Today is a happy day, and evil condiment cat makes me happy. Even the fact that WordPress seems disinclined to center the image will not get me down. No, you cannot harsh my happy WordPress.
Am I whacked out on endorphins? I may be whacked out on endorphins. I got my heart rate up into the 170s today, which is something of a feat for a septuagenarian like me. I also got that wicked cool feeling one sometimes experiences in the gym, when a band of muscle has been so profoundly isolated that you can feel those fibers and those fibers alone firing distinctly. That makes for the happy.
Do you know what else is kinda happy? Sporty skorts. To the best of my knowledge they are only to be rocked in the gym (unless you are Debbie Gibson circa 1987), and the women who wear them strike me as happy people. I endorse their skortage.
Dexter is also pretty frickin’ happy, and that’s a complex kind of happy because I hated Six Feet Under. Showtime is replaying all the episodes on Sunday night, and they played the season one finale last night (yes, I have it on DVD–thanks J&K!–but I watched it anyway). I heart Jennifer Carpenter, and I would smooch her if given the chance. I also like shows that make fratricide poignant. I am an old-fashioned guy.
Snoop Dogg does not make me especially happy, but Snoop Doggy Dogg does. Did. Whatever. Roland Barthes also makes me happy. I did not invite Lacan and Žižek to this party, because they would hover around the guacamole.
These two cats are impossibly happy. If you do not find them happy, you probably do not have a soul. You may be a robot, or possibly a cat yourself.
