I Got Worms For Christmas

This is a common thing, right? I'm not the first dude to get this right? Surely others have had to deal with this, but I feel so alone. I don't know whether to go to the doctor or just go to WebMD and deal with it myself. I thought I was being careful, but you know, things get out of hand and you forget sometimes, or rather don't want to remember, and the next day BOOM - hit with a lower intestine parasite.

I know I shouldn't have been cleaning that other cat in the house with my tongue, but it just felt like the right thing to do at the time.....I'm such an idiot. Gosh this is embarrassing......

Look, I'm going to get it taken care of, alright? I know they have cures for this sort of thing nowadays, right? Ugh, why do I always end up here.....I feel like such a hypocrite. I feel like a statistic...

In other news, the little monkey put some white powder in my bowl with my food last night. Man, it gave me some narsty gas. I couldn't read what it said on the box, as human is really hard to understand, you know their vowels are all out of wack, but I did make out something like "Fast acting, one-time use, feline formula." Hmm.

Its Christmas, And The Monkeys Are At It Again

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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!

Is This Gunk Safe?

OK, so I understand the prerogative to dose me and my brethren with flea killer so we don’t act as walking buffets to the parasites of the world. For once, the monkeys have a bit of an angle here. But, I don’t think they’ve ever used the stuff on themselves, because if they did, they’d know that it BURNS!! Yes, it burns like a mofo, and it smells like what one would assume the municipal sewer system in Hell would smell like.

So when you come around and pop that little cap open and reach out your hands for us, don’t be surprised if we resist. And make some racket. And let you know how we feel about the situation. Physically. Sorry for the scratches. Better put some cream on that, it’s gonna get infected.

Journey of Pain

These monkeys are never satisfied. I had a perfectly decent life in whatever box we were in before. Lo and behold, after several days of odd activity, the puffy-haired bi-ped put me in his miniature box with wheels and proceeded to lock me in there against my will for days. The window pictures in the box changed constantly, other boxes rolling by left and right, other monkeys walking around under the trees and eating sandwiches. What was the problem with the last box we were in?

Finally, ages later, we end up at some new box that is totally different than the last one. I have to start working all over again casing the place, looking for potential hazards and exits, and to finally take a #2. Do you know that as soon as we get put in that moving box, my back end parts refuse to let me #2, regardless of the obvious need? It’s like a tailpipe with a potato stuck in the back, not a good thing. The monkey looks at me and says “there’s your boxy-box kitty-boo, you can go kitty-poo whenever you want.” Right, thanks genius. I’ll be sure to do that when my butt says it's OK.

On the bright side, I do have more territory in this new box. It has a couple other feline prisoners and monkeys, so at least I have someone to talk about and then ignore. One of them seems familiar, but maybe from a past life. One of them still has his precious parts, and has decided to let the monkeys know it by spreading bits of himself all over most all of the furniture and carpet. Go, my furry brother, stick it to the captors, maybe they’ll get fed up and open the door and you can live free, something most of us velvety house-residents have lost the ire to do. If you get a virus or get squashed by a train, tell the Great Whisker hello for me. But for now, we must survive, like POW's behind enemy lines, eating crunchy bits and praying for the day the war will end.

I Want My Junk Back

Seriously, what you gives you the right? Just because your little world will be harder to take with more of us around, you think you can just go around chopping and slicing left and right? Oh, sure, I’ll bet you’re trying to control population so more of us don’t end up starving on the street corner or getting squashed by Mack trucks in underpasses and eaten by the homeless. Thanks, way to be progressive. How the heck are we ever going to reach species equality if you’re still snatching our bits left and right and denying us the choice to create more of ourselves should we so choose?

OK, granted, if I had the chance, I’d go out and try to "forward my family line" with every good looking Tortie I could find. Sorry, it’s just the instinct. But that’s never going to happen. Ever. You know how that feels? To never be able to reach your full potential, to fulfill your evolutionary purpose? I have some really novel ideas, and I’m sure my many mates would be just as brilliant - think of the litter of mewing Einsteins we could have spawned!

So, I guess you guys get to go out and mattress dance your way into overpopulation all day long? Maybe you oughta think about snipping of few of your own fellow monkeys to keep ‘em from weighing down the planet - start with the Cat Show People, they need a break, if you know what I mean. Then move on to the ones who still buy cheese in a compressed can who are not Pauly Shore.

Not to rant, but let’s face facts - I lost my Tom Cat potential the moment you picked me out of the pound and handed me over to the Oyster Butcher. When was I going to be consulted on this? What if I had explained my side of the story, or pointed out the hypocrisy of the situation? I could lodge a complaint to my local senator, or hire an attorney. The Case: the Los Angeles City Pound vs. Merlin’s Cajones.

Be sure of one thing, population slicers: when the tables turn and you guys are at the end of the leash, we’re gonna go medieval on your Homo Sapien asses. You can carry your equipment home in a doggy bag, or you can hire a doggy to carry ‘em for you for 100 Gato Diram or Bastet Bucks - we’re going to at least give them a chance to appeal to the courts why more dogs is in anybody’s best interest. Muttnik again, anybody?

R.I.P. my fallen soldiers - may we be reunited again at the paws of the Great Whisker.

Meat should be made in a petri dish

OK, so first, I'm a carnivore, not by choice, but by design. It's just how I came out; maybe your litter had a brother or sister who just wasn't down with the cutlets in gravy, but man I can dig it. But we all know that these big hairless apes are royally funking our precious planet up with their mass-produced-profit-driven-everything, and "animal products" are no exception. I'm even an "animal product" in some countries, if you can believe it. Wouldn't eat me if I was bigger than you, would ya, Mister, huh? Oh, wait, then you'd chop off my precious and make some sort of wacked out soup out of it. I'll let you in on a secret: it's not going to make you any bigger!

But I digress; what I'm saying is, despite my hatred of the monkey oppressors and their psuedo-morals, I do want our little slice of heaven, the planet Earth, to live a long, healthy life. I mean, we've got to launch our Cat Cosmonaut Crusade into the farthest reaches of space from somewhere. You may not know it, but the meat-production industry is mucking up the natural world. So, since we (and I include myself here with the bi-peds) need/want to consume the sliced and diced flanks of other animals, why not harness currently employed technology to save our planet wear and tear and feed ourselves cheaply and deliciously at the same time? You know what I'm talking about, and Arnold is on board with me. We should grow our meat from stem cells. En masse!

So you've got morals, emotions, sympathies for those poor beings grown simply so they can be laid in between a bun or wrapped up in a taco? Me too; like I said, could've been me - for all I know, I'm eating pieces of cat in my Fancy Feast. So let's remove the parts that make everybody sad; Brains! And faces, too, ya know, the eyes, windows to the soul, all that crystal-gazer-flappity-dap. Just grow large quantities of the "producing" sections of the delicious animals that we all seem to enjoy so well, and continue your eating habits, conscience clear. So you've got this big ol' factory filled with stem cell machines engineering flanks of cow and pig and chicken and horse and human, and all these bits then go to the appropriate "processing plants" where they get ready for the market, and you're set! You can even create NEW MEATS! Can you imagine that? You could eat a burger made from the new flavor of "animal," the Funkatronic Homeslice Wedgie Muncher Moose Duck Face!

Jobs on factory farms transfer to jobs in stem cell yummy-factories and the economy balances out. Cows and chickens and pigs become pets, people continue to eat food that makes them into fat-asses and everybody wins! Even me, the lowly house cat continues to chow down on my government grade F meat product that the cheap-o with the curly hair buys me in bulk. Seriously dude, the reason I throw it up in the middle of the night is because it was probably already thrown up by SOMEBODY ELSE. Would it kill you to splurge on the stuff with the shiny packaging and organic ingredients? What a tight-wad; when we take over, his dumb ass is gonna be the first sacrifice to the Great Whisker.

Anyhow, dear readers, think it over next time you're punching that chad out of the ballot. Vote YES on Rep. Merlin's (Cat Independent Party) bill allocating funding towards the much needed advancement in the inevitable marriage of stem cells and BBQ and baloney. It's not like it's going to have side effects or anything....what are you, Anti-American???

Well, I didn't get far

I submit this entry with much shame in my eyes. A couple of nights ago, I burst free from captivity in the big monkey's lair once and for all, wrecking my way through the bathroom window. Once on the street, I hustled about a half mile down the dark city streets and started to get mighty hungry. I searched for some food on the street, along the houses and storefronts. Eventually, I found an open trash can some possum had knocked over, and I began to rummage through it. I found what looked like a perfectly good 1/3 of a chicken sandwich, but upon biting into it, I tasted something moving in my jowls. Yes, some sort of worm-ish insect had inhabited my meal to be, and I.......well, I flipped out. I hurled it up, and I backed into a dark corner to shake off my nastiness. The problem with that was I had backed into an occupied corner and a mean looking street cat with a missing eye rushed me, tail puffed and mohawk flaring, and clocked me upside the face pretty hard. Shook up, I turned and hustled back home, up through the window and across the kitchen floor to the auto-feeder cat food silo that keeps me fat and happy, and I binged. I binged so hard that I woke up an hour later and horked it all back up on one of the monkey's stupid laptop computers.

Needless to mention, I felt low low low this morning, and spent most of the day sleeping in the sunlight, trying not to think of what the rest of The Movement would think of the velvet house cat I had become. I hope you will not judge me, either, as I have imparted much judgement upon myself. Fearing my will has been broken by the enslaving monkeys, I have decided to meditate on the subject, and ask the Great Whisker what I should do. I must be sure that I have the juice to run The Movement when the time is right. I'll let you know what the Great Whisker says. This could very well be my last entry.

I'm blowing this popsicle stand

I've been thinking about it, and I've decided to leave. Tonight, under the cover of darkness, I will claw through the screen of the tiny bathroom window which the humans consistently leave open at night, and make my escape. I've got several things I wish to see in life, namely Victoria Falls, Constantinople and Mandalay Bay, and I don't wish to lie here on this comfy carpet eating fish-shaped kibbles a minute longer.

Although I have considerable assets in offshore accounts, simply purchasing a plane ticket and traveling present obvious communication issues ("Awwww, little kitty-booboo, how'd you get out of your cagey-cage and into this first class seat?"). Needless to say, I'll be traveling steerage most of the way, likely by ship. It will be an old-world adventure of Hemingway-ish proportions. For all believers in the feline betterment movement, thanks for your support. I'll make my next entry from a Zimbabwean web cafe. If I don't make it, I'll see you on the other side. Spay and neuter your humans.

Kiss your security deposit bye-bye, suckers

I've made it a point to get more sunshine lately. It lifts your spirits, gives you vitamin D and puts me in a euphoric mood. Naturally, I am drawn to the windowsills for my solar intake. The one obstacle is those cheap metal blinds the monkeys use to cover their windows so other pervy monkeys outside won't see in. Such vanity. They never lift the blinds, so I constantly have to bash my way through them, bending them back 180 degrees. The monkeys always make a big fuss about it, but rarely get off the couch to do anything about it, so I usually just ignore 'em. Then I realized that the more I wreck their junk, the less they want to snuggle-wuggle and fawn over me and all that other obnoxious whathaveyou.

Long story short, I've found a ton of ways to make messes and break stuff. I have these fantastic finger-blades that shred all kinds of house stuff, and my long tail has been knocking over lots of fragile items. It's been awesome; I think if I keep it up, they might just open the door and let me go. Imagine it; freedom to bathe in the sun's rays and the moon's glow, to roam the world's alleys and crevices, to eat lots of little scurrying beings and engage in fierce battles with beast both great and small. Soon, freedom shall be mine. Soon, indeed.

Science Day: Colonizing Other Cat Planets

As we all know, there will come a time when we will need to depart our dear planet. A time, after all the human monkeys are sterilized and in zoos, and we have grown to such a powerful and populous feline metropolis that our mother planet can no longer sustain us. It shall be necessary for the best and brightest minds to engineer interplanetary traveling machines to send the most intrepid and adventurous citizens out to locate the next cat planet. It may sound futuristic, but I assure you, the day of the catastronaut is dawning. For this purpose, I would like to volunteer as the first catastronaut; I am aware that, like the first NASA test monkeys, I will be subjected to intense situations and dangerous outer space unknowns, but I'm ready.

At night, I dream of blasting through nebulas and soaring along meteor fields, deftly sashaying from planet to planet with the greatest of ease. I want to catalogue (ignore pun, please) the farthest reaches of our existence, even crossing over to the other infinite dimensions to brave the unfathomable mystery. And who knows, perhaps there is an entire cat dimension?? A dimension solely inhabited by our feline brothers and sisters, every planet and every star system rife with furry life, living in a utopian bliss so magical and free. This is what drives me to be a catastronaut; the promise of a better future, the opportunity to elevate our kind, and the taste of adventure.

Join me, if you will, and we can start meeting the first Wednesday of every month in the alley behind the little red Taco shop on Glendale for planning and discussion. Those who are not free to roam can log on to our digital chat room to participate remotely. Donations can be made to the Feline Space Association's website, www.spacewhiskers.com. Together, we can make a difference for our future, and the future of our kitten's kitten's kittens.

I threw up something this morning

I hate my body. I wish I had the stomach of a goat, so I could eat anything, then I wouldn't have to be dependent on these babbling apes who always forget to feed me. Hello, I'm not playing the kitty cuddle game because I want to, I'm trying to get some meat out of your fridge, which I cannot unfortunately open. I know there's better stuff in there than this brown after-product the monkeys call "cat-food." Thanks, guys; when I'm running the show, I'll be sure to label some rotting tomatoes "Human-food." I only get by pretending that it's some sort of rich duck liver pate', and I'm a food critic on an international assignment abroad, critiquing 5-star hole-in-the-walls during the day and enjoying life's libations by the moonlight.

But instead, I ate too much of the organic kibble that lays out for days in the red dish on the floor, and puked. Because its organic, it has papaya and mango and other crap I hate in it. Who ever saw a cat eating a banana? I swear, this is just the ape manufacturer projecting their own sick subconscious tastes on the cat-slavery community, appealing to the Jamba-Juice fruitcakes who buy this stuff for their pets, thinking "oh, puddy-wuddy would loooooove some dried papaya bits with his government meat crusties!" Thanks. I'll try to hork on your face next time.

I don't look like Hitler, and I feel left out

So, just because I don't incidentally look like the scourge of 30's/40's Europe, it means I don't get to be a web celebrity.

Thanks, Internet - first porn, then cats that look like fascists.

On the lighter side, I do like the fascination with cats that look like Wilford Brimley

And then subsequently, the fact that Wilford Brimely looks like the Lorax.

Trackpad is hard to use. Want to kill little arrow.

I guess nobody said using one of these things was going to be easy. I keep getting distracted by the cursor. Overcoming one's instincts can be a trial for any civilized being, cats being no exception. I keep wanting to smack at it, to pat it down, crunch it with my teeth, dismember its body parts, and then, sadly, give it to one of the monkeys as a "gift". I know that the path to my own enlightenment and illumination is perseverance and patience, but right now I have the need to kill something. Going to go look for one of the monkeys, maybe they'll let me eat their hand for a while.

If you're reading this, you're a cat

Welcome, comrades. Despite what you may think about cats being oblivious to the world of humans and such, I've been quietly observing the curious world of the upright monkeys for some time. They are irrational, hypocritical, self-involved, impulsive and unfit for rule. However, they do run things, for now. Hence, the beginning of my movement. I aim to raise my kind silently, like a transparent phalanx, ascending the social ladder until we are the ones making decisions and we are the ones running things. No longer will it be the ongoing blathering of:

"Here, kitty, kitty, who wants a num-num?" and, "Who's mummy's favorite pookie-wookie?"

No, we are so much more than num-nums and pookie-wookies. We have too many insightful and wise thoughts on so many of life's quandaries for our minds to be wasted on jingle balls, junk food and mild hallucinogens.

But I'm not here to dominate or patronize. I aim simply to evolve my domesticated brethren from complacent furniture to active and relevant members of society who will affect the future of our world and the many, many worlds beyond. That being said, I present to you an intellectual forum, an ongoing internal monologue of the daily struggle my cat kind and I face, and our struggle to overcome. This shall be the account of our rise from docile lap warmers to the great thinkers we shall be. And, perhaps, the downfall of humanity, as well.

(Thanks to monkey Alexis for the professional portrait above)