A dear friend mailed presents to our cats. It went as well as expected.Continue Reading...
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Parents have various reasons for documenting the development and growth of their dependents with current technology, whether for the nostalgic purpose of filming a summer vacation on the shores of Biloxi, Mississippi or the mischievous intention of snapping a future blackmail Polaroid of your baby wearing only a toy gun holster. I’ve observed this paternal motivation in owners of pet cats as well, myself included; though, my intentions serve a different purpose.
When I capture still life of my heathens, it’s function is for one or more of the following:
For some reason, my friends have this notion that I like cats. Because of this, they share with me a myriad of videos, pictures, and/or memes they fish from the Internet sludge (bless their hearts). Because it seems that my readers enjoy cats, I figure ‘If I have to be inundated with bizarre cat shit, so do you.’
Since the week before Thanksgiving, I’ve been more festive than Rip Taylor on New Year’s Eve. I erected and decorated two-and-a-half Christmas trees, snaked garland along the banister, garnished the mantle with stockings and poinsettias, placed nutcrackers on active duty, and baked (i.e. eaten) five dozen batches of gingerbread cookies before the Thanksgiving turkey had the pleasure of being stuffed. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
Since most of my friends are as obnoxious about their cats as I am with mine (and to supplement my ravenous holiday spirit), I had the idea of mailing a gift box to their four-legged fur babies*. This method of merry is preferred if you’d rather bring holiday cheer to cats rather than people.
- Is it just me or does “four-legged fur baby” sound like a highly perverted, Turkish sex thing?
In the event that your handicap is giving to others, I have provided a step-by-step guide below. In case you also have a deplorable distaste for reading, there are pictures.
WARNING: The following get your friend’s cat so stoned, the heathen will start wearing baahaas, take up hacky sacking, and call their owner “dude.”
If I recall my first encounter with manipulation, my memory will pull me back to swinging on the Lafayette Elementary School playground during recess. A pendulum of children occupied every seat, but Patricia and Amanda felt entitled to a turn. Among the dozen of peers, the two popular yet spoiled puppeteers of young boys selected me.
“Cary,” their voices coquettishly sang, “can we have a turn on the swing?”
I explained that my turn had just begun as I swooshed back and forth, pumping my legs to fly higher. Yet even with my sincere apologies, the pair were unsatisfied with my response, immediately dropping the angelic masks they wore.
“You’re so stupid. Stupid head,” one of them barked.
“Yeah. I thought you were nice, but you’re just a jerk,” sneered the other.
And that’s how they scored my seat on the swing set, by attacking me with my known weakness: pleasing everybody to avoid conflict. Yes, I felt defeated when I plowed my feet into the sand to halt my ride. Yes, I felt ashamed when I stood aside and mumbled, “Here you go.” But at that age, I couldn’t be disliked, and they knew that. Everyone knew that.
Nowadays, I realize that if you want to manipulate someone’s feelings to get what you want, there are more civil ways of accomplishing it other than labeling your victim a “stupid head.” As a matter of fact, I may have willingly conceded my place on the swing if Patricia and Amanda had used The Cat Said method of manipulation instead of hurting my feelings – but don’t worry, I’m no longer bitter about what those wretched twats did to my innocence.
The Cat Said method is easy to master and can save your (presumably) turbulent relationship. All you need is at least one cat, one significant other (although, for you Mormons, I assume it is effective on more than one at a time – but this has yet to be tested), and the alacrity to heartlessly beguile your naive loved one(s) into giving you want you want.
A tool that is mostly used to cut through Christmas paper,
Scrapbooking or shearing hair or even stab a raper.
Scissors in my home, though, are assigned a different duty:
Trimming out the dookie caked around my kitty’s booty.
While shopping for a more natural and eco-friendly litter, I discovered one that not only promised “outstanding odor control,” “99% dust free,” and “quick clumping & easy scooping,” it also proclaimed itself to be the best cat litter in the whole fucking world.
Gasconading about being superior to German engineering, ancient Chinese secrets, and Portuguese scientific know-how within the name of your product is so audacious, I immediately gave this Muscatine, Iowa-based company a chance without the due diligence that should have been involved when paying three times more than the average bag of cat litter. I was under the impression that I was getting what I was paying for. If I pay for a bag of litter that cost three times more than the average, I should expect a litter that works three times better than the average. Right?
I don’t know about you, Journal, but when I award a manufactured product with the title of “World’s Best,” I have to deem it a remarkable improvement over all of its competitors. A”world’s best” battery would last forever. A “world’s best” sleeping pill wouldn’t make me sleep eat or feel groggy in the morning. A”world’s best” toilet paper wouldn’t sprout dingleberries in the wake of its wipe. Well, after paying over $30 for a bag of World’s Best Cat Litter: Advanced Natural, this is what I got:
Conversation is hard. This is most applicable when getting to know someone I just met (a stage of companionship where comfortable silence is most awkward and not yet acceptable, trust me).
When starting a conversation with a stranger who has potential, I can either dig for common ground with general and boring questions or do what I normally do, talk about myself. My friends say the latter is narcissistic. I call it Game Showing because contestants are obligated to share their life story with the host. It’s part of the program format.
If I ever experience a situation where I’m uncomfortable talking about myself (something I can’t imagine), jokes are a great way to break the ice. Unfortunately, with my type of humor, I have to be cautious. Sharing my favorite joke in mixed company (“What’s so great about fucking twenty eight year olds? There are twenty of them.”) won’t always go over so well. I may laugh at the recipient’s appalled reaction but then notice her covering the ears of her 7-year-old daughter I didn’t realize was there. And before I get a chance to follow up with “Last night in bed, my boyfriend called me a pedophile. I told him, ‘That’s an awfully big word for a 6-year-old,'” the Chucky Cheese manager demands that I “leave before I call the police” because a few parents at a nearby table complained.