Look what it did for Van Gogh!
I died, and you don't catch me moaning.
Except at midnight by the mastiff in the apartment below us. I love the way he shrieks like a little girl.
I thought Food Guy's 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?
(Snicker! Ghosts can weight what they want. So guess how heavy I want to be when I'm on top of his chest?)
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 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?
Ernest Heminway. Raymond Chandler. Mark Twain,
well I like him ... he knows where I like my ears scratched.
But if that Frost guy shows up again, droning on about which road to pick, I'll pick one for him all right ...
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 ghostly gypsy princess.
The lousy ones, of course, are all his.
Another mindless movie Food Guy will probably see and ... sigh ... enjoy: