Those who may have inadvertently read Tuesday's update might recall that I wrote something about cats and something else. To be honest, I don't even read my own updates, as it depresses me to realize I'm a grown man writing about cat books found in gas station checkout stands. However, I've got this tiny book in front of me entitled "Cat Talk," so I'm guessing that I reviewed the first few chapters from this award-winning novelette (I just made up "The Award For the Best Cat Talk Book Named 'Cat Talk' Ever" category and it was the sole nomination). It is now Thursday, roughly two days after I began the long and arduous journey into cat lover Suzanne Smither's world of cat relationships, and I feel as if the book has failed to help me forge a more intimate, emotional bond with my two cats, Stupid and Cat. Despite the help of cat lover Suzanne Smither and her equally helpful, loving cats Cleo, Faith, and Hope, I still lack whatever mental conditioning and fortitude is necessary to truly communicate with these two creatures who lick each others' anuses on a regular basis. Perhaps Smither was simply holding out until chapter three in order to the create complex character development and a thick sense of plot tension needed to fuel such a novel? We'll find out today in the thrilling conclusion to part one of whatever the name of the previous update was labeled!


I had a keen sense of where this book was heading before I even began the first paragraph. For example, I knew it would be about adoptions and rescues. I also safely assumed that cat lover Suzanne Smither would babble on for paragraphs about the spiritual metaphors behind her pets' names and how we should all wear purple colored crystals when we waddle into the nearest grocery store to refuel our insatiable Cheeto and Mountain Dew supply stash. I'm no stranger to the adoption and rescue scene; why, my own parents adopted me at the young age of 19. Shortly after adoption, I fell into a nearby well and was stuck there for the next three years. The fire department claimed they couldn't retrieve me from the well because the weather was "really bad" during a majority of those three years, so I was home schooled there until I was rescued at the age of 22. One magnificent day in June, a kind-hearted jolly fellow stopped his car and rolled me out of the seemingly bottomless well which had imprisoned me for so long! It turns out I hadn't actually been in a well for the last three years, but I was instead very drunk the night before and passed out in a drainage ditch behind the Applebee's. It just felt like three years because when you're closer to the Earth's core like I was, time seems to slow down like a whole lot.

In addition, both Cat and Stupid have been rescued by myself when they found themselves at the cold, concrete hand of The State Animal Really Mean Adoption Agency. I like to pretend I arrived mere seconds away from their respective lethal injections, like the governor calling the state penitentiary at the last moment and granting a stay of execution to a prisoner who was falsely framed for repeatedly shitting into a bunch of newspaper shreddings. Then I like to pretend I wasn't called "Pubeasaurus Rex" in high school. Cat lover Suzanne Smither apparently enjoyed pretending as if she's not nuts in this chapter, although she quickly drops this facade faster than a bowling ball thrown off the Eiffel Tower. Purebreed kittens, according to this distinguished literally scholar, may cost "from a hundred to thousands of dollars," although she supports this notion by claiming "it's a worthwhile investment." Lady, unless my adopted cat vomits gold, it's not a good "investment." Stocks are an investment. Savings accounts are investments. Rare coins are investments. Cats are only consider "investments" to Korean restaurants. Luckily, cat lover Suzanne Smither's detachment from reality becomes more pronounced as she decides to let her cat Cleo take over writing the book at this point. And oh boy does he / she / it ever take over.

"We're very bright, so please take time to join us in some challenging games."


Yes, thank you very much for the advice, Cleo! I'll head out and buy a goddamn Scrabble board right now so I can try to kick my cats' asses with triple word scores! I'm no expert in cat loving like cat lover Suzanne Smither is, but I'm going to head out on a limb here and claim that she shouldn't allow Cleo to write any future novels. If that previous nugget of advice didn't tip you off, try this on for size: "we love to chat with people and other cats; once in a while we even sing opera." Damn you Cleo! I had been patiently waiting the entire book to read about how I could communicate with my cats, then you suddenly give me the literary bum's rush and start detailing how cats like you are able to casually converse with humans like me, even going so far as to claim you've got the vocal cords of a 400-pound German woman! I don't know about you, but if I were to ever see a cat singing opera in public, I would open fire on it and drive off at a very high velocity. Chances are it's either a ghost here to haunt you or somebody dressed up as a ghost here to haunt you so you'll eventually get so scared you'll sell your plot of land to him and he'll build a large factory that produces plastic Easter candy eggs there. Cleo hands the book writing duty back over to cat lover Suzanne Smither on page 23, and she picks up where he left off:

"Even though she's now a middle-aged lady, Cleo has never outgrown her kittenish habit of kneading, although she gradually stopped suckling my neck." (bold print added for emphasis)

I'd like you to please read that sentence again. Do it in slow motion, as if you're trapped in a crappy Matrix-ripoff produced by Dino De Laurentiis. Once you're finished, you'll have undoubtedly realized that not only is Cleo now a female human who is middle-aged, but she used to SUCK ON CAT LOVER SUZANNE SMITHER'S NECK. I assume cat lover Suzanne Smither allowed Cleo to constantly do so, unless cat lover Suzanne Smither is one of those new age people who get so morbidly obese that their arms are reduced to the functionality of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Hahaha, he had those dorky little arms that didn't do anything. What a jerk dinosaur. If cat lover Suzanne Smither does indeed suffer from Tyrannosaurus Syndrome, then she probably lacked to ability to swat away Cleo and prevent her jugular from becoming a pacifier for her worthwhile investment. The question on my mind here is regarding how Cleo was able to chat with people while singing opera and leeching onto her owner's bulbous neck? Are purebreeds capable of warping the space / time continuum? If so, I think we'll need some more of those photon torpedoes that the ship from "Star Trek" used to shoot at everything once Captain Kirk realized that shooting it with the laser beam was doing jack shit. Just to spite cat lover Suzanne Smither, I skipped the next 10 pages and went to the next section penned by her feline buddy Cleo:

"Cleo adds this pussyfootnote: 'Say what you will, when a cat decides to adopt you, you're adopted. The many ways in which it happens only go to show what purrsuasive, purrsistent beasties we are'."

Fuck you Cleo. Just... fuck you.

This is not really a cat-friendly environment. I mean, the barrels are great and everything, but cats just hate those guys in the suits.


If you're adopting a cat, you should probably live in a "cat friendly environment," which basically means "a house that does not have lava or spikes instead of a floor." Cat-unfriendly environments include active minefields, demilitarized zones, the bottom of the ocean, and hell. This entire chapter is written by cat lover Suzanne Smither's various insane cats, detailing how you can go out of your way and possibly become bankrupt in a futile pursuit to please your pet. World-famous literary master Hope goes into painful detail, taking roughly 500 million pages, simply to explain the central message that "cats like to eat food which cats like to eat." If you try to feed your cat a brick and he doesn't like it, then don't feed him any more bricks. If you give him a dead bird and he eats it, then provide him with dead birds which were killed by bricks. Hope even goes so far as to provide various recipes for cats which include buying and preparing fresh shrimp. I "hope" my cats don't plan on eating any fancy shit like that! Ha ha! That's a little joke at the expense of a crazy woman's cat's name, thanks for playing along! Please pray that cat lover Suzanne Smither does not read that and unleash the power of her crystals on my soul.

Next up; interior decorating for your cat. I'm not kidding.

"Colors don't matter as much, but given a choice, we'd prefer the violets, blues and greens at the cool end of the spectrum, which is most visible to us."

I'll be sure to rip out my carpet and redecorate next time Hope comes over to piss on my floor. I know it doesn't really matter to me what color the floor is when I'm urinating upon it, but God only knows how I'd hate to offend Cleo.


Finally! What I had been waiting for! Cursed hellspawn cat lover Suzanne Smither waited for five chapters until she decided to bestow the keys to cat bondage upon me! I was able to tell this would be one hell of a cosmic joyride as soon as I read the first sentence of the chapter:

"It takes a perceptive human to understand what a fur person is saying"


"Fur person." "Fur person." She refers to her cat as a "fur person." I love this idea and plan on extending it further, hereby renaming birds to "feather people," alligators to "green, biting people," and Louie Andersons as "fat people." This chapter has twisted my mind into such a cerebral knot that I am no longer able to actively form complete sentences, and will have to settle for quoting sentences from cat lover Suza

"Cleo loves extended conversations, so we meow back and forth as long as she wants to chat."

"Cats receive others' thoughts as images, and Cleo reads my mind very well, so I send her detailed thought pictures when I want her to understand something important, like a coming change in the household or the need to be boarded overnight."

"Bonding with your human - Here's some advice from the experts: Once your human is up and moving, involve yourself in every aspect of her day. Watch closely while she bathes, dresses and grooms herself." (Bold print added to show how this woman should probably be institutionalized)

"Like most friendships worth keeping, ours took a while to develop, but now Cleo treats me like her best buddy and says I can stop calling her 'Your Highness.' Sometimes we even sleep together." (Bold print added to show how this woman needs to be filled full of tranquilizer darts and shipped to the center of the sun)

The book kind of ends somewhere around there, some place near the point where my mind simply gave up and detonated like the Death Star in that one movie, "Raiders of the Lost Ark." I couldn't handle cat lover Suzanne Smither's insanity any longer, so my body collapsed into a sunken heap.

At long last I had discovered the key to successfully communicating with my pets, but this ability came with a hefty price tag; the loss of all my brain functions and ability to think rationally. In order to hear my cat sing opera, cat lover Suzanne Smither claims I must first sleep with my cats, let them watch me undress and bathe, meow back and forth with them nonstop, send telepathic messages to them like a really weird AIM client, and refer to them as "fur people." As a wise man once said, "sometimes the journey to possess an item is more valuable than the item itself." Actually I don't think that any wise people have ever said that, mostly because it's really stupid. The drive to Wal-Mart isn't worth more than the designer Pokemon beer helmets you purchase there. So while it is indeed very possible to form an intimate and endearing bond with your cat, I don't think the heartbreak and loss of motor functions necessarily warrants it. I can safely say that "Cat Talk" is the worst waste of $1.19 that I ever spent at that particular Citgo gas station on that particular day, and I would definitely take it off my favorite book list if it had never won that damned "The Award For the Best Cat Talk Book Named 'Cat Talk' Ever" prize. I blame Cleo, and you should too.

Erotic Pawssession

Sorry to mislead but this latest and greatest Hentai Game Review has nothing to do with cats and everything to do with repeated brutal rapes and incest. "Possession" might not be big here but it's big in Japan!

The scene is a crowded subway in Japan. Yosuke has once again filled Mitsuki's ass to the brim, this time with a mixture of carbonated water and her favorite perfume that reminds me of the sort of thing ancient Egyptians used to shove inside mummies. Most Egyptian ceremonial burials probably didn't involve remote-controlled vibrators or diapers, but thankfully this sequence has them both! With one hand on the control of the vibrator and the other holding up Mitsuki's skirt, Yosuke proceeds to torment his teacher until she loses control of her bowels and fills the diaper up with ass water and Chanel No. 5.
Amusingly enough I was listening to the song "Rape This Day" from Tomahawk's new album "Mit Gas" when I started playing this game. I think Mike Patton would be proud with the visual stimulation Japan has provided for his latest work.

– Rich "Lowtax" Kyanka (@TwitterHasBannedAllMyAccountsEver)

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