I fucking hate cats

I'm sleeping. Hot chicks fill my dreams with magic and flesh. I look one in the eyes, and it says "MEEEEEEEEERRRRRROOOOOOOOOEEEEEEERRRRRR mMmmmm RRRRRRRROOOOOOEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRr"

"Pardon me?" I say politely.

"MOOEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEE MMMrrreeeeeeOOOOOOWWWWWWWHRRRmmmmmmmm."

Opening my eyes, I realize the stupid, stupid loud noise is still going on. At first, I think it's in the basement, which is especially scary, considering the last time I heard it, it was coming from a hot woman, and there shouldn't be any of those in the basement. 

I get up, put my robe on, and look out the kitchen window. Next to my garden---my lovely, lovely garden, our neighbour's cat---a fat, friendly, neutered cat---is staring curiously at one of the neighbourhood strays, who says, with no subtlety whatsoever in response: "MRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEOOOOOOrrrrrrrrmmmmrrreeeeemmmmmmrrroroororoor."

She continues to say this as I rush to the back door. I walk down our back steps into the driveway, hiss at them, pick up a chunk of leftover wood from our new deck, and throw it after the stray, who has already run away. It clunks down impotently somewhere in the rasberries at the end of the driveway. 

I go back to bed. 

6:30 am rolls around, and in the back yard, outside the bedroom window, I hear "RRmmmmmeeeerrreooooorrreeooeoeoeoeOOOROORRRRRRROOOOOOOEERRRRR."

I am enraged. I love sleeping. At night, it's one of my favourite things. And waking up infuriates me. My blood pressure surges. I go to the back door again, rustle frantically through our back closet for something to throw. My hand brushes over a trailer hitch, but that's much too heavy. An old bike kickstand jumps into my mitt, and I squeeze it roughly, throwing open the back door so hard it bangs the wall. On the shed, the neighbour's cat is again looking down on this stupid homeless garbage creature, as it continues its sermon on its impetuous need to have a cat's penis in its body.

My cave man brain emerges, and with the power of grayskull, and with murder on my mind, I throw the kickstand perfectly, hitting my neighbour's shed with a thud so loud that every cat in the world must have jumped a foot. The stray cat flies away at the speed of sound. The neighbour's cat looks at me, slightly offended, and emotionally hurt.

back in bed, my girlfriend rolls over to face me and says "Hi, crazy."

"Didn't you hear that cat?!" I ask, still pretty worked up.

"No. Shut up and go to sleep."

Ten minutes later, the cat conversation begins again. I put my pillow over my face and hope for death. 

I hate cats.

My Couch Potato Science Project

Here's an altered version of a post I put on the Rue Morgue blog recently:

The stain was black and brown and had spread out in a wavy oval. The stench was well past unbearable. It was so vile, in fact, I half expected an evil long-haired ghost woman to rise up from it at any second, seeking supernatural vengeance from beyond the grave, much like your average supernatural Japanese horror flick. And it was on the hide-a-bed.
Last Thursday I arrived home at three in the morning, following our Rue Morgue movie night. After a day at work, a night of making sure the event went smoothly and then driving people across town, I was exhausted. Alana and I also had a house guest (Colin), so I needed to pull out the bed in my couch. That’s when I found it: a large, dark stain on the mattress, which had soaked into multiple sections of the mattress cover where it was folded over. The smell was something akin to when your Halloween pumpkin gets moldy and starts rotting, except imagine you had a dozen pumpkins, and you left them to decompose for a long time… in your room.
Earlier in the week I’d caught faint whiffs of rot but figured the garbage was past due to go out; yet, even after it was binned, the smell would return. That hideous stain, though, was as if something from Beyond was fouling not just the fabric of my couch, but the very fabric of existence.
Then I saw the bag, and remembered back to more than a month ago…
I’d hurt my back playing street hockey and was on a prescription of muscle relaxers, Tylenol-3 and rest. The doc advised icing the strain, as well, so I was lying on the couch, doped to my retinas, with a bag of mixed vegetables beneath me. Somewhere between my drugged-out state and usual bad memory, I’d fallen asleep, let the bag slip between the cushions and had forgotten all about it. More than a month earlier.
In that time a mold ring blossomed in the furniture, with excess rancid liquid dripping onto the floor beneath the furniture. It was a helluva discovery at that time in the morning. Although the thought of just burning the entire building to the ground and disappearing into the night crossed my mind, I resigned myself to the bleary-eyed, nausea-inducing task of stainbusting. I started scrubbing with warm, soapy water, which erased the stain somewhat but reactivated the semi-dormant stink. Windows were opened, and the next day several coats of various cleaners were applied.
The whole ordeal definitely ranks amongst the very dumbest things I’ve done, and I advise strongly against indoor intra-furniture composting projects.

Garfield at Lurge.

http://www.somethingawful.com/d/comedy-goldmine/finish-garfield-drawing.php?page=1

This one's for you, Chris. I know how you like Garfield. And things that aren't funny.

Welcome to the Idiocracy

Miss South Carolina seems like the type that would bring a honey jar to a spelling bee. I wish her a lucrative career in the porn industry.

Mike Judge's latest film, Idiocracy, may just be too close to comfort. Below is the opening to the movie. Contrast and compare.