The other night, I snuggled between the sheets to watch season 3 disk 3 of Six Feet Under and enjoy the ice cream sandwich I repeatedly denied to my kids. While savoring the moment, my cat stretched her tiny body out and farted. More than any other member of my family, including the dog and the guinea, that cat has the must putrid, wretched flatulence. I wanted to kick her, but Jesse is in Mexico and she's the only security I have against toilet surfing white lab rats.
Oh, and I'm not even joking about toilet surfing white lab rats (story two). I am blessed to live in that one, small, midtown area plagued by toilet surfing white lab rats (story three!). I'm to understand these couldn't possibly be coming from the university labs across the street. Well, maybe, but they still have to explain the toxic spill sewer roaches with super creepy powers from which my cat also protects me (along with lizards and other wee beasties that make the mistake of movement).