But First……Is everybody headed to the Staples Center in LA for One-Glove Jack-o’s Dirt Nap festivities?  Whoa, Nellie!  Turn dem hosses around!  We have our very own Jackson Memorial right here, in downtown Miami.  See you there!

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Guido is off for 10 days, out of town on a mission of mercy.  Her sister had open heart surgery, so Guido headed up to the City of Bodily Harm to assist with her recuperation.  She left Friday, leaving me in charge of our vast domain and Kingdom of Cats.

Wow!  Bachelorhood!  It’s been, well, it’s been a lifetime.  Maybe two.  I don’t what to do first.  A house near the beach all to myself, two cars, big screen teevee, refrigerators stuffed with beer and tequila in the freezer……

Well, first I mow the lawn.  Then I do the dishes.  Then I clean up the litter pans and the cat yak I discover after I damn near slip on a puddle and fracture my skull.  Then the dog needs a walk.  Go get the neighbor’s mail.  Good thing Guido left me a list.

Exhausted, I’m asleep just after dark.  That’s good, because I’m up three times in the night, awakened by the crash of furniture and household objects going over as the kittens play chase and grab-ass.  How come they don’t wake me up when Guido’s here?

So goes the weekend.  I barely have energy to empty the bottles, let alone whore around.  Plus we have all this high-tech kitchen equipment I don’t know how to use, from the oven to the coffee percolator. I haven’t had coffee in 2 days.  Dorothy, I’m decaffeinating!

Is it Monday already?  Damn, it begins anew.  I got up at 5:30 with the idea that since it’s all on me to feed 6 cats, walk the dog, clean the litter pans, restore whatever wreckage the beasts have created over night, etc., as well as what I usually do myself every morning (stumble into the crapper, moaning, and try to squeeze shit out my ass while swatting bloodthirsty mosquitoes with the same newspaper I’m simultaneously attempting to read), I better start early.

Guido doesn’t know what she’s missing.  Well, that’s wrong.  She knows exactly what she’s missing because she’s the one who does all of the above (minus my porcelain-based performance).  But she’s one of those irritating creatures who doesn’t mind getting up early, and actually likes walking the dog.  In fact, she runs with her.  I find the concept alien, even evil.

Allow me to anticipate your next insinuation, which all my friends and emailers have already expressed.  Certain I won’t hit the hook-up bars for a game of chance, you want to know how many times, and where, I’ve brought myself off since she left.  You want to know if I pulled the pud in the back yard, waxed the carrot in the kitchen, buffed the helmet in the bathroom, climaxed in the Caddy, etc.  Convinced I performed for the animals, you want to know which ones and what gender.  And you’re wondering if — make it hoping that — they’ll find me suspended from a closet door, handcuffed, a rope at my throat, and my dick swinging limply, as I channel David Carradine and Vaughn Bode.

Yeah, well I’ll let you know.

But it’s true I won’t cheat on her.  No hike on the Appalachian Trail for this happy (if temporary) bachelor.  I couldn’t if I wanted to: Guido locked up my balls and stashed them somewhere in her impregnable fortress of a kitchen.  I couldn’t find them with a GPS, a black box beeper, and a mission statement.  Even if I had the energy to search.

So if this week’s blogging is a bit scarce and scattered, you’ll understand, and hopefully, forgive.

PS   Would somebody like to invite me over for dinner?  A man needs more than grapefruit, potato chips, and sliced low-fat cheese with his beer.  Any hot young single women wanna meet Squathole?   Squathole@gmail.com.  Heh heh just kidding.  Whoops, I forgot to delete that.