First movie I ever went to in the theater was Matrix Reloaded. I’m told it was good, but I really can’t say. You see, I kind of slept all the way through it, even though it was pretty long.
It’s not that it’s bad or anything. I’m not really qualified to make that statement. It’s that my days are so full of other activities that when the lights go down it gets all kinds of yawny in there and so tough to stay awake-ish.
First time I “saw” it was on the big screen back in May. Didn’t even have to pay to get in. Odd since I didn’t have celebrity status yet. Paper didn’t even launch until July. Soon as we got in, I grabbed the bottle and from there it was nothing but Z’s.
This time it was on video. We’re in a safe place here at home, right? I can do this man, I’m telling you. Um… Okay, it was harder than I thought. I have no good answer. During the opening credits my eyes grew heavy and that was just about all she wrote. Heard some loud noises at one point, but it just made me roll over halfway. That’s all my review is, rolling over halfway.
Can someone tell me what it’s all about? Is it good? Is it true that I can really act better than that mythical Keanu guy?
Boy I tell you, modern technology really amazes me sometimes. Take Karaoke singing for example. Did you know they make machines that let you sing over someone else’s song?
My brother got one such device. He’s not a real big fan of it. He likes to click it on and just blow into the microphone. Sounds like a whirley-bird, really. Not me, I got the hang of this thing but snappy-quick-like.
My course of discovery wasn’t guaranteed. I first put the microphone inside my mouth. It’s no biggy, I do that with pretty much everything, chairs, movies, soap, whatever. It didn’t taste like anything too special, so I sighed softly. What I heard was no soft sigh. What I heard was the roar of a lion, but in my own voice.
So now, at any opportunity, I give myself a karaoke treat. Under proper professional supervision, we fire up the apparatus and off I go. I say things like “hhrrrgh!” and “ma’ awagh!”. And I do it with zeal.
I knew my birthday party was afoot when revelers started showing up, want I didn’t foresee was the unusual theme, though it quickly grew on me. Indeed, even impacted me.
The theme, it seemed, was “over-the-hill”. You don’t know what it’s like to have nothing left to look forward to (unless you’re older than me, which you probably aren’t.) Despite the festive décor, the party was a bit more sobering than I would have liked, and not just due to the absence of libations.
But think about it, after your second birthday, what’s left to look forward to? You’ve already had a birthday and another one for good measure, so what’s left?
On the plus side of being so old, I can talk, walk, and run and jump with the best of them. I know my likes and dislikes, and I can eat and sleep, not just when I want to, but on command. You’d think that counts for something, and you might be right, though I’m really starting to doubt it
On the downside, well, there’s nothing left to look forward to in all of life. I’ll have to go to school, get a “real” job, potty train , face the daunting notion of dating, and worst of all, eventually learn to dress myself. What savagery this aging business turns out to be!
LEFT – The balloons, the banner, the whole thing is very well done, I must admit.
The only consolation on the horizon is that my car insurance will probably go down… In twenty-three years. You’ll have to pardon me for my lack of outright glee.
My life isn’t over though, I’m sure I’ll manage to cope. I’ll find a way to get through it. I have no idea how, but I’ll get a team of scientists on it as soon as I can.*
Hang on a second, these past ten-minutes of geriatric toddler, over-the-hill partying may have been something different than I made it out to be. Yep, nope, they’re bringing in another million balloons. Hold on a second.
I get it, that wasn’t the real party. That was all a joke. The real party is just now starting. Well no wonder I didn’t get any cake or presents. Okay, I have to go. I got a party to honorably guest-host, please excuse me.
Rumor has it that it’s that time of year again. The time when candle-festooned cakes come out coupled with a dreadful birthday dirge. Yep, rumor has it I’m two.
While it isn’t all official just yet, as my big party hasn’t happened, but the little party sure has. I Didn’t get a song or a cake, but I made up for it with pizza and animatronic critter folk.
We played games like “borrow the Skeeball,” which the older kids didn’t like so much. We did some modest banshee chanting, which all the staff took as a matter of course. We even did the “Escape from Elders” game, which seemed to tire the parents a bit.
LEFT: This is a better shot of me rejoicing in my birtharous glee. The crown, the balloon, the random people in the background. Don’t it all just smack o’ birthday fun?
No matter though, it was my day and I even had the crown to prove it.
Now, I can’t say I know who this “Chuck” bandmaster fellow was, nor that I knew much of his cheesy, though admittedly macho, four-piece band. What I do know is that their herky-jerksome, pseudo-melodious choreography tantalized and delighted me as only discount robots could. It really made my night, I must say.
Since this is history in the making, rather than actual history, I’m not sure exactly how it will play out, Something tells me there will be more birthday festivities in this coming week. Well, not something so much as someone. Dad said it. Meant it too, I do believe.
Still, happy two-year to me. Oh, and I’ve got resolutions too, but that’s a matter for another day.
I’ve come up with all kinds of excuses to get out of work before, but this Dominic bro-fellow has really upped the sickness-faking ante. Faking a pox? Oh man, I’ve got to write this one down.
What an outrageous ruse! I gave him four assignments and I could tell he didn’t want to do any of them. First he chewed on the paper I handed him, then he sprouted out with the pseudo-pox just to get out of it.
We all got the cold here at the Perplexing Times offices last week, but he got it no worse than the rest of us. We all took a couple days off, no biggy. Once it quieted down he came up with this obscure “cold rash syndrome” no one’s ever heard of. Say what?
How did he research this thing to know it even exists? The nurses didn’t know it. The doctor was even a bit surprised. The parents freaked out real good and dad even missed a night of sleep over it. I wasn’t so easily fooled, however.
He couldn’t fake a fever or lethargy, and didn’t bother to fake any mad-style itching, so what does a body-wide rash with no other symptoms spell? It spells adept, work-avoidous, job-skipperous clevery, that’s what.
If he could take work half as seriously as he takes getting out of work, this paper would be golden. 24-karat babies, baby, you get me?
It’s like he craftily applied the dots with a pale, pink Sharpie pen when no one was looking. Yep, indelible, I get it. You may have tricked us all, you lazy primate, but I’ll get you in the end. Not like the thermometer does, that’s much too literal of a getting one in one’s end sort of situation.
Left: Seen here fully relishing the glory of the inflatable doctor glove. Pay no mind you see no spots, he’s got ‘em good and plenty. He hides them like he hides his other symptons.
So fine, Mr. Dominic, you get out of your assignments for now, but don’t think you’re off the hook just yet. The next round of required reports won’t be as easy as the one’s you shirked, mark my garble.
To our dear readers, I suggest you brace yourselves for the onslaught of challenging greatness lying in wait for Mr. D. Benjamin to bring you. He’ll fly or flounder on this next round for sure and I eagerly await either fate.
And if you are Mr. Dominic reading this, I suggest you keep your health and senses about you and sleep with one eye open. Not both eyes open like bro-Patrick does, that’s just creepy. Seriously, he does it. Really eerie stuff, like the lake but with a snore.
I’ve got my peepers trained on you, buddy Dominic, just don’t pull no more sick days. I checked with human resources, you’re all out.
Okay guys, I can see that something is “up” but I can’t imagine what the heck is so funny. So pretty please tell me what it is that’s so laughysome?
I ran my paws all over my face so I know I’m not covered in Gerber squash nor applesauce. This outfit is a little fruity I know, but it’s nothing that hasn’t gotten a laugh before. So what is it? I’m puzzled. Yes, even I’m perplexed.
It’s not my impression of Robin Williams, is it? I’ve done everybody from Kronkite to Benny Hill to my very own mockable Daddy-O, but you guys never “got who I was doing” before, so I don’t think that’s it. I admit my impersonation skills are weak, so what’s the chuckleable deal?
I have to go now, but don’t think this matter is finished, I want answers. I have to attend to something else quite strange. Something cartoonishly large is obscuring part of my vision and also there’s something heavy on my head.
I’m not sure what’s going on atop my fuzzy noggin, but it feels a bit “funny” if that makes any sense. Not funny as in laughably so, I don’t think… Wait. That isn’t it, is it?