Sssh! Food Guy is sleeping.
The big wuss. So he has a itty bitty cold.
I thought his fever of 102 degrees made a warm pillow of his forehead for me.
He whined so much about going to work for one little day
that I left a wedge of cheese for him on his pillow.
And did he appreciate my joke of giving him cheese with his whine?
No, he did not.
Does he appreciate me curling up on his chest for added weight resistance as he huffs through his sit-up's?
No, he does not.
Does he appreciate my feline criticism as I paw at the keys as he types?
Of course not. My words would be magical.
His words just lay there like stale tuna, as pretty as road-kill and about as tasty.
And all those literary ghosts who insist on ruining our sleep? What's up with that?
Mark Twain, well I like him ...
he knows where I like my ears scratched.
Still he insists on calling me Bambino!
the one that leads to the door!
And so help me if Dr. Seuss dares to show his ghostly face, I'll barf up a furball in his green eggs and ham!
If you out there wonder where Food Guy gets all the great ideas, look no further than this Midnight Marauder.
The lousy ones, of course, are all his.
Another mindless movie Food Guy will probably see and ... sigh ... enjoy:
But she does have pretty legs for a human!