So I hear cats are killing two billion of you per year. Listen up: you can FUCKING FLY, for Christ’s sake. If cats were taking out penguins that’s one thing, but you can FUCKING FLY. You sit on a telephone wire all day. If you can’t keep an eye out in your five minutes on the ground eating some old woman’s stale Wonder Bread and FLY AWAY when you see a cat, I have no sympathy. Good riddance, you winged jerkoffs.
I’m thinking about texting her. Every time I text her, I think about it. This means I have already lost. The part of you that thinks is not the part that gets you laid. The part of you that games, and strategizes. You had already lost it two steps back, if you have to communicate in a way you don’t really feel. But what do I really feel. I like you. But you better fuck me. Continue reading
CAT FANCY: THE CAT THAT CHANGED DEBBIE GIBSON’S LIFE
From CAT FANCY, August 2010. Print Edition found in the waiting room of Angelus Pet Hospital of Glendale, CA., as your correspondent waited to get his male Domestic Medium Hair “Bud” his annual vaccinations.
Summary:
“Deborah” Gibson, which she insists on being called, and is thusly referred to in the actual article even though the cover says “Debbie,”* found a newborn kitten outside of a Miami concert hall. The beast was ill and badly injured. Years later “Gleason” and “Deborah” are inseparable, thanks in part to the mothering done early on by Gibson’s cocker spaniel.
Now Gleason enjoys laying on the piano as Gibson plays whatever musical ideas she is pursuing in a misguided attempt to reattain cultural relevance. Aside from his tendency to lay directly in front of her sheet music, this habit is a pleasure to both Gibson and her furry friend.
Analysis: Continue reading
The people with their dogs. What if I had a dog. I like to think I would be out walking it all the time; it would have gotten me out more, and perhaps I would have net a nice young woman out with her dog. You know, out in the park, the dogs are frolicking, you get to talking… and then, you know, she comes over to your apartment, the dog recognizes her; she fucks you. They say this kind of shit happens.
But really, my cat is the exact right amount of pet for my lifestyle. He has his own life. It would be immeasurably cruel to have a dog, go to work for eleven hours per day; sometimes do drinks after, you come home and the dog has been trapped in 400 square feet of poorly ventilated carpeted space with only the smells of garbage under the kitchen sink to amuse him. The dog’s whole life is waiting for the moment you get home. You get home and it’s just looking at you all expectantly, like, please focus one hundred per cent of your attention on me. Please spend every waking second not otherwise occupied, throwing a tennis ball again and again. Continue reading
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