Aunty Christ can haz Robotuzzin?

Well, Aunty Christ has learned a few things in the past few days, most important of which is this: Being sick for three weeks is a fucking bitch. Next time I get a cold and I ask someone (Rich) to shoot me, I sure hope he does so, because I never fucking want to go through that experience again. Uh-uh. No way. After the first course of antibiotics it became clear that the cold had moved from my sinuses to my chest. I coughed so much I vomited. I coughed so much, I thought I had cracked a goddamn rib. Oh fuck, I coughed.

Anyway, it appears to be going away now, slowly, so long as I do not breathe any air in which a cigarette has even been thought of, lit or unlit, real or candy. It seems like hyperbole, but honestly? A guy said the words “pole smoker” next to me, and immediately I launched into a coughing fit. True story.

Another important thing learned by me is that, in Saskatchewan (or wherever I live), it is illegal to harbor a raccoon for any purpose, due to the fact that they carry distemper. Oh man, that is a disease that I simply must try to avoid: Conjunctivitis, diarrhea, fever, cough, labored breathing, vomiting, runny nose … Wait. Did I say I had a cold? It may have actually been canine distemper virus, now that I think of it. Oh, no matter about the shooting bit, then, Rich Bachelor. I will no doubt die within one to three weeks, according to the wikipedia there. So, raccoons here in the Great Northwest carry distemper, and even if they are very, very adorable and cannot help but be supertiny, helpless balls of fluff, they must be euthanized rather than bottle-fed and brought back to health if their mothers abandon them. Though honestly, why the mothers would abandon them rather than luff them all over furever ’n’ ever is beyond my cognitive grasp.

I mean, I’m no fan of babies, but given the choice between

this and

this, well …

I’m not alone in picking the furry ones, am I? By the way, I advise to all my friends and many of my enemies NOT TO google image search the term “ugly baby,” if you would like to avoid a lifetime of nightmares. No joke. It’s disgusting. (Also, please do not click on that link, I beg you.) Also, I would like to note, since we’re on the subject of babies, kind of, that I had a dream a few nights ago in which a man’s disembodied head and his baby’s disembodied head were positioned turduckenlike inside one another—and I don’t have any idea where that came from. It was a bizarre and violent dream in many other ways as well, but that’s the standout image from it. Thank god, eh? What if there was some even worse torture that my mind had dreamed up? I’ll be making an appointment with the therapist Monday, for sure.

Back to the subject of raccoons: I was walking da thug dawgs yesterday morning, and we came across a ball of fluff trying to make itself tiny against a garden wall. Goofus and Gallant did not notice it, luckily, but I took note of its location and resolved to go back in an hour, giving Raccoon Mom ample time to come get her baby. One hour later, and no change. I made some calls. The first place, Animal Control, said they could come get the baby, but they would have to euthanize it. I called the zoo, who referred me to the Audubon Society, who gave the same answer, adding that it is law in Saskatchewan to kill raccoons and not harbor them, due to the distemper thing. Oh, well, distemper does sound pretty bad, I guess. But give me a diseased baby raccoon any day over a world where these things are allowed to run around unchecked.

I swear to god. Someone give me a canvas bag and some rocks, and I’ll take care of this myself.

Oh calm down, you all. It’s spring! You can’t look anywhere without seeing Daddy’s latest fashion accessory. And, as we overheard some diaperbag say the other day, “Babies are amazing.” Oh, I don’t know if you’ve heard? But babies? They’re wonderful.

The last part of the story—well, there’s a happy end and an unhappy end. Which would you rather hear? The happy ending is this: I noticed another raccoon kit on the other side of the road, also balled up small, next to a curb, in the street. Not knowing what else to do, I left the two babies for another few minutes while I got ready for brunch. When I drove by later, a crowd of concerned citizens had gathered around the sidewalk raccoon (someone had placed a bowl of water nearby), and the street raccoon appeared to be gone. “Where’s the other one?” I yelled out my car window. “The mom”—the girl speaking nodded her head at a large tree in the yard—“came and got him. I think this one is sick, and that’s why the mom hasn’t taken him yet.” “I’ve been worried,” I said. “I noticed them a few hours ago.” “Oh, they’ve been down here since three in the morning, at least,” said a man, coming from across the street. So, the water, the concern, the outreach, the one saved kit—all good things, right? I’ll stop the story here, and we’ll all enjoy our happy ending, shall we?

But really, I think the other kit is dead now. We barely knew ye, Bandit! Bravely battling starvation and dehydration, he finally was welcomed into his Loving Raccoon Father’s arms. Or legs, or whatever they’re called. Boo, hiss. Shame on you, Saskatchewan lawmakers.

Onto other kinds of kits: I assume you’ve heard of I Can Has Cheezburger?, the ridiculous animal photocommentary site that traffics in cute animals and cutely incorrect English? One photo (of a fuzzy kitten), for example, is labeled, “no kitteh… you get all the chzbrgrs u can eat… at least until u is fatty, then u is become pillow.” To sum up, I kind of love it, and I kind of hate it. It’s funny … unless you find the intentional dumbing down of American culture completely repulsive, in which case it’s completely repulsive. My favorite/least-favorite section is the “lolrus,” which I don’t even know how to describe without telling you that it’s a bunch of pictures of walruses and seals who are said to be complaining about someone taking their “buckit.” Rich will like this one in particular, since it will, I think, remind him of this piece about Wilford Brimley. Neither here nor there, but it does rather disturb me that this blog has turned into a forum for pointing out to Rich amusing things that I’ve found on el internet. Oh, I used to be no one’s blog-whore.

Anyway, this is getting rather lengthy—and linky—but my point (I do have one, kind of) is that there is a name for this dumbed-down American version of Engrish, and it is kitteh. Kitteh (for those over, let’s say, 33) is to written English as Hello Kitty is to fine art. Just look at the so-called rules of kitteh: Use the word “with” inappropriately, misuse gerunds, misspell everything, add exclamations and extra words. … The result is, like I said, kind of cute and kind of stupid and kind of funny, if you’re willing to enter into this pact with Satan that allows you to overlook that, in with all the smart people pretending that it’s cute to act stupid, there have no doubt slipped a few actual stupid people, pretending that they know, well, anything, really, and that’s kind of sad, as is the fact that we’ve all regressed to some moronic form of seventh grade, where it’s adorable to wet ourselves and not know how to multiply or add.

On the other hand, just look at the fucking lolrus, will you? He can duz melting teh blakkend hart of a cinick! Sumbuddy gives with him hiz buckit! Lol.

Aunty Christ <3 u, lolrus!