On Tuesday, I purchased a Yobo FC Twin gaming system. For those of you unfamiliar with them, they’re a console that can play both Nintendo and Super Nintendo cartridges. In fact, I’ve dubbed it the “Super Jesus Mouth Punch” instead because of the sheer awesomeitude of this system. I can play Street Fighter II: Turbo and Mike Tyson’s Punch Out on the same system. “Yobo FC Twin” just doesn’t have enough oomph in the name to convey how hard it rocks.

My original plans for last night involved my friend Neil coming by with his laptop so I could install PhotoShop, InDesign, Acrobat, and Illustrator for him, and then maybe toss as many episodes of The Office onto his hard drive as would fit. After that, I planned on drinking beer and playing Street Fighter II: Turbo until I passed out drunk or died from exhaustion. Instead, Neil called to tell me there had been a slight change of plans (when you make plans with Neil, there is always a slight change of plans, but this was different.) As he was walking out to his car, he kept hearing an odd noise. It sounded like a cat was down in the sewer. Neil lifted off the manhole cover, climbed down into the sewer, and guess what? It was actually Rick Allen who had gotten stuck down there. With only one arm, he was hard pressed to both climb the ladder and lift the manhole cover, so he resorted to mewing like a kitten so someone would come rescue him. Okay, so I made that up and it was in poor taste.

In all actuality, it was a kitten. Neil took the kitten inside, gave it a bath, and fed and watered it. As much as Neil wanted to keep it, his roommate is allergic to cats, so that wasn’t an option. Luckily, Melissa has wanted a cat for a while now, so it wound up being a good fit. We went over to get it and take it back to her house. On the way there, we started trying to come up with names. Being ever so helpful, I was recommending names such as “Paul,” “Hank,” “Timmy,” and any other name that doesn’t sound appropriate for a kitten. Then I came up with pure kitten-name gold: “Mr. Belvedere.” She hated it. A lot. She finally settled on the name “Smokey.”

Not to be outdone, I insisted on calling the kitten “Mr. Belvedere” all night long. Following is an approximation of our conversation:

Melissa: “Will you stop calling Smokey “Mr. Belvedere?” He’s going to get confused and never learn his name!”

JT: “Mr. Belvedere hates the name “Smokey.””

M: “Ass.”

JT: “You drop-kicked your jacket, when you came through the door. No one cared…”

M: “Ass.”

JT: “Besides, “Smokey” isn’t an appropriate name for a British butler.”

At this point, we were both staring daggers at each other, drinking beers, when suddenly, Melissa had a stroke of genius.

M: “Hey! Let’s call him “Pabst!”

JT: “…I like it. How about “Peeber,” short for “Pabst Blue Ribbon?””

…and that is how Peeber got his name. As a lot of you know, I’m not a “cat person.” In fact, I’m not all that wild about cats, with a few exceptions. Of course, Melissa is taking every opportunity to give me hell about this since I’ve been playing with Peeber and helping take care of him. As I pointed out to her, everything is cute when it’s a baby. I bet even French people are cute as infants…

JT out.