Wednesday, February 23, 2011

An Open Letter To An A-Hole Kitten

Dear New Kitten,

Look asshole. Let's get a couple of things straight. You are the new thing living in my home and I believe very firmly in a "last in, first out" policy when it comes to killing members of my family, and I'm totally not buying the adorable running around and batting playfully at things bit, so just knock it off. You won't make any friends that way, douchebag. You want to endear yourself to me? Make me a couple of goddamn Pop-Tarts©. Oh. I see. Instead you'll just dart playfully between my legs and try to eat my hair while I nap. That's totally just as good. No really.

It's bad enough that you are chipping away ever so subtly at the crumbling facade that is my masculinity, but do you have to lay on your back in my lap with your paws tucked in all fetal-like? Seriously. What if some bikini supermodel shows up at my house crying because I made her pregnant by looking at her? What then? You are totally cramping my style. I tried to buy a pet wolverine instead, but the guy at the pet store said that was illegal and was stuck-up when I tried to bribe him, because apparently 3 melty Kit-Kat bars and an unused Trojan© from 1997 isn't worth what it used to be, and whatever it IS worth is markedly less than what you can get for a black market mustelid*. So I'm stuck with you. Asshole. Don't even do a giant kitty yawn and start purring. I haven't got time for this shit.


Also, cuddling with my children is not the way to my heart, it's the way to a food processor filled with tuna fish left conveniently on the floor while I hide nearby with a stick to press the "frappe" button. You know why? Because when these rotten kids are happy, then when they stop being that way they notice, and then they complain, and you know what's more annoying than a kid mewling miserably about how tough their life is? Getting a rash on your balls from shaving them too close with a Lady Bic© you found in the garbage at work that is half-rusty and maybe has blood on the handle and visible nicks in the blade.**. Other than that, nothing.

You also aren't making any friends by finding adorable places to play like on a stack of books or behind the bass guitar so that when you lean out to peek it looks like you are rocking out to Smoke On The Water or Paranoid or something. That's just ridiculous. You are just a kitten. You lack the dexterity, reach and arm strength necessary to effectively produce ONE clean note on a bass, never mind being able to supply the appropriate groove necessary to properly supply your fellow musicians with a solid rhythm to layer over. Fucking poser. How bout we go for a swim in the toilet. You first.

And HAHAHAHAHA! That's a great idea! Leaping out at me and scratching the shit out of my ankles while I get up in the middle of the night to pee in the pitch black hallway after I just had a dream about Eric Estrada in drag who drops his panties and has a potato peeler where her wang should be. My point is I'm already confused on several levels and the last thing I need is things leaping out at me. I need things that are pretty ladies who instead of leaping out at me, kiss my earlobe and maybe press themselves provocatively against my junk in what they try to pretend is a friendship way, but when it isn't they totally don't freak out and start to cry and say they don't think of me that way because, kitten. This boner ain't big enough for two of us.***

Shape up or ship out, cat. You've been put on notice. (*does that Meet The Parents, Two-fingers pointing at eyes and then at the kitten, and then realizes I am unintentionally referencing Meet the Parents, and puts hand down too quick and bangs knuckles on coffee table*)

This is just uncalled for.

Hugs Not Drugs,

*The Family Mustalidae is distinguished by all members of the weasel, ermine, stoat, badger, polecat and wolverine genuses. I bet you all read that as "geniuses" like I did and then imagined a polecat with horned rimmed glasses jotting Star Trek puns in the margins of his notebook during his Modern Physics lecture instead of paying attention. Wake Up, Polecat! You only have one chance at education! HAAHHAHAHAHAHAAHA! (*chugs more Robitussin©*)

**I'm only guessing this is annoying because IF I tried this, I nicked Righty on my first sweep and then passed out for an hour when I saw the blood. I don't know how many times YOU'VE woken up in a pool of testicle blood with a gross razor in one hand and a Sharpie© in the other but trust me...the third time is the worst after the sixth.

***This sentence is so confusing that I find myself alternating between laughter and tears when I read it. So it's a lot like my real sex life on many levels.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

I Didn't Have Time to Find Any Pictures. Shut Up.

There are a lot of people in this world who think that they are special and I would be the first to point out that I am one of them. I would also be the first to point out that I am right, and then I would be the first to point out that I have roguishly handsome good looks, and then I would be the first to point at my junk and make a couple pelvic thrusts and clear my throat and wink so much that the other people at the pharmacy think I'm having an attack of some kind instead of trying to make time with the hot lady behind the counter who will definitely be okay dating me even though she knows what kind of anti-psychotics I am picking up, because if nothing else, she is a consummate professional with nice cans.

One thing that those other, incorrect people think they are special about, is where they live, and I don't mean like "in a mansion" or "not in a dumpster" because hobos are in a whole different conversation about being special. What I mean, is the weather. The mother-effing weather. People seem to be convinced that living in a place where there is lots of snow in the winter, somehow entitles them to the right to bitch about that snow even though they could totally move at anytime unless they are a sexual predator or under house arrest because of some silly mixup where exposing yourself to a lady at the grocery store who was totally eye-sexing you while she seductively fondled a carrot is a crime now, apparently. That's what the old timers used to be called an "advanced dating technique" according to the history books. Although to be fair we just call those "rape" now, for the most part. But I digress... Complaining about the snow when you live in the snow belt is like going to the dead hooker pile and complaining because the one you picked is missing a leg. I think we've all been there.

I've seen a map of the world before. There are all kinds of places to live in the middle parts where you don't have to deal with cold weather at all. And maybe you are thinking about all the different ethnicities living around the world at the equator and trying to decided the tactful way to say something racist, well don't even bother. I'm totally on to you. Not every Australian is the descendant of a criminal. Just most. Also aborigines. There's about 4 of them left, I think. Wait. According to my calculations Australia isn't even on the equator. Jeesh! Get your racist facts straight, David Duke.

And the other thing is...wait. I think I've complained about this before and besides it's a pretty boring read. I guess the real question is if you've ever eaten too much Chinese food and then every time you tried to burp up some room, you get a little bit of rice back. Because I have and that is gross.

I am so totally special, it's ridiculous.

I give up on this post. Here's dogs playing poker: