So Leigh an' I were sharing a philosophical discussion on quantum entanglement, Existentialist Utilitarianism in modern America and whether the Predator or the Alien was more badass over Leigh's fancy little chicken dinner. Did I tell you about his chicken dinner? He's been on a Bon Apetit magazine binge and tonight made some fancy sesame/honey/catsup/tasty sauce for poultry and postickers. It was quite tasty and a deep, dark, lustrous red as well.
At about the point in the conversation where I declared Leigh a commie, Zero sauntered in, as kittens are wont to do. She said "HI LEIGH!" and jumped up onto his shoulder via his leg, arm and plate full of said very red sauce. Leigh's response consisted mostly of "OMGWTF !(@&%!#$" and other various things a young, impressionable kitten should not be exposed to. So I grabbed Zero and took her over to the sink to wash her red, yet tasty, paws clean. The problem with holding a cat and washing her paws off in the sink is that you have to set her down sooner or later. To be more specific, the problem is that she instinctually dashes towards your shoulder for saftey.
Did I mention I was wearing my favoritest blue fancy-pants shirt?
With big frickin red paw prints on it?
Well, it didn't have red paw prints on it before, but it does now.
While Ronin may drop onto my groin at 4am from 5 feet up, at least he hasn't assaulted any of my clothes with commie-sauce.
