Fancy A Joint?

This last week has been wonderful. I mean, it started badly, then got progressively worse until about Wednesday when things deteriorated and by Sunday afternoon I was about ready to commit suicide by sniffing Boris' bottom passage, but apart from that it was one of the best weeks I've ever had.

For a start Twitter managed to lock me out of my Twitter account by telling me that I had to change my password. I got my male staff to turn on my laptop as usual one morning, with the usual kerfuffle of course. It's the same every day, I have to remind him of the procedure by nipping the inside of his thigh with my incisors. Actually that's not strictly true, he's getting quite good at turning on the computer now, I just enjoy biting him. Anyway, that's beside the point. When we finally navigated our way to the Twitter website and tried to sign in to my account it told us "You need to change your Password. A message has been sent to the email connected to your account to enable you to do this." or words to that general effect.

This immediately caused my male staff to start up with his irate seagull impression again. (See previous blog appropriately entitled "The Irate Seagull".)  "Faaaaaaaaaark!" He squawked, and flapped his arms a bit. He'd opened a Hotmail account for me, just for the purpose of my Twitter account but we'd never bothered accessing it - after all, who sends guinea pigs emails, apart from Nigerian Princes who need help transferring their billions from Nigeria to Australia? So, next stop was the Hotmail website. Tried to sign in. "Faaaaaaaaaaaark! Faaaaaaaaaaark!" More arm flapping and a little flying spittle this time. "Your account has been closed due to inactivity." I have no idea how Hotmail know how active or otherwise my male staff has been, I mean he seems active enough to me. He exercises every day. Maybe they've only ever seen him when he's having a nap. In any case, why should his level of activity impact upon whether or not he can have a Hotmail account. I know lots of fat, lazy bastards who have one. It's not like Hotmail is only for professional athletes. It's all very odd.  

So now we had no way of accessing my Twitter account where thousands of faithful followers were waiting for my words of piggy wisdom. How would they continue to live their lives without me? Would their world fall apart without their fur-fix each day? Quite probably I thought, so I instructed my male staff to open another Twitter account for me, this time with a Yahoo email address. This he did, then a couple of days later Twitter realised they'd made a horrible mistake and reinstated my old password, so I now have two Twitter accounts and I have to employ more staff to administer them both. It would cost me a fortune if I actually paid them anything.

Today things started to look a little brighter. I went with my male staff to the local hospital to see an orthopaedic specialist about his dodgy knee. That is my male staff was seeing the specialist about his own knee, he was not going to look at the specialists knee. I hope that's clear. Anyway, as is customary on such occasions I found myself stuffed down the front of my male staff's trousers in order to sneak passed the receptionist. For some reason doctors' receptionists seem to object to the presence of rodents in so called sterile areas. Let me tell you, there's nothing sterile about being down the front of my male staff's pants. I was still wriggling and trying to get comfortable in the confined space when we entered the office. Peeping through a gap in my male staff's fly I could see the receptionist looking directly at me and I wondered briefly if she could see my eye looking right back at her. I wriggled a bit more. She flinched and made a face that suggested mild revulsion.
 "The sexual disorders clinic is down the corridor." She said. "Third on the left."
My male staff looked at her, puzzled. "No, I'm here about my knee. Name's Emery." He said. "I Have an appointment at ten fifteen." The receptionist reluctantly dragged her eyes away from my male staff's groin and checked her computer. Finding this to be correct she showed us into another room and told my male staff to take a seat at a large oak desk. "Doctor Kuttemoff will be with you shortly." She added and left.

To my relief my male staff unzipped his fly pulled me out of his pants and placed me on the desk to stretch my legs, chew important looking files and relieve my bladder on the computer keyboard. We waited patiently for a couple of minutes but no doctor appeared, so my male staff passed the time playing with the numerous plastic joint models that littered the desktop. There were knees, shoulders, hips, ankles, wrists - you name it. As the minutes ticked by my male staff entertained himself by trying to build a complete skeleton, while I'd found a prescription pad to eat and offering advice on which bone should go where. Soon there was an impressive pile of bones on the desk which was starting to resemble a human skeleton. There were a few bits missing still, notably the head, so my male staff started scanning the room for more bones. He hates leaving things half finished. It was about then that another door opened on the other side of the desk. The sudden noise and movement gave me a bit of a fright. We rodents have a slightly nervous disposition, and I leapt from the desk onto my male staff's lap, knocking over the pile of bones on the way. The bones clattered down and one of the joints, I think it was an elbow landed with a splash in the doctors half finished cup of coffee, showering files, both chewed and unchewed with brown liquid.

Fortunately Doctor Kuttemoff couldn't see me because I was now below desk level. He looked at his desk, the chewed files, the half eaten prescription pad, the coffee mug containing an elbow joint and little puddles of coffee. Eying my male staff suspiciously. He wiped some coffee from the seat of his chair and sat down.
 "Mr Emery?" He asked.
 "That's right." said my male staff, shifting in his seat as I tried to squirm back into his open fly." 
 "Good" said the doctor. "Let's have a look at your record." He then turned to the computer and tapped a few of the keys. Then he suddenly stopped, realising that somehow his fingers were wet. He sniffed them, drew his head back sharply and wrinkled his nose in disgust before glaring accusingly at my male staff, who smiled weakly back at him.

BORIS'S BIT

Ich vould like to be asking vy it is zat ich never get to go on any of zese excursions mit Billy's male staff. Zey are soundink zo much fun. Vy do ich alvays haf to stay at home und look after zat klein vipper-schnapper Baci vile he is runnink rinks around me.