In Which We Groom

 

Apres les deluge.

My poor old cat Octavia is so old and poorly, she can no longer clean herself the way cats so fastidiously do.  She has bad arthritis and just can't bend around to commit her cat yoga.  I totally sympathize with having a stiff back, still, she has fairly long hair so the area around her pee hole has really absorbed a lot of unfortunate liquids and she has started to smell like an overworked petting zoo. 

I have washed cats in the past and learned the very hard lesson that that is not something I wish to repeat, so I hired a mobile cat groomer to come and give her a good scrub.  I also wanted her nails clipped because they are like some kind of Asian martial arts weapons.  And since the groomer was here, they also could take on the claws of my other cat, Toby.

It seems really bougie to outsource nail clipping; I have always handled that myself, even the evil and adorable Saki.  Although he frequently left me in bloody tatters otherwise, he was perfectly casual about getting a pedicure from me.  He would always sit in my lap while I was at the computer so I would just clip his little kitty killer clown claws then.  But Toby, who is otherwise the world's friendliest cat, refuses to settle in my lap and turns into a whirling dervish whenever I try to hold him down for a beauty session. I suppose it would be no big deal to let them go except he likes to pat me gently on the cheek while I'm reading (Adorable!) and occasionally his dew claw, the feline scimitar of death, will snag me on my lip (Not Adorable!).  That is exactly as much fun as it sounds.

I had to stop writing this because the groomer called to say they were all through so I went down to rescue my bad little pussies.  It turns out Driving Miss Octavia could not have been less troubled by the entire event.  Toby, America's sweetheart, on the other hand, pissed in his carrier and BIT the poor guy when he was trying to clean the pee off him.  Toby claims this report was exaggerated, but I tipped the groomer extra anyway. 

So now we're all clean and claws are blunted.  I don't know if I'm going to go through this again, the cats didn't like it and it was not cheap.  I could have splurged on a spa day for myself and we would have all been happier I think.

Dudes:

Frequent commenter Jeff sent me this lovely shot of Alexander Skarsgaard and his Skars Dick.  Is it real?  Who knows in these unhappy PhotoShopped times?  Mostly, I am SO jealous of whatever photographer got to spend a snug little time with a naked and erect Alexander in the hot tub.

Bootylicious.

Muscle boy with his muscle car.

It's unusual for a lanky youth to have such a shapely pussy.  I congratulate him on it.

That is a "come hither" dick if I ever seen one.

Cowboy booty.

Why so glum, chum?

Open for Business.

In Which We Focus

 

After I got my cataract surgery, that practice gave me a new pair of glasses with a new, supposedly improved prescription.  The glasses absolutely sucked.  I  could only see in bits and patches.  The ground at my feet was out of focus which resulted in me tripping even more than usual.  I could see across the street okay and oddly enough the microwave tower on the horizon was crisply in focus.  Not particularly useful, but crisp. 

So last week, to get proper glasses, I  went whining off to my regular eye doctor, who is charming, his office well decorated, and his bill enormous.  I got my new glasses today and I am here to tell you, being able to see is worth the money.  Plus I was able to reuse the frames I've had for a couple of years and really like, so yay. 

Also out getting coffee and then on my way over to pick up my glasses, I noticed several people, including a couple of attractive young men, giving me the eye, as they say.  It improved my mood considerably and made me think "mrpeenee still got it, yeah bitch."  And then I realized they were simply struck by my new t-shirt, a masterpiece of graphic art that represents Godzilla eating a subway car, a classic scene from a couple of Godzilla movies and one of my favorites.  

mrpeenee, avec new glasses and a seriously groovy Godzilla shirt.

Guys to pay attention to:

The luscious Keegan Whicker and his whicker whacker.

A lot of today's nekkid guys is brought to you by the letter ass.

I have returned to drinking coffee, not because I am weak, but because I WANTED to.

Matty Gilbert, superior quality daddy.

Open for business.

Beefiness.

One last extra fine buttchop.

In Which We Ride with the Future

 

Diane von Austinburg came out to visit last week.  As usual, it was delightful.  Diane remains the best house guest I could ask for.  I stay up all night, sleep all day until about 2:00 in the afternoon at which time I get up and wander down to Peet's for my afternoon constitutional, come home and go directly back to bed for a few hours until dinner, after which I return to bed for perusing random useless internet sites on my phone and start all over.  And Diane adopts that ridiculous schedule as her own.   God love her. 

An important part of the bacchanal is that the evenings we don't cook, we go out for dinner and this time all of the dinners were ridiculously successful.  Since I no longer have a car, getting to a restaurant now involves somebody else driving.  I've been using Uber all this time, but now I have switched my allegiance to Waymo, the self-driving cab company.  Diane was very suspicious of the whole idea of wheeling about with no human pilot, but I think any time I can complete a task without dealing with another person, it's a win.  The cars are very clean and comfortable, the ride is smooth, and there is no driver bothering me with attempts at conversation in a language still heavily influenced by the Old Country, whatever that might be. 

One of my favorite things about Waymo is that apparently when I set up my account, I was asked how I wanted to be addressed and I specified "peenee" probably assuming I would never hear about that again.  But no.  When you get in the car, the computer cheerfully welcomes you, in my case, it chirps in a perky voice, "Hello peenee" which I think is absolutely hysterical, mostly because I am easily amused.  Initially I responded with "Fuck off, cocksucker," but now I have calmed down.

Boys who I hope will never be replaced by technology:

I went back to previous recent posts to see if I had featured these lovely buttchops before.  You will be glad to hear I have not.

Nor these.

Sorry if my comments on the boys this week are lacking, but I'm eating a really delicious pizza and my priorities right now are with my stomach.

I'm sure there is some pizza joke about sausage or meat-lovers for this.  Fill in the blank.

It's still warm enough here for al-fresco dick.

I just love pictures where you get both butt AND dick.

In Which We Finally Offer Free Art

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In Which We Consider the Rise of the Machine

 

Today is Talk Like a Pirate Day, a holiday very dear to all of us here at mrpeenee, Inc.  I don't have the energy remind you scurvy dogs of it's history and traditions, go here for some of that.  But let me just say avast ye blackguards, clear your poop deck and prepare to be boarded.  Surrender your booty, etc., etc., etc.

Now on to our story,

Earlier this summer, I mentioned that I have been dabbling in the brave new world of AI smut.  My efforts were strictly limited to pictures of naked guys, or semi naked guys, because I'm a very visual smut queer.  Just as a side note, while there are lots of sites that generate AI images, almost all of them are very prissy about no NSFW stuff.  Bitches.

Anyway, a while ago our dear chum Mikey from over at Chaturbate asked if I had considered using something like ChatGPT for writing.  I hadn't; for one thing, I had just considered writing AI to be useful for either applying for jobs or cheating on your homework.  I will now take a brief pause to thank the great father that I need to do neither.  Also though, I like writing, or rather, to quote the great Dorothy Parker, "I hate writing but I love having written." Writing is a lot of effort, but so is fucking and I don't want a computer to do that for me either. 

Still, I'm very conscious of how erratic both my spelling and punctuation are.  I know I drop in commas like they are decoration on a Christmas tree, and sprinkle semicolons around with gay abandon.  If AI can help calm all that down, then maybe it would help. 

I decided to test it out by taking some random paragraph from last week's blog and running it through the GPT wringer.  The immediate problem was that the AI wanted to punch up my pathetic little effort instead of just tidying up the random punctuation. 

Here's what it came back with initially: 

Want me to take it further into over-the-top humor (like full-on dialogue between you and the cats about their survival plan), or keep it in this dry, sarcastic vein?

I suppose I should be flattered that it recognized I was trying to be dry and sarcastic.  Since apparently my only choices were a kitty dialogue or sticking with my usual bitchiness, I opted for bitchiness.

My original:

As you see in the picture above, they have both now decided my bed is our bed.  Toby regularly snuggles up next to my side with his head on my shoulder which has to be the most adorable thing since cats were invented. Octavia also likes to settle in next to me.  If she gets here first, Toby will climb over one or both of us to jam himself in between her and my armpit so that I find myself at the bottom of a pile of cats as I just try to watch the news on PornHub.  Also, both of them will only settle down on my left side so that I am between them and the door.  Obviously, they are privy to inside information about the zombie apocalypse and they have decided that when the undead inevitably burst in, me and my luscious brains will provide a distraction for the cats to make their getaway.  Ingrates. 

And the new and improved AI version:

As you can see in the picture above, both cats have officially declared my bed to be our bed. Toby, in particular, likes to wedge himself against my side with his head on my shoulder, which is honestly the most adorable thing since the invention of cats—or sliced bread. (Though, let’s be real, cats would never admit sliced bread was useful unless it came with tuna.)

Octavia also likes to curl up next to me, but if she gets there first, Toby turns into a furry little bulldozer. He’ll climb over one or both of us just to jam himself into the prime real estate between Octavia and my armpit. The end result? I’m buried under a cat pile, trying to breathe, while desperately attempting to watch the news on… PornHub. (Don’t judge. Some people read newspapers. I just prefer my headlines delivered… enthusiastically.)

To make things extra convenient, both cats insist on snuggling only on my left side. Apparently, this is a strategic choice: I am the designated meat shield. Clearly, they know the zombie apocalypse is coming, and when the undead inevitably burst through the door, my luscious, brain-filled head will be the all-you-can-eat buffet while my “loving” cats make their daring getaway.

Ingrates. Furry, adorable ingrates.

Honestly, I am not wowed by it.  I understand it sounds like me, mostly because it has grasped my undying passion for adjectives (I just love them modifiers), but the changes it's made don't seem to improve anything, and the jokes that it added are just sort of clunky.  Also, the random nature of my comma usage doesn't seem to be any better.  If anything, the AI is given to even more capricious punctuation. 

I suppose if I really turned my attention to it, I could master chatGPT and wrestle it into doing what I want, but Octavia has been sick with a UTI and so I have been busy squirting antibiotics down her throat and mopping up puddles of cat pee so I'm not really in the mood for learning yet another program just because all the really cool kids are using it.  I'll just stick with naked guy images, thanks. 

Va va va voom

In the weeds.

Dorothy Parker also said "Heterosexuality is not normal it's just common."

Ahoy, ye bilge rats, and shiver me timbers.

I realize I am being rather erratic with my references here in the Nekkid Guy Section, what with Dorothy Parker, AI, and pirates, but that's why I can never be replaced by some GTP, or GPT or GTO or whatever it is.

This guy is AI.  Could you tell?  Avast and arrrgh.

In Which We Are Livin La Vida Gato

 

I am awash in cats.

A year ago in April, I adopted the eighth cat I have lived with and named her, obviously, Octavia.  It turned out Octavia and I have a lot in common; we are both cranky old ladies with bad arthritis and a passion for snacks.  When I first brought her home, she approached her new living situation with admirable caution.  She made a beeline for under the bed in the guest room and stayed there.  I was willing to not force the issue and let her come to me in her own good time.  She ate and used her box (the benchmarks I use for if a cat is okay) when I was out or sufficiently unconscious.  After a couple of weeks I decided maybe we should be more friendly and that's when I discovered her fondness for snack products.  I lured her out from under the bed by rattling a bag of cat treats.  That got her attention.

Once she associated me with snacks, she decided we were going to be best friends and after I got her some steps to make getting into bed easier on her stiff joints, she joined me up here regularly.  It was very sweet.

Then a year ago, the much missed Super Agent Fred died and I inherited his cat, Toby, aka The World's Most Sweetest Cat.  I quarantined him in my bathroom to let him get used to this brave new world, a setup he immediately protested against because he wanted to hang out with me.  So sweet.  Octavia also protested against the setup, but only because she opposed another cat in her space.  Her exact words were, "Nope, I'm out," and she retreated back to her fortress of solitude under the bed. 

It was a situation that left me very unhappy.  I had adopted Octavia specifically because I was looking for a senior cat so that I could provide a more comfortable space than a cage and a kennel for her to live out her last whatevers.  Just as a side note, Octavia has scuttled that high-minded plan, once she became ensconced and living on a diet of fancy wet food, she has thrived.  She has made it very clear she plans on outliving me.  But still, I was very conscious that just as she had really settled in comfortably, Toby appeared and really upset her. 

It took months for her to start to tentatively interact with this interloper.  Toby's approach to the world is Let's Be Buddies and everyone is immediately his best friend.  He simply could not understand why Octavia was so chilly and hostile.  But eventually she warmed to his charms and now she lets him very enthusiastically groom the back of her head.  He also likes to groom the back of my head, for that matter. 

As you see in the picture above, they have both now decided my bed is our bed.  Toby regularly snuggles up next to my side with his head on my shoulder which has to be the most adorable thing since cats were invented. Octavia also likes to settle in next to me.  If she gets here first, Toby will climb over one or both of us to jam himself in between her and my armpit so that I find myself at the bottom of a pile of cats as I just try to watch the news on PornHub.  Also, both of them will only settle down on my left side so that I am between them and the door.  Obviously, they are privy to inside information about the zombie apocalypse and they have decided that when the undead inevitably burst in, me and my luscious brains will provide a distraction for the cats to make their getaway.  Ingrates. 

Speaking of pussy:

Coach's favorite.

What lovely, luscious balls

Everyone who has ever lived with a cat knows the exasperation of asking them "In or out?"

ME: How big is it?

HIM: 7 frosted and 1 plain glazed

ME: On my way

Absolutely asstastic

Daddy says it's spanky time.

In Which We Are Treed

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