No Time to Fuzz?

I don’t know how this is possible, but I seem to have no time to fuzz. The fuzz lays there with his sad eyes staring at me as I run around doing stupid things all day. Everytime I go to pet the fuzz, I am called away to do some mind-numbingly, useless, irritating errand/call/to get bitched at. Not that starting a blog has helped – but it relieves the stress so that I don’t overpet the fuzz when I happen to have time to pet the fuzz. The fuzz, however, does need petting. More like grooming. His fur is everywhere – coming out in huge clumps and small pieces all day long. He must be shedding pounds just from losing fur alone (he’s also on a diet cause he’s a fatass as mentioned earlier).

Speaking of, I have just changed his food regimen for the upteenth time in weeks. He has no Artemis dry food and some Purina Veterinary Diet OM (Overweight Management) that has almost no fat in it whatsoever. He seems not to mind. Probably from the fish oil I put on his food. DAMN, does that stuff reek. If you get it on your hands – beware! for everything you touch shall smell like fish for days.

Anyways, I am attempting to get a hold on all the stupid little errands in my life so that I have time to clean my room and see what I need to buy or sell or get rid of or throw away before I move. But as you may or may not know, these little things seem to multiply the more you do them. For instance, I paid my cell phone bill only to have two letters to write for the company I work for (sort of) and sort out four more bills for them. Once I sorted their bills, before I had a chance to write their letters, I urgently have to sit on a phone trying to figure out why Delta is being a douche – yet again. Immediately afterwards, my mother needs my help to find people who are mushroom hunting. While my dad wants to know why I haven’t paid my American Express yet. It’s an insane kind of warphole where the more you try, the more you have to try…and the farther you fall from your goal. On the bright side, after two weeks of battle – I have almost nixed all the stupid stuff and will soon begin the perilous journey of uncluttering the mess in my car, garage, attic, and room. Wow, am I NOT looking forward to it.

For the first time in about eight years, I have changed my screen name. From my previously loved i3luntGod, I have upgraded to fuzzz machine in honor of my new chronicles. Now all that’s left is to inform my friends and actually have buddies on my buddy list. Some more stupid stuff to add to the list. Poor fuzz machine – needs his fuzzing as much as I need to fuzz. Having an addiction requires much organizing nowadays. Those lucky alcoholics, they lose their jobs and have all the time in the word…but what about us???

The Fuzz of my Life

So, to begin to explain the current situation I am in…I must first explain to you the fuzz pictured above (circa 2003). To catch you up to speed – he is much fatter, older, and grayer now. With a helluvalotta more personality than ever before. His name is Lucky. That name came about due to a lack of creativity in the mind of a ten year old when told she must pick a name that begins with an L. The reason that his name had to start with L is simple: to register a dog in Germany, you combined his parents first names and his sire’s name began with an L. I can’t tell you his whole name because I’ve been unable to pronounce it and have thus, forgotten it. Lucky was the first word that began with an L that we said out loud that the then-two-month-old responded to. That is how a not-so-lucky dog got named ‘Lucky’.

I guess you are now wondering the answer to the following question: Why is he in America if his parents are from Germany?

Well, to answer truthfully, the question itself is false. His sire is a world champion purebred German Shepherd who was born, bred, and shown in Germany. He won many show titles. His mother, however, is from Russia where she also showed and won many awards. His daddy won and won. Then one day while being shipped, he managed to get out of his crate. Unfortunately for him (or not), there was a bunch of kielbasa in the shipping container next to him. He gorged himself until the handlers finally got to the destination and unloaded him. By then, he was so full – he was on the verge of death itself. They brought him to a veterinary clinic where his stomach was pumped. He never quite got back to his previous self after that and was put to stud. Where he met Lucky’s mom. And this is where Lucky’s story starts. Just so you know, his dad was sold to breeders in Japan where last I heard he was living the sweet life of a retired champ.

As for Lucky’s mom, she had a different story. After a normal gestation period she gave birth to her litter. My family had at that time relocated from Brooklyn to bumblefuck, USA (otherwise known as Westport, CT). To make amends to their very pissed off daughter who had to leave behind her friends, the city, and an apartment not completely surrounded by trees, her dad decided to get her a dog. Her years of nagging were about to pay off!

Lucky was taken from his mom just shortly before the two month mark in order not to be detained by quarantine. He traveled in the airplane with his new master in a leather bag, neither defecating nor urinating the entire 10 hour trip from Moscow. At less than two months old!

Everyone always makes animals out to be the ‘inferior species’. I would like to take this moment to point out that this dog was two months old and that a baby of equivalent age (or even older) would be incapable of this task. EVEN MORE THAN THIS, a baby would fail to even realize the concept of ‘holding it in’. 1-0, to the animals.

Back to the story: The airplane landed in JFK where Lucky was released onto the cold tile of the airport terminal. There he did what everyone has done upon their first taste of freedom in the USA: he took a dump of disproportional size to his tiny body. Following this, he was driven home to me, where I was to lay eyes on him for the first time under a lawn chair hiding from the heat of the sun. Shortly thereafter would follow the horrible story of his naming that I have already told you.

Anyways, this is just the beginning of a ten and a half year (well, eleven on July 27th) saga. However, I will have to share the rest of my secrets at some later point in time – because that devilish fiend inside of me, eating away at my insides, is telling me to go fuzz my machine. And I am at it’s mercy. So off I go, to fuzz that giant fuzzy beast.

A Story about Fuzz Machine Addiction

This is a story about my personal fuzz machine addiction. Above is my favorite fuzz (the mountain) and a deceased fuzz that I miss very much (the mountain climber). Sadly, Captain Underpants (the mountain climber) has since passed away due to a malfunction of the climate control system during my first year as an undergraduate at Hofstra University. In other words, someone left the heat on and Captain Underpants overheated. It was a very sad time. He was perhaps one of the greatest roommates I have ever had. Although Mo was pretty kickass too. Anyways, we are getting ahead of ourselves in my chronicles. This is not a story about Captain Underpants, but the trials and tribulations of fuzz machine addiction.

For all those of you who do not know about this addiction – it affects thousands, nay, millions of people worldwide. You probably have some people close to you who suffer from this addiction. Perhaps this is people who can’t stop themselves from entering every pet store they pass to get their dog a chew toy. Or maybe it’s your friend who never leaves the house without first spending so much cuddle time with their cat that they look like they went swimming in a cat hair pool. Or maybe it’s your crazy neighbor who gets up at 6 am every morning to ride a huge smelly beast who poops too much every day (even Saturday and Sunday!). There are many varieties of these people all suffering from the same affliction: fuzz machine addiction (aka. FMA). This a blog about one of those people: Me.