The Ten Most Regrettable Starbucks® Beverages

1. Strawberries, Glass Shards and Used Hypodermic Needle Creme.

2. I Can't Believe It's Not Roadkill™ Frappacino Lite.

3. Budweiser Macchiato.

4. Frap On. Apply directly to forehead.

5. Conjugal Visit Americano. With whipped cream. And sprinkles.

6. Nine Lives® Tunacino. I can has Starbux?

7. Cafe Bacon Mocha. Wait. Chocolate and bacon actually taste good together. Seriously.

8. Let Us Never Speak Of This Latte Again with sugar-free Mocha syrup. It just doesn't meet customer expectations.

9. Short Cougar Cappucino with Pool-Boy Drizzle Sauce.

10. Peer Pressure Espresso. Everyone's shooting a solo. Why not you? Don't you want to be one of the cool kids? Huh?

SPECIAL BONUS FLAVORS:
Buttermilk Ranch Frappacino
Torgo Chai Tea Latte: The master will be pleased

The Original Pet Shop Boy

This is a rare moment. I want to talk about something personal, and I beg you to indulge me for just a bit.

Yesterday, I lost perhaps one of the dearest friends I've ever had. That's a picture of him. Caen Boneoch (pronounced Ken Bunyick). It's Gaelic. For shit head.

We were together for 15 years. He was the coolest dude ever. I found him in a now-defunct pet shop, and cheerfully paid $33.52 for him. Best investment I ever made.

He stuck by me while I insisted on living with The Ozark Hillbilly Boyfriend and his Smelly Dog. He politely tolerated the Oaf of a Hillbilly, for my sake, I guess. However, he kicked the dog's butt on more than one occasion, though, just to make up for it.

He got along famously with my Dad, who normally doesn't think much of cats. He said Boneoch wasn't "pushy," which meant that Boneoch knew how to politely beg for food. He'd also watch the Braves games with Dad. He'd also take a nap at about the fifth inning, like Dad.

Boneoch did point out to me that my husband, Brett, was a good choice of companion, and he'd often prefer Brett's lap to mine. Can't say I blame him.

My little dude enjoyed black olives, those fur-covered mice toys, getting his ears rubbed and laying in patches of sunlight. For years, he had a pot belly (okay, I liked having him as a sous chef!) that got so prominent, my friend Chrissie thought he was a pregnant female when she first saw him.

I'm going to miss him real bad. I know the next few days and weeks are going to be peppered with tears and nostalgia. I accept this. Thankfully, I have six other feline friends (and countless human friends) to help me through. I know it takes time, but I know that things will be okay in the long run.

Thank you for indulging me. Soon, I'll get back to stupid stories of proofreading noir and Jesus and Coyote. But, for now, I'm going to miss my friend.

Now, quit reading this, and go hug someone you love.

Strange Tales of the Strange, Chapter XXVI

Okay, so, there's this guy I know, and once upon a time he had a dog.

He went on vacation, but didn't have anyone to take care of the dog while he was away. So, he decided to just leave the dog on his back deck. He put the dog on a ten-foot leash so it wouldn't run away.

The deck itself was about eight feet long and had no rails surrounding it. It just had an empty edge. It was also pretty high up off the ground.

When he came home about a week later, he found that the little dog had jumped off the edge of the deck and hung itself. Poor little guy. Uh, the dog, not him.

So, after awhile, he got another dog. He also decided to go on vacation again. And, once again, he had no one to look after this dog. He did opt out of leashing the dog. However, he did decide to leave a 30-pound bag of dog food out so that the dog could just eat whenever it was hungry.

When he came back home a week later, he found that the dog had attempted to eat the food all at once, and died from overeating.

We've decided that he doesn't need to get more dogs. And, he needs to quit going on vacation.

A Candidate Who Gets Behind YOU!

What's that smell? Burnt hair? Raw sewage? A dead coyote? Vidalia onions gone bad? Litter box need emptying? That guy at the comic book store? Why, no! It's election time! Again! Exclamation point!

And, of course, anyone with more than two working brain cells knows how useless any and all candidates are. No, seriously. Do you really think these people are going to do what they promise? Have they EVER done what they promised? Uh, NO. Holy Juno on a Jukebox, people, these are POLITICIANS we are discussing here. When you go to the polls to vote for them, they laugh so hard, they wet themselves (I'm pretty sure they change afterward, though). They are interested in themselves, not you or your petty little concerns about "the economy" or "the war" or "health care".

But, this can change.

Kids, this year at the polls, bring a pencil for the write-in candidate who kicks so much ass, Chuck Norris calls him for pointers.

Oh, yeah. You know who I'm talking about. Vermin Love Supreme.

Feel something poking at your tookis? Yup, that's Vermin, a candidate who gets behind you. A candidate who is behind you because you are a really good human shield for him. A candidate who is behind you so that he can smell your hair and tuck in that tag on your shirt. He'll do all these things, and MOAR!

Read his platform here. Go ahead. I'll wait.

Done? Good. Isn't this amazing? Isn't he amazing?

But, enough of that crap. Let's talk about Vermin. Better still, why don't we talk about Vermin's lack of a running mate? When we have President Supreme in office, who's going to be there to get all the juicy war contracts for his cronies? Who's going to shoot some poor slob while duck hunting? Who's going to tell Patrick Leahy to "go fuck yourself"?

That's right, folks. That person is me.

Using my awesome Shamanic Telepathic Superelastic Bubbleplastic abilities, I have contacted Vermin to let him know that I am available for the position. Of Vice President. It's no trouble, really. I think I have some free time next week. I'm certain he'll call.

I support everything that Vermin stands for. Except for the things that I don't support. I can't stand those things. They're awful. But, the other stuff is great. And so are kitties. And large, sharp pointed objects. And you giving me all your money. After all, I am a politician.

So, remember kids: Vermin and Coyote in '08. A vote for us is an act that you know is futile and meaningless. Like any other vote for an American president.

O Rly? Two words for ya, kids: Electoral College.

Persistence Of Mammaries

May I present The People's Republic of Things You Are Least Likely to Find in a Strip Club:

1. A signed copy of the Magna Carta.

2. A drive-thru. Although, it would be very funny.

3. That hideously numb feeling that occurs in both your brain and your ass as you sit staring at a computer monitor in your putrescent gray corporate cubicle.

4. A tube of anchovy paste.

5. A fair-handed debate of the pertinent issues between all Democratic and Republican presidential candidates. Oh, wait: you won't find that anywhere.

6. That guy who hates strip clubs. He never goes.

7. The deeply poignant and relevant melodies of Celine Dion. Yes, I typed that with a straight face. It was not easy.

8. A nude impersonation of Mr. Gumby. But, that's only because I quit dancing back in '92.

9. Filed quarterly returns for estimated income.

10. Regret of not pursuing that life-long dream of a career in the Administrative Assistant arts.