Cats, Cougars and Catastrophes

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.

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12 thoughts on “Cats, Cougars and Catastrophes

  1. I remember the first time my future ex-wife dumped me, back when we were still dating. My friends decided to take me to a strip club. One of the strippers appeared insulted that she couldn’t bring a smile to my face. Or maybe she just fingered I wouldn’t be paying for a lap dance and went in search better paying prey.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Ah your writing is amazing, but I’m sure you know that!! I do feel sad that the kitten died and I would’ve been one of the sad-faced losers but I’m, 100%, with ya about not pitching in to buy a new one. (first of all, he should adopt for less than $100 he can do that on his own.) WHY WOULD YOU BUY A GROWN MAN A NEW PET…what the hell, lol.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks, Hunida. I appreciate your compliments towards my writing. And I’m pleased you agree with me on the issue with grown men and kittens. You only have to say that out loud or looking deep into a mirror just to see how ridiculous it sounds. It’s always great to know I have people agreeing with my evil ego, also known as the grown fucking adult.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. My comment has nothing to do with whether men should or shouldn’t buy kittens (their choice), but it does have to do with what I will call a chronic plea for funds for co-workers in my office. We have about 85 people in the office, and not a week goes by that someone’s asking for $$ for various family members who have passed (this can get into 3rd, 4th cousin, former brother of ex in-law, etc.) So and so had a hangnail so let’s send them flowers. Recently we had an audit and one of our accounting people discovered she actually did have reports for something the auditors wanted — which she should have had anyway! but thought she didn’t — so a collection was taken up for her for flowers as well! This doesn’t even begin to cover all of the people in the office whose children are coerced into school fundraisers, cookie sales, popcorn sales, field trips, etc. One of my co-workers who has a spending addiction has an ongoing candy bar sale for *future* field trips for her kids. Ack. Sorry to go on a rant, but I’m with you on this one. Pitching in to buy someone a replacement for a dead pet is f*cking ludicrous!

    Liked by 1 person

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