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.)

My Step-Sister...

This is my step-sister Cleo. She's just not that bright. I'm not trying to be cruel, she just isn't. To be polite and put it subtly, she's the dullest knife in a drawer full of spoons. (But I'm neither subtle nor polite, so let's just call her a fucking idiot.)

Other names we have for Cleo:

Dingleberry ('cause she can't reach her butt to clean it on account of her rotund gut)

Douche bag (only I call her this)

Cleo-Face (my female room-mate calls her this, I think it's idiotic)

Hey Stupid! (for obvious reasons)

It can occasionally be entertaining to have her around, occasionally. For instance, she's fun to chase. I run at her, she runs away and because of her gut, I easily catch up. If we play fight, I win. She loves to roll the treat ball around and I simply wait for the treats to fall out and swoop them up before she even realizes they've fallen out. Twit! (And if you don't know what a treat ball is, you're probably just as fucking daft as she is and I'm not going to stoop to your level to explain.)

Things about her I detest:

1. She asks for permission, for everything. eg. I jump onto my room-mates bed whenever I damn well please. After all, this is MY house... ...her, she sits on the floor next to bed 'meowing' like some pet until they let her up. How fucking demeaning.
2. She smells like shit. I'm not saying this to be mean, but if you're nickname is 'Dingleberry' because you have little chunks of dried poop hanging off your ass-fur, you're bound to emit a shit smell. Am I right?
3. That daft look on her face. If I hadn't been horribly mutilated and declawed at such a young age, I'd scratch it clean off her marbled little face.
4. That daft look on her face. (See above for details...)
5. Her complete and utter uselessness... I spend countless waking hours plotting, scheming and destroying and all this little ball of shit and fur does is lay there looking confused or perplexed. What about, I don't know, because she's obviously not thinking about anything.

I could go on, but I hear a car in the driveway and since both my room-mates are home, it means we've got a visitor for me to torment. ...and just when I thought this entire day was going to be a write-off.

Mission #1: Conquer Elusive Red Thing

I asked my roommate Tony to get a picture of me stalking the pest with his Blackberry... ...which is why it's so grainy...

Mission Objective:

Capture sneaky, untrustworthy little red thing...

Background:

I've got to confess, I have no idea what it is. I googled it. Wikipedia'd it. (Oddly enough, my spell check recognized 'googled' but not wikipediad. I sense an anti-trust exhibit for Mr. Obama.)

I even asked a few of my knowledgeable friends; ok, I asked my step-sister 'Dingleberry', whom you'll meet another time, and she didn't know what it was either.

Well whatever this red dot is (and I suspect my roommates know), it's irritating as all hell. I can't explain why, but I loath it. I hate it. I detest it. Yet, I'm also compellingly drawn to it.

I know it's coming because it lives in the top drawer next to the hot glass surface and I can tell when it's coming out because it makes the unmistakable jangling sound. (Fucking hate that hot glass surface.)

My roommates, the twits they are, stand around with that morose grin they sport ever so often as I chase this parasite, this pest, around. Think they'd help? Of course not.

But it may just be that they know better than I do that this thing is damn near impossible to catch. I've had it in my grasp numerous times, but there must be some sort of trick to it because even when I get my paws on it, manages to slip out instantly. It's fucking infuriating.

If any of my minions (readers if you prefer) have any suggestions as to how I can capture this elusive little fucker, please leave a comment. If you're even remotely intelligent, I may even bother to read it. (Probably not though but since you're all after your 10 seconds of fame, why not shoot for the stars and leave a comment anyway.)

Until tomorrow then, I've got some hunting to do.

Introducing "Mr. Bad-Ass"!

Cute ain't I?

That's the initial reaction I get from people every time they see my baby photos - particularly the one above. (Some people even have it hanging on their walls.)

What can I say, I was just born adorable - but it was all part of a larger plan. I'm not just cute and cuddly for the sake of being so. No, no, no. There is a method to it.

Essentially my story is as follows:

"I'm cute, I'm intelligent, I'm devious and ultimately I'm going to eat your stuff."

That is essentially a concise summation of what I'm all about.

I mean, people try to hide their stuff from me - they put it in cupboards, closets, their purses/knapsacks. But it's pointless. I mean, try as you might to prevent it, I'm going to eat your stuff. A re-enactment of what I'm all about would go something like this:

----- Scenario -----

Me: "Hey ummm, visitor person. Is that your stuff?"

You: "OMG! You're so damn cute. Yeah, that's my stuff, why do you ask?"

Me: "I'm gonna eat it."

You: "Oh no, silly kitten... ...I'm going to put my stuff away, like on the back of this chair or in my purse..."

Me: (Sarcastically) "Yeah, that'll work."

...at this point you'll probably engage the home-owners about why I behave the way I do and express to them that you're slightly intimidated by me, because that is generally the effect I have on people. In the meantime, I'll hop up onto a table, or unzip your purse/knapsack and begin devouring something I feel you might find valuable. Then you catch on...

You: "Hey cat, what are you doing over there?" (You're going to shout this.)

Me: "I'm eatin' your stuff."

You: "WTF?"

Me: "I told you I was going to eat your stuff. When I say I'm going to eat your stuff, it literally means I'm going to eat your shit. I mean, you have belongings, I eat your belongings. Law of nature. Piss off, I'm not finished."

----- End Scenario -----

And that's how it works. I really get a good laugh out of these occasions. You probably won't. My room-mates (Tiff and Tony), they don't enjoy it and end up having to buy replacement shit for the people whose shit I ate. Suckers.

I'm going to go lay down and nap now - maybe lick my ass for a bit first...

More tomorrow...