Irrelevant Cheetah

“Good morning, I’m Ahken-Tetnut. You are Rahna-Khat?”
“Yes, sir. I’m here to start work.”
“Good. The placement agency is doing an excellent job sending me skilled laborers. I must remember to send them a thank-you scroll. So tell me, Rahna-Khat – may I call you Khat?”
“Oh, of course, sir.”
“Excellent. So, tell me, Khat. Have you ever tomb-painted before?”
“No, no tombs, but I did help with the latest temple to Osiris.”
“Really? I love the glyph work on the front. Was that you?”
“That was me. I’m especially proud of the scene of Osiris passing judgment on the Hittites.”
“That was excellent work. You should be proud. So today we’re going to be working on the north wall of Pharaoh Shepseskaf’s burial chamber. The engineering team did a wonderful job of carving the chamber, and the writers are done with all of the hieroglyphs. So our job is to add the color. You know, the colors just add that final touch that brings the tomb together.”
“Oh, I agree, sir. If the hues aren’t exactly right, there’s no cohesion, and the design just falls apart.”
“I’m glad you’re in agreement. Let’s go take a look at what we’re working with, shall we?”

“Sir?”
“Yes, Khat? Is it break time already?”
“Oh, no, sir. I normally don’t take breaks – my last overseer didn’t allow it.”
“Well, I’m a little more lenient, Khat.”
“It’s not that, sir. It’s just… I have forgotten – what color is Ra supposed to be, again?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, sir. Is it burnt umber?”
“Khat, Khat, Khat. You’re not even in the right area of the color wheel. You didn’t start coloring Him in, did you?”
“Well, just a little bit here in the corner, but it didn’t look right. That’s why I asked you.”
“I can see what you did. I like how you added the Alien Overlords in the picture. Very original, but you’ve colored them all wrong, too, and I don’t think it goes with the rest of the afterlife motif we’re going for. We’re going to have to erase this section and have the writers back in here to correct it.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Are you going to have me whipped?”
“No, Khat, I told you. I’m a little more lenient than that. Just don’t let it happen again, alright?”
“Yes, sir. So what color should He be?”
“Yellow, Khat. A nice, bright, sunny yellow. Check your color selection.”
“Yes, sir.”

When I stumbled into the kitchen this morning there was a scrap of paper on the counter covered in an almost illegible script. After managing to decipher this missive, I have decided it is something that must be shared. In the interest of fairness, it is reproduced in its entirety below:

It’s not easy being a canine. Some may argue that existence for us entails nothing but scheduled meal times, ball-chasing episodes, and of course ‘walkies.’

I beg to differ, however. After reading my owner’s latest ‘blog’ entry, I feel I simply must offer this rebuttal. I have been silent too long.

His flatuses are, to be honest, nothing short of paint-peeling. To suggest that my ‘farts’ could be used to further his world-domination schemes while his ‘farts’ smell like roses is both misleading and scandalous. My fellow canines and I have long been used as scapegoats, being blamed for our human companions’ intestinal discharges. Let the record be set straight.

As for the other accusations – namely that our lives are easy, let me offer the following arguments. I am required to bark when a strange human approaches the house. This often interferes with the complex calculations I am often computing in my head. Still, I do my duty. While it is true that I jump on the couch the second my humans’ cars are gone from the driveway, it is merely to ensure that the couch remains stationary, as it is wont to wander if left unattended. And while it is also true that I have been known to ‘take a crap’ in the middle of the hallway, as they so eloquently put it, frequent and regular bowel movements are necessary for the continued health of any living organism. I try to go before they leave the house for the day, but sometimes I need to go again, and my regrettable lack of opposable digits makes using the toilet difficult, if not impossible.

In summary, please disregard the scandalous remarks made by my human. I pray that upon reading this, he will post it in a public forum of his choosing, perhaps this ‘blog’ of which he is so fond. Thank you for your attention.

I don’t know what to say. I rather think he speaks well for himself, if perhaps a bit pretentiously. I have posted it as he requests, and will leave the verdict to you. My apologies to the dog.

In my continuing effort to take over the world, I have discovered two very important things. First, my dog’s farts smell much worse than my own. And second, people can be really stupid.

“Hold on,” I can hear both of you saying. “What do your dog’s farts have to do with world domination?”

To which I reply, “I’m not sure yet, but work with me here.” There’s an idea fermenting in my brain that needs more time to simmer, if you don’t mind me mixing my cooking metaphors. You see, there’s an oaken, woody smell, not unlike a small animal decaying inside a tree in Juarez in July, that follows my dog around after he eats popcorn. If I could somehow bottle that smell, I’m pretty sure it could be used to overthrow the government – I just haven’t designed a delivery system yet. Something involving a slingshot, a wi-fi antenna and a FedEx account, I think. I’ll keep you posted.

As far as people being pretty stupid, well, doesn’t that go without saying? Look at the guy behind you with fourteen items in the “ten items or less” line. If I could discover a way to make these people self-sterilize, I think I wouldn’t even have to forcibly overthrow the world – I think people would elect me of their own accord. And truth be told, I would much rather rule a world that elected me. It’s easier than trying to maintain power with force.

I still need minions, though. Past attempts at hiring them have thus far been unsuccessful. They’re hard to come by. If they’re smart enough to respond to my want ads, they’re too smart to do whatever I ask without question. It’s a fine line that I need to explore further.

These are things that future world leaders need to keep in mind – even (gasp) elected ones.

Jebediah and his cousin Clem were out hunting. It was late November, and there was a definite chill in the air as they slogged through snow drifts that in several places were up to their armpits. They had been out for several hours and had succeeded in losing their way. Jeb insisted that the way back to the tractor was towards the setting sun, while Clem was adamant that moss only grew on the south side of a rolling stone, and thus the direction they needed to go was “thataway, yonder,” which happened to be the direct opposite of the direction in which Jeb was pointing. Neither one of the men was dressed for the weather, since their overalls were not waterproof and there were holes in their boots. Both had assumed that they would bag a moose shortly into the trip and be on their way home, apparently forgetting that moose are not native to Arkansas.

After wandering aimlessly around the forest for what seemed like hours, Jeb called a halt. “We needs to get a fire goin’,” he told Clem. “We’re gonna freeze to death out here.” The two of them gathered some branches from underneath trees that they passed and stacked them in a pyramid formation. Jeb leaned over with his ever-present Zippo and attempted to light the sopping wet branches.

Nothing happened. Although Jeb held the flame as steady as he could in the blustery wind, the branches stubbornly refused to catch fire. It was at this point that Jeb had a brainstorm. The ensuing chain of events was hereafter to be referred to as the Unfortunate Mayonnaise Jar Incident of ’97. “The wind keeps blowin’ them flames out,” he said to his cousin through chattering teeth. “We needs us a way to keep them out of the wind.”

Clem thought hard, and gradually a look that can be likened to a beaver sneaking up on a pine tree came over his face. “I’ll just empty out my moonshine,” he told Jeb. “Then we can dump the branches in the jar, and that’ll keep the wind off ‘em.”

Jeb, of course, was dead set against this course of action, since Clem’s moonshine was not only the best in the county, but also came in handy both as a paint remover and if you ran out of gas. The oversize mayonnaise jar Clem was carrying was full of the stuff, and Jeb was not too keen on dumping out the elixir that thus far had kept the two of them in high spirits.

He had to admit, however, that Clem’s idea was the best one on the table, so he took the jar from Clem. After downing an enormous gulp and letting Clem do the same, Jeb dumped the contents on the branches, and then set the branches inside the jar. The resulting formation looked rather like a vase of flowers in a psychotic tree surgeon’s front room. It was difficult to see the actual branches, since the fumes from the moonshine jar were obscuring the view, but he peered through the haze, leaned forward and struck the flint on the Zippo.

Reports are hazy after that, but both men were eventually found, staggering through the forest, clothed in blackened rags and not much else. Channel 9 News reported that rescuers were drawn to the small mushroom cloud emanating from the center of the forest. Clem’s hair eventually grew back, and Jeb is learning to get by with less than the standard accompaniment of eyes and ears. National Park Service employees spent two days searching for the remains of what the men swore was a moose that they had bagged before things went horribly awry, but were unable to locate the carcass.