MR2-Sooner86
10/4/2007, 09:34 PM
Dear Honey...
Let me preface this by saying that you moving in here has been nothing short of wonderful, and I cherish every moment.
I know you have repeatedly asked me to swallow my pride and come to grips with the incessantly squawling, unprincipled *******s that are your cats, but I've hit a bit of a snag.
Take today, for example.
I so infrequently get weekdays off, as you know, that I really try and maximize it when I do. I'm glad you appreciated that I was feeling chipper enough this morning to bounce out of bed, whistling, to make you French Toast and send you off on your merry way, but I have a confession to make.
Now I love that you care so much for me that you insist that I maintain a "healthy" diet, and I, um, "love" vegetables but...
My day today was to revolve principally around bong hits and hacking through my burgeoning TIVO list, finally getting the chance to dissect the finer points and clever subtext of "Ice Road Truckers" while committing lewd and lascivious acts on the bucket of extra-crispy fried chicken I bought last night and hid in the garage.
(which you, in your unending wisdom, have all but banished from "our" diet.)
I was a couple of hours in, wiping my hands on my shorts and thoroughly enjoying Canadian sots trying to justify a career choice that is only slightly less exciting than watching Slot Car racing, when it unfolded.
Your cat, you know - the fat orange one with the inappropriate eating problem? The one you refer to, without an ounce of irony, as "husky?"
****er would not leave me alone.
I tried the grungy sock full of catnip.
I tried the spray bottle.
Nothing short of a tornado siren was going to distract Husky from the mouthwatering shiny cardboard bucket on the coffee table.
(I even tried inflating and popping a paper bag, repeatedly, - no dice.)
It was so ravenously engorged at the thought of getting a crack at my chicken that it was licking the air...
We'll come back to the cat...
First let's pause and think about combining black coffee and a belly-full of chicken grease with the curried "health" that you fed me last night.
Gurgle...
Gurgle...
Not that your cooking isn't the world's most delicious, but intestinally mixing the two is, ironically enough, like oil and water.
Back to the cat...
Now you know that I "love" the cats, and that my near-constant provocation is steadfast evidence of my being a concerned and dedicated pet owner; in that I'm merely ensuring that they get plenty of exercise and maintain a healthy grasp on their problem-solving skills, right?
Well Husky didn't get the hint and, being unwilling to trap it in the bedroom and ultimately have to replace the shredded door, again, I decided to try something new.
(Well, it's not new to me, I have been doing it since day one, but it's new to try and use it as a behavioral modification tool and not just as baseless, yet hilarious, harassment on my part.)
You see, honey, I like to fart on the cats.
Before you get angry, please understand that it's an entirely harmless guilty pleasure. Deep down, and despite the desperate scramble away from me, they like it...
They sniff.
A lot.
I should also explain that the majority of the time it's more of a farting "at" thing, kind of like a 240-pound bombardier beetle.
Today wasn't supposed to be too terribly different.
So I, having had enough of the obese welfare cat's incessant pleas for KFC, decided to defuse the situation and give it some canned food.
It was following it's furtive, gasping consumption of an entire can in seconds that inspiration struck.
Recalling prior experience with your curries; (especially the time that you couldn't sleep from the guilt of having ostracized me to the couch thanks to my unavoidable outgassing, only to ask me to compromise by returning to bed, next to you, sequestered in my mummy-style sleeping bag, effectively braising me in my own fetid juices and requiring a HazMat shower the next morning...) I suspected, correctly, that at some point soon I would be locked and loaded for bear.
Or cat.
Now I know that it seems petty of me to admit this, but my goal was to make the cat vomit. (Please don't try and analyze or understand this - we're talking about the guy that likes to pelt you with single- roll toilet papers in the grocery store.)
I lowered my shorts just enough to expose the blowhole, wanting the cat to fully enjoy the impending heady aroma completely unfiltered.
(No, I didn't wiggle my junk. That would be creepy.)
Besides, I happen to know for a fact that a dangling scrotum is nearly indistinguishable from a catnip sock - to a cat that is.
I assumed the teabag stance directly over your fuzzy, rust-colored child substitute and, growling its name, pulled the trigger on what I thought would be a gloriously noxious aerosol "**** You."
The cat, sensing the looming menace, froze in place.
My digestive tract, carbed and relieved of any back-pressure, responded with alarming immediacy.
It got away from me.
Fast...
My balloon knot opened much further than is necessary to expel vapor and...
I'm sorry, honey -
I **** on the cat.
Before I could stop it, it just blasted out like Edge shaving cream.
You know a single, unbroken rope of mucilaginous hatred that, when exposed to air, morphs into more of a viscous foam?
I looked like a penguin ****ting.
Oddly enough, it was relatively silent, sounding more like when you peel the skin off a chunk of baloney.
Zzzziiiiipppp!
It smelled like someone set fire to every trash dumpster in India.
The cat looked as though it had been restrained and dipped headfirst into Mutter Paneer.
(Don't ask me how I know what that looks like.)
Now Honey, I know that all of your stories have a moral that I love sitting through three hours of you talking at me to hear, so I know what the deal is here.
The moral to this story is:
Please, for the love of Christ...
No more ****ing curries.
Neither my colon nor the cats can take it.
Please.
In the ensuing typhoon of caterwauling and carnage, fifteen framed photos and seven of your eight plants took collateral damage.
Also, you know that quilt on the back of the couch, the one your grandmother brought us back from Branson?
It now looks like someone clubbed a harp seal on it.
Oh yeah, and the drapes...
Sorry.
I have to go clean up the crime scene before you get home.
Oh yeah and, before I forget, lets just say that if "hypothetically" you're to put a cat soaked in Tide, Febreeze, and Downy into a washing machine, should you switch to the Gentle cycle or can you just leave it on Super Wash and let it rip?
P.S.
I already know that "there will be snow on the ground before I see your vagina again", so save your breath.
It was sooooo worth it.
Let me preface this by saying that you moving in here has been nothing short of wonderful, and I cherish every moment.
I know you have repeatedly asked me to swallow my pride and come to grips with the incessantly squawling, unprincipled *******s that are your cats, but I've hit a bit of a snag.
Take today, for example.
I so infrequently get weekdays off, as you know, that I really try and maximize it when I do. I'm glad you appreciated that I was feeling chipper enough this morning to bounce out of bed, whistling, to make you French Toast and send you off on your merry way, but I have a confession to make.
Now I love that you care so much for me that you insist that I maintain a "healthy" diet, and I, um, "love" vegetables but...
My day today was to revolve principally around bong hits and hacking through my burgeoning TIVO list, finally getting the chance to dissect the finer points and clever subtext of "Ice Road Truckers" while committing lewd and lascivious acts on the bucket of extra-crispy fried chicken I bought last night and hid in the garage.
(which you, in your unending wisdom, have all but banished from "our" diet.)
I was a couple of hours in, wiping my hands on my shorts and thoroughly enjoying Canadian sots trying to justify a career choice that is only slightly less exciting than watching Slot Car racing, when it unfolded.
Your cat, you know - the fat orange one with the inappropriate eating problem? The one you refer to, without an ounce of irony, as "husky?"
****er would not leave me alone.
I tried the grungy sock full of catnip.
I tried the spray bottle.
Nothing short of a tornado siren was going to distract Husky from the mouthwatering shiny cardboard bucket on the coffee table.
(I even tried inflating and popping a paper bag, repeatedly, - no dice.)
It was so ravenously engorged at the thought of getting a crack at my chicken that it was licking the air...
We'll come back to the cat...
First let's pause and think about combining black coffee and a belly-full of chicken grease with the curried "health" that you fed me last night.
Gurgle...
Gurgle...
Not that your cooking isn't the world's most delicious, but intestinally mixing the two is, ironically enough, like oil and water.
Back to the cat...
Now you know that I "love" the cats, and that my near-constant provocation is steadfast evidence of my being a concerned and dedicated pet owner; in that I'm merely ensuring that they get plenty of exercise and maintain a healthy grasp on their problem-solving skills, right?
Well Husky didn't get the hint and, being unwilling to trap it in the bedroom and ultimately have to replace the shredded door, again, I decided to try something new.
(Well, it's not new to me, I have been doing it since day one, but it's new to try and use it as a behavioral modification tool and not just as baseless, yet hilarious, harassment on my part.)
You see, honey, I like to fart on the cats.
Before you get angry, please understand that it's an entirely harmless guilty pleasure. Deep down, and despite the desperate scramble away from me, they like it...
They sniff.
A lot.
I should also explain that the majority of the time it's more of a farting "at" thing, kind of like a 240-pound bombardier beetle.
Today wasn't supposed to be too terribly different.
So I, having had enough of the obese welfare cat's incessant pleas for KFC, decided to defuse the situation and give it some canned food.
It was following it's furtive, gasping consumption of an entire can in seconds that inspiration struck.
Recalling prior experience with your curries; (especially the time that you couldn't sleep from the guilt of having ostracized me to the couch thanks to my unavoidable outgassing, only to ask me to compromise by returning to bed, next to you, sequestered in my mummy-style sleeping bag, effectively braising me in my own fetid juices and requiring a HazMat shower the next morning...) I suspected, correctly, that at some point soon I would be locked and loaded for bear.
Or cat.
Now I know that it seems petty of me to admit this, but my goal was to make the cat vomit. (Please don't try and analyze or understand this - we're talking about the guy that likes to pelt you with single- roll toilet papers in the grocery store.)
I lowered my shorts just enough to expose the blowhole, wanting the cat to fully enjoy the impending heady aroma completely unfiltered.
(No, I didn't wiggle my junk. That would be creepy.)
Besides, I happen to know for a fact that a dangling scrotum is nearly indistinguishable from a catnip sock - to a cat that is.
I assumed the teabag stance directly over your fuzzy, rust-colored child substitute and, growling its name, pulled the trigger on what I thought would be a gloriously noxious aerosol "**** You."
The cat, sensing the looming menace, froze in place.
My digestive tract, carbed and relieved of any back-pressure, responded with alarming immediacy.
It got away from me.
Fast...
My balloon knot opened much further than is necessary to expel vapor and...
I'm sorry, honey -
I **** on the cat.
Before I could stop it, it just blasted out like Edge shaving cream.
You know a single, unbroken rope of mucilaginous hatred that, when exposed to air, morphs into more of a viscous foam?
I looked like a penguin ****ting.
Oddly enough, it was relatively silent, sounding more like when you peel the skin off a chunk of baloney.
Zzzziiiiipppp!
It smelled like someone set fire to every trash dumpster in India.
The cat looked as though it had been restrained and dipped headfirst into Mutter Paneer.
(Don't ask me how I know what that looks like.)
Now Honey, I know that all of your stories have a moral that I love sitting through three hours of you talking at me to hear, so I know what the deal is here.
The moral to this story is:
Please, for the love of Christ...
No more ****ing curries.
Neither my colon nor the cats can take it.
Please.
In the ensuing typhoon of caterwauling and carnage, fifteen framed photos and seven of your eight plants took collateral damage.
Also, you know that quilt on the back of the couch, the one your grandmother brought us back from Branson?
It now looks like someone clubbed a harp seal on it.
Oh yeah, and the drapes...
Sorry.
I have to go clean up the crime scene before you get home.
Oh yeah and, before I forget, lets just say that if "hypothetically" you're to put a cat soaked in Tide, Febreeze, and Downy into a washing machine, should you switch to the Gentle cycle or can you just leave it on Super Wash and let it rip?
P.S.
I already know that "there will be snow on the ground before I see your vagina again", so save your breath.
It was sooooo worth it.