Mr. Paws had gotten too big for his britches and needed to be taken down a couple of notches. After several scuffles it became apparent that the only thing Little Jerry Seinfeld was good for was making biscuits on my belly. Mr. Paws’ bravado is now worse than ever. I think he may try to kill me in my sleep, you guys!
4-Daylight Savings Time-I recently had a fierce debate over the origin of DST. My argument for its inception was that farmer’s needed more light in the morning to harvest their crops. My opponent (hi!) said it had nothing to do with farming, but had to do with saving electricity, an argument that still makes zero sense to me. Regardless, I don’t give a rip why we use it. I hate it. Leaving work when it’s pitch black sucks balls and I have the perpetual feeling that it’s time for me to go to bed when it’s only 8:30 at night.
5-Voicemails. At work the glaring red light is a reminder of this outdated form of communication. E-MAIL ME PLEASE. Playing phone tag with you fifteen times when you could have e-mailed me once makes me want to take some short-hand right quick before I use the overheard projector while mimeographing some copies.
I am not sorry that the DC Sniper is going to die tonight. Not at all. However, I am sorry that I may have used his reign of terror to further my own self-interests at times. Just on occasion, just a little bit, not all that often but probably some of the time, I maybe displayed poor judgment. I was just a wee-Barista back then. I have grown up considerably since 2002.
I am sorry that I called the NBC station in Baltimore and reported that my neighbor might be The Sniper. But no law-abiding citizen owns a sketchy white van, right?
I’m sorry that I lied and said I couldn’t get into Rockville, MD to work one morning because The Sniper was on the loose in that area. He was on the loose, as was I. Alas, I was in Atlantic City.
I’m sorry that I spilled my Cosmo (uh, it was 2002) all over our living room and said that I was scared that I just heard the sniper. I was just jittery from a three-day bender.
I’m sorry that I didn’t talk to my now-husband at a party because I was “too engrossed” in that day’s sniper coverage. I was just shy, and too stupid to cheat on my then-boyfriend. I totally should have cheated on the lame then-boyfriend.
I’m sorry that I declined a wedding invitation, saying that I was instructed to keep the highways clear in case of a sniper attack. I’m even sorrier that the couple had a cash bar and I felt compelled to lie to avoid that event.
I’m sorry that I closed the bar I tended at a different time every night saying that property management wanted the shopping center to be harder for the sniper to target. I was just being lazy.
I’m sorry that I told my roommate that she should tie a sweater around her waist so that she would be appear to be a smaller, more challenging hit for the sniper. That was just rude of me. But my social-sports team was named SOFA (Sweater Over Fat Ass) that year and I mistakenly thought the disguise was a helpful fashion hint.
Present day, I’m sorry that I called TLW “Tubs” this morning. I was not stressed over John Allen Muhammad’s attorney’s plea for clemency. I just think it’s funny to call her Tubs. She’s real little. I’m sure she understands. She calls her bald feral cat Mr. Fluffy all the time.
I’ve gotten a lot of questions recently about my 24 semi-feral cats. Amazingly enough many people don’t know the first thing semi-feral cat ownership! In an effort to educate the public, below are several FAQs that I hope will enlighten you.
Is it true that semi feral cats form colonies?
Yes, semi feral cats form colonies-technically called “clowders”. Furthermore, these colonies have a distinct hierarchy with one cat being the main meow-meow in charge. In my semi feral cat colony, this big guy is the one and only Mr. Paws! He’s half Tabby/half Persian/100% badass. How the dominate male is determined in any colony is through a series of hissing and swatting matches in which the loser loses an eye nine out of ten times. Take a gander at Mr. Paws’ picture above and I think any questions about his virility will quickly be squashed.
How do you feed so many semi feral cats?
Easy. I just toss a bag of food on my kitchen floor when I get home from work and then go for my nightly run. It’s best to not be around during feeding time.
How many litter boxes do you have?
Six.
Is what you’re doing illegal?
Yes.
Is it awkward when you’re keeping company and your apartment is filled with cats?
It depends. I explain to any male visitor the situation beforehand to avoid any potential awkward encounters-particularly with Mr. Paws-as he is a bit protective of his lair when new people enter. Sometimes people are cool with it. Sometimes people think it’s weird.
Why do you own so many semi feral cats?
Why don’t you own so many semi feral cats?
How long are you going to keep up this shtick about these cats? It’s getting old. I thought you had two dogs?
I’ll keep it up as long as I want. Unless you want me to start talking about my growing Precious Moments figurine collection then I say we just stick to the cats.
Café Darkness 