9.12.11

WHY I HATE CATS...

OK, the Internet, I've been patient with you long enough.

I thought you'd have grown up by now, I thought I'd let you get it out of your system but you're showing no signs of stopping anytime soon. I don't get why you're so obsessed, but the time has come.

As Barbara Streisand & Donna Summer will tell you - Enough is enough.
(Is Enough...)

You've had this coming for a long time, the Internet, so I'm just going to give it to you straight...

GIVE IT A FUCKING REST WITH ALL THE FUCKING PICTURES OF FUCKING CATS!!

Fuck's sake!

Cats in hats, cats on mats, cats on their backs, fat cats in macs, cats who are stretching, cats that are retching, cats in sunglasses, cats with fat arses, cats playing golf, cats like Adolf, cats who are going fucking crazy, cats who look like Martin Scorsese..


I will not watch them any more.
Don't want to see a single paw.
I've seen them doing this and that..  

I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF FUCKING CATS!!

Why is everyone on the planet taking pictures of these feline freaks and flooding cyberspace with their stupid kitteny faces? Why are there so many fucking pictures of cats?

Sweet Jebus!
What's the big deal?

Is Google being run by the ancient Egyptians??


Were the ancient tomb walls just King Tutankhamen's Facebook page?
Cleopatra's collection of YouTube clips?
Nefertiti's LOLCatz?

I don't get it. I just don't get it.

But then again, I hate cats.

They make my fucking flesh crawl.

Evil, predatory little shits that come and go as they please leaving a trail of disemboweled birds and mice. Thinking they own the place because they've convinced their soft-headed owners to vandalise their own homes by putting a special fucking flap in the door. Shitting and pissing in a tray in the kitchen because, for once, they can't be arsed to go outside.

And then they go outside.

To another house, where they have a different name and a separate tray and more fucking food, the lazy, parasitical, duplicitous shits.

Whenever I tell anyone how I really don't like cats they say to me "Ah, but you'll like my cat. I've had him since he was a kitten.."

No.
No I won't.
I'll fucking hate your cat.

Your cat will make a fucking beeline for me and sit on my lap, while you smile at my terrified face. While I'm desperately blinking Morse code for GET YOUR FUCKING CAT OFF ME your bastard cat will be stretching and purring like the bullying little bastard he is, and as soon as you're looking the other way he will dig his fucking claws through my jeans and into my leg to show me that he is fucking boss.

"You've already said you hate me." he'll purr to me, and me alone, "If you react in anyway then I'll just get more love from these mooning simpletons and you'll be the bad guy. Sit there and take it. I am a cat. I fucking own these people... and now I own you."

Then the furry little bastard will cough some wet hair onto my lap, to go with all the loose dry hair on the back of my jumper from your fucking piss-stained sofa, and softly pad away, flicking it's tail up and displaying his arse in my direction.



Cats are fucking scum.

 "But, Mister Williams, why do you hate the ickle wickle kitty wittys so?" you ask me, in that simpering child-voice that cat-owners always use, the voice that I see as a precursor to the inevitable mental breakdown that owning a cat will bring.

Well, I shall tell you...

IN THE INTERESTS OF FULL DISCLOSURE AND TRANSPARENCY I MUST TELL YOU THAT MANY OF THE EVENTS IN THE FOLLOWING TALE MAY OR MAY NOT BE TRUE. 

IN MY DEFENCE I WAS A LITTLE BOY, IT WAS A LONG TIME AGO, I WAS TERRIFIED, AND LATER TRAUMATISED, BY THESE EVENTS... THE MIND PLAYS TRICKS. MEMORY FADES. DETAILS BECOME HAZY.

PLUS, I AM A HABITUAL LIAR.

PLEASE CONTINUE. >>

Many years ago I was playing Cowboys at my Grandma and Grandad's house. I was decked out in my little cowboy outfit, running around, firing my cap guns, yelling "Yeehaaah!" and having a ton of fun with my brothers and cousins.

I will have been about six.

At some point I was rushing up and down the stairs with my little cap guns going off when behind the net curtain at the top of the landing a furry black blur hissed and clawed onto my face.

I screamed, it hissed and dug deeper. I ran around screaming, it hissed, staring it's Satanic yellow stare into my baby blues. No matter what I did this frenzied evil was stuck to my face.

The evil had a name.

It was Sammy.


Sammy had probably been sleeping in the sunshine and had been disturbed by a tiny, noisy cowboy, and I accept this now. But his fucking reaction was a bit OTT. The bastard thing was clamped to my face like an Alien on John Hurt or a predatory female TV host on a pubescent boyband member.

Sammy continued to scratch and hiss into my terrified face as I was somehow ushered into the garden where my loving grandfather decided that the best way of removing a ferocious feline from the face of your tiny grandson is to first set the hosepipe on both of them.

An interesting approach.
Not entirely successful.

Now I had a wet, screaming cat on my face, howling it's demonic curses, flashing it's tiny teeth, staring it's starey stare.



Grandfather now decided it was time for more direct action and so he swung a broom at the cat attached to my face.

Now before you write to the RSPCA I want you to know that both my Grandfather & Sammy have since passed on. And not because of what happened in this tale.... besides, attitudes to cats were very different in the 1970's. They had nine lives after all.

Also none of this probably happened.

Swinging the broom around like a Scotsman with a hammer, my doorframe-filling, hard-handed giant of a Grandad initially failed to dislodge my arch-nemesis and Sammy stayed on for at least two more hits, managing to drag his claws around my face each time, making me look like a shellshocked and tearful barber's pole.

Finally he loosened his evil grip and fucked off into the bushes - where he probably killed a vole or had a shit on the neighbour's lawn or summat.

I trudged inside the house to stand on some newspaper and have TCP painfully dabbed all over my torn-up little cowboy face.

I took off my papier-mache stetson.
I put my guns away.
Handed in my tin badge.

I never went near Sammy again.




As I say, very little of this probably happened. It's just what I chose to remember, and have then since embellished.

But if anyone asks why I don't like cats, this is what I tell them.

So now, the Internet, PLEASE stop it with the fucking cat pictures.

Some wounds take a long time to heal - and imaginary ones run deepest.
Probably.


Thank you.



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2 comments:

anieb said...

This is one of the best posts that I’ve ever seen; you may include some more ideas in the same theme about Cat Trays. I’m still waiting for some interesting thoughts from your side in your next post.

Mister W said...

Thank you very much. I'm glad my imagined pain brought you some joy. x