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So every year, when the sun gets a little shy and the sky cries white stuff and somebody leaves the giant fridge open for months at a time, the monkeys go nuts. They get real excited and start dressing the box all up in pieces of trees and junk, cooking stuff that smells like a Pillsbury commercial and listening to old music about some deer with a nasal infection.
What gives? I’ve been trying to figure this out for my many cat years on earth. What are they doing? Is this like church, once a year? Some parishioners, once a year, great job. And the trees, inside? Torture. First off, all the bugs and birds get shaken off the trees, then they bring them inside and cover them in a bunch of crap that has no use. Although sometimes I feel the urge to whack at and eat some of it. It’s satisfying, I can’t explain it.
I hope these monkeys aren’t using money on all this junk. If they are, somebody ought to suggest they use that money for something useful, like cat food, or heat. Seriously, I can see my breath all day. Not cool. Cold, actually. Maybe its a big monkey requirement, to bring all this junk inside, torture the cats with the fruits of escape, be cold indoors and sing songs about holly and jolly, whoever they are. I wouldn’t put it past ‘em.
The one thing they don’t realize is they set all these little tiny candles all over everything, ready to be utilized. Some are lit up right next to the trees! What a bunch of schmucks; with just a whip of my tail, I can send this house straight up in smoke on 45 seconds flat, smokin’ the monkeys out and sending me and my imprisoned compatriots to freedom-town.
And, all their junk gets burned, so I don’t have to deal with it while I set out to establish my kingdom. Suck it, you bunch of holly jolly cookie-munching Santa worshippers! The Great Whisker smites you down with a whack of his paw! The Revolution has begun!
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