A while ago, Roger Ebert pissed off a whole bunch of nerds by arguing that video games aren't art. Following in his esteemed tradition, I too plan to piss off a demographic no one cares about that overvalues its uninteresting hobby. Today I'm taking on thatsmycat.net. I'm going to say it loud and clear, freaks: Your cat is not -- and never will be -- art.
I know, this is a grandiose statement. The people at thatsmycat have devoted precious time to beautiful works such as Cat on Luggage, Cat on Luggage II, Cats' Choir and Cats' Other Choir. I can hear you saying it to yourself now: How can he dare spit in the face of such dedicated craftsmanship?
I'm going to drop the sarcastic façade right now, because I am having trouble conceiving a definition of art that would include this shit. And don't get me wrong - I like cats! I have one! I even referenced it in an ALOD earlier this week! But I have never had the impulse to commission someone to make a sculpture of my cat as a treasure-guarding pirate.
For one, my cat isn't a person. If she were a person, I would find it completely unacceptable that she shits in a box and expects me to clean it up. Secondly, cats fucking hate water. I dunno, maybe this shit is about escaping the harsh reality of owning a cat. Perhaps if you memorialize your cat as some sort of sea-faring adventurer, you'll recall your times together a bit more fondly, forgetting the time it pissed in your shoe (though I'm sure that's something plenty of sailors have done and will do again).
Shit, maybe this is art. Maybe these insanely expensive, bizarre little works are brilliant in some sort of post-modern way. Or maybe cats can't play a fucking violin, so what the fuck, "Joachim"?
"I thought the internet was all fun and games. Grow virtual plants on Facebook. Send email to grandma. IM friends with emojis," said the Stupid Ass Teenager, currently dying in an Idiot County hospital. "Never in my wildest dreams could I ever possibly humanly imagine that doing stupid ass internet shit in real life might get me mortally injured."
(Lips smacking, mouth full of peanut butter, glistening streams of peanut butter oil running down chin) "I'm full as hell, and I'm not going to take another bite!"
Guess what's back? Frosty tundras! And me.
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