Workin' Nine to Dive

Did I do something to make God angry? I mean, as if my life wasn't bad enough. My owner took me to his office for the week. And try as I might, I cannot figure out why. True, the nursery school I go to is on break, so I can't stay there. And mom and the chitlins are out of town, so I guess Sanchez is just looking for some male bonding. But what kind of Oscar is he to my Felix anyway?

I can understand why he comes home so bummed everyday. He plopped me down in this gray cube surrounded by (guess what) row after row of other gray cubes. It's odd though. Rather than seeing folks in these cubes, they were all either at the large water dispenser or outside exhaling plumes of delicious looking smoke. At one point, this guy with a stained tie and short sleeve dress shirt (you mean people actually wear those in real life?) came by to chew my owner out over a typo - it should have been "who" instead of "whom". Yeah, I would have told him his parents were first cousins too. By the end of the day even I was drained, and I just had to watch the poor sap. The dude can't even catch a break when he eats at work.

It was like 2:30 and my owner hadn't had a bite because he was crunching on some proposal to save the company. So he finally breaks down and takes a Snickers bar that said "Janice" on it. Holy hot flash, was Janice ticked. Hey, lady, he just saved the company. Give the man a seventy-five cent candy bar! Oh, wait, here comes the girl with the checks. Is that a tear my owner is wiping from his eye?

Guns n' Hoses

Do you know what the most awesome bit in the whole constitution is? The right to bear arms. Now, since I've never had any formal education beyond nursery school I used to think this meant naked biceps (be honest, you saw that one coming). But after my owner debated some whiney hippie last night, mine eyes have seen the glory - and the glory is a .22 Beretta.

True, the only armory I've been able to lay my paws on so far are some old Star Wars toy weapons, but I just love to look at myself in the mirror as I pull one of those babies from behind my back. And don't even get me started on loading the magazine and cocking the hammer. I've had TaTa time me. See? I'm getting all excited just talking about it. I almost want someone to break in so I can mow them down in a hail of bullets. Why would anyone ever want to ban these things? My toughest decision is whether I want to target shoot or hunt. But first I need to apologize to TaTa.

To test out the new extension of my hand, I put a kernel of corn on TaTa's head to shoot. It got messy, but it's not my fault. The guy wouldn't stand still. Don't worry, he's fine... just missing a scale or two. On another note, why don't people just hunt with machine guns instead of rifles? That way you're bound to get something. I love America.

An American Hamster in Paris

My owners have been talking about a vacation for a while now. Because of this, I knew it was only a mater of time before I had to say goodbye to TaTa for a bit. I just never thought I'd be saying au revoir to him.

To apparently help break up the malaise that is the northeast frozen tundra, my owners decided to pack a few bags and head off to sunny France. You know, it's the country with all the whiney guys in berets. So into the hay-filled, beige carrying case I went for the next 12 to 15 hours (depending on layovers and the time change). Well, what do you know? I guess all the millions upon millions of square miles and breathtaking monuments right here in the good ol' U.S. of A. were all booked. So now, instead of wiping a tear away as I gaze into the granite faces of former presidents on a certain South Dakota mountain, I'll be squinting awkwardly at the Eiffel Tower. Where are the walls anyway? Dude, they never even bothered to finish it. And ain't that just like the French? They're probably waiting for the Americans to come help them... again.

What was probably the best part of our trip to the land of bri cheese and accordion music was when a couple of poodles were in front of me in line. Smirking to myself, I shouted "Ich bin ein Noodle!" They instantly threw down their baguette bread, put their hands up and surrendered. The French crack me up. Then I casually asked them which way to the Mona Liza Minnelli.

Chick, Please

You know what my new favorite thing to do is? Every time I hold the door for another pet, who then proceeds to just scuttle though silently, I shout, "You're welcome!" Which is funny, you see, because they didn't bother to say thank you. What am I, a doorman? Not to rudeness, I'm not. He can just wait at the bar. And that's another thing!

Not that I get to go clubbing too often, but when TaTa and I hit Studio 54 I'd like to get my Mai Tai served quickly. There's no reason I should have to hang there, clinging to the edge of the bar with my front paws, waiting a half hour to be acknowledged. I'm sorry... I'm being mean. You club owners with just one bartender must be shocked that the place is so busy. After all, it is 11PM on a Saturday - you guys are usually dead about this time, right? But I know the truth is that it's because I'm a dude.

This chick rabbit hopped up to the bar last weekend all in slow motion, white, fluffy fur in soft light. She had her carrot juice in 20 seconds flat. All she had to do was flutter her eyelashes and sniff with that pink nose. It also really helped that "Oh Yeah" by Yello was thumping in the club. Slick my fur back with some water from your bowl, TaTa, it's time to make my move. I'm sure glad I brushed my teeth today.

Hamster of the Opera

"I am your hamster, come to the hamster of music..."

Haunting, isn't it? Just imagine it with a fog machine! I've been thinking about it for a while now, and finally decided to write a musical. In most social circles this would be ludicrous, but I know I can trust you, my friend. The idea started as more of just a rock opera kind of thing, but the more I wrote, the more I felt this needed a bigger voice. To be fair, I only wrote the libretto, the music was all TaTa. You'd be surprised, but the guy has a real ear for it. Case in point: originally, I felt that the final reveal for the Hamster of the Opera required more of a Bach-like Toccata and Fuge with simple oboe accompaniment. But it was entirely TaTa's idea to unveil the piece scene by heart wrencing scene a la polka. I tell you: the fish is a genius.

We've already decided to put our brains together Lennon/McCartney style and do a musical version of All The President's Men. I see Clay Aiken as Nixon, but TaTa is all set on Rick Springfield. Is that dude even still alive? Jessie's Girl? Never heard of it. Anyway, assuming that takes off (which I'm sure it will) we'll then tackle that elephant in the room known as Citizen Kane. It's itching for a libretto. Now if I could just reach the mailbox to send the score to someone.

The Year of the Crock

According to Chinese doctrine, 2009 will be the Year of the Ox. You heard me right, and I'm as disgruntled as you are. Look it up. And when exactly was the Year of the Rat (which is as close as I'd come to the Year of the Hamster)? 2008! You mean I missed the whole thing? What a ripoff. I know what you're thinking - an actual rat would turn me into chop suey with a side order of dumplings. But if you take the time to investigate, my species isn't too far off from those sewer rodents anyway. And what would that mean for me? I could have been sitting pretty - at least until January 1, 2009.

Just think of all the lost chances - the full fur massages, claw pedicures, corrective eye surgery so I don't just see black and white anymore... the list could have been endless. Instead, I now have to sit back and watch some steroid-inflated cow take all the glory. I mean, what do cows (oops, I mean oxen) really do anyway? Other than pulling a plow, I haven't seen Ol' Betsy split the atom or anything. The one exception I guess would be over in India.

Have you seen the bovine species over there? They must be doing something right because folks in India do all but drive them around in limos... or rickshaws... or whatever they drive over there. I guess all I can do is bide my time till Dick Clark's plastic replacement counts down the end of 2009. When that happens I'll be shaking cocktails and kissing a set of fish lips as that sparkly hamster ball drops.

Ho, Ho, Who?

Wait a minute, wait a minute... I've got to catch my breath from laughing so hard. Let me see if I've got this straight. There's a big fat guy in a red suit who flies all over the planet and goes into every single house (Jews and Muslims excluded), dropping off presents and eating cookies? And he does this all in one night? Come on, I mean even allowing for difference in time zones the dude can't have more than twelve hours to do it all. Not to mention the fact that by the time he hits the last place he's put on an extra 125 pounds in chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin.

I'd feel bad for the kids this yarn is spun to were it not for the fact that the little yard apes have such wonder in their eyes when you tell them. Well, that plus the discipline factor is awesome: "Now, Johnny, I'd hate to have to tell Santa that you didn't finish your creamed corn." Nice touch, mom. This is where hamsters and fish would make for a much more plausable story. For starters, I'd be able to fit down even a European chimney way easier than the average white male. And crossing large bodies of water would be a lot easier for TaTa than even for me (and I have a pretty decent backstroke). Combined I think we'd make an awesome St. Nicholas. And that's another thing - why so many names, buddy? Who exactly are you hiding from?

Santa, St. Nick, Kris Kringle, Uncle Fredo... the list of aliases never ends. Seems to me like the guy is hiding something. And what's with the "jolly old elf" moniker? I thought "happy senior little person" would be more politically correct. Call me Ebenoodle Scrooge, but I smell a rat. And did I mention the fact that the last time I checked reindeer have no wings? Side note: If TaTa and I wake up Christmas morning to a new hamster wheel and rainbow gravel, I take it all back.