Rock Band

My gargoyle seems to have a better credit rating than I do.

I came home on Wednesday to find Gargy howling. I assumed he had, once again, caught his rather hefty grünwurst in the bathroom door. Alas, no. My farting feline favourer has now figured out how to order credit cards online (I'm guessing that his British tart of a virtual girlfriend helped him out. I'm looking forward to meeting HER) and has been using them to make impulsive purchases.

(Wanting to object and throttle him, I harkened back to our legal escapades from a few months ago. His official status with regards to my company is now as an "employee". I'm guessing therefore that he will require an income above and beyond his room and board to cover his discretionary spending. This means I could conceivably be sued, with retroactive wages being awarded to him. Labour laws have a way of sucking all the fun out of slavery, dammit).

I ran up to investigate the noise pollution and saw that Annie was licking herself on the couch and Gargy was trying to sing to Coheed & Cambria's "Welcome Home". He purchased and had delivered a video game console with an application called "Rock Band". Apparently, time-endowed individuals can emulate the lifestyle choices of "musicians" by pretending to play pre-programmed tunes on cheap plastic "instruments" (as always, quotation marks will be my contribution to the literary artform (along with the abusive use of parentheses)). My little halitosis spewer was using the microphone and the drums simultaneously in an attempt at recreating a song about a bad breakup leading to the burial of the principal's former love.

(...of course, being divorced, the subject matter is as heartwarming to my ears as a boy-band ballad declaring eternal soft puppy kissies is to a hormonal teenaged female's. Chicks are weird).

In any case, he has recently been spending more time on frivolous pursuits than on lovingly creating hemp binding apparati. Actual output has been the same (being an MBA-holder means finding productivity gains by analysing processes and stuff) and all orders are filled and shipped in record time, but still, I've got a wailing/bashing gargoyle on my hands here.

I told him that Madame Tousigny will be apoplectic (and will start randomly firing her musket again), thinking that de Gaulle's Communists are invading her beloved Vichy if she were to hear that racket.

...at that very moment, the demented, wrinkle-adorned neighbour exited my living room closet, pulling up her oversized, crotch-stained underwear over her hose (which she forgot to remove before initiating her expulsions, as can be deduced from the dangling dripping doodie between her legs). She squishily sat down next to Annie and started slapping her head in a manner one assumes Nazis would characterise as being affectionate. She then picked up the guitar and chose a Nine Inch Nails song. On "hard". And endeavored to obtain a 98% score with a perfect solo.

My most normal homebound activity is now having to scrub old-lady poop stains out of my couch.

...so I chose Bon Jovi's Wanted Dead or Alive and took over the drums. I'm just REALLY glad the game's developers decided to include such a great artist among the Pumpkins/Metallica/FNM sludge.