Friday, November 2, 2012

Cat. I hate you.

Anybody who knows me, knows I have an fat cat. Appropriately named Fatty.

He actually is a former fat cat.

He is a secondhand cat and when I got him this obese bastard weighed 36 pounds. That's right, he was bigger than most 3 year old humans. He now weighs 13 pounds. (The Cat-kins Diet worked for him!)

Right off the bat this fucker was a nightmare.

First week I had him, he shit yellow diarrhea all over my condo. The second week I had him I thought he escaped the condo and had fled to the streets of Chicago. I came home late one night and thought I saw a frightened, morbidly obese pile of orange hair meowing underneath a Hummer with a Gay Pride Mickey Mouse bumper sticker.

When I pulled him out, he scratched the shit out of my face, my ears and my back.

He then ran off. This left me in the streets screaming, "Fine, you fat fuck, fuck you, have fun living in the streets! I hope a rat eats your eyes!"

A half hour later, as I was peroxiding my wounds, a giant fluffy orange mess emerged from under my bed. Seems there was another fat fucking orange cat in the neighborhood I had picked up that destroyed my northern torso. Or this fat fuck has a time machine or invisibility or some kind of ability to walk through walls.

Then, the second month I had him, his bladder got blocked from eating too many carbs. So they roto-rootered his pee hole out and charged me $1100.

Since then he has been on special food, which most days, costs more than human food costs.

He has shit on furniture. Peed on the carpet. Puked on everything. Destroyed the carpet on my stairs, which I won't replace until he dies—and they are threadbare at this point.

One time I watched him have what I like to call "Instant Oil Barron Diarrhea". For example, in "There Will Be Blood", there's a moment when oil erupts from the ground and there's a look in Daniel Day-Lewis' eyes that says, "I'm rich bitch!" Replace the ground with my cat's asshole and the look in my eye with one of impeding vomit and there you have "Instant Oil Barron Diarrhea".

His newest thing is a cross between insomnia mixed with dementia. I have the insomnia, he has the dementia. Most nights I have to get up, stumble to the basement and reassure him he is not lost which usually quails the screaming, bloody, cat raping murder tones he's fond of making, usually at a blank wall.

This will be the last cat.

He is too daffy, too needy and way too much of an asshole for me to want another.

Sure he has his sweet moments like when he jumps on my chest and claws my nipples. Or when he goes apeshit and scratches the dog for no reason. Or when he poops outside the box. But this is it. No mas gatos.

Fuck. I need sleep. Hopefully tonight will be caterwauling, cat rape scream free.

Fuck you Fatty.

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