God I love cats!  They possess a certain regality that dogs can never match.  My kitty’s name is Lizzy, a cross between the infamous axe murderer and the even more infamous countess, Elizabeth Bathory, whose idea of a rocking Saturday night was to slay a few common girls and bathe in their blood. 
Oftentimes she just casually rolls up to me and digs her Freddie Kruger claws into me, wounding me quite severely on occasion.  You would think I would be enraged and give her a good boot; you wretched, heartless souls, you know who you are.  But no, I respect that from an animal. 
This cat displays a level of evolutionary pride like no other I’ve ever witnessed.  She seems to know that she hails from the greatest species of land-based hunters the world has seen since the dinosaurs.  She prowls around my apartment with utter disregard for the fact that I’m the one who feeds her.  In fact, she thinks nothing of biting the hand that feeds her, quite hard at that. 
She’s an unbelievably cute kitty.  I brought her into my home when she was a mere 6 weeks old weighing in at a dainty 8 ounces.  She fit in the palm of my hand.  I was so excited to have this brand new gift from God.  But since then she’s proceeded to completely take over my home through brute force and frightening intimidation tactics.  At first I simply thought she was just being a kitten; barreling through the house like a bullet for no apparent reason, not allowing the human residents one second of peaceful rest, attacking every single inanimate object in sight, and boldly sticking her unusually large asshole square in my face at every possibly opportunity. 
But now that I’ve had her for about 3 months I see that this is a very unique feline indeed.  I’ve had cats my entire life.  I thought I knew what they were about, but now realize I know shit. 
Most cats are afraid of water, not Lizzy.  I cannot even take a simple piss without this kitty trying to jump into the toilet.  And I mean literally trying to jump into the God damned toilet.  But that’s an easy situation to control.  Taking a shit requires much more thought. 
It’s difficult to convey the hell she puts me through, but I’ll try.  I do not have central air, so if the door to the bathroom is closed it gets insanely hot; hence the reason why it’s easy to contain the piss situation.  That’s a quick action.  But crapping is a totally different ballgame.  More than 45 seconds in my bathroom in the summer with the door closed is like basting yourself in the thralls of hell, with Lucifer sitting their in all his evil glory laughing his miserable horns off.  And I particularly enjoy taking a 15 minute crap, getting into my birthday suit and reading “The Economist” or “Shaved;” so this is a problem that I can either change my entire ideological form to, or adapt.  So what do you think I do? 
I adapt.  I crap with the door open.  It’s not easy, and sometimes with the odor I feel like calling animal-control on myself, but this cat brings this horror on herself.  I’m sitting there on the throne, and the cat is literally walking behind me near the back of the toilet trying to gain entry into the fouled black hole.  Every soiled swipe is a chore.  She swipes her wretched paws at the toilet paper with grotesque disrespect for its contents.  I usually sit there with a feeling of sheer defeat.  But still I refuse to give in to a creature 200 times my physical junior. 
Lizzie also has no fear of the shower.  When she hears the water being turned on it matters not whether she’s eating, sleeping, or humping whatever indiscriminate object that has caught her perverted fancy at that particular moment, she darts to the bathroom to harass me, as this is what she loves to do.  I futilely try to stick the plastic curtain to the tiling with water but her head always seems to be able break my ineffectual seal.  I usually manage to finish my shower with minimal discomfort, but she’s always waiting there, right on the ledge when I throw the curtain back, letting me know she’s won the battle.  Then she jumps into the residual water the drain hasn’t swallowed up yet just to reiterate that fact.  This is not a good kitty.
Sleeping is an especially difficult task.  She has absolutely no respect for the sanctity of rest.  Most civilized beings will not screw with a person while they’re sleeping, apparently these rules do not apply to kitties.  It seems that as soon as you fall into a deep comfortable sleep, she violently shoves her wet nose into your face.  The moist cat-nose never fails to wake you up no matter the level of rest you’re in.  It’s a moistness most humans are unaccustomed to.  It’s not just moist, it’s downright wet; and this kitty does not think twice about assaulting you with her ominous beak.  It’s cold too. 
And even more threatening and horrifying is the fact that the average male will usually adjust his jewels several times throughout the night.  Lizzie thinks nothing of thrusting her claws into whatever is moving in the still of the night.  Lord above, do not scratch your balls, or adjust your junk in any way, for this cat will pounce with little regard for your reproductive well being.  I know this through painful experience. 

So this kitty is a complete terror, but Goddamn she’s cute, and she prowls around like a Serengeti Lioness, impervious to any bullshit about food chains or higher intelligent beings.  In fact I’ll probably miss the mayhem when I have her mojo snipped out and she becomes like every other cat, basically walking around saying, “Fuck you biatch, leave me be, feed me, rub my mane, and back the fuck off!”

Twas the night before Christmas
All comfy and warm
When I was suddenly awoken
By a treacherous storm
I peaked out the window
It was clean as can be
No snow, rain, or ice
Was apparent to me
When all of a sudden
The storm showed its eye
It was inside, not out
I let out a sigh
My eyes opened wide
As I assessed the condition
It took but a second
To conclude my suspicion
I jumped out of bed
So fast and so sleek
Snorting and sweating
And clenching my cheeks
I hit the ground running
Looking back, way too fast
I stubbed my toe on the table
Then fell on my ass
An angel appeared
To offer some help
As she gave me her hand
I let out a yelp
It turned out the hand
And the angel for that
Was really a demon
My evil little cat
The hand that I hoped
Would deliver salvation
Was really her claws
Inflicting damnation
My body and mind
Engaged in a fight
Of which burden was worse
The toe or the bite
All the while the storm grew
As I continued to sit
Then like a brick it hit me
I still had to shit
I swatted the cat
Away from my path
And proceeded with stealth
To the room of the bath
The crisis compounded
As I arrived at the door
It was locked with the light on
I laid on the floor
Christmas miracles my ass
There’s darkness about
No Santa, no elves
Just suffering and gout
Defeat came so brutally
As I lay in a trance
Christmas would not be too merry
As I shitted my pants.

Welcome to WordPress.com. This is your first post. Edit or delete it and start blogging!