They Called Him Fuzzy
You've seen along congested roadways those ubiquitous billboards for apartment complexes that says “If you lived here you'd be home by now? There may be soon springing up new ones that says “If you lived here you're not dead. The billboard's background would consist of a mushroom cloud and I think you know what that means. Around here some rural towns are being touted as new hots spots by reason of being cold spots, that is radioactively speaking. These towns are close enough to DC that you can justify commuting to work there (if you don't mind every day spending countless hours in your vehicle and being dependent on foreign oil and probably going to hell for it regardless of your proximity to the ground zero of a nuclear blast.) Don't let the fact that the FBI and other government agencies are setting up fairly fleshy skeleton crews inside satellite offices outside the "blast zone" set you on edge. These movements are described as precautionary and should be seen as such and should in no way lead DC area residents to cower in abject fear of the impending doom and destruction wrought by nuclear warheads from extremist nations raining down and wiping out the city and everyone you love the way we know it can because of our impressive testing in the field, especially the two in Japan.
Talk to people inside a potential blast zone and you will get the full range of response. There are those that don't want to survive a nuclear blast and act as though even having one go off within a hundred miles of them is reason enough to just throw in the towel for all humanity. And there are those who fully expect it to happen and are preparing accordingly with safe rooms, bunkers, and stored away provisions. Of course another large group, and the one to which I belong, can see it happening but are in no real way preparing for it and might just be hoping for the best, that is, that it happens on the day after I get my bottled water delivery but before I drink all the full and partial bottles of hard liquor leftover from the Christmas party that I just carted away from Mr. BC's city house, for safe keeping out here at the farm. Liquor left in my charge for safe keeping is my one sincere attempt at humor for this day. Hah, I laugh into the face of nuclear annihilation ( I live outside the blast zone AND I haven't even broken the seal on the 16 year old single malt.)
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Let me bring it down a notch and with great sadness report that the grey-striped carcass seen last week lying stiff along the side of Main St. may in fact be the cat known to its owner as Fuzzy, but to me these last few weeks, before the local paper's missing Fuzzy story and then the week after the possibly dead Fuzzy story, during which I contemplated cat ownership by kidnapping, was known as LaDainian, even though I never actually got to say “here LaDainian, come on kitty, kitty, kitty. LaDainian, get off that table, is too, something I never got to say. In my brief association with the cat once thought missing but now thought dead I had him up in both houses, the bighouse and the cottage, and he proved both curious and friendly and to my knowledge not a furniture-shredder. LaDainian, known to some as Fuzzy, is survived by the many of us who considered stealing him and also his actual owner, a local businesswoman. The businesswoman's ex-husband, a nationally syndicated Pulitzer Prize winning cartoonist, was not available for comment, nor is it known or even suspected by those of us who possess barely a scrap of knowledge regarding his life and work, whether or not he had any predilection towards cats.
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