I’m so f*cking happy

Seriously. It’s annoying. I’m so f*cking happy these days I’m annoying myself. I’m not used to this shit.

And what’s up with this stupid look on my face? Suddenly, I’m approachable. People say I’m glowing. I want to tell them, “No I’m not. I’m sweating. This is sweat, asswipe.” But I can’t. Instead, I smile and say “thank you” and move on.

Yesterday I dropped my iPhone and headphones into a dirty litter box. Didn’t care.

This morning I went to move my car and there was the meter maid. “Good morning!” I exclaimed as she handed me a $70 ticket.

My accountant told me how much I owed the IRS this year and I said “Cool. Wanna grab an appletini?”


I can barely make fun of anyone without feeling bad. I started to tell my friend that his breath smelled like he had been licking a cat’s anus, but instead opted for, “I think you may have halitosis. You should drink more water.”

Is happiness ruining my sense of humor, which is primarily based on cynicism? I fear it might be. Normally I love to watch people eat shit. Especially punk-ass skateboarders. But the other day when I saw a punk-ass skateboarder eat shit, I rolled down my window and said, “Are you okay? I’m CPR certified and you should probably wear a helmet.”

Will I no longer think of Lil Wayne as an absolute genius? Will Kendrick sound like a T-Rex dying?

Will watching a great white shark tear a seal in half suddenly make me cry?

Will I start shopping at the Gap?

Somebody put me out of my misery here!

Am I just going to be happy and annoying all the time now? Will my sarcasm slowly melt away into oblivion? Will I be satisfied laughing at “Two and Half Men?” That shit is not funny.

Will my mouth no longer be able to form some of my favorite words such as pussy, fart, cunt, asshole, slore (slut-whore), queef, douchelord, assclown, anarchy, nipple, boner, nipple-boner, ObamaCare, clit, chode, clit again, skeet, eightball, make it rain and muff-cabbage? What’s going to happen to me??

I blame The Greek and those godforsaken rays of sunshine, Itchy and Scratchy. Damn you for making me happy, you angelic assholes!

Alas, my new mantra shall be, “What would Tywin Lannister do?” That’ll put some goddamn hair on my chest.

Until then, I wish you all unicorns, rainbows and happiness!




Becoming Greek Part 5 – The Patron Saint

My meeting with Father Alan went swimmingly, despite how hungover I was. I mean, SO hungover. Like, I-might-still-be-drunk hungover. Aside from the pounding headache and craving for duck fat fries, I was feeling elated, for we set a date: On May 17th, I, KMax, will become Elektra, a Greek Orthodox temptress patron through the sacrament of baptism. It’s kind of like being inducted into the NFL Hall of Fame, except instead of your bronze bust being placed in a building in Ohio, your soul gets to go to Heaven. Sweet. I informed the Father of my Greek name and he kindly let me down with, “Now-a-days most people don’t pick a Greek name. You can keep KMax.” Aca-scuse me, Father? I will be Elektra. I am Elektra. My hangover/nausea was preventing me from any sort of witty comeback, so I just smiled and replied, “Roger that.” 

He continued with, “More importantly, have you picked your Patron Saint?” Suddenly, I was more alert than I had been since that first sip of tequila 24 hours ago. My brain started moving slightly faster as I vaguely recalled my fiance once praying to the patron saint of the Denver Broncos, but it turns out John Elway has yet to be sanctified – yet.

Darn it! I am not well versed in the Patron Saints. Theotokos? Yes. Pasca? Yes. Souvlaki? Absolutely. But not the patron saints! Fearing my baptism would be postponed indefinitely, I timidly replied, “No. No I have not.”

Silence. He was peering through my soul and I know he could see how stinky it was. So I continued, “Is there a book I can buy? Maybe on Amazon?” I looked over at my fiance, and he was turning green, equally hungover. He could jump in anytime and save a bitch, but he just sat there drooling like a fool. Panicking, I said “I just don’t know how to pick one. I mean, there are a lot of them, right?”

“Take your time finding yours,” he gently instructed. “It will happen organically*. Think about what you are interested in and go from there. For example, My son’s patron saint is Saint Cecilia, the saint of music. He’s a musician, so they found each other.”

I started cataloging things that I was interested in, and all I could come up with were cats and booze. But wait – are there patron saints for those things? I thought, maybe I don’t deserve this baptism if all I think about are cats and alcohol. I tried to push my unworthy interests aside and focus on more admirable ones; Charity work. No. Pushing my grocery cart all the way back to where I got it. Nope. Entertaining old people to help them pass time. Hell no.

This was not going well. I was feeling very unsuitable for my upcoming sacrament. So I poured myself a jumbo-sized glass of Cabernet, let a pussy crawl into my lap and Googled “patron saint of cats.” Then, like Gabriel descending from Heaven to visit Mary, Saint Gertrude, Patron Saint of Cats, appeared to me via Wikipedia.


As it turns out, Saint Gertrude of Nivelles, was not only a saint of cats, but of travelers and gardeners, as well. She was also vehemently opposed to rats, and mental illness, which totally makes sense. YES. YES. YES! These are all things that I believe in! Saint Gertrude is like divine Xanax when I’m putting up with the security lines at LAX. She’s literally the mentally ill crazy cat lady on the corner of Wilshire and La Cienega screaming to the heavens. Amen, girlfriend! Plus, I’ve often thought of starting a garden, so that’s definitely going to come in handy.

And rats?! Ga-ross!

I literally swallowed back tears as I emailed Father Alan two words: Saint Gertrude. I felt validated, content, holy.



My name is Elektra, and my Patron Saint is Saint Gertrude.


*Father may have not used the word “organically.” It was probably closer to “divine inspiration” or some shit. But a hippie can dream.






PanaMax Bowl: The Conclusion

It reeks of death in this house, and there is a thick fog of utter heartbreak lingering about.

Yes, the Seahawks annihilated the Broncos. Chewed them up and spit them out. Whooped dat ass. Bent them over. This morning, I should have sprang out of bed, threw on a flannel, and blasted Pearl Jam while drinking a Starbucks as I read a Kurt Cobain biography that I bought on Amazon, then applied for a job at Boeing. But I can’t because – this is the weird part – I’m really, really sad. The Greek is sad. Even the cats are sad (I mean, I think they are. They are just laying around sleeping). Someone had to lose this game, and I guess part of me had hoped it would be us because I can’t bear to see him this way.

WTF? Have I gone soft? Is there no fight left in me? Am I no longer a competitor? Or is it possible that I love this man so much that it breaks my heart to see him torn to pieces by the soft play of his beloved Broncos?

Snap out of it, Maxwell! THE SEAHAWKS WON THE SUPER BOWL. So, why am I on the verge of tears? I feel like the son at the end of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road: Happy to be alive, but still living in a post-apocalyptic wasteland.

But I must forge on. I will not gloat. I will take out the trash for as long as he asks me to. I will let him eat gluten and not assault him with a look of disappointment. And I’ll watch The Adventures of Ford Fairlane as many times as he wants.

For this is love, and it’s more important than football.

But, shit, we won the Super Bowl 🙂






PanaMax Bowl part 5

In five days either the Seattle Seahawks or the Denver Broncos will win Super Bowl XLVII. Personally, I’m sick of hearing that my precious Seahawks don’t stand a chance, so I’ve been taking matters into my own hands.

Feast your eyes on my Bronco-loving fiance as he gets “Marshawn Lynched” during his nighttime regime.

Go Seahawks.


PanaMax Bowl part 4

While the Greek was on his computer, I snuck my Seahawks blanket onto the bed – and the kitties LOVED it! They couldn’t get enough, that is, until a certain Broncos fan entered the scene…

The kitties were right to flee. It’s scary to see that orange and blue snuggie barreling toward you as the jackass inside of it screams like a retarded Jack Nicholson from The Shining.


PanaMax Bowl part 3

My Denver Bronco-loving fiance thinks he’s so clever by “hacking” my blog and spewing off NFL lore as if it were his job, well, I haven’t been called “crazy” by at least six ex-boyfriends for nothing.

The Greek has been asking me to clean the bathroom for days now. So I did….


Don’t think you can drape my children (by ‘children’ I mean cats) in orange and blue and not feel the wrath.

Go Seahawks!



The Greek Strikes Back…

Hello, followers of KmaxtheCat. This is The Greek, and I have hacked into my fiance-cum-nemesis’s blog. That’s right, I am the Edward Snowden of social sabotage. Actually, all I did was open up her laptop to find that she was still logged into her WordPress account. What an idiot! Haven’t you ever even seen Sleeping With the Enemy? I mean, Julia Roberts got the gut-punch for leaving her towels uneven. Her towels! And that dude was just crazy. I’m crazy, AND I hate your football team. What were you thinking!?

Now, it’s time for her to reap what she hath sewed these last few days, annoying me incessantly with her Seahawks propaganda. Physical abuse is completely out of the question because KmaxtheCat does like 20 spin classes a week and kicks like a mule. But what isn’t out of the question is going all Cold War on dat ass.

Behold! I give you her precious Space Cats, who, much like Frank Sinatra in The Manchurian Candidate, have been brainwashed into submission…

photo 2I call this one, “Simon Fletcher and Clarence Kay Straight Smoking Blunts After Banging Some Seattle Bitches the Fuck Out.”

photo 3Boom! I call this one, “Alfred Williams With His Balls on Seattle’s Collective Chin.”

photo 4Wilin’ out! This one is titled, “Vance Johnson Just Stole Your Girl, Steve Largent.”

photo 5I like to refer to this one as, “Elway Rubbing Up on You Real Nice.”

photo 1This one is called, “Watch Your Back, Sherman! Even in the Shower, Even at Picnics!”

At a moment’s notice, I can play the signal that will launch these two on a kill-crazy rampage. They have been programmed to destroy anything that even resembles a fucking Seahawk. I literally just tested the signal and they straight mobbed on one of KMax’s My Little Ponies. Scratchy bit his throat while Itchy went Super Fly Jimmy Snuka off the book shelf. Shit is real!

Go Broncos. Go Broncos. Go Broncos.


The Greek