Full Credits


Stats & Data

April 09, 2012

It's not you, it's me... I swear.

I feel sorry for house pets. People complain, “Ugh, my cat needs things like attention and food.” “My cat’s so lame he just lays around.” Yeah, well maybe you suck. Maybe Fluffy’s fed up with your incessant crying and emotional meltdowns, Sex In The City reruns and who could forget your nightly diatribe phone call to your Mother.

You self centered beast. Fluffy likely dedicates every waking hour to isolation because you offer nothing more than the daily unrelenting boredom crucible he’s grown so accustomed to. I can only imagine Fluffy daydreaming obsessively of the ONE way in which to escape this never-ending hell prison apartment you’ve confined him in. If he only had hands to strangle you.

And this is why Fluffy; licks his crotch in front of you, digs in the cat litter box in the middle of the night until you A) get up or B) scream at him, walks directly underneath your feet nearly tripping you when you try and feed him, his refusal to do that one thing you find so adorable, and staring off into the void giving you the distinct impression a ghost is in the house, and finally laying down on whatever reading material you hoped to enjoy.

Why? Because Fluffy hates you and wishes you were dead. And his name is Roger. He’s a full breed Persian. You do realize Persians were imported via ships in the 17th century with other fine treasures such as, silk and jewels and exotic spices and were a status symbol? Is that tidbit there in your self help book? I didn’t think so you soft headed cow. And my coat’s a matted mess thanks to you so how about you break out a brush and show me some love before I claw the shit out of your face, bitch.