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(Almost) Groundhog Day!

By Tater Barley Banks | Comment Diversions | January 30, 2010 | Comments ()

By Tater Barley Banks | Comment Diversions | January 30, 2010 |


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First off, thanks to everyone who put up diversion ideas in the Diversion Diversion. I'll be milking your suggestions in the weeks to come.

Second off, we've done that movie to death, haven't we? So ...

Third off, I'll admit right up front that this is a stretch.

Mrs. Tater doesn't cotton to animals in the house. Not the four-legged kind anyway (she makes an obvious exception for yours truly). We tolerate the occasional spider as long as it stays out of sight; we tolerate the apparently hibernating cricket in the laundry room as long as it shuts up.

For awhile she made an exception for a tank of tropical fish, which means, of course, that I was regularly murdering fish by the plastic bagsful. It was a task to get the temperature properly regulated, so from time to time I would boil some and freeze others. Some of them developed what I can only describe as fish cancer, and would spend their days and nights pathetically humping around the castle ... the castle ...

Excuse me, I was tearing up there for a second.

Anyway, much as I enjoyed having the fish tank in the family room a few yards from the fireplace (it's impossible to stay awake when the tank is bubbling and the fire is crackling, and also if you have a liter of Jack Daniel's next to your chair), eventually I got tired of the carnage and slaughter and picking out the bodies and shut down the operation.

So now all I'm left with for a pet is ... yes ... the obese groundhog that turns up in the yard once in awhile. I don't know how it ever got to be as huge as it is, all it ever eats is yardsalad. But there it is. I never get to pet it, and it would probably take my hand off if I did, so I'm relegated to just waving at it through the window ...

Yeah, I know how pathetic that sounds, but it's MY groundhog, dammit, and if I can't have a kitty or a puppy I'm ... I'm ...

Excuse me, I was tearing up there for a second.

Anyway, I know many of you have more conventional pets, and this is your opportunity to brag on 'em. Unload all your love (I'm looking at you, LindsEy). Or maybe you'd like to have a pet. What would your ultimate pet be? Elephant? Unicorn? Killer whale?

Name it. It's yours! Dustin said you can have one!

Conversely, tell us how you would torture the neighbor's dog/cat/rooster before dropping it in the acid.

(Oh, BTW, my favorite commercial is that one where the man asks the little girl if she'd like a pony and she says yes and he gives her a little toy pony. Then he asks the other little girl if she'd like a pony and she says yes and her gives her a real pony. The first little girl says, "You didn't say I could have a real pony." He says, "You didn't ask." The look on her face? The combination of shock and pissed-offedness and if-looks-could-killness on her face? Pure magic.)

TATER BARLEY BANKS is not to be trusted. He probably makes up everything he writes about himself, especially the stuff about living in West Virginia. Don't be fooled. In truth, he lives in Pajibaland, where he speaks gibberish as , (TCFKAB), spends his time sitting on a park bench, eyeing little girls with bad intent, and is developing a 25-letter alphabet, now that his key doesn't work. He has no blog, no Facebook page and no MySpace page, so don't try to find him. If you're so inclined, you can email Tater.


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