Archive for Animals

44. Become terrified by a mouse.

You’re on your way into the kitchen, drooling in anticipation over the bowl of Cap’n Crunch you will soon be devouring. “Crunchitize me, Cap’n!” you yell at no one in particular. Your cat cocks its head and gives you an odd look. You don’t care. You’re too focused on obtaining part of a complete breakfast.

You round the corner, and right away you feel that something is off. You’re not quite sure what it is. Did someone move the table? Was that pan on the counter yesterday? Did the paper towel rack slip down an inch? Is that disgusting mouse scurrying across the floor wearing a tiny hat?

Upon closer inspection, no, but the very fact that an insidious vermin exists there in the first place is enough to send you into hysterics. You spastically dance around the kitchen, completely clueless as to how to rectify this situation. You think that maybe things will improve if you hop up onto the counter and yell instructions at the inch-long monster from up there. The mouse does not listen, uninspired by your supervision skills.

You frantically glance around for something with which to catch the harmless creature. You grab a pot, inch down off the counter, and sidle up to the animal with as much savanna-inspired furtiveness as you can manage. But at the last minute it darts between your legs and continues to scurry around the linoleum and into a hole, while your high-pitched screams of terror echo into its tiny ears.

Blame for all of this shifts to the cat. “YOU!” you scream at the amused feline. “This is all YOUR fault! You’re FAILING at your JOB!” The cat listens attentively to your rant, sits down in the center of the floor, and licks its crotch in rebuttal. You sigh in anguish and carefully investigate the hole in the wall into which the minuscule furball has absconded. You approach it carefully, as if the mouse may have grown to thirty times its size and will tackle you to the floor as documented in that Super Bowl Doritos commercial. Luckily, all you get is silence, a distinct sense of mockery, and, as always, a heaping pile of shame.

So if you want to suck at life, become terrified by a mouse. Its 1.2-ounce frame of pure destruction is enough to give you nightmares for weeks, and that’s a certain brand of indignity that can’t be eradicated by a piece of cheese on the end of a spring.


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37. Patronize a cat.

Maybe it’s suffering from extreme boredom. The thing sits around your house all day, sleeping, licking itself, occasionally getting up to decorate your floor with a hairball or two. It’s not being challenged. It needs some recreation. It needs some mental stimulation.

It needs a cheap plastic toy.

You dangle the colorful device in front of the cat’s uninterested face, making high-pitched noises that would be insulting even to a newborn. You whip the tasseled string around the room, running through the house, dragging it across the floor, attempting to fool the cat into thinking that a flamboyant, sparkly blue mouse is terrorizing the kitchen. The cat stares back as if you’ve lost your damn mind.

Undaunted, you continue to foist amusement upon the indifferent feline, shouting “Jump! JUMP!” in a moronically goofy voice. Such demands go unnoticed by the cat, who sits down and turns whatever small amount of attention it possesses to grooming its crotchal region. This is unacceptable. No one is allowed to devote more time to crotchal grooming than you.

You pick the cat up and set it back into a standing position. The mood in the room has now gone from apathetic ennui to agitated annoyance. You’re unable to detect such a change, however, screeching as loudly as you are and hurling the toy once again into the cat’s now narrowed eyes. It would seem as though your efforts are paying off, though, as it starts to get up on its hind legs. It’s ready! It’s ready to play!

Or, in a more accurate sense, ready to claw your eyes out. A lifetime of concentrated hatred, all culminating in one massive scratchfest. The furry ball of fury strikes so quickly you don’t even see it. All you know is that one minute, you’re calling it a “smoopy wittle cuddle pants”, and the next, you’re bleeding from ten different places.

So if you want to suck at life, patronize a cat. It already knows that it’s better than you. When are you going to get with the program?

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