Sully: you got it, buddy. Enjoy!
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I do not like cats. Never have, never will; they seem to serve no purpose other than to remind me that I never went to a good school. But it wasn’t until last night that I realized that the feeling was mutual, and the stakes have been raised to the point that apparently there was a meeting, and the cats now want me dead. I am not kidding.
For the month of July, I am cat-sitting for my friend Hellen while she’s in France (bonjour Hellen!) There are two cats: a black one and a gray one. Sad to say, although I’ve known these cats for years I have never really learned their names, no matter how many times Hellen tells me. I know one of them is called Jackson. The black one is old and sick and has lost a lot of weight recently – I’m ashamed to say that when I walked in and saw how skinny he had gotten I actually thought “ooooohh…I need to get on his program!”
And actually there’s only one “l” in Helen, but I am using this opportunity to bitch about why people would assume there are two “g”s at the end of “Greg.” If I had a nickel for every time some motherfucker wanted to spell my name “Gregg” I could almost buy a fucking gallon of gas by now. Why would anyone assume the default spelling to be with two G’s – wouldn’t the baseline standard for the name be based on the most universal of all Greg’s, ie Greg Brady? If you weren’t sure, wouldn’t you assume it was spelled like Greg Brady? But no, I say my name and some dipshit will immediately scribble out GREGG, to which when I correct them they look at me and say “Really?” The following conversation has actually happened on more than one occasion:
“Name please.”
“Greg.”
“Spell that.”
“G R E G”
“2 Gs at the end?”
“Did I say 2 Gs?”
“Really? Only one G? You sure?”
“ (blank stare…prolly touching my balls) “
“Hmm.”
Why even ask me how to spell it in the first place if you’re so sure of 2 Gs you’re willing to argue with me? You’re gonna argue with ME about how MY name is spelled??!! Hey, when a lady in my boudoir tells me she came, I fucking believe her; no more questions asked. I’d like to do this one day:
“Name please.”
“Greg.”
“Spell that.”
“I have no fucking idea.”
Grrrrrrrrrrr!!
Anyways, I've always had a certain unspoken arrangement with the cats: I keep their food dish filled, and they try to explain to me who’s buying all these Nickelback albums. A nice arrangement, I had thought at one time. But any ideas of friendship or camaraderie ended last night when I was sitting at the table in the kitchen, probably sketching out some new ideas about the Tunguska event and how a man-made recreation of it could play a part in reversing global warming, and I heard a loud noise to my back right. I look across my shoulder and there it was - a large, bulky 4’ x 3’ mirror teetering on top of a sideboard, about to topple over. And guess whose splendid, bordering-on-the-absurdly pleasing body is directly in it’s path? Greeeeeeeeeeeat. With a sudden lurch it fell forward; I barely turned my head back in time to avoid getting clocked in the noggin and I could feel the wind as it juuuuuuuuuuuust missed scraping the back of my naked back (sorry Helen!) I braced myself for the shower of glass that was sure to come; in these nanoseconds I can honestly say I was not looking forward to having to hire a frivolous, frothy Mexican lad to pick shards of glass out of my back. For my birthday or after a night of carousing, fine, but not due to a real emergency. The mirror hit the floor, and I actually shook a little when the thunderous clap exploded behind me. I allowed a few seconds to pass, and then I turned around and looked down at the floor…water was everywhere, as the mirror had broken the cats’ water dish. “Great,” I thought to myself, “the ONE time I actually fill it, and this shit happens.” Several pieces of the wooden frame were splayed about, broken off by the collision with the floor. I was actually a little more shaken up than I’d like to admit, and then I noticed with wonder that the mirror had not broken at all. What the fuck, I thought, looking at it. The thing fell from a height of almost five feet, how the fuck did it not break or crack at all? Then I saw something even more curious – though it had been pushed over face-forward onto the floor, the mirror was laying with the glass towards the ceiling. What the fuck – I should be looking at the back of the mirror, judging by the way it had fallen. I know this cause I saw the glass of the mirror rushing towards me before I turned away at the last second. And yet…the fucking mirror was on the ground FACING up!! Wtf??!! How was this even possible? As it was late at night my mind ran hog-wild for a few seconds, and I could come to no conclusion other than there must’ve been some supernatural forces at hand here. Seriously, how else could one explain it? Something falls over face-forward, yet miraculously rests on its back? What the fuck is this, Tera Patrick?
I was becoming a little freaked out by all of this when my eyes wandered to the site where the mirror had been...and there it was, the reason the mirror had fallen over in the first place: the gray cat. He was coolly staring directly at me, not moving as his eyes pierced mine. My body went cold as I realized what was going on: the fucking cats were trying to kill me!! The gray cat did not even move or hide, or cover up what his intention had been. He may as well have said “We hate you, we hate your stupid cracks while watching television, we want you dead. And put a shirt on, fat boy.” So now I hafta deal with creepy supernatural shit going on in an apartment that is relatively strange to me, and my roommates want me dead. I have turned into the Puck of cat-sitters. Great. How did it come to this? And, just to add insult to (possible) death, in the meantime I have to feed them and change their litterbox. I'm the cuckolded husband who buys Viagra for his wife's fuckbuddy. How great is this?
And I know what you’re thinking: “oh Xmastime you’re just being silly, shut up. I’m horny!!” Fuck that. Last night after all this had taken place I got up to take a piss and I left the bedroom door open by accident, just enough for the black cat to waltz in the bedroom. Where the cats are not allowed. When I got back I realized the cat had slinked into the bedroom, and I know I’m supposed to look for him and toss him back out into the living room. Fuck that I thought - it’s 4am in the morning, I’m going back to bed, I’ll find him in the morning. Then as I was lying there I realized oh shit…what could be easier than dude crawling on top of my sleeping face and covering my mouth and nose so that I wake up in a sheer panic, unable to breathe, I suffocate to death cause there’s a cat wrapped around my head? Holy fuck!! Side note – obviously I would like to throw in a “Xmastime killed by big furry black pussy” joke here, but I cannot in good conscience give Star Jones any more publicity than she already gets. I scrambled outta bed, turned the lights on and dug around for 20 minutes til I got the goddam thing and put him back in the living room. Going back into the bedroom I made sure to shut the door tight. And then, because this is how one thinks when he believes he’s under attack from both unexplained forces and cats that both want him dead and can physically turn doorknobs with their paws, I made sure to lock the door.
Christ. This is what my life has come to. Held hostage by some cats and ghosts.
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