andcuriouser
Active Member
Dear Matt's Cat named Roger,
I have never once before remarked, "Damn, I wish I knew what it was like to experience the smooth sensation of cat shit mixed with the wonderful squelch of cat vomit." And before today, my unspoken remark was unanswered.
But on this lovely evening, after getting back from Blockbuster, I turned off the car, went up the stairs to my home with my movies clutched to my chest, and I turned the key in the lock, and there was this sort of ominous air in the house.
I took off my shoes and put the movies down on the chair by the door that serves as a table (because we are poor, and yet we still feed you cat food, oh you vile cat, when you really deserve to be thrown outside and left there). I ventured into the house, and then I made a discovery.
There was a substance on the floor, and now all over my sock. And that substance, dear Roger, was your vomit mixed with your shit. Never once have I ever beheld something so disgusting. WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR CATBOX TRAINING AND YOUR ABILITY TO KEEP THE CAT FOOD WE WASTE MONEY ON IN YOUR GUT?
So after screaming and complaining and gagging for about three minutes, Matt finally came to see what was wrong, and he laughed. I had to take off my socks and spray your vile mess with half a bottle of Febreze before I could even bear to clean it up. Somehow I managed to clean the floor, and went to confront your master about it. I took the camera from the nightstand to threaten him with.
Matt gave me a semi-apologetic laugh, so I took a picture and swore to him that you will not be living in this house for long.
Love, Leland.
Here is Matt, smiling at my threats of catslaughter:
I have never once before remarked, "Damn, I wish I knew what it was like to experience the smooth sensation of cat shit mixed with the wonderful squelch of cat vomit." And before today, my unspoken remark was unanswered.
But on this lovely evening, after getting back from Blockbuster, I turned off the car, went up the stairs to my home with my movies clutched to my chest, and I turned the key in the lock, and there was this sort of ominous air in the house.
I took off my shoes and put the movies down on the chair by the door that serves as a table (because we are poor, and yet we still feed you cat food, oh you vile cat, when you really deserve to be thrown outside and left there). I ventured into the house, and then I made a discovery.
There was a substance on the floor, and now all over my sock. And that substance, dear Roger, was your vomit mixed with your shit. Never once have I ever beheld something so disgusting. WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR CATBOX TRAINING AND YOUR ABILITY TO KEEP THE CAT FOOD WE WASTE MONEY ON IN YOUR GUT?
So after screaming and complaining and gagging for about three minutes, Matt finally came to see what was wrong, and he laughed. I had to take off my socks and spray your vile mess with half a bottle of Febreze before I could even bear to clean it up. Somehow I managed to clean the floor, and went to confront your master about it. I took the camera from the nightstand to threaten him with.
Matt gave me a semi-apologetic laugh, so I took a picture and swore to him that you will not be living in this house for long.
Love, Leland.
Here is Matt, smiling at my threats of catslaughter:
