ALWAYS finish your tea before reading a Wang-Ka post. Make sure your boss is not around, if at work, or your SO knows you’re on the SDMB if at home. This is vital for your self-preservation, as well as your continued employment/marital status.
You know, string bikini panties let fly with an unstitched strap on occasion, too. Unfortunately, we ladies haven’t got anything to “drawstring” around, so we have to stand there wondering if the sagging, wrinklind mass that used to be our underpants are clearly delineated against our scrub pants and hoping that said sagging, wrinkling mass won’t work its way to one side and down our pants leg as we walk to the bathroom for safety-pinning or removal.
I bet you could have done a staple job!
I once pulled the hem out of my pants so I scotched taped it. It didn’t hold. I had no choice but to staple it. It worked!
I bet you could have done a staple job!
I once pulled the hem out of my pants so I scotched taped it. It didn’t hold. I had no choice but to staple it. It worked!
There is a cat I used to have named Faust, whose name is still spoken with wonder by his friends, and dread by his enemies.
My roommates at the time nicknamed him Professor Doktor Faustus because he learned how to open interior doors by jumping up and grabbing the handle with his front paws, twisting it, and kicking the doorjamb with his hind legs until the door swung open. If the door swung inward, it usually took him a little longer.
Once a week or so, he’d wear himself out trying to open the front door, which was too heavy for him to move.
Anyway, he was a chow hound extraordinaire – if he had you pegged for a sucker, you couldn’t eat around him until he’d inspected the meal and received his tribute. Part of that was my fault – he and I had an agreement that if he’d keep his distance while I ate, I’d save him a nibble at the end. For some reason, though, Faust had no respect whatsoever for one of my roommates at the time, a guy named Max.
One day, I decided to make tuna salad. I diced up some celery first, and while opening the cans, Faust of course raised hell about wanting what was in them, and I drained the water and let him have it, and he raised hell about wanting the REST of what was in the cans, and I ignored him and he swatted my leg, and I ignored him and he bit my ankle and I ignored him… and then I heard the crunching sounds behind me…
I turned around. He had leaped up on the other counter, and was eating the celery. Apparently, he meant to have SOME of what I was doing, whether I liked it or not…
Max came home from work later and asked if there was anything to eat. I told him there was tuna salad. He went and fixed a sandwich and sat down on the couch to watch the news with me. Faust promptly hopped up on the coffee table and yauped for his share. Max ignored him. Faust looked irritated, and leaned over the edge of the table, reaching out a paw to hook the sandwich and bring it closer for inspection. Max moved the sandwich where Faust couldn’t reach it, and bipped him gently on the nose with a finger by way of chastisement.
This was the fatal error; you could swat Faust or yell at him, but to patronize him was a grave mistake. Faust responded by suddenly leaning way forward, winding up with one paw, and firmly clouting the sandwich out of Max’s hand.
Max squawked.
I goggled.
The sandwich arced gracefully through the air.
Faust cocked his head, calculated the feast’s flight path, sprang off the coffee table, and positioned himself about where the sandwich would land on the floor, all in about three-quarters of a second.
I goggled.
Max recovered, leaped to his feet, hurdled the coffee table with a mighty bound, and fielded the sandwich out of the air about a foot above Faust’s waiting hungry paws.
They looked at each other like that for a minute – Max’s face filled with unbelieving outrage, Faust’s face creased with mild irritation.
Max roared.
Faust bolted.
I goggled.
Max launched himself after the cat, squishing the sandwich in a deathgrip, waving it around as if he meant to bludgeon the cat to death with it.
I sprained a latissimus, laughing.
A week later, Max made himself some rice pilaf. He had the first forkful halfway to his mouth when out of nowhere, Faust leaped up onto the table, slapped the food off the fork, and leaped down and ran away.
I mean, this was a cat with a GRUDGE, you know?
I had a cat that we acquired much the way you acquired Buffy, Wang-Ka. Marmalade was this scrawny little stray that adopted us one day, and we’d been feeding her for a couple of weeks before we discovered that she was knocked up. By then, it was too late. Well, Marmalade would knock over trashcans in the kitchen, paw through the garbage, fish out old heads of lettuce, and devour every last bit of them. She was a street cat, you know? She was sharp. She had survival skills. When I was little, if she ever wanted outside during the night, she would yowl plaintively outside my parents’ door. When that got her nothing besides, “Shut the hell up, Marmalade!” or occasionally, the thrown shoe, she would come into my bedroom and bite the tarnation out of my head. I’d start screaming that the cat had bitten me, and my parents would rush in, comfort me, then pitch Marmalade outside. Which was exactly what she wanted.
The cats I have now think they’re smart, but they have the combined IQ of a termite. I’ll be eating something on the couch, and they’ll beg. When I deny them, they try the Stealth
Manouever–they sneak up and try to steal food from BEHIND me, from the back of the couch. They always look so surprised that I catch on to them so quickly and STILL don’t give them food.
Buffy… well, Buffy just… kind… of… osmosised in, I guess. It never occurred to anyone but the humans that he didn’t actually live here, and he corrected that fact by simply ignoring it until we got tired of trying to STOP him.
That, and the fact that he’s normally quite affectionate and good-natured helped. He didn’t start being a pill until he felt secure in our good will, I guess…
It also occurs to me that this may be the thread you meant to respond to…
…and how can WOMEN of all people even CONSIDER using STAPLES on UNDERWEAR?
Eesh. The very IDEA creeps me out…
I mean, I’m sorry, but the idea of constructing some sort of jury-rigged contraption out of elastic and razor-sharp steel staple wire to hold my testicles in just does NOT hold ANY appeal to me at ALL…
I wouldn’t dare use a staple on undies!!! eye-chee-wa-wa. But I use them on skirt hems all the time.
Wonderful stories, Wang-Ka. And Faust sounds like my kind of feline.
How embarassing. I posted to the wrong thread. Message Board Foul. I did indeed mean to respond to Cat Scratch Fever. But you know, two active Wang-Ka threads, both of them involving cats…
Ah, but you see, we don’t HAVE testicles. 
Quite so. And viva la difference.
And I wasn’t aware this thread was about cats. I thought it was about my underwear, with my testicles as kind of a sideline…
It’s not ABOUT cats, but there was the whole Max/Faust story, which put me in mind of the cat thread. I got thread-disorientation. I’m so sorry–I swear, moderators, it will never happen again!
Excellent! Two extremely funny stories for the price of one click.
Sorry to continue the hijacking, but I don’t much care to talk about your testicles, if it’s all the same to you. 
It’s astonishing how much power a little house cat can pack into a punch, isn’t it? The first time I gained a true appreciation for this was many year ago, as I was vacuuming the living room. It was an old apartment, like most in the Boston area, so it had steam radiators; the big, stand-up kind, not the sleek little baseboards. In order to clean under it, I took the head off the tube, and started to poke it under the radiator. This was a canister style vacuum, a good quality one, and had a one-piece, steel tube. So, as the tip of the tube approaches the radiator, all of a sudden…WHANG!… the tip of the tube jumps about 10 inches to the left, and it’s now ringing like a bell. WTF?
Looking closer, I realized Foto (that’s my ex’s fault), our half-grown Siamese had chosen the niche between the sofa and the radiator as the ideal place in which to hide from the Roaring Floor Monster. When the silvery snake-thing approached, he defended himself. Most impressively! I was so impressed, I made him do it twice more (Yes, I know. I was young.), before “rescuing” him from the bad thing.
At that point in his life, he probably weighed about four or five pounds. He never got very big, anyway, being the runt of the litter, but he turned out to be a great cat. I miss him. Anyway, I later estimated the force it would have taken to make the tube jump and ring, like that; somewhere between ten and twelve pounds, as best as my crude measurements could tell.
Heh, heh. Can’t much blame him. There has never been much love lost between cats and vacuum cleaners.
And that’s how some people are. Some folks are cat people, and others are testicle people.
Guess it’s a good thing there don’t seem to be any crazy old ladies with hundreds of pet testicles, hm?
Well you know how those stray testicles are. Feed them just once…
Enjoy,
Steven
Of course, I consider myself 99% lesbian when it comes to sheer sex. . .
But I can think of few things less appealing than a man in a thong. Ick!
Ah.
Well.
Damn.
So much for my master plan to “turn” LauraLittlePony…
Reminds me of a cat that once owned me that was enamoured of cashew nuts. Unfortunately, so was I. She would hear the lid being unscrewed on the jar and immediately teleport to wherever I was and start swatting the jar, trying to make cashews fall out of it.
It got to the point where we came to a truce. The first handful that came out of the jar went to her. The rest were mine.
Wang-Ka, I followed your links and made it back to the Corky story, but that thread is long dead, so I’ll just ask here. What did you do to get even with the dog?