Kitty, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty, Ungh (Part the Third)

What?

Something, some, something, some, some, some, something, feelin hot, hot, hot…

Um, it’s 83 on a day in mid-May in Seattle.  This is unfucking acceptable.  I am muy annoyed.  Heat and I get along about as well as Biggie and Pac, which is to say, if I could shoot the sun, I’d fucking do it.  It would catch a case of 187 on the real tip. 

I don’t cope well.  I get whiny, then I get mean.  Then, people have to pay.  I am not normally violent, though I have violent daydreams (some of em are so rad, I can’t even deal).  Heat fills me with rage.  I am a large woman, born and raised in Alaska.  Large, warm blooded mammals don’t rock the heat well.  Fuck the sun!  It can kiss my big, white, Northern ass!  I am running out of places to run and hide.  I am thinking about moving to Barrow with the polar bears- like, “Scoot over bitches, lemme get down on some of this ice floe action, yo!”  And they’d be all “Grr…”  And I’d be all “I know you’re going extinct and everything, but don’t think for one second I won’t fucking cut you.”

Someone once told me that scorpions (not the German butt metal bands, but that would be AWESOME!) get crazy from extreme heat and sting themselves in the head when it gets em all loopy.  I want a stinger.  Hard.

I would just roam the halls of work, prowling for the first person to piss me off, or tell me how nice it is outside…

Them:  Blah, blah, sunshine, beautiful, hot, yay!

Me:  Excuse me?  Do you want to taste my fucking sting?  Take that shit back!

Them:  What the fuck is your problem?

Me:  Pachong!  (That’s the sound my stinger makes)

Them:  Blarg!  I’m dying!  Why did you sting me?

Me:  Because I can.  I am the Postman of Pain.  I deliver it.  There is no Return to Sender stamp, bitch! 

Them:  Gurgle, gurgle…Why…are…you..talking…like…a…pro…wrestler?…Gurgle…

Me:  Because I just snapped your ass like a Slim Jim!  Ooh, yeah!

Then, eventually, I’d become so crazy, I’d sting myself in the head and end it all.

Nothing over 72 degrees is good.  Nothing.

Just Hit the East Side of a TIA, Just Had A Little Stroke, Ain’t Dead Today

Dudes.  Glad tidings I bring you this day.  Nate Dogg isn’t dead.  Repeat.  Nate Dogg isn’t dead.

There were rumors.  I was upset.  I love that fuckin guy.  As I’ve said before, he’s kind of that girl on a date who says “I’m not hungry, I’ll just have some of what you’re having.”  He’s made an entire career off that shit.  Art!  No seriously, he’s only put out one or two of his own albums. 

Anywho, I was a little concerned, because he had a stroke in January (He’s only 38 too, what the fuck!?), and since we’ve lost so many smoove jam voices to strokes (See also Luther Vandross [that one is STILL sad], one of the Levert brothers, etc), we gotta conserve a valuable hip hop treasure.

So, point being, not dead, still alive, and recovering.

Big ups, holmes.  See you at the Eastsi-i-i-i-ide Hote-el-el-el-ellllll, and hopefully not at the crossroads (Did that video freak anyone else out?  For reals, that shit was creepy- that big black angel carrying away the baby?). 

Check him out: