It wasn't long ago that cat appreciation was reserved solely for True Cat Fans. Yet, in the past few years, Deformed Cat Advocates-or DFAs-have imposed their will on the cat enthusiast community, and their agenda is clear: Only images of cats with adorable birth defects will do. Superimpose "cute" sayings in Impact font if you must, but let's not ignore the able-bodied cats that got us to where we are today. Remember Socks? The mid-to-late nineties almost feel like they were decades ago.
Just yesterday, an irritating co-worker of mine-let's call her "Denise," though her name is actually "Sherri"-posted an image of this "Grumpy Cat" character to my Facebook wall, which included the text "I'm only in a bad mood on every day that ends in a Y." Well, I wasn't about to let this Fake Cat Lover off the hook. I immediately grabbed one of the many copies of my Morris scrapbook-of course you know him as the famous 9 Lives mascot-and headed over to Denise's desk to give her a piece of my mind. Really, what right did she have to even dabble in cat enthusiasm? Did she spend hours meticulously clipping images of Morris out of Redbooks stolen from the library? Did she meet Morris in person at the ribbon-cutting of a drive-thru oil change in 1987? Was she one of the five people permitted to make a death mask upon Morris' passing in 1993?
I shouldn't have to tell you the answers to these questions. Unfortunately, this little altercation ended with a mandatory visit to our HR rep, who just happened to be Denise, so I didn't have to go far. She said I should take my lunch break early to go "cool off," so I did exactly that, and grabbed the latest issue of Cat Fancy from my desk on the way out. Unfortunately, this did nothing to quell my sour mood. I immediately flipped to the reviews section, because I must be a glutton for punishment. Before me sat the least objective analyses of cat-focused products my poor eyes had ever seen. In his evaluation of Friskies Party Mix Crunch Original Cat Treats, this "Steve Anderson" person had the gall to say, and I quote, "My little guy didn't want any more after a few servings, but obviously, results may vary with your particular cat."
Um, excuse me? Steve, you may want to reach out to the Cracker Jack company about the state of your degree, because really-is this what passes for cat journalism these days? Let's keep these personal biases out of product evaluations. I'll have you know I've raised six generations of cats on Friskies, and, outside of the kidney disorders the Friskies hotline assured me were common for most kittens, they've never steered me wrong. I can't even imagine the damage you've done to the Friskies brand with your one-sided, agenda-driven hooey. Is Mr. Anderson just a puppet of the Fancy Feast company, whose nameless white cat mascot is just a shameless imitation of the timeless Morris? I haven't been given any convincing reasons to believe this wasn't a shameful breach of ethics that will forever taint Cat Fancy in my eyes. But what I saw next was simply beyond belief. I had to push aside half of my Carl's Jr. bacon ranch fries for the sheer stomach discomfort this issue's feature story inflicted upon me. On page 87, underneath that familiar malformed face sat the words "An Evening With Lil' Bub." I assure you, those fast-food employees must have cursed their minimum wage salaries for all of the vomit they had to clean up that day.
I couldn't believe it. The DFA had gotten to the once-credible institute known as Cat Fancy. I had no choice but to investigate. I turned to one of our IT guys, and after agreeing to take the fall if anyone found out about his underground pornography ring, he did a little e-mail hacking of a certain Beth A. Goodman, who you all surely know as the editor-in-chief of Cat Fancy magazine-and the results were damning. Turns out, months earlier, the owner of Lil' Bub reached out to the publication, stating, "Going to be in the Irvine area Wednesday for a photo shoot-would love to check out the Cat Fancy offices!" To which Ms. Goodman replied, "Sure, that'd be great!" Collusion! My weak stomach ejected the remaining contents of my lunch into my cubicle. Though this would be a half-day for me, it was a Pyrrhic victory at best.
True Cat Fans, I implore you. This injustice will not stand. We must fight fire with fire, and that means a coordinated e-mail campaign and boycott of all Cat Fancy advertisers. By all means, do not harass Beth A. Goodman at her home on 2234 Elkridge Court in Irvine, California-and especially not when she gets home from work at 6:34pm (give or take). Do not send threatening messages to her children, Zach and Ira Goodman, who are in 6th and 8th grade (respectively) at Ronald Reagan Middle School at 436 Birch Street. And certainly you should not poison her dog, who eats out of a red bowl located roughly 15 feet from the garage door, behind the gardenia bush. Our voices will be heard. #CatGate will be our cause. And if there are any lawyers out there, I need to know the difference between manslaughter and the various degrees of murder. For a friend.
This libtard terminator keeps asking for guns that don't exist and I may have to close early out of frustration.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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