Saturday, August 6, 2011
Think My Cat Is Gay
“I’m not Jesus” claims my cat
(the very very very very angry cat story)
My cat gets angry with me over a previous dispute about mackerel or something equally as tedious.
I offer him his favourite biscuits.(plop plops)
He sighs .Farts.
I perform a little Irish jig to cheer him up, get the neighbours involved.
He begins giving me the evil eye.
I attempt to reason with him.
I growl back.
He gives me the finger, twice.
I give him the v sign, plus, I give him the finger. (clever huh?)
He sharpens his claws on the scratch post.
I sharpen mine with a cheese grater I happen to have handy at the time.
He spits. Drools.
I giggle for a time.
He kneels in a prayer position.
I copy him, think it looks kinda groovy, relaxing.
He breathes slower.
So do I.
I mention something random about him seeming like Jesus
tonight. Ya know..that well known trouble maker from the Middle East. I think nothing of it.
He raises his sweaty paw in a violent manner.
This is what he says to me in street speak-
“ You ain’t nothing but an idiot bro, yo’s a retard, stupid, moron, arsehole, loser, dumbitch, fool, fag, jackass, fucktard, pussy slut, homo, poser, dickhead, dumbfuck…
…yo’s a noob brooo,
a wild wild wild wild fucker I sayz,
jerk, prick, cunt, twat, slut…
..are you blazed dude,..Blazed?
…are you tripping snaaakkke?
Stupid? Gone wrong? Twisted?
Boomed, well out of it?
Are you Ugly bitttchhh?…..
…are you fucked to shit me man? fucked in the mental? fucked stupid? fucked out your tree man?....
….are you fucked 6 ways to Sunday man?...
…..I’ve told you already I AM NOT THE MESSIAH!
please don’t mention it again.”
He pretty much calmed down after that, put on his smoking jacket,
had a quick toke of his favourite spliff and returned to his cat basket
for the duration of the evening.
Advice To (George) My Cat
I advised my cat yesterday to stop napping and go get a life.
This is what happened..
He punched me in the face several times over with a clenched paw, and I fell awkwardly, desperately snatching at the red cotton curtains in my study, ripping them clean off the rails.
Just as I managed to collect myself again, thwack!!
He landed an upper cut square on my jaw.
(by this time he had moseyed over to his basket, sponged down his forehead ‘n’ ears, and laced up his furry white boxing gloves).
Strangely, and at the precise moment the last punch came,
(which happened to be a belter by the way) a peculiar looking bird,
not dissimilar to a pheasant, except that it lacked that pheasanty swagger, popped its head through the serving hatch adjacent to where I was laying. He said he would be more than willing to act as referee, so long as we fought by the Marquis of Queensbury rules.
We both agreed.
At about 7pm(EST) Cyril the squirrel and a whole fat bunch of badgers, possums, and somewhat notorious woodland creatures
entered my garden, now licensed, and fully equipped with cocktail lounge, confederation standard boxing ring, cabaret stage and go go dancers.
We fought a fierce battle
George came at me like a cat possessed, frighteningly reminiscent of Mike Tyson (in the match where he chewed part of Holyfield’s ear off) biting down hard on my chin, hissing and clawing me in private areas.
I managed to hold him off for a while and after seeking help from my manager, Frankie the fox (Don King had already snapped up George and molded him into the animal he was), began lunging at him wildly and on occasion practicing my drop kick technique.
27 seconds before the bell goes
George however, never missing an opportunity caught me off guard for a split second with a devastating haymaker sending me cart wheeling out of the ring, past the potting shed and ornamental
water feature, over and under hot dog stands, a man in a lion outfit
and a confused programme seller; through a double set of patio doors, down a spiral staircase, into a dumb waiter, over a bowling alley I’d just set up; down through a laundry shoot, past an elderly couple eating leek and ale sausages, across an underground river, into a lift that shuttled me up to my apartment again, through my Ikea living space (market stall home) and I landed in his litter tray amongst all his poop and stuff.
The Girl who swam with goldfish thinks her cat is gay.