Why do chinchillas scream in their sleep?
Well, Cali, now you know:
Monday, July 21, 2008
Ask The Chinchilla
Screw tradition! It's nearly 1 AM on Monday morning and your favorite chinchilla's getting stinking drunk on tequila and, more important, someone from Mountain View, California wants to know:
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Bringing Down The Chinchilla, Part VII
It's hard to believe as I type this at four words per minute that I am here. But the chinchilla's still alive. And he's staring at all his hospital bills right now:
Mr. Chinchilla's first blood draw.......................................................$145.84
Mr. Chinchilla's ambulance ride........................................................$445.66
Mr. Chinchilla's failed resuscitation by ambulance crew..........................FREE
Mr. Chinchilla's second and third blood draw.................................$240.84 (w/first draw discount)
Mr. Chinchilla's failed resuscitation by defibrillation.......................$500.00
Mr. Chinchilla's doctor's emergency room consultation fee.............$345.66
Mr. Chinchilla's blood transfusions..............................................$11,900.00 ($350 per unit x 34)
Mr. Chinchilla's ultrasound................................................................$840.00 (w/o petroleum jelly)
Mr. Chinchilla's 3 ounces of petroleum jelly....................................$2.24
CHINCH scan................................................................................$1,901.00
Mr. Chinchilla's room and board at hospital....................................$7,563.23 (14-day stay)
Excuse me while I pause. I have to stop reading the bill. And that's only half of it. I haven't listed the chinchilla's medical costs resulting from the numerous consultations I had from neurologists, orthopedists and proctologists. They tell me a proctologist consulted with me, but I do not have any memory of meeting her (or him). I guess it occurred while the chinchilla was in his coma. And don't even get me started on the bills from the dude who administered me the anesthesia. Man, if I ever go to medical school, I'm definitely gonna go for the anesthesia gig because those folks really rake in the moola!
It turns out that the guy who wheeled me out of the hospital and dumped me in downtown Las Vegas was actually a hospital employee whose job was to "escort" me out of the hospital after it found out that I had no medical insurance or way of paying my $55,000 medical bill. Apparently, the place I stayed has done this to other folks who can't pay their bills. I guess Michael Moore was right after all, huh?
So, to make an incredibly long story short, I'll be keeping a low profile in my burrow until this nasty little (?) matter blows over. But I have my HD tee-vee set paid for, so I got that going for me at least.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Ask the Chinchilla
I know this will really disappoint the Fishing Guy, but the chinchilla's going to take a little break from recounting his recent adventures. I mean, seriously, folks, if it isn't clear that Mr. C. survived his nasty encounters with gangsters, hustlers and our health care system, then you probably need to come over and play cards with me so I can take all your money because I really need it. So the chinchilla's gonna play like J.K. Rowling does and make everyone wait awhile for the final part seven, k?
Do you see this? Do you know what this is? That's right. It's Mr. Chinchilla's sidebar. And it's prominently located in the upper right corner of Mr. Chinchilla's Interview With The Chinchilla blog. If you look closely, in fact, you'll see the chinchilla's placed a large, curved arrow pointing at three words that read: Contact The Chinchilla. And then after these words you'll see more words that read as follows:
Anyhoo, as Flapjam likes to say, it's Friday. So let's get to a really intriguing question I've received from my favorite pre-fecture level city in the Ghizou Province of China: Zunyi!
Someone from the "Famous City in History" wants to know:
Could I ask you a few questions about the education you received?
Ok, folks. Let's try something. I want everyone to look at this picture:
Do you see this? Do you know what this is? That's right. It's Mr. Chinchilla's sidebar. And it's prominently located in the upper right corner of Mr. Chinchilla's Interview With The Chinchilla blog. If you look closely, in fact, you'll see the chinchilla's placed a large, curved arrow pointing at three words that read: Contact The Chinchilla. And then after these words you'll see more words that read as follows:Want an interview? Email Mr. Chinchilla: interviewwiththechinchilla@hotmail.com.
Seriously, people. I don't how much more simpler I can make this for you all. But I'll still try anyway:
IF YOU WANT TO ASK ME FOR AN
INTERVIEW OR
ANY QUESTIONS,
THEN SEND THE CHINCHILLA
YOUR EFFIN' EMAIL!
Capice?
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Bringing Down The Chinchilla, Part VI
I thought I heard a few muffled chuckles before the woman with the stethoscope answered my question.
"Oh, no, sweetie, you'll be billed for everything."
"Everything?" I still had no clue where I was, much less what "everything" meant.
"Mr. Chinchilla, you've been in a coma for 15 days."
My whole body--even my fur--ached.
"And we're still not sure how long you were in the desert before they found you and brought you here."
The desert? I didn't remember being in any desert.
"Listen," I blurted out, "I was just reading some Goofus and Gallant in a dentist's waiting room for about fifteen minutes. There's no way I could have been out that long."
I noticed several doctors shoot each other awkward glances. An uncomfortable silence followed for several seconds. Then they told me that someone had found me beaten to pulp and left for dead on a dusty highway outside Vegas. A member of a biker gang had spotted me and mistaken me for a coonskin cap. When she picked me up, I barely had a pulse, and the gang brought me to an animal shelter near Reno. That animal shelter, unfortunately, was not equipped to handle my blood transfusion, and by the time they reached the hospital where I now was, I had slipped into a coma.
"You're a very lucky chinchilla, Mr. Chinchilla."
I spent the next couple days in bed watching soap operas and developing a serious crush on Lesli Kay. My body still hurt, though, and just as I was feeling a little better, an orderly entered my room with a wheelchair.
"Whassup, homey?" I still had the remote in my hand and was just about to change the station to watch some serious Price Is Right action.
"GET IN THE CHAIR, CHINCHILLA!"
"Shhh. . . . you'll wake the babies!"
"GET IN NOW, CHINCHILLA!!!"
"Sorry. I'm not fully healed. And Drew Carey's just startin' to get his groove on. . . ."
But the orderly didn't listen. He grabbed me out of the hospital bed. He slammed me into that wheelchair. And then he pushed me down a long hallway, out the double doors, and into a van waiting outside for us. Then he got into the driver's seat and drove while I sat strapped in the wheelchair in the back of the van. Finally, after about twenty minutes, the van came to a stop, and I heard the orderly get out of the van. He opened the doors to the back of the van, unloaded me with the wheelchair, and started pushing me down a sidewalk for about half a block.
"Why are you stopping?"
"End of the road, Chinchilla."
"What?"
Before I knew it, the orderly bolted back toward the van, got in and took off like a bat out of hell.
This was turning out to be the worst month of May ever. And it still wasn't over. . . .
"Oh, no, sweetie, you'll be billed for everything."
"Everything?" I still had no clue where I was, much less what "everything" meant.
"Mr. Chinchilla, you've been in a coma for 15 days."
My whole body--even my fur--ached.
"And we're still not sure how long you were in the desert before they found you and brought you here."
The desert? I didn't remember being in any desert.
"Listen," I blurted out, "I was just reading some Goofus and Gallant in a dentist's waiting room for about fifteen minutes. There's no way I could have been out that long."
I noticed several doctors shoot each other awkward glances. An uncomfortable silence followed for several seconds. Then they told me that someone had found me beaten to pulp and left for dead on a dusty highway outside Vegas. A member of a biker gang had spotted me and mistaken me for a coonskin cap. When she picked me up, I barely had a pulse, and the gang brought me to an animal shelter near Reno. That animal shelter, unfortunately, was not equipped to handle my blood transfusion, and by the time they reached the hospital where I now was, I had slipped into a coma.
"You're a very lucky chinchilla, Mr. Chinchilla."
I spent the next couple days in bed watching soap operas and developing a serious crush on Lesli Kay. My body still hurt, though, and just as I was feeling a little better, an orderly entered my room with a wheelchair.
"Whassup, homey?" I still had the remote in my hand and was just about to change the station to watch some serious Price Is Right action.
"GET IN THE CHAIR, CHINCHILLA!"
"Shhh. . . . you'll wake the babies!"
"GET IN NOW, CHINCHILLA!!!"
"Sorry. I'm not fully healed. And Drew Carey's just startin' to get his groove on. . . ."
But the orderly didn't listen. He grabbed me out of the hospital bed. He slammed me into that wheelchair. And then he pushed me down a long hallway, out the double doors, and into a van waiting outside for us. Then he got into the driver's seat and drove while I sat strapped in the wheelchair in the back of the van. Finally, after about twenty minutes, the van came to a stop, and I heard the orderly get out of the van. He opened the doors to the back of the van, unloaded me with the wheelchair, and started pushing me down a sidewalk for about half a block.
"Why are you stopping?"
"End of the road, Chinchilla."
"What?"
Before I knew it, the orderly bolted back toward the van, got in and took off like a bat out of hell.
This was turning out to be the worst month of May ever. And it still wasn't over. . . .
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Bringing Down The Chinchilla, Part V
"I've waited my whole seventh life for this!" The Don Sphinx's eyes twinkled as he spoke and slipped on the large pair of brass knuckles over his left paw. This pussy minced no words. He really meant business.
"I should have worn my smock," he continued, "because I have such a distaste for getting blood on my coat."
"The only blood that's gonna spill is yours, Don." It was a pretty pathetic response, but it was the best one I could muster as I cowered in the corner of the plastic cage.
"Now, now, Mr. Chinchilla, we both know that you make a most lousy bluffer. Don't make this difficult. Come and take your medicine. . . ."
The Don Sphinx swatted at me with his left paw, knocking my black baseball cap off my head. As I scurried toward the other end of the cage, the cat's brass knuckles found my head and knocked me against the hamster wheel.
Pain. Excruciating. Deadly. Indescribable. Horrific. Pain.
I could not move. The Don Sphinx cocked his paw back again to deliver another blow. . . .
I don't know exactly what happened after that. All I know is that when I woke up I saw somebody standing over me that looked very familiar.
"Moses?" I said. "Moses, is that you?"
I reached out to touch him, and when I tugged at his pants leg, the man swatted me away and exclaimed:
"TAKE YOUR STINKING PAWS OFF OF ME, YOU DAMN DIRTY CHINCHILLA!"
Moses glared at me.
"Who are you?"
"My friends call me 'Chuck.'" he told me. "And I'm your temporary guide here."
Before I had a chance to speak, he answered my next question:
"No, it's not heaven. Do you think that if this were heaven that I would serve as a temporary guide for a chinchilla?"
He had a good point. And although I wasn't getting any clear answers, at least this was a definite improvement over having to suffer a brutal beating from a brass knuckle wearing pussy.
"Oh, but don't you worry your little furry head, Mr. Chinchilla, you won't be here long."
"Why?"
"Because it's not your time. Hey, do you like that Highlights for children magazine?
"Oooh," I said excitedly, "do you have the old school ones with the original 'Goofus and Gallant' panels?"
"Absolutely!"
"Awesome! Are you sure this isn't. . ."
"Positive."
I now observed that the room we were in resembled a dentist's office without the x-rays of overbites on the wall and any of those illustrated Bible tale books. I sat in a green upholstered chair and started reading a Highlights. Most of them dated from 1968 and the fashions Goofus and Gallant wore were almost as amusing as their antics. Hee hee, just thinking about those bell bottoms cracks me up as I type this!
"Finish up, Mr. Chinchilla. It's almost time."
"Can I take these with me?" I asked as I held up a stack of the dusty Highlights with both of my paws.
"No."
"Oh, Chuck. . . puh-lease?
"NO."
As I begged for the magazines, everything in the waiting room--including me and Chuck--started vanishing. I could now hear a very faint voice from above me:
He's coming out of it. . . .
As I opened my eyes, I could make out the shapes of several heads hovering over me.
"Mr. Chinchilla? Can you hear me?"
My whole body ached.
"Mr. Chinchilla? Can you hear me? Answer me if you can."
"Unnh. . . ."
"The chinchilla's alive. . . . THE CHINCHILLA'S ALIVE!!!"
A round of applause arose from the crowd of at least a dozen people.
"Hey," I said, "Does this mean I don't have to worry about not having any health insurance?"
You'll never believe what they told me. But I'll still tell you next post.
"I should have worn my smock," he continued, "because I have such a distaste for getting blood on my coat."
"The only blood that's gonna spill is yours, Don." It was a pretty pathetic response, but it was the best one I could muster as I cowered in the corner of the plastic cage.
"Now, now, Mr. Chinchilla, we both know that you make a most lousy bluffer. Don't make this difficult. Come and take your medicine. . . ."
The Don Sphinx swatted at me with his left paw, knocking my black baseball cap off my head. As I scurried toward the other end of the cage, the cat's brass knuckles found my head and knocked me against the hamster wheel.
Pain. Excruciating. Deadly. Indescribable. Horrific. Pain.
I could not move. The Don Sphinx cocked his paw back again to deliver another blow. . . .
I don't know exactly what happened after that. All I know is that when I woke up I saw somebody standing over me that looked very familiar.
"Moses?" I said. "Moses, is that you?"
I reached out to touch him, and when I tugged at his pants leg, the man swatted me away and exclaimed:
"TAKE YOUR STINKING PAWS OFF OF ME, YOU DAMN DIRTY CHINCHILLA!"
Moses glared at me.
"Who are you?"
"My friends call me 'Chuck.'" he told me. "And I'm your temporary guide here."
Before I had a chance to speak, he answered my next question:
"No, it's not heaven. Do you think that if this were heaven that I would serve as a temporary guide for a chinchilla?"
He had a good point. And although I wasn't getting any clear answers, at least this was a definite improvement over having to suffer a brutal beating from a brass knuckle wearing pussy.
"Oh, but don't you worry your little furry head, Mr. Chinchilla, you won't be here long."
"Why?"
"Because it's not your time. Hey, do you like that Highlights for children magazine?
"Oooh," I said excitedly, "do you have the old school ones with the original 'Goofus and Gallant' panels?"
"Absolutely!"
"Awesome! Are you sure this isn't. . ."
"Positive."
I now observed that the room we were in resembled a dentist's office without the x-rays of overbites on the wall and any of those illustrated Bible tale books. I sat in a green upholstered chair and started reading a Highlights. Most of them dated from 1968 and the fashions Goofus and Gallant wore were almost as amusing as their antics. Hee hee, just thinking about those bell bottoms cracks me up as I type this!
"Finish up, Mr. Chinchilla. It's almost time."
"Can I take these with me?" I asked as I held up a stack of the dusty Highlights with both of my paws.
"No."
"Oh, Chuck. . . puh-lease?
"NO."
As I begged for the magazines, everything in the waiting room--including me and Chuck--started vanishing. I could now hear a very faint voice from above me:
He's coming out of it. . . .
As I opened my eyes, I could make out the shapes of several heads hovering over me.
"Mr. Chinchilla? Can you hear me?"
My whole body ached.
"Mr. Chinchilla? Can you hear me? Answer me if you can."
"Unnh. . . ."
"The chinchilla's alive. . . . THE CHINCHILLA'S ALIVE!!!"
A round of applause arose from the crowd of at least a dozen people.
"Hey," I said, "Does this mean I don't have to worry about not having any health insurance?"
You'll never believe what they told me. But I'll still tell you next post.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Bringing Down The Chinchilla, Part IV
(For those of you just now tuning for the excitement, the chinchilla recommends your reading Part I, Part II and Part III first.)
Bring in the Don. The tall man with sunglasses beckoned to the two other men in the room. The smaller of the two spoke first:
"The Don's sleeping."
"Then wake him up," replied the tall man with the sunglasses.
I really needed to poop. Badly. But I didn't know how long I was going to be in the plastic cage with cedar chips. So I held it.
The two men exited through the metal door at the far end of the room. The tall man with sunglasses looked away from me and spoke nothing.
Boy, I really, really needed to poop now. I repeated my mantra:
I must hold my bowel movement. I must hold my bowel movement. I must hold bowl movement. . . .
As I wondered whether I should have opted for another career as a professional photographer, the metal door swung open, and one of the men clomped across the floor. His right hand held a large pair of brass knuckles, while his left hand swung an even larger pet carrier.
The short man handed the tall man the brass knuckles and the pet carrier, then exited the room. As he left, the metal door clanged very hard behind him.
"Mr. Chinchilla," the tall man intoned as he opened the pet carrier, "I believe you two have no need for an introduction. . . ."
Bring in the Don. The tall man with sunglasses beckoned to the two other men in the room. The smaller of the two spoke first:
"The Don's sleeping."
"Then wake him up," replied the tall man with the sunglasses.
I really needed to poop. Badly. But I didn't know how long I was going to be in the plastic cage with cedar chips. So I held it.
The two men exited through the metal door at the far end of the room. The tall man with sunglasses looked away from me and spoke nothing.
Boy, I really, really needed to poop now. I repeated my mantra:
I must hold my bowel movement. I must hold my bowel movement. I must hold bowl movement. . . .
As I wondered whether I should have opted for another career as a professional photographer, the metal door swung open, and one of the men clomped across the floor. His right hand held a large pair of brass knuckles, while his left hand swung an even larger pet carrier.
The short man handed the tall man the brass knuckles and the pet carrier, then exited the room. As he left, the metal door clanged very hard behind him.
"Mr. Chinchilla," the tall man intoned as he opened the pet carrier, "I believe you two have no need for an introduction. . . ."
OH.
MY.
LORD.
It just couldn't be . . . . it just couldn't. . . .
And then I saw him.
"Greetings and salutations, Mr. Chinchilla. It's been a long time."
It was a good thing I wasn't wearing pants.
"Mr. Chinchilla fancies himself a pretty good card counter, Mr. Sphinx."
"He does, he does," said the Don Sphinx, "He fancies himself a pretty good everything." Then he let loose with one of his giant "MEOOWW" laughs.
Man, I can't stand those cat laughs of his.
"Well, then, maybe you need to provide Mr. Chinchilla with some of our casino's advanced tutorials in loss prevention, Mr. Sphinx!"
"I think that's an excellent suggestion, Mr. Harmon! Would you mind lending me those very large brass knuckles of yours?"
"Why, certainly, Mr. Sphinx!"
I swallowed louder than I had ever swallowed in my chinchilla life. And even though I'm an atheist chinchilla, I still started praying because this was no time for any secular mantras.
"Mr. Harmon," the Don Sphinx began again, "Would you mind leaving? I think I'm coming down with cat scratch fever, and you know I wouldn't want to infect you."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Sphinx."
The tall man with sunglasses left the room. The metal door clanged very hard behind him.
"Now, Mr. C., I think you and I need to have a little cat-to-chinchilla talk. . . ."
GULP!
Friday, July 11, 2008
Bringing Down The Chinchilla, Part III
After my flight home, I was a frickin' wreck. The turbulence was enough to upset me; but knowing I had left behind that $50,000 in chips really chapped my ass. I mean, sure winning that $100,000 allowed me to pay back Owen and finally settle that debt. (I seriously wondered when I was ever gonna get that bill paid, too!) But nobody--and I mean NOBODY--messes with Mr. Chinchilla. And I was going to go back to that casino in Vegas and settle the score.
But how in the world was I going to get my money back if the casino management recognized me? There was no question about it: If I wanted to play blackjack again in Vegas, I was going to have to become an undercover chinchilla. And so after several hours of online research, I settled on the following as my diguise:
As I boarded the plane with my last $25,000 in winnings, I closed my beady black eyes and dreamed of all those blackjacks I'd be hitting in a few hours.
I didn't even bother checking into the hotel this time. I took the wads of rolled hundred dollar bills that I had tucked under my cap and exchanged them for chips. Then I headed straight for the first open high stakes table I could find.
For the first ten minutes, I didn't encounter any problems. I made a few bets and dropped a couple hundred as I tried to establish the count. Midway through the sixth or seventh hand, though, I noticed a group of several men moving from the front of the casino toward my table. None of them looked familiar, but before I knew it, the tall man with the sunglasses startled me with his greeting:
"Good evening, Mr. Chinchilla. I believe I have what you're looking for," he stated as he held out a large bag of what looked like my $50,000 in chips, ". . . now please follow me. I don't want any trouble this time."
I started to bolt. But before I could move, something hard hit the back of my hind leg, and an incredible shock paralyzed my body.
I don't remember what happened immediately next. All I know is that when I woke up, I was in a ginormous, plastic cage. The cage had a water bottle and a broken hamster wheel that was green. And if there's anything that the chinchilla despises, it's being imprisoned in a ginormous, plastic cage with a green hamster wheel.
Boy, did that ever suck.
I heard someone say "He's awake!" That's when I looked up and I saw the tall man with the sunglasses. Two other men whom I didn't recognize each sat in a couple of old, steel chairs like the kind Elvis used when he danced in the "Jailhouse Rock" number. The men just stared at me.
"Mr. Chinchilla...tch...tch...tch...oh, my...Mr. Chinchilla. . . ." The tall man shot me an evil grin as he continued:
"Some folks think they can come to our house, count our cards, then take our money. They really have some chutzpah, huh, fellas?"
The men in the chairs didn't laugh. They just kept staring at me. One of the men cracked his knuckles.
"But I'm not going to lecture you Mr. Chinchilla. Chinchillas like you never listen to lectures. You should have learned from your mistake after you left these behind the last time."
The tall man dropped my $50,000 in chips onto the floor. Then he motioned to the two men and said:
"Bring in the Don."
I'm still having nightmares about what happened next, so I hope you'll excuse me if I wait to post about it until later this weekend. Shudder.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Bringing Down The Chinchilla, Part II
No matter how I try to stack them, it is now very difficult for me to see past the piles of chips that now dwarf my appearance from behind the blackjack table. In fact, it is going to be impossible to carry even a fraction of the chips in my cap as I had planned. A crowd of several dozen people gathers and watches me as I split another pair of jacks. . . . and two more aces hit. . . .
"21! The chinch does it again!" squeals a woman wearing a low-cut sequined dress.
"DOUBLE BLACKJACK!" yells the man who sits next to me who goes by the name Nicky Joe.
"He's freaking remarkable!" exclaims another man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a red sweater vest.
I sit quietly wearing a super-sized permagrin. It's been over five hours and I am dog tired.
"Who wants to help the chinchilla with his chips?"
"ME! ME! ME! ME! ME!" A small frenzy develops among the crowd as several folks beg to help me cash in my winnings.. I hold out my right paw and point to the woman wearing the low-cut sequined dress.
"I guess you're tonight's lucky winner," I tell her, "You do have opposable thumbs, right?"
She blushes as she scoops up several stacks of the chips. I take off my cap and push the remaining chips into it, then both of us head to the cashier.
It's 3 AM and I have over $100,000. I am too tired for hanky-panky, so I tell the lady in sequined dress goodnight and I go upstairs to bed. I fly back home the next day and repay Owen all the money I've borrowed from him:
"Where in the hell did you get all this cash?"
"Don't worry 'bout it."
"What are you doing--dealing Oxycontin?"
"No--it's not that lucrative," I laugh, "But you won't ever have to worry about the chinchilla needing your money again."
"Yeah, I bet."
I wince a little when he says that.
"Look," I tell him, "Just don't tell anyone I have all this cash, k?"
"Ok. I guess I don't want to know."
"No. No, you don't."
The next weekend, I fly out to Vegas and stay in the same hotel with the casino. Then I find a table with the same dealer where I had won my $100,000 and sit down to play some serious blackjack.
Sometimes, my own stupidity amazes me.
Before I have a chance to place my bet, a tall man with sunglasses wearing a black suit and blue tie approaches me:
"Mr. Chinchilla, I'm sorry but I have to ask you to leave our casino."
UH. OH.
"Why?"
"Mr. Chinchilla, I think it's best if you come with me now."
UH. OH.
"Why?"
"Mr. Chinchilla, please. . . ," he says as he holds out his hand to me, ". . . come with me now."
UH. OH.
I jump off the chair and start scurrying away as the tall man with the sunglasses chases me . . .
"Mr. Chinchilla. . . . MR. CHINCHILLA!!!!!
I break into a full scurry.
"MR. CHINCHILLA!!! COME BACK HERE NOW, MR. CHINCHILLA!!"
The tall man's feet pound the floor as he breaks into a full dash. My heart pounds. As I scurry through the casino, I knock over several folks who spill their chips onto the floor. Chaos ensues. Of course.
When I reach the street outside the casino, my fur's drenched in my own sweat. And the worst part is I have no way to get back the $50,000 in chips that I left at the table.
But I still have a plan. . . .
"21! The chinch does it again!" squeals a woman wearing a low-cut sequined dress.
"DOUBLE BLACKJACK!" yells the man who sits next to me who goes by the name Nicky Joe.
"He's freaking remarkable!" exclaims another man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a red sweater vest.
I sit quietly wearing a super-sized permagrin. It's been over five hours and I am dog tired.
"Who wants to help the chinchilla with his chips?"
"ME! ME! ME! ME! ME!" A small frenzy develops among the crowd as several folks beg to help me cash in my winnings.. I hold out my right paw and point to the woman wearing the low-cut sequined dress.
"I guess you're tonight's lucky winner," I tell her, "You do have opposable thumbs, right?"
She blushes as she scoops up several stacks of the chips. I take off my cap and push the remaining chips into it, then both of us head to the cashier.
It's 3 AM and I have over $100,000. I am too tired for hanky-panky, so I tell the lady in sequined dress goodnight and I go upstairs to bed. I fly back home the next day and repay Owen all the money I've borrowed from him:
"Where in the hell did you get all this cash?"
"Don't worry 'bout it."
"What are you doing--dealing Oxycontin?"
"No--it's not that lucrative," I laugh, "But you won't ever have to worry about the chinchilla needing your money again."
"Yeah, I bet."
I wince a little when he says that.
"Look," I tell him, "Just don't tell anyone I have all this cash, k?"
"Ok. I guess I don't want to know."
"No. No, you don't."
The next weekend, I fly out to Vegas and stay in the same hotel with the casino. Then I find a table with the same dealer where I had won my $100,000 and sit down to play some serious blackjack.
Sometimes, my own stupidity amazes me.
Before I have a chance to place my bet, a tall man with sunglasses wearing a black suit and blue tie approaches me:
"Mr. Chinchilla, I'm sorry but I have to ask you to leave our casino."
UH. OH.
"Why?"
"Mr. Chinchilla, I think it's best if you come with me now."
UH. OH.
"Why?"
"Mr. Chinchilla, please. . . ," he says as he holds out his hand to me, ". . . come with me now."
UH. OH.
I jump off the chair and start scurrying away as the tall man with the sunglasses chases me . . .
"Mr. Chinchilla. . . . MR. CHINCHILLA!!!!!
I break into a full scurry.
"MR. CHINCHILLA!!! COME BACK HERE NOW, MR. CHINCHILLA!!"
The tall man's feet pound the floor as he breaks into a full dash. My heart pounds. As I scurry through the casino, I knock over several folks who spill their chips onto the floor. Chaos ensues. Of course.
When I reach the street outside the casino, my fur's drenched in my own sweat. And the worst part is I have no way to get back the $50,000 in chips that I left at the table.
But I still have a plan. . . .
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Bringing Down The Chinchilla, Part I
I think I need to come clean with the real reason for my recent absence from the blogosphere.
The chinchilla's managed to get himself involved in a big mess. A very, very big and a very, very bad and a very, very seriously scary mess.
Let the chinchilla explain.
A couple months ago, I made a trip to Vegas. I travel to Vegas a lot. I also gamble a lot a lot. I've never had anything unusual happen to me when I gamble, either. Most of the time, I'd wager a couple thousand dollars, and most of the time, I'd lose all of it in less than an hour and wind up with a really bad hangover the next morning on the tummy of a naked stripper whose last name I couldn't remember. Come to think of it, is there ever a time when you wake up with a hangover on the tummy of a naked stripper and remember his or her first name? And, yeah, the chinchilla has found himself sleeping on the tummy of a naked guy a couple times after a wild night in Vegas for those of you interested in such details. But then my luck changed. Or maybe I should say my skill set changed. Because if you know anything about playing blackjack, then you know that you can make your own luck. And lemme tell ya, I made some serious luck back in May.
While I was on trial for biting that guy in the library, I studied card counting. Day in and day out. Night after night. Sitting on a very large toilet in my jail cell. I studied hard. And after I regained my freedom, I studied more. I even stopped drinking tequila and eating my tequila-soaked raisins. You see, I wasn't going to be that chinchilla who dropped a few thousand and landed on the tummy of a naked guy the next morning anymore. No, siree.
So one night this past May, I booked myself a room at a posh hotel in Vegas. Then I took $5,000 that I borrowed from Owen, and I planted myself at a table and started counting those cards.
I lost my first few $50 bets. On one, I flipped 21 and pushed after the dealer drew a 5 of clubs with a sixteen. I had a really ominous feeling in my gut as I watched the dealer take my first $750 in chips. According to my count, there were still some good face cards left, though, so I figured I could take a little more pummeling for a few more hands. And I did as I watched another couple hundred disappear.
Now the count was good, and I pushed my last $4,000 in chips forward on the table.
"Feeling lucky, now, Mr. Chinchilla?" says the dealer.
"You know it, baby. The chinchilla needs a new HD tee-vee!"
Then he deals me a queen of hearts and an ace of spades.
"Well done, Mr. Chinchilla!" shouts the dealer. He grins at me.
I just grin back. Then I push all my chips forward again.
The dealer laughs and deals me a pair of tens.
"SPLIT 'EM!" I shout. I feel really worried inside, but I simply keep repeating my mantra:
The count is good. The count is good. The count is good.
The dealer flips me two aces.
"Another winner!" The dealer's smile grows wider as does my stack of chips.
"Suh-weet! Must be chinchilla's luck!"
I've frickin' doubled my money in less than two minutes. They have no clue the chinchilla's counting the cards!
And my adventure was just beginning. . . .
The chinchilla's managed to get himself involved in a big mess. A very, very big and a very, very bad and a very, very seriously scary mess.
Let the chinchilla explain.
A couple months ago, I made a trip to Vegas. I travel to Vegas a lot. I also gamble a lot a lot. I've never had anything unusual happen to me when I gamble, either. Most of the time, I'd wager a couple thousand dollars, and most of the time, I'd lose all of it in less than an hour and wind up with a really bad hangover the next morning on the tummy of a naked stripper whose last name I couldn't remember. Come to think of it, is there ever a time when you wake up with a hangover on the tummy of a naked stripper and remember his or her first name? And, yeah, the chinchilla has found himself sleeping on the tummy of a naked guy a couple times after a wild night in Vegas for those of you interested in such details. But then my luck changed. Or maybe I should say my skill set changed. Because if you know anything about playing blackjack, then you know that you can make your own luck. And lemme tell ya, I made some serious luck back in May.
While I was on trial for biting that guy in the library, I studied card counting. Day in and day out. Night after night. Sitting on a very large toilet in my jail cell. I studied hard. And after I regained my freedom, I studied more. I even stopped drinking tequila and eating my tequila-soaked raisins. You see, I wasn't going to be that chinchilla who dropped a few thousand and landed on the tummy of a naked guy the next morning anymore. No, siree.
So one night this past May, I booked myself a room at a posh hotel in Vegas. Then I took $5,000 that I borrowed from Owen, and I planted myself at a table and started counting those cards.
I lost my first few $50 bets. On one, I flipped 21 and pushed after the dealer drew a 5 of clubs with a sixteen. I had a really ominous feeling in my gut as I watched the dealer take my first $750 in chips. According to my count, there were still some good face cards left, though, so I figured I could take a little more pummeling for a few more hands. And I did as I watched another couple hundred disappear.
Now the count was good, and I pushed my last $4,000 in chips forward on the table.
"Feeling lucky, now, Mr. Chinchilla?" says the dealer.
"You know it, baby. The chinchilla needs a new HD tee-vee!"
Then he deals me a queen of hearts and an ace of spades.
"Well done, Mr. Chinchilla!" shouts the dealer. He grins at me.
I just grin back. Then I push all my chips forward again.
The dealer laughs and deals me a pair of tens.
"SPLIT 'EM!" I shout. I feel really worried inside, but I simply keep repeating my mantra:
The count is good. The count is good. The count is good.
The dealer flips me two aces.
"Another winner!" The dealer's smile grows wider as does my stack of chips.
"Suh-weet! Must be chinchilla's luck!"
I've frickin' doubled my money in less than two minutes. They have no clue the chinchilla's counting the cards!
And my adventure was just beginning. . . .
Monday, July 7, 2008
Mr. Chinchilla's Blog Popularity Tips
Since I posted about my li'l weekend adventure, several folks have asked how they can become super blog celebrities like me, the chinchilla. Well, it's really not all that difficult. In fact, if you look really closely at the blogs of the super famous blogging folks, you'll notice many things that you can do to get famous fast!
First, if you wanna be the big chinchilla on your blogging block, you need to post. A lot. Now Mr. C.'s not saying that posting every minute or every hour will get you famous. But you have to create the content that keeps people coming back. You know, like a chinchilla that interviews people is something that everyone wants to read. Ok. Maybe that's not entirely true. But you catch my drift, right?
Second, you really, really, really need to pimp your blog if you want readers. The chinchilla cannot emphasize this enough. Posting quality stuff just ain't enough if you want to get tons of readers. Because we all know that most of what's popular isn't always good and most of what's good isn't always popular. And, hey, if you don't believe Mr. C., then take a look at most of today's flicks that try and pass for entertainment.
So how do you pimp your blog? Simple. Leave comments on the blogs of the famous bloggers. "But Mr. C," you say, "Most of the big bloggers don't allow for comments." Ok. That's true in many cases, but there are quite a few famous bloggers and major blog sites that do allow them. You just need to find them. And you can also leave comments for bloggers that get more visits than your site, too. In fact, that's the best way to start. Because let's face it, most of us start out with only our mom reading our blogs.
Third, there's strength in numbers, so be sure to join a group where you can post links to your blog. There are many groups online, and you'll find and meet other cool chinchillas who share your same interests. You might even make a new blog buddy! And that rocks!
Fourth--and this is one that you may not like--a little controversy now and then is a good thing for blog traffic. Find something in the news that you know will provoke debate and capture people's attention, then tell the world your opinion. The chinchilla highly recommends linking to posts of other major bloggers whose opinions you disagree with. Call those bloggers out on their bullshit and let them know why they have stupid opinions. They may hate you for it, but they'll usually link back to you, and if they don't, someone who digs your view likely will.
Fifth, cussing rocks. Yeah, yeah, I know. The chinchilla's slacked off on his cussing lately. But I can start anytime I want, and if my traffic starts slacking, you can guarantee I'll trot out a nice "F" word for you fine folks who represent the great silent majority of blog readers who also think cussing rocks.
Six, don't forget to link to every blog you read and comment on. You can never link too much. Link, link, link and link some more.
And, finally, seven: After you become a big and famous blog celebrity, remember to thank the chinchilla.
First, if you wanna be the big chinchilla on your blogging block, you need to post. A lot. Now Mr. C.'s not saying that posting every minute or every hour will get you famous. But you have to create the content that keeps people coming back. You know, like a chinchilla that interviews people is something that everyone wants to read. Ok. Maybe that's not entirely true. But you catch my drift, right?
Second, you really, really, really need to pimp your blog if you want readers. The chinchilla cannot emphasize this enough. Posting quality stuff just ain't enough if you want to get tons of readers. Because we all know that most of what's popular isn't always good and most of what's good isn't always popular. And, hey, if you don't believe Mr. C., then take a look at most of today's flicks that try and pass for entertainment.
So how do you pimp your blog? Simple. Leave comments on the blogs of the famous bloggers. "But Mr. C," you say, "Most of the big bloggers don't allow for comments." Ok. That's true in many cases, but there are quite a few famous bloggers and major blog sites that do allow them. You just need to find them. And you can also leave comments for bloggers that get more visits than your site, too. In fact, that's the best way to start. Because let's face it, most of us start out with only our mom reading our blogs.
Third, there's strength in numbers, so be sure to join a group where you can post links to your blog. There are many groups online, and you'll find and meet other cool chinchillas who share your same interests. You might even make a new blog buddy! And that rocks!
Fourth--and this is one that you may not like--a little controversy now and then is a good thing for blog traffic. Find something in the news that you know will provoke debate and capture people's attention, then tell the world your opinion. The chinchilla highly recommends linking to posts of other major bloggers whose opinions you disagree with. Call those bloggers out on their bullshit and let them know why they have stupid opinions. They may hate you for it, but they'll usually link back to you, and if they don't, someone who digs your view likely will.
Fifth, cussing rocks. Yeah, yeah, I know. The chinchilla's slacked off on his cussing lately. But I can start anytime I want, and if my traffic starts slacking, you can guarantee I'll trot out a nice "F" word for you fine folks who represent the great silent majority of blog readers who also think cussing rocks.
Six, don't forget to link to every blog you read and comment on. You can never link too much. Link, link, link and link some more.
And, finally, seven: After you become a big and famous blog celebrity, remember to thank the chinchilla.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Sunday Morning With Mr. Chinchilla
I love spending Sunday morning in bed. It's even better when it's with several women.
Man, this blogging is the best gig evah!
Man, this blogging is the best gig evah!
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Blogebrity Chinchilla
Well, the day that Mr. Chinchilla's prayed months for finally happened today: Someone recognized me from this blog!
I was trying to enjoy my tea in downtown Charleston, when a shriek pierced my not-so-virgin chinchilla ears:
"EEEEEeeeeeeeeeeee. . . IT'S HIM!!!!. . . .IT'S MR. CHINCHILLA IN PERSON!!!!"
Huh?
Another scream, not as piercing as the first, quickly followed:
"EEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeee. . . MR. C!!!. . . MR. C!!!!. . ."
Before I knew it, several women surrounded me and began demanding the chinchilla's autograph.
Suh-weet.
I had heard about this kind of stuff happening to famous bloggers, but I never imagined that the chinchilla would ever obtain blogebrity status. As the women pressed me for my John Hancock, I quickly considered my options:
1) Just give 'em my autograph; or
2) Trade big-time on my newly-acquired chinchilla fame.
Well, Mr. C. is a lot of things, but he ain't stupid.
Now if you'll excuse the chinchilla, he's got to get back to gettin' busy in his burrow, if ya know what I mean.
Man, this blogging is the best gig evah!
I was trying to enjoy my tea in downtown Charleston, when a shriek pierced my not-so-virgin chinchilla ears:
"EEEEEeeeeeeeeeeee. . . IT'S HIM!!!!. . . .IT'S MR. CHINCHILLA IN PERSON!!!!"
Huh?
Another scream, not as piercing as the first, quickly followed:
"EEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeee. . . MR. C!!!. . . MR. C!!!!. . ."
Before I knew it, several women surrounded me and began demanding the chinchilla's autograph.
Suh-weet.
I had heard about this kind of stuff happening to famous bloggers, but I never imagined that the chinchilla would ever obtain blogebrity status. As the women pressed me for my John Hancock, I quickly considered my options:
1) Just give 'em my autograph; or
2) Trade big-time on my newly-acquired chinchilla fame.
Well, Mr. C. is a lot of things, but he ain't stupid.
Now if you'll excuse the chinchilla, he's got to get back to gettin' busy in his burrow, if ya know what I mean.
Man, this blogging is the best gig evah!
Saturday, June 28, 2008
The Chinchilla Loved Andy Kaufman
Ok. A few of you have expressed disappointment about my absence from the blogosphere. But if you read my last post, you will see that like any good court of appeals, I didn't decide anything without leaving an issue open for later decision. I mean, seriously, does it not drive you frickin' nuts every time the United States Supreme Court gets a juicy legal issue and decides its so narrowly that it allows for even more litigation later? Lawyers--I tell ya, sometimes they make Mr. Chinchilla crazy. But I've digressed. (I think my cap is too tight, today. . . . I must remember not to dry clean it next time.)
The truth of the matter is that the chinchilla has maintained a secret blog for sometime now. Don't act surprised. You know you have one, too. But I'm tiring of writing it. I don't know what it is. The chinchilla just doesn't seem to have the motivation to write posts these days. Maybe it's my raisins. I did switch brands a couple months ago from the Sunmaid variety. I guess going with the generic has really effed up the chinch. Whatever the cause, though, my secret chinchilla blog just doesn't give me the pleasure that this one did back in the day.
So here's the deal. If you want me to post here, click "Keep the chinchilla." If you don't, click "Dump the chinchilla." Either way, I really don't give a damn, but I'm going to abide by the tyranny of the majority because at this blog it's not about the chinchilla, right?
Poll closes at 1:30 PM on July 4th.
The truth of the matter is that the chinchilla has maintained a secret blog for sometime now. Don't act surprised. You know you have one, too. But I'm tiring of writing it. I don't know what it is. The chinchilla just doesn't seem to have the motivation to write posts these days. Maybe it's my raisins. I did switch brands a couple months ago from the Sunmaid variety. I guess going with the generic has really effed up the chinch. Whatever the cause, though, my secret chinchilla blog just doesn't give me the pleasure that this one did back in the day.
So here's the deal. If you want me to post here, click "Keep the chinchilla." If you don't, click "Dump the chinchilla." Either way, I really don't give a damn, but I'm going to abide by the tyranny of the majority because at this blog it's not about the chinchilla, right?
Poll closes at 1:30 PM on July 4th.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Goodbye, I'm Mr. Chinchilla
Heya, kids! One of my West Virginia blog buddies has expressed some concern about me.
"Oh, please, Mr. Chinchilla," she said, "Don't kill your fantasy!"
"What the hell are you talkin' bout, Willis?" I asked her.
"Mr. Chinchilla, oh, most wonderful and wise and amazing chinchilla, who has divined truths about the universe greater than I shall ever ascertain, your failure to post early and often leaves my heart and mind empty."
"Tough cookies," I chirped. "When the bloggers stop asking for interviews, the chinch calls it quits. Capice?"
"Oh, but no, you can't do that, Mr. C! No you just can't! Please, I want to delve into your twisted chinchilla fantasies. I want to read about them. I want insight into your inner chinchilla!"
"Feh. I need some tequila." Then I ended the conversation.
The chinchilla has gotta say, though, that he has most enjoyed interviewing everyone. Maybe someday he'll return.
But I doubt it.
Goodbye, I'm Mr. Chinchilla.
"Oh, please, Mr. Chinchilla," she said, "Don't kill your fantasy!"
"What the hell are you talkin' bout, Willis?" I asked her.
"Mr. Chinchilla, oh, most wonderful and wise and amazing chinchilla, who has divined truths about the universe greater than I shall ever ascertain, your failure to post early and often leaves my heart and mind empty."
"Tough cookies," I chirped. "When the bloggers stop asking for interviews, the chinch calls it quits. Capice?"
"Oh, but no, you can't do that, Mr. C! No you just can't! Please, I want to delve into your twisted chinchilla fantasies. I want to read about them. I want insight into your inner chinchilla!"
"Feh. I need some tequila." Then I ended the conversation.
The chinchilla has gotta say, though, that he has most enjoyed interviewing everyone. Maybe someday he'll return.
But I doubt it.
Goodbye, I'm Mr. Chinchilla.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Pulp Chinchilla
This chinch had a truly awesome va-kay. And you?
Next time, though, I'm charging Donutbuzz for the use of my image.
Next time, though, I'm charging Donutbuzz for the use of my image.
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