Wednesday, August 4, 2010

The bigger they are the harder they get wasted

I have to say that notwithstanding the fact that nearly a thousand cats are following me on Twitter, I am not a fan of cats.  Unless they are accompanied by a cream cheese sauce. In my den, there are two real-life cats who spend their entire existence on the bipeds' bed upstairs for fear of Dumbass. Dumbass, true to her name, thinks she can chase said cats under said bed and not emerge with - count 'em - three claws embedded in the top of her nose. Meanwhile, I'm trying to sleep. Impossible with all the snarling, screaming, growling and hissing going on. And that's just America's Next Top Model on the TV.

One thing about cats that never ceases to tickle my big hairy belly is how easily they get wasted on weed. The biped bitch grows the weed in her herb garden, presumably to kill off neighborhood cats via cardiac arrest when they jump the fence while Dumbass is lying on the patio. Last week one of them tried to make it back over the fence in a hellava hurry, missed a step, fell in the fish pond, then leaped straight up in the air and over. BMFAO!

Back to the weed. Every once in a while the biped bitch cuts down a plant and brings it in to the den for "our" cats. This is amusing, in that... drives Dumbass whacko not to be allowed upstairs where a seemingly wild herd of college girls are running back and forth in pursuit of Taylor Lautner. Once the racing around stops one can observe the stupid little fuckers just rolling around on the stuff 'til they look like Dominoes garlic twists.

But as I say in the title...