A cat clearly knows no bounds.
Look at this asshole named Hank, who is running for US Senate in Virginia.
Who cares if he can’t talk or walk upright? Sarah Palin can do both of those things (I use the word “talk” loosely here) and Hank would still be a better Senator.
I got home one day last week, and decided to just stand in my kitchen to see how Browning would react. He spent about 5 minutes sitting on the floor meowing at me. Then he decided to jump up on the counter directly across from me, as to be the same height as me.
In the photo above, he clearly knows that his little cat ass does not belong on the counter…but he’s going to sit there anyway.
“Hmm, maybe if I look over here, she’ll stop staring.”
“I’ll try direct eye contact with this bitch I guess.”
And, Browning’s ultimate way to say, “I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT YOUR COUNTER!” is with this stupid face.
*Insert blog content about how I lay my nice sweaters flat to dry and then when I go to wear one this asshole has covered it in wrinkles and cat hair.*
I might as well just pick up the cat and rub him all over my torso before I leave for work every morning.
*Insert blog content about how I get home from work and I’m tired and these asshole cats are still in bed.*
Browning has really outdone himself.
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before
A few days ago I was feeling pretty crafty. So instead of going out and getting drunk that Friday night, I made a trip to Hobby Lobby instead. On the agenda? Curse word coasters made out of Scrabble tiles, of course.
I get back to my apartment, lay all my craft supplies out, and then this starts happening.
That’s those two assholes playing with shit behind my back.
And, let’s fast forward 10 minutes.
Those leftover Scrabble tiles are now scattered all around my room. And they hurt like hell when I step on them in the middle of the night. All part of their plan I’m sure.
Ps–There’s only one letter k tile in a Scrabble box, so you’ll be forced to choose “dick” or “fuck.”
Friday was my birthday. Today was Valentine’s Day. If you’re bad at math, they’re only a few a days apart, which is why I hate my birthday, and consequently the entire month of February–because it’s filled with red and pink crap. I also get double the flowers, which would be fine if my goddamn cats didn’t eat them every time.
I got home Friday and was nearly knocked over so Browning could immediately start grazing.
And, my absolute favorite.
I really like having fresh flowers in my house. You know, nothing too crazy…..something I can get at the grocery store for around $5 but just looks nice sitting on the coffee table or the kitchen table. There’s just something about walking into a room and seeing a vase of flowers; it brightens my day and makes me feel a little less bitchy. It’s probably because I’m a woman and have been conditioned to equate flowers with love and security and happiness and all that Hallmark bullshit. Plus having flowers in my house just makes me feel fancy and all kinds of bougie. It’s like, that’s right everyone, I can afford to frivolously spend money on something I know will be dead in a week!
So I bought these little pink roses on Saturday and put them in a crystal vase on my coffee table. Don’t they just look so pretty and happy:
Of course, you already know this story does not end well for the flowers. In fact, let’s take a look back at how previous bouquets have fared in my house:
That lovely little arrangement ended up as technicolor barfs all over my hardwood floors. So while I know any bouquet I buy is doomed from the start simply because it is the nature of cats to destroy happiness, I buy them anyway. And I enjoy them for a day or two until I wake up one morning and see this message posted on my facebook wall: