When we travel we entrust our two precious celebrity cats, Billy Dee Williams and George Hamilton, to the gentle care of postbear. You may have read one or two of his caustic comments on here. He’s a thing of beauty.
Postbear is a bit of a hoarder. Not in a horrific A&E kind of hoarder, no. He collects amazing oddities of broken toys, books and head scratchingly obscure CDs (best find: a salsa version of Kraftwerks greatest hits).
When we return on from our trips we usually take about a week to find all the things he’s left us in our absence. Here’s a few examples of the treasures we’ve come home to:
Trapped behind inpenetrable plastic!
I have no idea what it "does"
Rubber Inflatable Ring - it's ok! It's Been Tested!
HOLY FUCK KILL IT!!
The Alien plush is mine... the round painting of orange/red is not.
Both wise charcaters. Both without bodies.
4 thoughts on “Cat Sitter”
sure thing. what do you want me to fill your saltshaker with, laundry crystals or meth?
Andrew, will you come dogsit for me in July?
crap, forgot to mention the cats are never any trouble, and that i don’t think you’ve found everything (from recently or times past).
there’s a story behind “please sir…” that’s more than twenty years old. one day in summer sometime while in university, my friend sean and i went to the local (downtown hamilton) goodwill store to browse. we were digging through the records when one of us found an lp that was dirty, warped and yet still shrinkwrapped. i can’t remember the name of the artist (it was a solo album by a man, maybe shaun cassidy, but i don’t think it was any sort of a hit) or the title, but on the plastic wrapping, someone (likely a goodwill employee, since it had been done in grease pencil, the utensil of choice for them) had written PLEASE SIR, WON’T YOU FREE ME FROM MY PLASTIC WORLD?. best of all the artist was posed on the cover looking up into the camera at an alien angle, his eyes imploring hopefully, and had his hands raised as though pressed against the thin transparent film that had him trapped in another dimension.
we lost our minds. we laughed ourselves sick, to the point that we couldn’t breathe or think. at one point i fell most of the way over, a stitch in my side, and we both had to hold ourselves up with our arms, clinging to the record bins. customers and staff watched us, but we could not stop laughing. over the next few weeks, all we had to do was think of the phrase and look at the other and we’d break down again. even years later, raising our hands and assuming the facial expression of the poor, doomed singer would make us laugh. the words come to me regularly, even now, and whenever i see a transparent plastic container or a similar look on a person, a little singsong voice speaks them.
this incident also helped reveal to me that the people who worked at goodwill weren’t optionless drones, that some of them had absurd senses of humour and were able and willing to express themselves.