Hell-O London, expanding my greetings to the further trenches of the world, allow me practice this pleasantry before I bestow my sincerest level of sarcasm on to your PCs, laptops and five inch wank machines. What can I say? I bathe in irony. Unlike most recent activities in my life, as well as this blog – this early-afternoon, sleep depraved journal entry will not contain any topics nor subject matter relating to poor decisions, broke millennials, delusional hipsters, or waxed vaginas featuring extremely appealing tattoos and fade-lines. Well, maybe a little bit. We’ll see how things go. Self-awareness still present.
Now, I think it’s best that I make things clear from the beginning, and that I fully understand if people see me from the perspective of being evil, cruel, or even as an elitist. Ouch. I don’t agree with it but I do understand. And while my guitar gently weeps I should also make it clear that I’m perfectly happy being labelled as the bad guy. It makes me feel good. Besides, how else will people learn unless they’re faced with an opposing threat or disagreement? I’ll begin this story on the subject of Cats, well, Kittens to be specific.
A co-worker of mine strolls into my office with a facial expression I could only describe as the “about to cum face.” Now, this varies from male to male, and male to female, but after bearing witness to the unfortunate mess by the way of a stained-glass reflection from an unwanted vase, my own visual expression of release falls very much in-line with the disgusting description put forth by most female chit-chatter. Trust me on this, it’s not a pretty sight. Turning to the Twitter-verse in the hopes of appearing busy, I minimize anything and everything referencing 18+ blog sites and Venetian masks. Actions deemed pointless as he proceeds to flap his gums.
Explaining to me and my other colleagues that another staff member of ours experienced a tragic loss over the weekend, humanity kicks in and their faces fall with remorse and sorrow. Not mine. I’m the bad guy. It would appear that the loss of a Kitten has our team-player in a state of sadness and misery. Now, I’m not all bad, I can demonstrate emotions and compassion, such and such. However, when the announcement of loss is followed by payment suggestions in order to replace said Kitten, that’s where my thoughts towards such an issue begins to wear thin in terms of how much I’m willing to give a damn.
While the idea of a support team banding together to contribute small – albeit set donations – so that we may buy a new Kitten for our fallen Avenger may seem like a kind gesture on the surface, naturally, I disagree. First of all, let’s take a grown-fucking adult approach to the situation. Is it really such a great idea to teach an eighteen year old man – a grown fucking man – that dealing with death can be as simple as spending money on a replacement? Money can solve a lot of problems, that’s a given. Boredom, hunger, sex, whatever the problem may be there’s a good chance that money can remedy the cause. Secondly, a group of grown men pissing in a donation pot so we can purchase a Kitten for another grown man? No, just no. Go home, you’re drunk.
Money can’t solve death and men shouldn’t be buying Kittens. I mean, what’s next? Kill John Tucker and apply for St. Trinian’s? Gripping my nut sack while I was certain it still existed, I put forth a suggestion that would benefit us all: Drinking. More specifically, drinking alcohol – at night – in a club. Faced with the expected response that he’s not much of a drinker, I figured, well fuck, he’s probably going to start now. Money can’t solve everything, but it’s more than capable of making you forget your troubles. I mean, what’s he going to learn from the company of another Cat? Night clubs and bars have plenty of pussy. In all manner of shapes, sizes, colours and ages.
Short-haired or long-haired depending on how creative they are with the vag, and if you’re good with wordplay and feed them enough milk, some will even lick themselves clean and chase a ball or two. And let’s not forget, mid-week bar visits can be a hotspot for the lonely and the mature. Big cats on the prowl during the late hours of the night, lusting for young daring males craving fifteen to thirty minutes of raw animalistic fucking. Followed by a next-day group recapping of faded memories and awkward guilt trips, you can rest assured that any and every memory of the deceased will be also be faded in favor of intoxication. Yes, I know, I’m going to Hell.
Dismissing my idea in favour of a replacement fluff-ball, I took to the inter-webs, double-checked my nuts, and drifted off into the scrolling sunset of Twitter. Heck, what the fuck do I know? I’m just a guy looking to purchase a Venetian Mask for a weekend of awkward encounters.
Original Copyright © 2017 by KalifornicationX.