Because cats really are dicks.
So my sister is one of those people who believes her dog is a human. As such, in preparation for a camping trip we’re going to take, naturally we needed to buy the dog’s tent first.
Within 5 minutes, dog jumps out of the tent and resumes her post on the couch. And then this happens:
What are you doing in there? You would HATE camping.
I won’t even waste your time with apologies and promises of more blog posts.
So, last week I thought I cracked my sternum while driving (short version of the story). Basically, all you need to know is that I’ve been in excruciating pain since then. I can’t breathe. I can’t really use my arms. Moving and living, in general, has been exhausting over the last week.
Monday morning, I woke up to this.
That’s Browning. Perfectly placed so that he adds to the already-crushing-feeling I’m experiencing in my chest. But OMG, LOOK AT THAT FACE. He looked so cute, I didn’t have the heart to move him. So, I let him lay there for as long as he wanted, as he crushed my chest, and I even took a few pictures of how ridiculous this was. Cats will kill you, and you’re going to watch them do it.
Because it was Thanksgiving, I spent a couple days at my parents’ house. This is always a blessing because my mom’s cats are bigger dicks than my own and provide me with filler content.
Take this picture for example.
That’s my mom’s cat Peanut. Peanut is Browning’s daughter and basically the biggest dick of a cat I’ve ever met. If you upset her, she’ll shit in the bathtub to inconvenience you. True story.
Peanut couldn’t stand that there were cat toys in that bag. More specifically she couldn’t stand that said cat toys were not for her.
Obviously the next logical step in this scenario is to get stuck in the bag to somehow sabotage the toys for the intended cats.
The next logical step is to walk off, owning the fact that you’re stuck in a bag and it was exactly what you meant to do.
[Disclaimer: No animals were hurt. Peanut is alive and well and probably shitting in a bathtub right now.]
First, just let me say that I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have some degree of an addiction to Pinterest.
Pinterest teaches you things. Empty lotion containers? Fill those bad boys up with ketchup, and voila. Used wrapping paper? Let me show you how to somehow turn it into a picture frame that looks store bought.
But there is no way in hell I’m buying this shenanigan, Pinterest:
Cats hate everything. It’s why this blog exists in the first place. “OH, look at this cute, creative way to incorporate your family pet and your unborn child into one picture.”
Pinterest, I call bullshit. That cat didn’t pose for a picture because cats hate posing for pictures. That cat also hates that collar because, duh, those are for dogs. AND, the most important–cats HATE babies. There is no way you’re leading me to believe that a cat willingly let itself be photographed wearing a collar next to a pair of empty baby shoes. Maybe if this was a picture of a cat slapping a baby and knocking its bottle over I would believe it more.
What happens when you try to teach a cat the history of the United States:
“The first president was a cat.”
“The second president was a cat.”
“They definitely named that one president, Garfield, after the cat.”
And so on.
Happy Easter from the white rabbit!
Yesterday I was attempting to do my makeup, and then this happened:
Clearly, the cluttered counter and my makeup bag is exactly where you should stand.
If you know only one thing about life, it’s that duvet covers are bigger dicks than cats. The comforter never fits right. It always starts sliding around NO MATTER HOW TIGHT YOU TIE THOSE TIES. They’re just really goddamn stupid and I break a sweat every time I put one on my comforter.
I tell you that, to tell you this. When you throw cats into the goddamn mix, shit gets infinitely more difficult.
Cats are born, and live their entire stupid cat lives, thinking humans exist solely to entertain them, feed them, and buy them things. Everything we own is theirs. Everything we own will be played with/in/on/under/over/next to, to include duvet covers.
It’s cool guys. I definitely bought you a new place to sit your fat cat asses, and not a duvet cover for my bed.
–Catherine
We’ve established so far that our cats hate when we do stuff that doesn’t center around their fat lives. Like, reading, going to the bathroom, trying to sleep. These assholes are even jealous of Christmas.
After a less than enjoyable day at work, I decided that stopping at Hobby Lobby and loading up on glitter-covered Christmas crap was just the ticket. I even had such a skip in my step when I left that I donated a dollar to that guy ringing the bell with the red bucket. And that’s saying something because I normally pretend to be on the phone and avoid them.
I get home and start decorating and I kid you not, not 10 seconds after I finished a display on my table, this asshole was up to his old tricks.
This picture probably looks pretty innocent to you. Just a curious cat checking new shit out. Wrong. Then he does this:
That picture should tell you two things. I’ll be chasing him off that table every day for the next two months. AND he’ll be puking glitter and beads all holiday season long.
Tis the season.
–Catherine
Cats Are Such Dicks 