A WARNING

Warning: This entry is twitchy, idiosyncratic and stuffed with references that only the long-time reader will grok reliably and consistently. In other words, this entry is for those on the Inside, the Real Ones, the ones who, though presidents and aldermen may change office, will never disappear, never leave their secret seats of power, never relinquish their grip from the silk tassel that summons the will of nations. Yup, that's my readership. And this entry contains coded instructions on how to handle the global economy for the next decade or so.

STUPID RABBIT 2

Rabbits are fecund. It turns out they're so fecund that even discussing rabbits for too long will spawn one of them in your own living room. Let this be a warning to those of you who don't believe in sympathetic magic and the talismanic power of language to invoke substance from will.

At The Lotus' place of work, a stew of escaped lab rabbits have set up by the staff entrance, producing litters and generally making a warren of twitchy-nosed cottontails. The staff have been feeding and providing some shelter for the litter. Last week The Lotus found out that the Humane Society was coming down to the university to capture and euthanize the rabbits, so on Saturday afternoon we drove down with our friends P. and J. to get a look at them before the men in white coats with the nets and prods and lethal gas chambers arrived. When we moved aside the nest of old sweaters and blankets, though, we realized that the litter had somehow shrunk from ten to one tiny grey rabbit. We weren't sure if other staff members had taken the rest, or if the Humane Society had come by already but missed this little grey fellow hiding under the old rabbit-piss-soaked sweater.

It didn't surprise me that this remaining rabbit, survivor of the SPCA pogrom, happened to be The Lotus' favourite. The Lotus has always had an eye for the deformed, the crippled, the last and lost of the litter. She picked out one of our finches (the now-dead George) precisely because he was the ugliest and most miserable thing at the pet store, a little fierce brown bird with a moptop and scaly legs stuck in a cage full of chirping orange zebra finches. George bit the salesgirl when she pulled him out of the cage. He bit a veterinarian. And he would certainly have bitten us, were we not wily finchkeepers.

Now we have a cage full of cedar shavings, a few handfuls of alfalfa, a cardboard box and a tiny grey rabbit. We haven't named it yet, so if anyone out there has any ideas, feel free to volunteer them. You know how to talk to me: click on the sullen little cowboy.

BROTHER SPEAKS

My brother, who has exchanged the couch in our parent's house for one in Vancouver, emailed me about my Google referrals:

Once again you have typed those infamous words, "Jackal Movie Sunglasses", on your web page. I tell you, this is a recipe for disaster, and not for tasty lemon squares. This problem will only go away once you cease to think about it, much like icthy bug bites or oozing genital sores. I also noted back in your entry entitled "fright mullet", you mention Salisbury house not once, not twice, but thrice. The thing is, no website other than that of Salisbury House itself mentions it more than once. Why someone out there is in desperate need of information on Salisbury House, I dare not speculate. In fact, I would like to know what good things exist that draw people to your site. Everything you mention is absolutely rancid, just like the special at Salisbury House.

It's true that I like to focus on what's rancid, but only because we live in a rancid age, one whose sharp reek appeals with its sensual promise of lost freshness. But my brother poses an excellent question: What good things exist to draw people to my site? Well, judging from referral logs, the trivial, the pornographic, the stupefyingly dull and the nonsensical are what people want most out of the internet. Plus horrible historical disasters. In the last 24 hours, the weasels have snuffled in the cyberdirt for "bareback lads," "Saddam International Airport," "Hartford Circus Fire," and the always popular "Child Prostitution". I consider my site market research for the perverse products of human curiosity. One day I shall open a swanky boutique. Where I shill sell white slaves! WHITE SLAVES, PEOPLE! GOOGLERS FOR WHITE SLAVES, OVER HERE! Oh yeah.

parode - exode