Saturday, September 21, 2013

Post-Friday Beast Blogging: The "Where Do You Wanna Be In Two Years?" Edition

MOONDOGGIE:  Whatcha thinking about?

RILEY:  Your inevitable, and -- if all goes according to plan -- gruesome destruction.

MOONDOGGIE:  I was just thinking how that moisture stain on the ceiling looks kind of like a unicorn with a cat on it's back, and how they're probably best friends, and go on adventures, and maybe get a TV show where they fight monsters -- but not scary monsters, like, Scooby-Doo monsters -- and the monsters always lose, but they learn an important lesson and say they're sorry, and then they share their snacks with the cat and the unicorn, and then everybody goes home, and gets to sleep on the bed alllll night.

6 comments:

Anonymous said...

Oh, Riley, you say it best when you say nothing at all.
Suezboo

KWillow said...

Riley's imagining herself with a nice, sharp horn. Catahorn!

Doc Logan said...

Sure, Riley, shoot that look of disbelief our way now, but when Cartoon Network options Moondoggie's idea and the DVD and merch dollars roll in, you'll whistle a different tune.

(I love these cats, have I mentioned that?)

Li'l Innocent said...

This is very, very good, Scott. I know you've said that Riley is actually a total sweetie, but I lovelovelove this wonderful narrative you've got going...

because I have a similar situation between 2 felines in my house, except here it's FOR REAL. The brown goddess/empress Josie has nothing but scorn for the happy-go-lucky, Good-time Charlie grey male Jingle, who (although highly smart) is one of the silliest cats in the world.

Everything about him annoys the Goddess: his stupid face, his stupid tail waving around all over the place, his stupid little exclamations when it's suppertime. She says very bad things to him and smacks him regularly.

He, on the other had, doesn't believe she really means it, and keeps trying to win her over. He is, like Moondoggie, sublimely oblivious to all things negative.

And if he doesn't come in for supper bang on time, Josie gets impatient and starts crabbily watching for him at the door.

I understand there are humans -- scientists, no less -- who have stated publicly that animals don't express emotions. These are people who don't know many animals.

Up with Moondoggie and Riley, and Josie and Jingle!

Scott said...

Doc, you're right, although I suspect Riley has a better lawyer, and has already negotiated a first dollar gross participation deal behind his back.

Thanks, Li'l. Riley is a sweetheart -- to me. And to Mary. But while there's a certain amount of role play and dramatic license going on in these entr'actes, she really does have a love/exasperation relationship with Moondoggie.

To Moondoggie, on the other hand, it's all bursting fireworks and the Cowsills singing the theme to Love, American Style.

Josie and Jingle! (intensifier mandatory) deserve their own cartoon series on the strength of those names alone.

Anntichrist S. Coulter said...

I realize that your comment was over 3 weeks ago, Scott, but you made my exhausted brain wake RIGHT the fuck up and my heart go, "Awwww..." when you mentioned the Cowsills.

I'll always feel guilty that I wasn't in-touch with Barry before the storm, because I could've done what his own SISTER refused --- I could've gotten him OUT, and I had fled his clusterfucktopia of a life before he & Mary even split-up, coward that I am. But all that being ralphed into your comments, it's still a heart-warming "Awww... ohhhh... *sigh*" moment of glowy-heart smile, to remember how many people that he'd touched in his life, with his voice, with his songwriting, despite his dad being a dick & "The Partridge Family" ripping them all off, despite his glory-hawg skank sister, despite the horrible way that he died --- despite what he suffered and fucked-up in his years, Barry still brought a whole HUMONGOUS glut of people an entire GALAXY of joy, smiles, romance, teenaged make-out pinnacles, laughter, pranks, tears of heartbreak and joy alike, stories that will never be forgotten, songs that multiple generations have memorized and still hum to this day... yes, it was a "family" group effort, but Heartthrob Boy was a huge fucking part of that. They'd never have been HALF as successful but for his contributions. To walk into their shotgun in the Faubourg Marigny WAY too close to Elysian Fields AND the 8th Ward (pre-K, pre-trust-fund-babies-playing-"starving-artists" GENTRIFICATION!) --- to walk into that house and hear him gently playing that beat-up old stand-up piano, singing softly to himself, treading lightly to avoid breaking that fragile-as-a-soap-bubble spell around him... I had no fucking idea how fortunate that I was to know Barry Cowsill. Mary Scott Cowsill was no chopped liver her damned self, and were they not married and she not @ my first radio station, I'd never have met that boy-in-a-man-suit. And idiot that I was, I ran away from the coke binges, the alcoholism, the "save me from myself!" cries that never LET me save him, I couldn't keep babysitting him, I was trying so fucking hard to SURVIVE, to pay the fucking rent, I said that I no longer had the time for the drama anymore, that I couldn't TAKE the drama anymore... and he died all alone, he couldn't swim and his own sister had abandoned him there. And I didn't get up off of my ass to get down here to pull people out before the in-on-it cops shut-off EVERY INCOMING ROAD INTO ORLEANS, I didn't get off of my ass fast enough and then it was too late. Sorry to be polluting your kitteh-love and Mary-love thread with MY personal ghost-stories, Scott. It sure as hell wan't what I intended when I started reading this post and these comments.

But outta nowhere, I saw that name, and everything trying to cling to my half-gone spackle-wad "brain" fell down the proverbial terlet and was washed-away. I never go to the anniversary memorial celebrations, there's no continuing/repetitive memorial for when Barry was found under the Gov. Nicholls St. Wharf in DECEMBER, even though there damned well OUGHT to be at least a PLAQUE up on that seawall, dammit. At least if I'd gotten to the jazz funeral on time, I'd have had some of his ashes blown back onto me as they were everyone else, but I missed that, too.

Enough of my transcendental masturbation, Scott. Please don't approve this comment --- all it will do is piss-off anybody who goes into the archives, for having hijacked this thread into my own guilt trip. Shutting the fuck up now. ALL of my love to Riley, Mary, Moondoggie and you.