OK, I've got another one (thanks to George of the Crew). There is a cat running for president. This is the web site:
I'm a believer that all cats should make up their minds about who they choose to vote for, but I have some concerns about this guy:
In his (is he a he? I'm assuming, correct me if I'm wrong) picture he kinda looks like Kinky Friedman (this is actually not a concern-- just an observation). When Mr. Friedman ran for governor of the great state of Texas, he ran a series of commercials which he lets a wild pack of dogs lick his face. Is that not nasty or what? Just on that, I wouldn't vote for him (not that I could as Karen claims I'm not allowed to vote).
Karen didn't vote for him either. She said Mr. Friedman would be entertaining, but so many weird things have happened in Texas already that she didn't want to add to that number with a governor even more exciting than Good Hair (Gov. Perry).
But back to Chey . . .
The name in itself is a concern. Is this a reference back to Che Guevara, the Cuban leftist revolutionary? The man who protested against Juan Peron in Argentina and worked in a leper colony?
Come on, do cats really want to support a leader who might want us participate in random acts of kindness? I think not. My biggest concerns are that I don't have to eat the bottom layer of food in my bowl, that I get the best spot on the couch/ bed/ living room chair/ bathroom sink/ kitchen sink (don't tell Karen-- she gets really touchy about places where I sleep in the kitchen), and that Karen leaves the remote control in a place where I can find it during the day.
Any presidential candidate who can guarantee these things for me has my vote.
Furthermore, what is this concern about teaching humans to speak the language of cats? If the humans want to succeed in the cat world, they need to get off their arses and make an effort to learn OUR language. It's doable. Karen and I communicate quite well. If the cat box is nasty, I rub up against Karen's ankles and say, "Hey pal, you need to take care of the business in our box. Sadie's been drinking the milk again." If we need more food I jump on Karen and say, "Listen, get your ass downstairs and get us some grub. You know I don't eat the food that touches the bowl and I don't really care if it's four in the morning. You need to do your job and do it now."
Amazingly, she pretty much does what I want. Sometimes I get an attitude, but it those cases I just tell Sadie to throw up in one of Karen's shoes. Sadie vomits frequently (she's bulimic, I think-- Karen and I've discussed intervention, but neither of us believes Sadie is evolved enough for an intervention to work.) The barfing in the shoes really thrills Karen and she isn't swift enough to connect the timing of shoe vomit and our nasty spat.
You know what else I am concerned about?
Spaying and neutering the kitties.
This is why: Karen came home from the grocery store yesterday and told me that she saw the cutest kittens and that she really wanted to take one home.
What is the deal?
Are they giving kitties away at Super Target?
Whatever, I can not handle another cat in the house. I barely tolerate Sadie. Karen tries to occasionally guilt me into accepting another with all these sad stories about homeless kitties, but I'm not taking that bait. Not that I was consulted about Sadie though. She just brought her home and expected me to think she was the greatest thing since sliced bread.
Yeah, that was going to happen.
Anyway, all this griping has made me tired. I'm off to take my nap.
I am the Elizabeth Taylor of the feline world.