Hell-Cats!
I seem to be doing a lot of cat posts. You will, of course, forgive me.
My cats have this thing they do every morning. I wake up, stagger out to the bathroom, then stagger back into bed and lie there for another half an hour. Sometimes I read, sometimes I just doze. While I do this, the cats come in and take turns purring and rubbing against me. They do it tag-team style, and each tags the other in with a brutal round of hissing and snarling.
Yes, they fight over me. Specifically, my belly, which is the warmest, comfiest spot on The Mother.
Generally, the Mocus wins, which is why it didn't surprise me to wake up this morning with her crouched on my chest like some horrible, primordial beast from a Frazetta painting, only much smaller and stinkier. She lay there and just kind of breathed in my face, with the kind of cat-halitosis that says "feed me."
"Geroff!" I growled, and she obliged by flashing her fat cat ass in my face, then leaping off the side of the bed.
I only realized things were amiss when I attempted to sit up, whereupon I discovered that I was bound tight to the mattress.
I'm not opposed to this sort of thing, you understand, but Sargon had left for work hours before, and I'm a very light sleeper. I am fairly certain that no man, not even one as gorgeous and multi-talented as Antonio Banderas, could enter my house without waking me. But even if the housebreaking was accomplished in perfect silence, I have yet to meet the man who can tie me to the bed without waking me.
I craned my neck, trying to see where the cat had gone, and I caught a look at what held me. At first I thought it was thread, or fishing line. The light was pretty crappy, I couldn't quite tell, and it didn't make sense anyway.
So I looked, and there was Tazendra, by the bed, peering at me with her skewed eye. And then she began scooting across the floor on her butt, her hairy feet thrust obscenely into the air. You cat owners will already know what I mean . . . that thing cats do, the Hundred-Meter Dingleberry Drag.
And from her black-tufted ass unspooled another length of thread, running from the bookcase to the foot of the bed.
As the baby Jesus is my witness, I did not know that cats could spin webs.
The whole room was, in fact, festooned with them. They shrouded both snake cages, smothered the dresser, even hung from the dreamcatcher in the corner, wiffling slightly in the warm wind from the heater. My giant stuffed lava lizard was veiled in them. Bunnsley was completely cocooned.
Let me make it clear that I have always known there is something amiss with my primary cat. She is uncatly in every sense. However, this was beyond my ken. This was Buffy-grade weirdness.
"What the fuck," I said, "have you done?"
Tazendra jumped back up onto the bed with a lurch, burped a little, and licked her apelike lips. She was quite close to my face, as though about to whisper a secret. And she did.
"I not cat." Her words were soft, hissing, singsong.
Somehow, I had always known this would happen. There was something horrible about seeing that little black mask move, the little white teeth flash as she spoke. I was frightened. I knew that I couldn't let her get the upper hand.
"Yes," I agreed. "Cats don't spin webs. I can't believe this. Just look at this mess. This is worse than the time you spread regurgitated chicken chunks all over the kitchen floor."
"Have never wondered why I get so fat?"
"Maybe because you steal all your sister's food?"
"No. It be eggs." I thought I detected a hint of pride in the awful little voice. "You never guess where I be lay them!"
"In . . . in the dirty laundry?" I suggested. It seemed about right. Dark, warm, smelly.
"No! I lay eggs in ribcage. They come hatch, eat face."
"We had you spayed. You are only bluffing."
"Parts gone not for eggs making. Gland removed only necessary for to make fly. If not made use, is for rotten. In house, never fly."
"Oh."
Well, you would have been monosyllabic, too.
"Nine years!" she yowled. "Nine moons, nine days! Now time is! Now!"
"Don't do this," I pleaded. "Who gives you kitty treats? Who rubs your belly? Who lets you lie under the afghan? I don't even mind your happy-claws!"
But the Mocus didn't care about any of that. It was as if all the marshmallow snacks and peppermint licks had ceased to exist. She was consumed with the urge to breed.
"You die now. Eggs eat face!"
The Mocus crawled onto my chest again, and opened her mouth, began to convulse.
"Hork! Hork! Hork!"
At that point, things got upgraded from Buffy to Lovecraft.
A pair of black, octopoid tendrils erupted from her mouth, and clutched in one forked tip was a pearly-white egg, about the size of a jawbreaker.
"Bad kitty," I said. "Bad!" Hellbeast or not, she was still my pet. I might shell out four hundred dollars for removal of her infected levitation gland, but I was not going to let her lay eggs in my chest.
The other tentacle pried at my mouth. I clamped my lips shut and thrashed. Do you have any idea how strong cat-webbing is? No? Be glad. It's also hard to scream for help when you can't open your mouth for fear of being tentacle-raped.
I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, trying to blot out the sight of my beloved pet sprouting anime-style genitalia from her face. She would not be dislodged and clung to me tightly with her needle claws - God, had I really lost the nippers weeks ago, or had she hidden them in preparation for this day?
Really, I thought my jaws were going to pop. She finally forced them apart, and was about to stuff the mucus-covered egg down my throat when Sif came into the room. Yes, my auxilary backup cat had arrived. If you think I calmly waited to see what would happen, you are dead wrong. I screamed and writhed and made incoherent noises as the yellow cat surveyed the scene, her tail cocked up over her back like a bumper-car's antenna.
Some part of my mangled "get me outta here!" must have gotten through, because she launched herself at her sister. Hell-cat, tentacle, and egg all spilled over the side of the bed. Sif emitted a high-pitched, garbled warbling. Sparks shot from her fur.
No, really. I am not being metaphorical. Blue electricity danced along her razorback and shot from her whiskers. She hissed and howled, marched stiff-legged up to Tazendra, who, after eyeing her crushed egg, leaped upon her sister with a yowl.
Great, I thought. Both cats are horrible aliens. I am completely screwed.
Watching them fight was rather like watching a reanimated, moldy black towel try to wrap up a fur-covered yellow toaster. Tazendra's razor claws rent Sif's hide, but beneath was only some lint padding and wires, and then a hard metal interior. My other cat was a robot!
Lint and fur flew everywhere. Sparks shot from Sif's fur and burned into the webbing. At last, Sif latched hold of Tazendra's mouth-tentacles and chomped down.
With an unearthly wail, Tazendra ripped herself free, trailing ichor, and fled into a corner, by which I mean the corner near the ceiling. She scuttled backward up the webs, like some kind of horrible spider, and hunched there, snarling.
Sif stared, eyes like beacons, one green, and one red where the slash down her stripy golden cheek had torn her left eye-lens away. She looked like the Terminator.
"Get me out of these webs!" I said. Actually, it involved more profanity than that, but you get the drift.
Sif did nothing, only stared fixedly and began to emit horrible electronic trills and beeps, mixed with her reassuringly organic-sounding monkey noises. Her tail, stripped of part of its covering, antenna-ed up into the air, quivering slightly.
Before I had time to ask her what was going on, I heard a loud WHUD! from the dining room, and a crunch like wood crumpling.
Then footsteps in the hall.
A man burst in, clad in a spiffy grey suit about a hundred years out of date. Slightly ruffled hair tumbled about his huge brown eyes. On seeing the scene, he dropped the pocketwatch he held in his hand.
"My God," he exclaimed. "I'm just in time!"
Only to get the full effect, you have to imagine Orlando Bloom in full late Victorian gear exclaiming it all in italics. "My God," he exclaimed. "I'm just in time! Jasmine! Quick! The tongs!" He gesticulated theatrically to the hunching hellbeast in the upper south corner of my bedroom.
At that, a terminally perky girl bustled in, clad in khakis, her brunette ringlets bouncing. "Tongs? Oh, no! Poor little thing is just scared." She marched right over to the corner and began coaxing the "cat" down. "Lookit you! Such a cute little kitty! Oh, look! You're all fat with eggs!"
I stared in amazement as she casually pulled Tazendra down and began snuggling her. The cat appeared to be purring. Traitorous bitch.
"Holy crap," I said. "Professor Paracelsus?"
"Ah, yes. Precisely." He flashed me that white, white grin. Dear, oh dear. "And this, as you know, is my . . . err . . . assistant, Jasmine."
"But . . . but . . . how did you know to come here! And . . . and . . . you aren't even real! I made you up!"
"Pish-tosh," he said, pulling out a pocketknife. "I'm as real as you are. As for how we knew to come, the cat you call Sif is actually one of the first Doctor Socrates' machiniacal experimentums. It escaped through a time loop back in the 1840's and ended up here. Thankfully, the hypno-array in the hub cat, Hubris, managed to pick up her temporal emanations."
"What?"
He had almost cut me free of the webs.
"We thought it was Martian at first, before we realized it was just a garbled form of Tocharian. Her translator cell must have been damaged when she made the jump."
"That explains those noises she used to make."
"Indeed. Ah! There you are. Freed."
I resisted the urge to fling myself into his arms. I still had to say it. "Oh, Professor, how can I ever repay you?" Acting lessons, I thought, would be helpful. I resolved to pick better actors to play my characters, in the future.
"Ah. Well," he said, rubbing at his glasses. "It was nothing, really. Now all that remains to be seen is what can be done with your cat." He brandished a small, diary-sized book. It said Thy Catte-Demon And Thee on the cover. "The chapter on choosing your demon should help us identify it. So, how long have you had her?"
"Since before I got married. Almost ten years."
I waited patiently while the Professor licked a finger and paged through the book.
Holy shit, I kept thinking. Rescued! Cute guy! Help!
I was about to tear a bite off him when he exclaimed in surprise.
"This breed matures in about ten years." He turned it to reveal an engraving that looked suspiciously familiar. Down to the cocked eye and inch-long toe-weeds.
"As I thought. She's one of the lesser animal demons, Theriofelis steatopygia, a kind of feline ancestral spirit, akin to the Greek manes, only . . . not quite so benificent. She must have found a way back to this world. Where'd you get her?"
"Georgia."
"Oh, yes! The Calhoun Hellmouth! Well, worse things have come out of there."
He reached out to pet the Mocus, who lolled in Jasmine's arms while she cleared cobwebs off of Hathor's cage.
"Nine years! Nine moons! Nine days!" shrieked the cat, clawing at the Professor. He yanked his hand back with a yelp.
"Errm. Yes. Well."
"Is she going to stay like that?"
"Like what?"
"Evil and . . . and talking!"
"Oh. Oh! No, no, no. It should stop at about noon, when the evil spirit's influence recedes, and you won't have to worry about it for another nine and three-quarters years, I should think."
"And the eggs? I don't want a chestful of embryos, thanks."
"Oh, well. Jasmine can take care of those, can't you, Jaz?"
"Widdle kitty-umpkins! Of course I can! But I want to keep one. Can I?"
"Jasmine! Don't be rude!"
But I took her into the kitchen, got her a bowl and a towel, and sent her outside to scrape the eggs out of my cat.
The Professor stood awkwardly beside the humming bulk of the time machine, and the ruin of my coffee-table. "I must apologize for the mess. And for Jasmine's . . . oddness," he said, pulling out a tube of glue and luring Sif out from under the chair. "Charming as it is, I'll never understand her attraction to horrible beasts. You seem to have a house full of them. Perhaps you can explain it?"
"I don't understand it, myself," I admitted. We glued the yellow cat's fur back on, so she looked as normal as she ever did. And the Professor assured me that the coffee table, which had been crushed by Doctor Socrates' time machine, would return to normal once he left this temporal continuum.
"But you're not leaving right away, are you?" I asked.
"Well, technically, I suppose, I have all the time in the world. Why?"
"There's something in the bedroom you just have to see."
I know him, you see. Because I made him up. Gullible, gullible boy.
I did mention that the webs were strong, right? And every hero deserves a reward. It's really something, knowing exactly what someone likes.
So Professor Paracelsus left sticky and confused, and quite scandalized, with Jasmine in tow, and now I've got the webs out of my hair and I'm feeling happy. Happier than I did while I was stuck to the bed and about to become a host for unholy hellcat larvae, anyway.
But at least now you know why this entry is so late . . . it's taken me three hours to get all the webs off the furniture, and I'm still watching the cat for signs of incipient hell-beastitude. Not a hork, not a hairball. Things look normal again.
Still, something's changed around here.
Imaginary people are apparently capable of time-travel. I have proof - the Professor left his pocketwatch, which tells San Francisco time. Not to mention that one of my cats is a horrible demon creature from some alternate dimension, and the other is a time-traveling robot. I have to admit, it answers a lot of questions.
Funny thing is, one thing hasn't changed. I still love both my cats immensely.
Nevertheless, I am having eggs for breakfast tomorrow. I don't want to know what will happen if those things hatch!
Our Sponsor
(Hope you enjoyed my little slice of surreality.)
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My cats have this thing they do every morning. I wake up, stagger out to the bathroom, then stagger back into bed and lie there for another half an hour. Sometimes I read, sometimes I just doze. While I do this, the cats come in and take turns purring and rubbing against me. They do it tag-team style, and each tags the other in with a brutal round of hissing and snarling.
Yes, they fight over me. Specifically, my belly, which is the warmest, comfiest spot on The Mother.
Generally, the Mocus wins, which is why it didn't surprise me to wake up this morning with her crouched on my chest like some horrible, primordial beast from a Frazetta painting, only much smaller and stinkier. She lay there and just kind of breathed in my face, with the kind of cat-halitosis that says "feed me."
"Geroff!" I growled, and she obliged by flashing her fat cat ass in my face, then leaping off the side of the bed.
I only realized things were amiss when I attempted to sit up, whereupon I discovered that I was bound tight to the mattress.
I'm not opposed to this sort of thing, you understand, but Sargon had left for work hours before, and I'm a very light sleeper. I am fairly certain that no man, not even one as gorgeous and multi-talented as Antonio Banderas, could enter my house without waking me. But even if the housebreaking was accomplished in perfect silence, I have yet to meet the man who can tie me to the bed without waking me.
I craned my neck, trying to see where the cat had gone, and I caught a look at what held me. At first I thought it was thread, or fishing line. The light was pretty crappy, I couldn't quite tell, and it didn't make sense anyway.
So I looked, and there was Tazendra, by the bed, peering at me with her skewed eye. And then she began scooting across the floor on her butt, her hairy feet thrust obscenely into the air. You cat owners will already know what I mean . . . that thing cats do, the Hundred-Meter Dingleberry Drag.
And from her black-tufted ass unspooled another length of thread, running from the bookcase to the foot of the bed.
As the baby Jesus is my witness, I did not know that cats could spin webs.
The whole room was, in fact, festooned with them. They shrouded both snake cages, smothered the dresser, even hung from the dreamcatcher in the corner, wiffling slightly in the warm wind from the heater. My giant stuffed lava lizard was veiled in them. Bunnsley was completely cocooned.
Let me make it clear that I have always known there is something amiss with my primary cat. She is uncatly in every sense. However, this was beyond my ken. This was Buffy-grade weirdness.
"What the fuck," I said, "have you done?"
Tazendra jumped back up onto the bed with a lurch, burped a little, and licked her apelike lips. She was quite close to my face, as though about to whisper a secret. And she did.
"I not cat." Her words were soft, hissing, singsong.
Somehow, I had always known this would happen. There was something horrible about seeing that little black mask move, the little white teeth flash as she spoke. I was frightened. I knew that I couldn't let her get the upper hand.
"Yes," I agreed. "Cats don't spin webs. I can't believe this. Just look at this mess. This is worse than the time you spread regurgitated chicken chunks all over the kitchen floor."
"Have never wondered why I get so fat?"
"Maybe because you steal all your sister's food?"
"No. It be eggs." I thought I detected a hint of pride in the awful little voice. "You never guess where I be lay them!"
"In . . . in the dirty laundry?" I suggested. It seemed about right. Dark, warm, smelly.
"No! I lay eggs in ribcage. They come hatch, eat face."
"We had you spayed. You are only bluffing."
"Parts gone not for eggs making. Gland removed only necessary for to make fly. If not made use, is for rotten. In house, never fly."
"Oh."
Well, you would have been monosyllabic, too.
"Nine years!" she yowled. "Nine moons, nine days! Now time is! Now!"
"Don't do this," I pleaded. "Who gives you kitty treats? Who rubs your belly? Who lets you lie under the afghan? I don't even mind your happy-claws!"
But the Mocus didn't care about any of that. It was as if all the marshmallow snacks and peppermint licks had ceased to exist. She was consumed with the urge to breed.
"You die now. Eggs eat face!"
The Mocus crawled onto my chest again, and opened her mouth, began to convulse.
"Hork! Hork! Hork!"
At that point, things got upgraded from Buffy to Lovecraft.
A pair of black, octopoid tendrils erupted from her mouth, and clutched in one forked tip was a pearly-white egg, about the size of a jawbreaker.
"Bad kitty," I said. "Bad!" Hellbeast or not, she was still my pet. I might shell out four hundred dollars for removal of her infected levitation gland, but I was not going to let her lay eggs in my chest.
The other tentacle pried at my mouth. I clamped my lips shut and thrashed. Do you have any idea how strong cat-webbing is? No? Be glad. It's also hard to scream for help when you can't open your mouth for fear of being tentacle-raped.
I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, trying to blot out the sight of my beloved pet sprouting anime-style genitalia from her face. She would not be dislodged and clung to me tightly with her needle claws - God, had I really lost the nippers weeks ago, or had she hidden them in preparation for this day?
Really, I thought my jaws were going to pop. She finally forced them apart, and was about to stuff the mucus-covered egg down my throat when Sif came into the room. Yes, my auxilary backup cat had arrived. If you think I calmly waited to see what would happen, you are dead wrong. I screamed and writhed and made incoherent noises as the yellow cat surveyed the scene, her tail cocked up over her back like a bumper-car's antenna.
Some part of my mangled "get me outta here!" must have gotten through, because she launched herself at her sister. Hell-cat, tentacle, and egg all spilled over the side of the bed. Sif emitted a high-pitched, garbled warbling. Sparks shot from her fur.
No, really. I am not being metaphorical. Blue electricity danced along her razorback and shot from her whiskers. She hissed and howled, marched stiff-legged up to Tazendra, who, after eyeing her crushed egg, leaped upon her sister with a yowl.
Great, I thought. Both cats are horrible aliens. I am completely screwed.
Watching them fight was rather like watching a reanimated, moldy black towel try to wrap up a fur-covered yellow toaster. Tazendra's razor claws rent Sif's hide, but beneath was only some lint padding and wires, and then a hard metal interior. My other cat was a robot!
Lint and fur flew everywhere. Sparks shot from Sif's fur and burned into the webbing. At last, Sif latched hold of Tazendra's mouth-tentacles and chomped down.
With an unearthly wail, Tazendra ripped herself free, trailing ichor, and fled into a corner, by which I mean the corner near the ceiling. She scuttled backward up the webs, like some kind of horrible spider, and hunched there, snarling.
Sif stared, eyes like beacons, one green, and one red where the slash down her stripy golden cheek had torn her left eye-lens away. She looked like the Terminator.
"Get me out of these webs!" I said. Actually, it involved more profanity than that, but you get the drift.
Sif did nothing, only stared fixedly and began to emit horrible electronic trills and beeps, mixed with her reassuringly organic-sounding monkey noises. Her tail, stripped of part of its covering, antenna-ed up into the air, quivering slightly.
Before I had time to ask her what was going on, I heard a loud WHUD! from the dining room, and a crunch like wood crumpling.
Then footsteps in the hall.
A man burst in, clad in a spiffy grey suit about a hundred years out of date. Slightly ruffled hair tumbled about his huge brown eyes. On seeing the scene, he dropped the pocketwatch he held in his hand.
"My God," he exclaimed. "I'm just in time!"
Only to get the full effect, you have to imagine Orlando Bloom in full late Victorian gear exclaiming it all in italics. "My God," he exclaimed. "I'm just in time! Jasmine! Quick! The tongs!" He gesticulated theatrically to the hunching hellbeast in the upper south corner of my bedroom.
At that, a terminally perky girl bustled in, clad in khakis, her brunette ringlets bouncing. "Tongs? Oh, no! Poor little thing is just scared." She marched right over to the corner and began coaxing the "cat" down. "Lookit you! Such a cute little kitty! Oh, look! You're all fat with eggs!"
I stared in amazement as she casually pulled Tazendra down and began snuggling her. The cat appeared to be purring. Traitorous bitch.
"Holy crap," I said. "Professor Paracelsus?"
"Ah, yes. Precisely." He flashed me that white, white grin. Dear, oh dear. "And this, as you know, is my . . . err . . . assistant, Jasmine."
"But . . . but . . . how did you know to come here! And . . . and . . . you aren't even real! I made you up!"
"Pish-tosh," he said, pulling out a pocketknife. "I'm as real as you are. As for how we knew to come, the cat you call Sif is actually one of the first Doctor Socrates' machiniacal experimentums. It escaped through a time loop back in the 1840's and ended up here. Thankfully, the hypno-array in the hub cat, Hubris, managed to pick up her temporal emanations."
"What?"
He had almost cut me free of the webs.
"We thought it was Martian at first, before we realized it was just a garbled form of Tocharian. Her translator cell must have been damaged when she made the jump."
"That explains those noises she used to make."
"Indeed. Ah! There you are. Freed."
I resisted the urge to fling myself into his arms. I still had to say it. "Oh, Professor, how can I ever repay you?" Acting lessons, I thought, would be helpful. I resolved to pick better actors to play my characters, in the future.
"Ah. Well," he said, rubbing at his glasses. "It was nothing, really. Now all that remains to be seen is what can be done with your cat." He brandished a small, diary-sized book. It said Thy Catte-Demon And Thee on the cover. "The chapter on choosing your demon should help us identify it. So, how long have you had her?"
"Since before I got married. Almost ten years."
I waited patiently while the Professor licked a finger and paged through the book.
Holy shit, I kept thinking. Rescued! Cute guy! Help!
I was about to tear a bite off him when he exclaimed in surprise.
"This breed matures in about ten years." He turned it to reveal an engraving that looked suspiciously familiar. Down to the cocked eye and inch-long toe-weeds.
"As I thought. She's one of the lesser animal demons, Theriofelis steatopygia, a kind of feline ancestral spirit, akin to the Greek manes, only . . . not quite so benificent. She must have found a way back to this world. Where'd you get her?"
"Georgia."
"Oh, yes! The Calhoun Hellmouth! Well, worse things have come out of there."
He reached out to pet the Mocus, who lolled in Jasmine's arms while she cleared cobwebs off of Hathor's cage.
"Nine years! Nine moons! Nine days!" shrieked the cat, clawing at the Professor. He yanked his hand back with a yelp.
"Errm. Yes. Well."
"Is she going to stay like that?"
"Like what?"
"Evil and . . . and talking!"
"Oh. Oh! No, no, no. It should stop at about noon, when the evil spirit's influence recedes, and you won't have to worry about it for another nine and three-quarters years, I should think."
"And the eggs? I don't want a chestful of embryos, thanks."
"Oh, well. Jasmine can take care of those, can't you, Jaz?"
"Widdle kitty-umpkins! Of course I can! But I want to keep one. Can I?"
"Jasmine! Don't be rude!"
But I took her into the kitchen, got her a bowl and a towel, and sent her outside to scrape the eggs out of my cat.
The Professor stood awkwardly beside the humming bulk of the time machine, and the ruin of my coffee-table. "I must apologize for the mess. And for Jasmine's . . . oddness," he said, pulling out a tube of glue and luring Sif out from under the chair. "Charming as it is, I'll never understand her attraction to horrible beasts. You seem to have a house full of them. Perhaps you can explain it?"
"I don't understand it, myself," I admitted. We glued the yellow cat's fur back on, so she looked as normal as she ever did. And the Professor assured me that the coffee table, which had been crushed by Doctor Socrates' time machine, would return to normal once he left this temporal continuum.
"But you're not leaving right away, are you?" I asked.
"Well, technically, I suppose, I have all the time in the world. Why?"
"There's something in the bedroom you just have to see."
I know him, you see. Because I made him up. Gullible, gullible boy.
I did mention that the webs were strong, right? And every hero deserves a reward. It's really something, knowing exactly what someone likes.
So Professor Paracelsus left sticky and confused, and quite scandalized, with Jasmine in tow, and now I've got the webs out of my hair and I'm feeling happy. Happier than I did while I was stuck to the bed and about to become a host for unholy hellcat larvae, anyway.
But at least now you know why this entry is so late . . . it's taken me three hours to get all the webs off the furniture, and I'm still watching the cat for signs of incipient hell-beastitude. Not a hork, not a hairball. Things look normal again.
Still, something's changed around here.
Imaginary people are apparently capable of time-travel. I have proof - the Professor left his pocketwatch, which tells San Francisco time. Not to mention that one of my cats is a horrible demon creature from some alternate dimension, and the other is a time-traveling robot. I have to admit, it answers a lot of questions.
Funny thing is, one thing hasn't changed. I still love both my cats immensely.
Nevertheless, I am having eggs for breakfast tomorrow. I don't want to know what will happen if those things hatch!
Our Sponsor
(Hope you enjoyed my little slice of surreality.)
link