Purple Is Not The New Black!

A lot of people come over to my place to visit my roommates; a lot of those people are women. A lot of them wear these hideous purple tops. They come in all manner of styles and fabrics; loose and flowing satin/silk, tight and knitted wool or cotton. it's all irrelevant really - it just looks like shit.

And when they defend themselves and say that "Purple is the NEW black" well that nonsense just makes me want to scratch their eyes out and saute them in a pan with some olive oil and chives. (Or catnip.)

See for yourselves:

Is THAT appealling? Is THAT attractive? NO, no and Fuck No! Furthermore, it most certainly is NOT black.

Ladies, when guys see you walking down the street wearing purple they don't think "Damn, that girl is sexy!"

Do you know what they're actually thinking? They're really thinking "Damn, for some reason I'm craving a burger and fries combo!"

The reason they're thinking this is quite simple - because when you wear purple, ladies you don't look sexy, you don't even look nice - you just look like fucking Grimace.

See?

Mission #2: Devour Scrumptious White Thing

Mission Objective:

It's white, it's delicious, it's crinkly, it's a plastic bag... I want to eat it so damn bad.

Background:

There are very few things that I enjoy as much as grocery day in this place. My minions, on a mission as per my instructions obviously, head to the ape store (or A&P, I can't tell the difference) and bring back assorted sundries and treats. None of which interest me - it's the containers they come in that get me all riled up. The crinkle, shuffle, crackle of the translucent goodness of a plastic grocery bag. Mmmmmm, nothing else is as flavourless or void of nutritional value. Nothing.

I don't know what it is about the pure, driven, extruded poly-plastic heaven that is a plastic bag that gets me so fired up. I just know it's good.

You know what's good, plastic bags, that's what's good.

I'm salivating as I type this. My roommates, the bitches they are, try to keep me away from these little nanometer thin wafers of godly delight - but I get past their defenses occasionally and I feast. Boy, do I ever feast.

I'm ready for seconds, I'm going to go and check the front hall to see if either of those assholes left a stray bag lying around.

Oh man them bags be good.

Nemesis #1: Jaybler

Name: Jaybler (aka VaJayJay aka The Jayblinator aka JayJay the Holiday Bear; Seriously, who comes up with this shit?)

Profile: He spends a lot of time here in my home - too much for my liking in fact. He plays 'the Xbox' and does a lot of strange things like arguing moot points with my roomates, saying 'indeed' as a response to serious questions and statements, and imitating that guy that my roommate Tony likes to watch on Saturdays and Sundays. (pictured below)

This is NOT the Jaybler, so he should stop pretending that it is....

Ultimately, the Jaybler is my nemesis because he's irritating; he waltzes into MY home, insults me, accuses me of plotting to maim/hurt him, which I am, but he has no evidence of that and should shut up about it until he does....

He burps, he farts, he makes faces and odd noises when he does these things - he steals my cat toys (loser) and is a general inconvenience to my life. I will be rid of him soon, oh yes, I will...

My Plan: My concerted attacks; the growls, the hissing, the swatting at his heels and even that one time I cornered him in the upstairs bathroom and he had to call my roommate Tony to convince me to let him out... ...they all seem to have worked. The fucker moved to Barrie a few weeks ago and now I only have to tolerate him on weekends.

I've managed to steal a piece of paper with his address on it and am going to rent a cab in the middle of the night, steal away to Barrie and smother him while he sleeps; or just shit on his carpet, I haven't decided yet. (I'm a cat, being vengeful is what we do.)

***Note: I've just returned from a 'special place' and will post a blog about the adventure that saw me away from my audience for such a lengthy spell. Just waiting for the photos to get developed.***

Man, I'm just itchin' for a fix...

As you can tell by the a quick glance at today's picture... ...I haven't slept in days. I'm either high as a kite on these pills they're feeding me, or I'm trying to figure out a way to snatch another dose while no one's looking.

Is it normal for a cat as phenomenal and fantastic as me to develop an addiciton? I imagine so. I am after all keeping with a great tradition of VIPs or celebs that were all hopped up on 'the good stuff'.

• Reid Richards
• Jimi Hendrix
• River Pheonix
• Hunter S. Thompson
• Janis Joplin
• The Beatles (except for Ringo, that guy's a fucking clown)
• Heath Ledger
• That weirdo from INXS that got high and strangled himself while beating off
• George W. Bush
• Drew Barrymore (post E.T. to pre-recovery)
• Johnny Depp
• Robert Downey Jr. (who I just realized is NOT Judd Nelson from the Breakfast Club)

I'm going to be sick... ...mroe tomorrow...knb /,m

I am NOT an Addict!

It has apparently become somewhat fashionable to refer to me as an addict. Mostly in the circle of friends that my room-mates tend to keep and believe me, the prison yard at Kingston Penitentiary yields a higher intelligence quotient than the veritable colostomy bag of personalities that my room-mates count amongst their social circle.

Regardless, calling me a 'crack-addict' or a 'crack-whore-cat' or an 'astronaut' (which I assume is just another way of saying I'm all fucked up and "out-there"...) well, that shit just ain't funny.

I am not an addict, I do not enjoy being on drugs and I do not take drugs willingly.

My room-mates make me do it. I'm practically their captive.

What's more, I have a condition OK. I'm anxious, nervous and angry and while I think pissing along the wall in the front hall is perfectly normal, my roomies disagree. (How else are intruders supposed to know they've crossed a line into my territory?)

I am sooooo not a drug addict though; so much so that there is an entire contrived process involved in giving me my dose. Photo evidence is provided below:

1. Tools of the trade: bottle of pills, syringe, meaty hands to hold me down

2. The Torment: being held against my will, I know what's coming next

3. Delivery: I am forced to consume the pill and it is washed down my throat by a blast of water from a syringe

4. No Credit: treating me like a moron, they feed me treats hoping I'll forget the whole ordeal happened;

I never will. Never.

If I was a drug addict, would such an arduous process be required to force me to take my daily dose? Would it? No! So that means I'm not an addict.

In sum, the only drug addled crack-head/crack-whore/astronaut around here has got to be "yo' momma!"...

(In all honesty, I don't even know why that "yo' momma!" thing is supposed to be funny, it's a skit on a CD I listen to and it just seemed fitting.)