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If you DO want to know, welcome to my blog |
For those who actually want to follow my thoughts, ideas, moans, and gripes, this is the place for you! For those of you who are returning...I questions your judgment, you poor souls. 
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| His name is Fat Bastard. His career is being fat. He's good at his career. Her nickname is The Slink. Her career is finding the last nerve and chewing on it. She excels at her career. Together, they form the team of Fukkus and Rukkus. Cats, man. I don't even know where to start. They disguise themselves as cute little cuddle machines. But there's so much more to them. Like their curious habit of mooning you. Trying to watch TV? They creep up on the side of your chair, turn around and: "No! Look at my asshole, instead!" Real cuddly! What the hell is that all about?! Then there's the cuckoo game: evicting the other animals from their nests. Is there another pet on your lap? The cat will slowly and stealthily try to oust the other animal. If successful, the cat purrs for a moment then leaves, having accomplished it's primary goal of just being a jerk. If you stop the cat— "Stop, there's already someone on my lap!"— they look at you and slowly try to put that front paw down anyway. Stop them again: the look, the slow step. After 8 iterations of this "game," you finally toss the cat to the floor (gently, probably, but it depends how many times in a row the cat has done this in a row), and it stares back at you like you just closed its tail in a door. And the need to claim everything combined with the uncanny sense of exactly what you want them not to claim is unmatched in the animal world. You can watch them thinking: Let's see: an empty box, a cat bed, a cat tree, the couch, a clean sweater. BINGO! Sweater it is! And then they give you that smug-ass stare that makes you wonder if animal cruelty actually extends to cats or not. One of the most fascinating— "SHUT UP!" As I write this, The Slink will not shut up!!!— One of the most fascinating things about these little terrorists is how dedicated they are to prevent humans from consuming the written word. They can hear a newspaper open five rooms away, and they will come bounding in to put themselves between your face and the newspaper. You may not have seen the cat in 16 hours. Open a paperback, and the little shit magically appears behind it, pawing at it, pulling away from your face. Open the laptop, suddenly the cat is sending a damn email to your boss, telling him, "Ikkkhjjkjksdfd7&&8; jsool!.,,." Perhaps the cat want you to get fired so you are at its beck and call every day. I'm not writing anything new. Even people without cats know most of this dfffa;;leef9afd stuff. DAMN IT! Stay off my keyboard! Alright, things are getting out of control here. I can no longer see the screen, but I can count the hairs around Fat Bastard's sphincter, and I can't hear myself think beyond Slink's caterwauling (not that there's much left to hear up there at this point anyway). I'm off to fix them some tuna salad like a good little minion. I just hope some of this has made you feel not so alone in your battle with your snuggly little sanity assassin. Take heart, take hope, and always remember: ##afasgdd diuoi jiofo;ji)) |
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