SATURDAY, 16 SEPTEMBER, 2000, PHILADELPHIA

It’s 3:30 on Saturday morning. Or Friday night, depending upon your take on these things. I have finally installed myself on the living room sofa after attempting to sleep for the last two hours in my boo-dwahh. Someone has put a baby outside my bedroom window. A crying baby. The kind that cries. And shits. Probably. There’s nothing more repulsive than a baby. Excuse me if I’m seeming a traitor to my species, but we really don’t start out all that well, do we? Kind of ironic. I mean, considering we’re the highest on the food chain and all due to our bloated intelligence-or-whatever, then why should we start out so helpless and vulnerable and annoying and awful? Even baby cats and goats and things know better than to shit themselves. And they are cute to begin with unlike ugly human zygotes. And they only cry to alert mother to danger. So what’s with this particularly awful thing lurking outside my bedroom window? “Why so sad, little man?” Jesus H. Tits. How much ennui can you be experiencing at your ripe old age of .7? Save your tears, squirmy thing; it only goes downhill from here. Babies are sewww gothic. And goths are dull. Maybe it is crying because is has figured out to whom it belongs. (I do not like the neighbours.) So I was lying there, sadistically hoping at least that there was a great deal of pain that was warranting such a disturbance from my tiny offender, and I was having those really-quite-tired-but-can’t-sleep thoughts. It’s been nagging me, this whole Kat Klub thing. I’ve been trying to figure out to which “Klub” I belong. What one thing makes me go “Awww! Widdle binkums cutsey-wootsie booger!” like some fawning mother? I think I’ve figured it out. Miniature vehicles. They send me. They really do. Watch this… I can look at this picture and giggle maniacally and clutch my nuts until those darned cows come home. I know I’m in the “Diminutive Vehicle Klub” because no one else gets it. It’s my fetish and it freaks me out. Badjuju was only too happy to take this picture of me in front of her mum’s Mini Cooper, but I think my exaggerated glee and endless scrutiny of the photo might baffle her somewhat. Honestly, I have examined this picture for an hour at a time, cooing like a dang fool, “Look at its tiny-whiney wheels! Eet’s so leetle!” Oh, and remember this one? Tee hee hee. So what have we learned this early, early, early Saturday morning? Little car = good. Little people = bad.