Caveman Entertainment Network (CET). Bullies in a blender. Reality TV.

Me and my cavemen counterparts were drooling and scratching our nether regions when all of a sudden there arose such a clatter.   My friends and I are as dumb as a box of rocks and say,  “ugh, alot”.  Very profound commentary for us.  But we do have very strong opinions on everything including our cave chicks.  Errr,   Cave Ladies.

We have discussed boobs,  moobs and Jiffy Lube.   The last is a mystery still til this day.   And why do those cave ladies always make remarks that we can’t understand.    The size of our sticks to the best of my understanding.

Now that our cave darlings feel empowered they are making extensive ‘Honey Do Lists’.     We would rather brood in our so-called mancaves and listen to crickets harmonize by the lake than carve out holes in the walls,  to display their fossilized knick knacks.    Hell,  my old lady and I mean really old lady,  wears granny pants and panties.   Kind of like those basketball shorts in the NBA and cargo pants that are bloused and squared away.   Better than those sexy ladies with the hamburgers in their mouths,  if you ask me.

Which one of these three do not belong?

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But one thing that really bugged us and that is,  is wrastling fake?   Or any more fake than Reality TV?  For one,  does anyone believe that Rick’s son Corey actually knows anything about much except that handshake he does? I mean it is like in the hood with the gun thing.   I wonder if he has maybe a gatt or Tech-9.

Now me and the cave morons all agree, that the Amish Mafia can’t be real because how can you commit arson on TV and get away with it.   And we wonder about his nice car.   Okay,  I got a horse and you got a Mercedes.  To be protected from what?   Teen girls smoking straw and overnight and illicit games of Scrabble?

The most inane TV Series is a tie between about 100 Reality TV Shows and ‘The Match Game’ and Gene Rayburn’s microphone.   I am not sure if that is cattle prod for ‘The Butthole Surfers’  or that staff that Moses had in that movie where he was a Pharaoh in training.

As to any of the shows where they are breaking the law what do they think because doesn’t law enforcement have TVs too?  So,  those Moonshine dudes, are on TV and you figure that they would be all in jail by now.    And anyway what happened to the Shapely Sonja on ‘Operation Repo’?   I love that ghoulish makeup and her awesome hair!   Even Billy the Exterminator knows she is a hot ticket in a donut factory.    I do want Billy’s electric Tennis Racquets because I want to nail some churlish wasps while they are sleeping.

Burn baby burn!

When my brother and I were younger he was a rascal.   One day he hit a honey bee hive with a rock and those overly sensitive bees chased us down.   I got stung a few times but rightfully my brother got x10 as many.   Sheez.   Or the day we were playing with Scorpions.

Now why is it when you have shows like the fishing shows that they are always whining like middle school girls?   Cave dudes love to mock and deride other dudes on the deck when the head cave dude is watching WWE and eating Doritos, the insect flavored brands.

Greenhorns my butt,  it is easy to create drama when one does not get enough roe.   Roe this, roe that,  row your boat whiner boy!   In the Storage Wars,  you have Brandi and Yuuuuuuuuup.    The rest is as staged as the Cowardly Lion biting his tail.

But if you want a real classy show,  you have that ‘Ginger’  with the hot ass cave chicks and their good manners.   That poor boy is probably for real,  like they are not my family.    The older guys are just as lame,  still trying to figure out their Tom-Toms and lava lamps.

Could you imagine one of them on a speed date?   “I  like chewing toe bacco and Cave wall porn.”    “My brother’s sister sure does like fyn!” Grunt!!!

I wonder if their National Anthem is Cocaine?   I mean cave dudes are in control of one thing and that is their TV remote controls and their ten foot satellite dishes.   I wonder if Cave chicks had tramp stamps?

My Cat likes Barry Manilow.

My cat Baby was reading her Red-letter Bible and she paused and put her bookmark in.   She gave me one of those strange looks that cats often do on the third Tuesday of each month.   All I know was she laid down her headset and looked me straight in the eyes.    I looked away because you have no idea how patronizing she can be and the last thing I wanted was a protracted battle.

The air was rife with tension as I eased out of my chair and looked for a way out.  I knew it’s was bad when she took off her reading glasses,  as if saying, “look what you made me do?”    I noticed out of the corner of my eye the mailman approaching our door.   And it was a good omen as he had her favorite Barry Manilow CD in his hands.   She had been waiting for quite some time for her CD and I knew she would be entertained for hours,  so evidently I got a reprieve.

At times I could mollify her by faking that I liked BM.   Of course I would never allude to Barry as BM in her presence and thank God I am not going to let her know that I wrote this book.   And neither should you.  I am going to have to insist on this for the sake of keeping the peace.

In Baby’s matriculations she had the opportunity to go to a concert at the Old Veteran’s Stadium and I had to convince her not to take her big hand with the #1 sign on it.   It seemed that anytime she wanted to go out,  she had to take that darn sign.     Anyhow, the other cats would tell me how she would gush over his songs and especially ‘I Write The Songs’.

Well one day I couldn’t take it any longer and I knew this kind of obsessive behavior was a precursor to drug problems and it seems she spent some time in rehab,  getting off of catnip.   Sometimes she would just drool and have that glassy look in her eyes.    And those eyes were dilated like 16oz Dixie Cups in a whirlwind and her purring almost sounded like a Gregorian chant.   Therefore it was imperative that the two didn’t mix.   It would have been a volatile combination and thankfully I diverted her attention as a roll of toilet paper rolled across the floor and it’s tail ran out just before it could get to the old antique fireplace.   The gods were evidently pleased as the sound of BM was drowned out by the nascient hum of Uriah Heep.

Those were heady days and the ability to quickly adapt benefited me more than you can imagine.   I tried to keep the peace and atmosphere relatively blissful and without the cadence of stomping paws and her arching back swaying to the sound of his voice.   Too many days it was a delicate balance between happiness and over-indulgence and knowing how to temper the acrimonious vibes that seem to come with more and more regularity.

One can say that I was facilitating her obsessions to the point of decadent disregard or simply being obsequious and fake as all get out.   Adversity can be the mother of invention and at least her subscription to Mother Jones had run out.   I am amazed that she let that lapse but maybe our frequent blowups over their depictions of George 43 Bush had convinced her of the conflict that it caused.    She contended that he was actually an alien but I finally convinced her it was the water.  Don’t ask,  don’t spell.   That is what I always say and it has worked for me.

These days as I sit in my Martha Stewart rocking chair and slobbering liberally,   I know she has my back.   For all her eccentricities she has a good side,  though god knows,   I couldn’t find them except when it came to catnaps and five toe discounts at our local PetSmart.    She always likes to cajole the pets behind the glass and laugh at their dirty litter and she looked down on them for the most part.   Til she met Jake from State Farm.

Anyway,  that is the story of BM,   headsets and the heady aroma of ginger wafting from her litter box.   Life was relatively manageable and even a rainy day had it’s silver lining.   Either that,  or the Mercury from the Tuna Fish that Charlie of Starkist forgot to take out.   I guess she took that to McDonalds,  ostensibly to poison Ronald McDonald or Country Joe McDonald.   I know you feel me.   I wish I did.   Or least understand the circumlocutions of the mad and delirious.

So now you know the rest of the story.   I just made that up,  Paul Harvey said something else.  wink.

P.S.   Don’t try this with your cat.  I am an expert.