Reading?: The Every Other Daily Corona

Chaucer, Hardy, Frost, Shakespeare, Swift and Twain.  Amongst others, they were on the long list of my required reading in college.  The latter two were a couple of my favorites.  Do I wish to go back and re-read some of their classic novels, plays or short stories during a time when we do have time on our hands?  Not me.  It’s not the type of reading meant for the toilet.  Maybe a couple of Thomas Hardy “classics” which would ultimately clog our septic system.

I do love to read, especially when it’s not required.  Even though it will be obsolete, until it is, I will still subscribe to the newspaper.  One of my favorite parts of the day is taking the Super Quiz with my wife even though the man producing it often gets bored. Subject: Different Fonts.  How riveting!  We like American culture, geographical areas, famous prisons, some science, sports,  languages and other topics besides Plain Clothing or Band Aids.  It’s fun.  I then read her the daily Seattle Rant.  These can be hilarious.  “To the man next door who keeps his ten cats in a tree on his property.  They keep me up all night caterwauling.  I hope he burns in Hell.”  I used to read the sport’s page, but, well you know.

Saying 75% of my reading is done on the toilet is probably an understatement.  When I’m interested in an article from The New Yorker (my most pretentious magazine) my wife may walk by the bathroom and politely ask me if I’m ok.  “I’m fine.  Though, I may be little sore when I exit this room.”  When the New Yorker becomes too sophisticated, I mean when those ridiculous cartoons which are somehow published for unearthly reasons become agonizingly thought demoting, I return to a favorite standby….Readers Digest.  Written at a sixth grade level, it’s right up my aisle.  Additionally, most of the publications are uplifting and educational.  If I ever decide to get a pony, I now know because of R.D., one of the pony’s many attributes is licking the skin of an unripened avocado until it’s ripe in only twenty licks.  Pretty cool.

Then there’s the internet.  I can read various articles which may or may not convince me to join certain clubs or cults.  This flat earth society one is really tricky.   I’m right on the border.  My wife would say, “You mean the border of insanity?”

I want to believe in Bigfoot, but most of the stories on the Net attempting to convince you of its existence, really just push you in the other direction.  The elusive Sasquatch was not your taxi driver.

We also like looking up lists such as the top 50 movies of all time.  We’ll make bets on who will guess the most out of the top ten.  I lost the last bet because I put Cocktail, Road House, and Breakin Two, Electric Boogaloo on the list.  Personally, I think I was robbed.  There must be a reason they are on cable all the time.

Sadly, my favorite author, Pat Conroy, passed away.  I haven’t read a novel since his passing.  Oh my God!  I almost  forgot about the Bible.  It reminds me of a movie my family has cherished for years, and has now become one of my wife’s favorites as well…  Paint Your Wagon.  Portraying a full time inebriate, Ben Rumson is played by Lee Marvin.  One of his lines after a very pious lady asks him if he’d ever read the bible was “I have read the Bible Mrs. Phinney.”  Mrs. Phinney:  “Didn’t that discourage you from drinking?”  Ben:
“No. But it sure cured my appetite for readin.”

Whether you like or don’t like the Bible, novels, the paper, magazines or any other form of reading, it still stimulates our minds.  That’s a good thing, and like the great and powerful former Vice President Dan Quayle once said, “A mind is a terrible thing to lose.”

Prayers for all.



My wife is impossible.  She’s just so unreasonable.  She also scares me. Luckily, she is married to a man who uses reason, patience and kindness when dealing with her and our animals.  For months, she had been bugging me about getting a cat. Well, now we have one.  It’s the same old story all the time.  “Oooh….look at that cat.  It’s so cute.  I’ll take care of it, I promise.”  While she’s working three jobs, guess who will be taking care of it?  Yeah.  Exactly.  Me.  It burns and scratches my ass……quite literally.

Our cat, Otis, has his own personnel key to our house.  It’s actually a key to any room in our house.  We named him after my wife’s favorite character in The Andy Griffith Show, and he seems to be living up to his name.  Otis spends much of his time in his cell, or pantry number one after he’s had a snootful of catnip. He sleeps it off, receives a terrific breakfast from his Aunt B (my wife, Britt) and we wave him goodbye until the next weekend.  Sometimes, if he staggers into the pantry, he begins meowing uncontrollably.  We then read him a book by Dr. Seuss or sing him a song titled Cat Scratch Fever. This and these antics which follow are eerily similar to those exhibited by Otis Campbell on the A.G. Show.

Sometimes, he can’t find the pantry.  He may be passed out in the office, one of our closets, in the dishwasher, beneath the couch, or head first in one of our many urns occupied by former pets using their ashes as though they are his stadium’s many toilets.

Having never witnessed Otis Campbell throw a punch, I couldn’t tell if he was right or left handed.  Our Otis is definitely a southpaw, and I have the scars to prove it.  Sure, just like a champ, he’ll set you up with several right jabs and then surprise you with a vicious left claw.  My wife wonders why our blankets and pillow cases look like a crime scene in the morning.  DNA central.

Once, after we returned home from dinner, we found him riding around on our dog, a one hundred pound canine.  Otis weighs just over a pound.  This was after he found the key to the catnip cabinet.  Just like Barney Fife, I convinced my wife to allow me to provide some necessary form of rehabilitation.  After detoxing throughout the night, I started by giving him the renowned Sylvester the Cat Rorschach test.  After displaying a number of pictures, each response was the same.  “Tell me what you see on this piece of paper.”  Meow.  “How about this one?”  Meow.  The third one he just pissed on.  He looked at Britt with pleading eyes, and she laughingly dismissed him.  She thinks everything Otis does is funny.  She and Otis need to have their own act in Vaudeville.  I didn’t find it funny at all.

I did get back at him once.  Attempting to exercise on the treadmill, Otis came wobbling into the room.  He was fascinated by the treadmill.  With my legs moving, I remained stationary.  Instead of asking me, he just jumped on the treadmill, and after several cat rolls, went flying against the wall.  He hasn’t been on it since.  That made me laugh.

Ultimately, Otis is a pretty affable cat, and we can’t help but love him.  You have to, don’t you?  Just like you and your good for nothing, booger eating, pants pooping, can I borrow some money (borrow?….that’s a laugh) will you watch them for the night, soon to be spending time in the County Jail children.

My parents loved me.  Well, I’m pretty sure they did.



The Over Under

The over under for a cat’s life span is 32. For those gambling simpletons, the over under is a bet you place on a team when you think the combined score of a game may be above the total points or below.  Simply stated, it’s also referred to as desperation.  It’s a lose lose situation.

Cats gamblingI took the under, and my wife took the over.  Not being a gambling man, and my wife, a former blackjack dealer, I should have known better than to go against her judgement.  Our cat was purchased the day before Christmas and will most certainly live beyond his black fur and many many many Christmases.

I’ll most likely outlive my wife.  It’s my punishment or burden…the cross I bear.  Our black cat, Otis, will be chuckling when I place my wife in a pine box filled with coffee, cat nip and the latest version of cat food advertising a rash free diet.  As a healthy reminder for your wallet, none of that expensive crap cures a damn thing.

Yours Truly,

Benjamin B. Davenport

Mother Hood

My wife and I are proud parents.  She is proud as can be of our animals, (me, not so much) and I am a Spokane Washington raised hood. She believes our animals should be in the Feline and Canine Hall of Fame.  I believe they should be in prison or Spokane.  I don’t know which is worse.


Passing Pride

“Fart Proudly.”  That’s a quote from Benjamin Franklin.   Evidently, Ben was a discerning man, especially when it came to gas taxes and Turkeys.  Further observing one of our Nation’s greatest holidays, Ben voted for the turkey over the Balding Eagle as our Nation’s symbol of recognition.

Post Thanksgiving, our dog and cat recommended I seek help following the five day stretch of the Thanksgiving feast.

Recognizing my gas being exceptionally offensive during and following the Thanksgiving Days, I have checked myself into a two room flatulence rehab center: One room is for me, and the other is for my delicate, and quite unfortunate, release of, well, farts.  Many won’t appreciate my condolences when renting this room following my departure, and for that, I am truly sorry.

Ultimately, we are all human waste.

I just hope I’m allowed back in our house.

Hopefully, she says, “This too shall pass.”

Flat Dance

MichaelFlatleyHis face is as flat as a pancake, and that’s all that is flat about our new, six week young kitten, Michael Flatley Gannon.

Performing a magnificent rendition of the “River Dance” on my face for three consecutive nights, his paws and claws are stamped all over my head.  He is smaller than one of my forearms, yet commands respect while monopolizing any and all of our rooms… dancing, sleeping, drinking and eating in each one.  He also manages to decide where his wet and dry food should remain, depending on his mood.  It’s the first and official Southern Ireland Monarch of our time.  Potatoes were so much easier.

Michael also finds comfort in my wife’s locks during what should be a peaceful slumber for both of us. Her head has become a comfortable nest between the hours of ten and three in the P.M. and the A.M.  It’s the first time I’ve felt grateful for losing my hair.

“River Dance” being beneath him, he refers to himself, with extreme arrogance, as “The Lord of the Dance”.  On a good day, you may refer to him as Mr. Flatley.  When irritated at two o’clock in the morning, it must be Lord Flatley, or simply, Lord.  Sir Flatley is also a name he enjoys after some properly aged bourbon.

Our veterinarian removes his white coat and bows to him before charging us with a significant fine for taking care of a cat who clearly CAN take care of himself. “Good morning, My Lord.”  Good grief.

As I write this, and I’m frustratingly serious, he continues to pounce on all my keys, thus making this silly piece much more difficult to write.  Fortunately, he hasn’t found the “publish” button.

It has now evolved to a 2016 Looney Tunes episode with actual humans and a futuristic animal attempting to withhold me from using my computer. All the claws and scars are non-fictional.  As the former actor, Elmer Fudd,  once said, “I hate that rabbit”,  I don’t think he did.  And, as for today, I don’t hate this cat.