Friday, April 1, 2011

Cats is stupid... No, Really... They is...

I was a bit too serious in the first few blogs & figured I would play a “pull my finger” for this one.

Having said that, I'm sure the “upper 50 percentile” of readers might have just logged off. Not that I seem to have a huge following at the moment anyway.

Here are the ground rules. I'm not starting a cats vs. dogs 'thing'. That might have been popular back in the early 80's right after the pet rock died, it's simply not my goal.

This is a life story.  Kind of a , “National Geographic pitch about the domestic house cat and everything went to shit” kind of chronicle...

Most folks would like to entice you with a yarn about the sleek nature of a lithe & graceful little creature; how it could deftly scale through mountains of furniture, over the Gemelli Coffee Table, across the gold lame' fireplace, atop the Louis Vuitton travel case arrangement, past grandma's urn without even the slightest disturbance or even the slightest ruffle to the Thomas Fergusons Irish Linens placed beneath as the little beasty greats you at the front door, its huge (and I do mean kiwi sized) green eyes reflecting back at you in anticipation of you affection.

Not in my humble commode... 'Kinda goes sumthin like this... fat bastard races over to the sofa (which is the furthest thing from the front door).  Gets there by means of sliding and then careening into said sofa. Its fat ass can't (or won't) make it from the floor to the top of the sofa back, so it claws the shit out of everything from the floor to the top of the side-table. Back to the sofa, back to the table-top, floor, table-top... floor... table... floor... table...; then the little bastard looks at me like I planned this clumsy onslaught.

He staggers up and yawns, twisting his head surrealistically sideways, opening one eye wider than the other. So grotesque is this display (and totally without reason) that it can only be explained away as being a special effect from a David Cronenberg film. Think of a bulbous monster doing a freakish stretch that would undoubtedly herniate a yoga master, while simultaneously leaving quarter inch gouges in the ceramic ashtray the wife picked up from Bed, Bath & Bullshit last weekend. [This display happens to be going on next to my side of the living room couch. Not my wife's side. Oh hell no.]

In 'wonder-world' you gently toss the back of lithe kitty's head lightly. [pronounced lith because I'm an idiot...] She nuzzles your hand, her wet nose pressing into your palm. Purring and continuing to push her shoulders into your hand, coaxing you to pet her more; you walk into the next room to place your belongings onto the sofa (or whatever) from work to get into the 'mood' of your dwelling.  Lithe kitty would launch into an aeronautical ballet that ends with a delicate landing upon the David Lloyd Thompson table, revealing no smudges or ruffled hair in anticipation of additional contact with her favorite human.

Russell's World - cause I'm gonna knock his fat ass off... my end table and sofa (now completely ruined) [cat's bottom half is now holding the sofa, top half is holding the end table... this shit AIN'T pretty folks]: his thunderous bulk gripping the cheaper wood & slate top as though his very life were on the ass end of the Titanic. You can guess the condition of the wood, but how the hell the obese son of bitch can leave gouges in stone is still beyond me. In disgust I finally let go, leaving his ass to hang over the edge.  His eyes are bulging out and you can hear as he fights back a wheeze of breath, only to rasp once he drags his gut back onto the tabletop, but only after his hind legs made it first. A tuft of hair the size of a gerbil falls to the floor behind him. I've had the displeasure of several years experience seeing hideous things, but witnessing this, well... let's say you never get used to the taste of bile...

Once the John Carpenter transformation sequence had met with its completion, “Kit Lardington” moved on to licking its paw & wiping the back of its head:  constantly repeating the procedure until the human (me, I guess) thought the bullshit 'pancaking-sofa-floor' gymnastics was actually a planned endeavor.   However, long before said 'confirmation' is thought to be completed and I'm already completely disgusted with the whole display, I've already walked out of what's left of my front room.

In 'Wonder-world' you coax lithe kitty to follow you to the kitchen. And even though she knows, lithe kitty hops silently to the floor & nimbly lopes behind you to the kitchen for her meal. Disturbing nothing in her wake, just like those of native America; not even leaving footprints.

Russell's World... Lard ass scales mount sofa like the Tsukiji fish market, shredding the couch to the point it looks like a pair of Bon Jovi's 80's style jeans.  After finally climbing the back, wheezing from altitude sickness; Lardkins half leaps (mostly falls) from the sofa & slops to the floor. The site is something akin to one of those airbags used in fire rescues or a Hollywood high fall stunt. Unlike those airbags, shitty kitty made a sound similar to shaking an extra large water bottle, the snort of a water buffalo and the choked flatulence of a bull elephant.  All the while half lumbering, half dragging his carcass into the kitchen; braying for me throw groceries down his pipes.

Interesting... because I didn't call for him... I damn sure wasn't thinking about food, much less for him... Matter of fact... Where the hell did this cat come from!?!   I seem to have woke up one morning... Did I pet a cat? I remember taking a leak... pet a cat?   Went to P.T.... got home... Do I even remember a cat...?

Lithe kitty rubs lovingly back & forth, up & down your stockinged leg purring at a steady staccato that would lull a baby to sleep in seconds; assuring you to no end that this animal indeed loves you.

My fire breathing bastard has already chewed the back out of two metal chairs, tore the door handle off the refrigerator and knows how to get into the fucking basement where the deep freeze is. And if the noise this fat fuck is making is purring then I need another hearing test because what I'm hearing sounds like a cross between a grapefruit caught in a garbage disposal and this elderly Korean lady beating my ass for touching a pigs head back in the shopping market in Seoul (different story for another time). This is the third pair of jeans he's clawed the heels out of and I KNOW the little bastard drank the last of the beer.

Lithe kitty gets her meal pull tabbed and put in a dish, while she patiently waits bright eyed, tail swishing for the plate to be lowered to the floor. You smile, turn, possibly chortle as on occasion (in the past) she has softly pounced off your thigh, acting as though she 'went in for the kill': lightly landing next to the plate. Yet she has never ravenously attacked the food, but delicately licks and nibbles at it and takes her time, seeming to enjoy the fact that she has a home & people that care for her. You settle back for a moment, take in a deep breath, let the heaviness of the day break for a moment and relax in the moment that it's nice to be special in this animal's life and that it may comprehend and equally care.

Russell's World - Thunder Puss rolls back on... What!?!   I don't know what!   I've seen 1K "Stupid Cat" pictures depicting this 'very' scene and this rotund monster was doing it too. They're projecting something... like we're supposed to read their minds.  Like a bad movie stereotype, I'm waiting for this tripe to light a cigar and start mumbling an ultimatum. Besides, how the hell can anyone sit like that?

Ignoring the god father of “god-awful”, I drug out the 'lard bucket' (a garbage can used to store the cat food in) and drew a pound of 'offering' to the Jehovah of jowls. In the few seconds it took to turn from one alter to the other, my vision was assaulted by Lard Luggage's ass hanging out of the bottom of the fridge like another bad Beethoven movie. I'll be damned to find him chewing through the family's ham shank like an a-bomb through a living room in one of those old 50's file footage clips.

It's at this point I have to share with you that I'm glad Jeff Foxworthy came up with the list of “You Might Be a Redneck” criteria for a couple of reasons.

1, I have apparently more than exceeded the minimum necessary requirements to be one of Jeff's endless rednecks. I've tried to fight it, yet I'm damned. Educated, cultured, or raised by wolves some of us have it like an ugly birthmark on our nose. Others (where I thought I was) find themselves in a “My Fair Lady” situation (stop with the cross dressing innuendos). Where I'm coming from is, you try to behave/act cultured, civilized, a little refined, but fuck it!!! You can't take it any more! World be damned, the truckers hat comes out, the flannel goes on, razor stubble instantly appears and whatever 'twanger' given the geographical local you grew up with, springs back into your vocabulary... Which breaks into the second reason to bow before Jeff...

2, redneck is non-demographic specific. Which in the context of this story and this blog means nobody can find me. Thus, PETA and the rest of the Animal Rights whiners who have no sense of humor can Fuck Off.  Russell's Rules   Notice: I got the memo on capitalization. Do you REALLY think someone with the bread for a $4K coffee table is going to give a shit for an animal, much less let it stand on it?  Redneck is just a catch-all.  Not that I wanted to put words in Jeff's mouth, but that's what I 'am' doing.  Don't sue me Jeff. I don't have anything anyway.

Getting back to the story and the stupid cat, my point is Gargantuan Girth got his ass grabbed by both heels, yanked out from the fridge (ham & two crispers in tow) and tossed to the other side of the kitchen.  Now what the hell am I supposed to do for dinner?

In comedy, timing is everything and I didn't think this was funny, but at the moment I heard 'tub-o-guts and dinner hitting the back wall, I instantaneously heard the wife & kids clambering and babbling about the day through the front door.  My wife telling my eldest son about the due diligence of studying for a math test, the youngest son echoing the sentiment in crystal breaking retort; the eldest son punctuating the conversation by labeling the little one, sodomizer of tonight’s dinner (i.e., a pig fucker).

In a panicked, sweating attempt to save what's left of the ham, I grabbed the broom and jabbed the handle at H.P. Lovecraft' carnivorous koala that seemingly now had a horribly road rash-ed baby in its death clutches.  I had originally hoped it would let go of our main entree, but that's what I get for thinking. In keeping with the current decor, I whisked the satanic q-tip into the mud room in what can only be described as a curling exhibition for the macabre.

Once I feel Pazuzu Puss is safely uttering invocations for elimination (wadded into a corner),  I raced back to the living room, with a commanding voice demanding to know what the commotion is [hint ladies...we already know]... To which my wife alerted me, I didn't, "need, want, have, to know" shit!  She was women & about to roar and didn't I have something else I was already doing?  Yes... yes, I did!  And Thank GOD, cause the mess I'm in with that animal in the other room is getting to be too much!!! 

So, while my wife busied herself with round one of “Ass Beatings Tonight”, I raced b a c k into the mud room to deduced what that thing was growling in the floor.  Several degrees & years of field experience has led me to following conclusions... the beast in that floor was a Geo Metro with a missing exhaust & 3 foot length of broom hanging out of it's ass and a disfigured infant clenched within it's jaws, never to be withdrawn. Indeed H.P. Lovecraft was right, there are entities older than time and they are trying to eat us.  This one has at least chosen the family's ham.

For the several minutes I bore witness to its demonic presence; not once did I see the thing blink.  Having seen a lot of movies I don't ever recall the dialect of those incantations either, so before leaving the mud room I tried to smudge it by smoldering a couple of Friskies box tops and spritzing some Budweiser around; then I also tried reading some passages from back of the Purina packaging in my best 'mantra' voice, but I don't know if it'll do any good... [I got the idea from a Martin Sheen movie]

In the mean time, we haven't got anything else left to make dinner in the house...  Being the 'man' of the house...  Damn it...   I KNOW!!!

Mom/Wife did a good job keeping that ass strait and making them boys fly right.  No pig fuckers in my house!!!  What kind of filth is that!  Good Mom!  Nasty Kids, can't have that.  Good grades, good ethics.  Let's reward mom for raising good boys.  Everybody to the Chinese Buffet!!!  You kids have to eat off the vegetable rack though cause you talk like you eat dirt.   Talk dirty, eat dirty.  

What's that? You say some rat bastard started a rumor about them serving cat at the restaurant?

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