Dear Mr. Moore,

Your irresponsibility with story-telling regarding David The Undeveloped Cylon has already had a ginormous backlash, so I will not spend too much time on this. Other than to say, HONESTLY!!! Many thought David was Starbuck’s father or Starbuck herself, with good reason. Well, whatever, moving on.

I never wanted to entertain the thought that Starbuck was a Cylon. I thought she was the “Chosen One,” a notion referred to frequently in the middle of Season 3, then dropped forever in the story-telling. But, an Angel? A reincarnated Angel?? Who POOFED AWAY with NO explanation??? And now you’re all, sure, she’s like, an Angel or something like that; we’ll leave that up to you or whatever because I’m totally fine with not being specific about it, in recent interviews.

Just Whatever. Moving on. The biggest loophole unexplained, but whatever, it’s over. You got us.

Also, “150,000 Years Later”! Try like 11,000 years. That’s when farming started. Duh. There still would have been enough of them to significantly mix with what was already here. Are we supposed to imagine that they would have mixed with early homo-sapiens? Yuck, dude. You do realize how looong 150k years are, right? It just doesn’t make sense at all.

p.s. I cried when Roslin bit it. Thanks.
p.p.s. I know this show will affect others in time with its overall brilliance.
p.p.p.s. The United Nations Panel about the show’s themes was like a master’s class and I appreciate that.
p.p.p.p.s. Sigh.

Sincerely,
Dealing with the End with the help of Whiskey

Wherein I Thoroughly Embarrass my Elderly Mormon Parents

Some people might know that I am obsessed with a certain show, which will be ending soon and I will die. I have spoken of it with my cute little old parents, cautioning them not to watch it because of the racy scenes and occasional realistic violence. They know I have enticed other family members to the dark side, and they are interested in all the hoopla. Someday an edited version might pass for their innocent souls to see. There’s actually nothing on TV that is worthy for glowing white-robed angel-people, not even commercials these days. It’s damned alarming.

The other night there was a special on about BSG – just a general behind the scenes event, with interviews and information about the how’s and why’s and what’s of it. I thought this might be a perfect way for them to see what it’s about without worrying about them seeing an unedited episode. So I called them and had them watch it. Not seven minutes into it, the producers start talking about pushing boundaries, and they showed the very stuff I would never want my folks to watch. Lots of ass and glowing spines and people getting shot and using “Frak” as a replacement for what is clearly intended as a different four-lettered F-Bomb. This part passed quickly, but wow, woops. First of all, I should have watched it before having them put it on their big TV. Secondly, I should have remembered that they had some really good old momo friends staying with them. Double snap. Thirdly, these things are tame to me compared with what I used to do to yer mama.

I called them afterwards and they were clearly flustered, but good-natured about it. They had quickly turned it down and averted their eyes but damage was done. I’m so not getting the piano I was going to inherit.

Addendum:

Dad: “Don’t worry, I had almost forgotten about what I saw.”

Mom: “Oh, Dad does stuff like what we saw all the time!”

$1100 a year, and no I’m not talking about yer mama.

She’s way cheaper than that. It’s the damn Fur Posse. The way I figure it, and believe me I’ve figured it:

• $600 for food, treats, and cat litter ($50 per month average)
• $500 for annual vet visits, flea meds, and dog license

This doesn’t even include emergency visits (last year was $230 for Charlie, and 2 totaling $220 for Gus). I know I could feed them all really crappy food and find sand for litter and wait for them to live through infections, but no. It doesn’t matter, I can’t afford the Fur Posse and that’s why I can’t see yer mama anymore.

I would like to save money this year by buying a really good dog & cat first aid kit, and using peanut butter in the licky thing instead of the fitted licky things (I am still not talking about yer mama). Also, I’ve tried the all natural hippie flea & tick methods and I PROMISE: IT DOES NOT WORK, and it’s just as expensive overall. At least the wintertime doesn’t bring the systemic poisoning. I will incorporate some all-natural first aid and flea prevention even though that probably not reduce my bottom line. The yuppies have made going green for pets a rich white skinny people exclusive hoity-toity thing. The rest of us have to buy stuff on sale and use common sense. But common sense ain’t common no more.

I know, try having a kid, right? No thanks, I’ll just keep bitching about this.

Also, I may be a Crazy Cat Lady, but my Tits are Hot.

Everybody Needs a Chi Chi, and Neighborhood Cat Updates:

All she wants is love, but that also comes with eating plants, running sideways down the hallway’s wall, jumping on counters when there’s food, eating every body’s hair, jumping on my back while I’m sitting or standing, taking up half of my pillow at 4am, yeowling in a horrible bitchy voice from the other end of the house, playing awful pretend games involving knocking over something of value, licking my beer, and being in the wrong place at the exact wrong moment. Thank goodness she speaks Spanish because I wouldn’t want to hear the English version.

One of Gus’s unfixed brothers has started showing up at my place. He has been living across the street down the alley, and I’m not sure why he’s suddenly decided to pester me. It seems like he’s semi-feral, and I’m debating on catching him to get him fixed. I think come springtime, I’ll have had enough of the midnight marauding, I will fix him myself. Kidding. I often threat to fix myself during a particularly crappy period. Not because of the midnight marauding.

The halfway house next door has transitioned from being totally male (except for Jennifer, who’s kitten ran away) to only female ex-inmates. I just watched the ladies load up a friendly new gray and white male cat in their vehicle and take him to the local “no-kill” cat shelter. He starting moping around their house about a month ago, and was already de-clawed (!) and fixed. We have all felt pity for him because he just wanted a cuddle and place to stay.

I live in a bad hood, but I really like it here. Living in bad hoods means more per-capita lack of spay/neutering and general cat abandonment (I would argue). It’s getting to be more expensive than my core 3 Furs. I still have to watch Gus when he INSISTS on being inside for a nap, because he is known for snacking on my girl’s food and occasionally marking. This closeness, even his yard digs, means I have to make sure he’s up on his shots and flea meds. Especially since Chi Chi enjoys pawing at his nub. Gawd, I need to get a picture of that.

Monthly Series: The Final, Final Cylon. Not my period.

Warning: Spoilers!

I don’t know about you people, but finding out Starbuck is David the Unknown Cylon has had me reeling since Friday night, when my jaw hit the floor and I almost fell over from the shock of it all. Since there was an ottoman full of salsa and Charlie lying on the floor in front of me, I just tipped forward. I’m pretty sure I hollered obscenities at the TV. More than once, probably.

Because they tricked me with the music, you see. The music by the composer Bear McCreary that I have been blabbing on about. I’ve been all, “Listen to this,” and y’all have been like, “Right, whatev’s, crazy cat lady.” He goes in-depth about composing for the show on his blog, and even notates stuff. Seriously, it’s an absolute amazing integration of music and acting and story, and this episode turned my ears inside out and upside down. I cry.

I’m pained (except for my ears, really) about Starbuck. I have a furrowed brow. I even had a Mormon call me to say, “I can’t fraking believe it.” See, this brings angst to the purest of souls.

Kara Thrace and her Special Destiny.