A Story What Is Crucial To Your Existence

Okay so I have a bunch of Peace Corps friendly non-friends, which is weird because I never did peace corps, but my oldest friend did and I met a bunch of Peace Corps hippies while working in a museum ages ago.

So these Peace Corps hippies (and, bizarrely, a couple Peace Corps capitalists? What’s up with them? How did they get in to the PC in the first place? Perhaps we shall find out in this story?) all still talk to each other, even though they worked in different places around the world. So one of these folks, who is still good friends with my oldest friend and entrée into the Peace Corps circle, lives in Brazil of all places, not even where he did his Peace Corps work, although I will concede that his Peace Corps work was in one of the South Americas in a country whose name starts with B, so probably no real difference, right? (No, it is not Buriname, but that’s all I’m saying. I’m protecting the poor country’s anonymity for a reason.)

Once acclimatized to a South Americanoid country whose name starts with B, where else are you going to live but a Southernized Americanish country whose name starts with B? The point here is that their alarm clocks go off much earlier in those “B” countries than they do on the Northerly Americanic Pacificist coastal states & provinces, due to a mysterious satellite signal called “GPS” which may, in fact, be responsible for the transmission of COVID. (I shall provide more information on that topic in another update after future research, but for right now I shall merely note that GPS is “transmitted” and COVID is “transmitted”. Coincidence? I THINK NOT.)

This bizarre alarm-clock malfunction is ultimately responsible for this story posting before noon, because the time discrepancy allowed this non-friend but friendly acquaintance of your own friendly, neighborhood Crip Dyke to write up an important warning already today, even though many Norteamericanos are still asleep and/or in and out of sleep after a late night bender. In turn, your own friendly, neighborhood Crip Dyke’s PCE (that’s Peace Corps Entrée, do try to keep up) was then able to read his warning as soon as he woke up, which allowed PCE to pass this warning on to yours truly in a text message.

Now, to understand this warning, you must understand that this Peace Corps non-friend, whom I have met many times and appears to be a genuinely good person, I must say for the record, but never became my good friend because he kinda rubs me the wrong way with constantly hyping his latest entrepreneurial project which I am not here to make your business succeed, okay? I am just here for the expensive, hipster ginger ale and to talk to friends from the museum days about museum related things and AFAIK profits have never been a museum thing. And also? You made over 70 thousand dollars last year, that’s fine, which is like 40 thousand dollars more than I did, which is also fine, but I did the HANDMAKING of the guacamole, and more people are hovering around my giant vat of guacamole than are hovering around you, okay? Let’s just get that clear.

What was I saying? Oh yes. You must understand that this Peace Corps friend got through college on a baseball scholarship and he is very proud of his baseball scholarship and did you know that he had a baseball scholarship and probably could have played professional baseball, but wasn’t like, a superstar or anything, and would have had to go to the minor leagues for whatever I am not listening now. But instead he went to the Peace Corps! Which is a good thing what does good things! And he sacrificed being the next Martina Navratilova of the baseball track to do those good things! Which is a good thing, but maybe it would be better if you realized that I’ve known you for more than 25 years now and have heard this story before and just let your Peace Corping and your Museuming speak for themselves?

And really, he is a good guy, he is, and his only bad quality seems to be how much he wants you to really, really know he is a good guy despite all his entrepreneurialism which I PINKY SWEAR I did not demean. And sure, maybe that’s even because he hangs out with a bunch of hippies that earn surprisingly decent incomes despite being hippies and how did that happen when we all met working in a museum over just a few years in the 90s and talked about pretty much anything other than “I want to earn a million dollars” since all our “I want to earn a million dollars” friends weren’t spending their mid-20s working for barely more than minimum wage in a museum. It’s like most of us ended up with those incomes without even trying so hard, and yet he’s always trying so hard and really doesn’t earn that much more than the group’s average, which might make a capitalist insecure, is what I’m saying.

And you might think this is all irrelevant to the story what you have invested so much time in reading that now you’re screaming “GET TO THE POINT ALREADY” and threatening yourself that you’re going to stop yourself from reading if this goes on any longer, but SUNK COST FALLACY, you’re stuck and you know it.

But it is relevant, because his “I am very proud of me” stance has led him to keep of the keepsakes from his glory years playing baseball at the University of College. One of these keepsakes is a baseball bat which has some significance but honestly I won’t tell you what I remember of that story, not because it is little (factcheck: it is little), but because you have suffered long enough.

You have suffered like a poor little kitten has suffered. A kitten desperate for breakfast, but whose person decided to sleep on a couch in an entirely different room from the GPS-infected alarm clock. A kitten who knows their person is supposed to get up and CHEEZBURGER them when clockbeeps happens. A kitten who has to listen to that clockbeeps happen while their person continues to annoyingly sleep and not CHEEZBURGER them even at all.

You might have suffered so much that you would be sympathetic to the kitten who probably batted their person’s face like a common kitten who is hungry in complete starvation, but we will never know because history does not record that.

What we will know, because history did record it, is that the suffering did not stop there. Not only because the kitteh continued to starvation GREATESTLY, but also because the kitten’s human fell asleep on that couch. That particular couch.

That couch that is right beneath a narrow shelf for keepsakes.

That narrow shelf way up high what has always been too high for kittehs to reach.

That narrow shelf for keepsakes what keeps the special baseball bat for goodness sakes.

That narrow shelf that was specifically placed way high up to keep the sakes safe.

Well, it turns out, and this is the warning if you could not have guessed, it turns out that when a cat is VERY motivated, then even narrow, high-up shelves for keeping sakes safe turn out to be potentially kitteh-accessible.

It turns out that you may keep a baseball bat for 30 years because you think it is your friend, but it hard to know how friendly the bat actually feels towards you.

It turns out that when two dear friends named “kitteh” and “baseball bat” get together, even if they are actually one’s friends, they are not always as loving to one as one might expect.

It turns out that, even for this cat which is not one of those special cats with the thumbs, hitting one’s person over the head with a baseball bat quite hardly in order to get one’s tardy breakfast is not an entirely forsworn tactic of even loving kittens.

The moral of this story and warning to all humans is that baseball bats bonk, kittehs’ loyalty has limits when you delay their breakfastses, and old acquaintances whom you have met many times at parties thrown by mutual friends and even worked with for eight months 38 decades ago but to whom you have never been particularly close are not above laughing at your misfortune and turning you into a humorous anecdote for everyone across the internet to read, even in Sorteamericano countries what start with “B”.


  1. StonedRanger says

    Umm, can you wake me up when you get to the end por favor? You lost me somewhere around sixth and plum.

  2. Ichthyic says

    could have been worse. Kitteh might have learned that baseball bats go “bonk” personally. that would have been a hard lesson for kitteh.

  3. Ichthyic says

    …I’m assuming that the lessons YOU learned weren’t hospital-oriented? “Bonk” is much better than “CRACK!” after all, and you are at least somewhat capable of still operating a keyboard.

  4. says

    I am reminded (for no good reason) of the time my iguana decided that the top shelf of a bookcase attached to the wall over the head of my bed would be the perfect place for her to stretch out if only it weren’t for all those books. I was fast asleep when she started on the job, so the first I knew of it was when I was awakened by a perfect storm of books landing in the vicinity of my head. After a bit of a discussion between us, I agreed to let her have the top shelf, and I turned the bed around so that the foot was under the shelves.

  5. johnson catman says

    OMG! Was that Evil Midnight Bomber What Bombs at Midnight using the ghost of Sam Kinison as the voiceover artist?

  6. voyager says

    Interesting storytelling. A bit weird, but compelling and very humorous.

    I used to have a cat that would leap up onto the fridge and lie in wait for someone to walk by so he could whack you on the head. He thought it was hilarious. Me, not so much.

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