You’ll find no dog-lovers here at Cats Working, but since we all share Major Biden’s backstory as shelter animals who made good, we’re unanimous in our opinion that he’s getting a raw deal over two alleged “biting” incidents.
We were shocked after the second one when that two-faced, closeted Trump-lover Joe Scarborough on MSNBC called Major “Cujo” and a “werewolf,” and had the NERVE to suggest that Major be put to sleep and “meet Dog Jesus”!
(At least Mika and Willie Geist took Major’s side.)
Let the record state that neither time did Major break skin or draw blood. Joe Biden himself confirmed that when Major first “nipped” a Secret Service agent. The second time, Major’s nippee was a National Park Service employee who got medically checked out at the White House and immediately returned to work “without injury.”
So, Mr. Scarborough, if you step on toes twice in a crowded elevator but don’t break any, should we take you out back and shoot you so you can meet “Douchebag Jesus”?
Let’s step back and consider this rationally. Major, who’s 3 years old now, went from anonymous shelter mutt to living with a former vice president — who then became president and promoted Major to Second Dog (his bro Champ, who’s 12, is First Dog) in the White House.
That’s a LOT of change for a doggy brain to process…
After the first nip, Major was sent home to Delaware for training, but he was only back at the White House for about a week when he got nippy again.
Major may be trying to tell Joe Biden something about the White House; he may smell lingering Trump cooties on people. German Shepherds tend to be very protective, and Major looks like he knows his job is keeping Biden safe…
Perhaps the best way to resolve this is to line up all the White House staff and the Secret Service like luggage at the airport and let Major do an inspection. Anyone he doesn’t pee on or nip gets Top Canine Clearance. The ones not so lucky need to be put on leave for more thorough background checks because something’s clearly not right with them. Dogs (and cats) know these things.
Or maybe Major senses Trump’s demented hatred of dogs and the White House needs an exorcism.
PS: Tomorrow is my 10th birthday and I’m celebrating with presents for EVERYONE! Roc and Tony are in for surprises. Stay tuned…
BONUS: Speaking of douchebags, Randy Rainbow has struck again with a classic parody from Oklahoma…
I’m being a blog hog for another day because over the weekend I brainstormed with Max and Tony and we came up with a cat version of Pooch Perfect in case NBC or CBS is interested in giving ABC some competition that’s real entertainment.
Our show’s title is CattyGories. Let that sink in a minute, because it sums up the concept perfectly.
The human contestants would be people who claim they’re pet psychics or cat whisperers. You know, people who live under the delusion that they can get cats to do stuff.
The kitty contestants may be temporarily captured ferals, shelter cats or even cats who have good homes. Since this show is so NOT like Pooch Perfect, cat owners might WANT their cats on it to get their 15 minutes of national TV fame.
Why? Because it has an intriguing twist. The usual premise of these “game” shows is for humans to exploit animals for their own amusement. With CattyGories, humans must depend on the kindness and mercy of the cats, and their goal is to stay in the cats’ good graces to keep from bleeding out.
The competitions are tailored around things cats might — or might not — want to do normally. Without using brute force or cruelty of any kind, the humans must attempt to complete simple tasks like:
Give the cat a mani-pedi, or apply fake adhesive covers to the cat’s claws
Teach the cat to use a people toilet
Put the cat in a carrier
Train the cat to fetch
Get the cat to come when called by name
Keep the cat off a countertop where there’s a freshly roasted chicken
Walk 10 feet with the cat on a leash
Get the cat to sit on their lap for 5 minutes
Each week, nobody gets kicked off, but one human is declared that week’s loser based on how badly they failed to get their cat to cooperate and the total dimension of spatters on bloody tissues they accumulated in the attempt.
On the final show, the judges add up the total inches of scratches and count how many puncture wounds each human sustained. The one with the lowest number of both “wins.”
The performance of the cats is never judged in any way. On the final show, EVERY cat is declared a winner. Because with cats, there’s no such thing as losing.
And maybe dogs will watch CattyGories and learn something. Such as, if they’re ever conscripted to be on a TV show like Pooch Perfect, they don’t go down without a fight bite. At the very least, every human on the set should get one leg humped and the other one peed on.
On March 30, ABC launched Pooch Perfect, a new dog groomer unreality competition hosted by former dog-shower Rebel Wilson (who looks fabulous, Karen adds).
I could be catty and say that Max, Tony and I love seeing dogs humiliated on national television, but we’re bigger cats than that, so I’ll stay on the high perch. Also, I know that some Cats Working readers love both cats and dogs, and we don’t hold it against you.
(This isn’t to say that Tony and I wouldn’t be thrilled to give Max a break from our teasing if Karen ever brought home a “teacup” something we could kick around instead.)
PP follows a well-worn formula. The groomer contestants are pairs — mother-son, couples, BFFs, mentor-mentee — and they’re mostly weirdos, as humans go. Every week, one of them gets the boot for not defacing grooming a dog to the three judges’ exacting standards.
The only judge we know is Lisa Vanderpump because Karen forces a lot of lot BravoTV on us. We’re familiar with the ever-present posse of cute-but-spoiled mutts she uses to make herself seem less plastic.
The dogs on PP first show up unkempt and filthy. I don’t know if they come that way or if the producers rough them up backstage. Then the groomers have to give them makeovers according to themes.
In the first round, the groomers had dogs whom they were supposed to transform into versions of their own personal “heart dogs.” This was obviously an attempt to humanize the groomers so they don’t seem so much like frustrated graffiti artists. Most of the dogs came through that challenge relatively intact, although I think some got fake gems and sequins glued to their fur.
Then the elimination round was the Unleash the Beast Ulti-Mutt Challenge. The groomers had to turn another set of dogs into OTHER ANIMALS. This is where it turned cruel.
Things were done to those poor dogs that will take months — if not years — to grow out.
One dog was dyed black and white to look like a skunk. Another one was dyed fifty shades of pink to look like a flamingo…
Some of the dogs were even turned into cats — lions and leopards. You get the drift…
The dog named Best in Show was turned into a fish!..
The judges goaded Fish-Dog’s groomer into this by telling him in the first round that he wasn’t extreme enough. In addition to dying his dog clown colors, he shaved “scales” into the dog’s back. This was a technique several groomers used, shaving heart shapes down to the skin and then dying the hearts pink.
I must say, the dogs were incredibly good sports about it and nobody got bit — at least on camera. If they were shelter dogs, maybe they saw it as their best shot to get adopted. I can’t imagine any responsible owners would have volunteered their dogs for this ordeal. Lisa Vanderpump certainly didn’t let any of them lay a mitt on the dog she had with her.
Let me just state for the record that this show would NEVER be made with cats.
The groomer who got kicked off first “only” turned her dog into a fire ant by dying it red, shaving its legs and putting antennas on it…
PETA is already pissed about the whole concept, and we’re afraid of what’s coming next for more dogs as the groomers feel increasing pressure to outdo each other.
PS: We send Major Biden our thoughts and prayers. He’s taking a lot of heat at the White House just for doing his German Shepherd job. Max is working on a story now.
I’ve been remembering all the old musicals that serve as the soundtrack of my life, and I’m so grateful that they had a chance to be made in the “Before Times.” Today, they’d be rejected by the #MeToo generation as hateful depictions of female subjugation.
First, there’s the story of a famous Hollywood actor who finds himself instantly attracted to a naïve young bit player with aspirations of stardom. She rejects his initial clumsy passes, so he manages to trap her alone on a vacant soundstage. There, he begins grooming her to welcome his lecherous advances…
When Singin’ in the Rain was made in 1952, Debbie Reynolds was 20 and Gene Kelly was a dirty old man of 40. In the story, he brazenly rejects his studio’s attempts to make him an item with the age-appropriate actress he’s built his career with so he can devote himself to seducing this innocent girl.
In the end, the girl proves she has talent to spare and they become a new team, on screen and off…
And here’s more Alan Jay Lerner perversion from 1958 in this misogynistic travesty he concocted with his My Fair Lady composer, Fritz Loewe. It based on a 1944 novella by the French writer Colette.
It’s about a teenage girl who’s being groomed by her grandmother and great-aunt to carry on the family tradition of becoming a courtesan for fun and profit.
If made today, Maurice Chevalier, the beloved actor who sings the opening number, would have seen his entire career smashed to bits — probably with Mia Farrow leading the charge — had he not laid down an ultimatum to Lerner:
“Either you REMOVE this DISGUSTING song from the picture, or I remove MYSELF!”
What WAS Lerner thinking, writing an anthem for pedophiles?
My parents bought an album of songs from Gigi that I knew by heart when I was 5 or 6 years old. I remember specifically feeling washed up when I turned 8 and realized Maurice was no longer singing this one to me…
Leslie Caron was 26 playing 15-16 (and was actually pregnant in the clip above). Like all the other heroines of these nightmares, she wins in the end because Louis Jourdan (who was 37) falls in love with Gigi and decides marrying her is preferable to keeping her as a side piece…
I feel sorry for anyone who can watch these magnificent, beautifully filmed and scored movies and see only depravity in the romances. What is this world coming to?
One particular assault accusation against New York Governor Andrew Cuomo recently got my attention. A woman named Anna says Cuomo kissed her against her will at what appeared to be a large wedding. His lips hit her cheek because she turned her head.
When I saw this picture, I had a flashback to another wedding decades ago…
It was probably 1967. I was 13, staying the summer in Massachusetts with my grandparents and forced to tag along to a big Italian wedding. I don’t remember who got married, but I’ll never forget the gorgeous little cream-colored lace dress I wore, which I accessorized with hot-pink fishnets that my grandmother hated. Instead, she made me wear white anklets. With LACE!
We were on the church steps when a great-uncle showed up. I barely knew him. He had the look of a less-handsome Cesar Romero…
Suddenly, this near-stranger grabbed my face in his hands and kissed me right on the lips. And that was my first real kiss with the opposite sex.
Was I “confused and shocked and embarrassed,” like Anna? Did I alert the media to call out Uncle Kissy-Face as a perverted pig?
None of that. I was definitely surprised, but that’s Italians for you. Grabby and affectionate. What’s more cringe-worthy to me was the humiliation of those stupid baby socks.
Cuomo is accused of making gauche passes that sound like assault. If he did, he deserves to be punished. But a kiss at a wedding? Give me a break.
I’m afraid our whole sense of male-female interaction is being twisted beyond recognition. I blew a gasket that Turner Classic Movies feels a need to put Henry Higgins “in context.” WTF?!
TCM plans to hold roundtable discussions before showing certain classic movies to explain why they’re unwoke.
In this new reality, My Fair Lady, the Lerner and Loewe musical adaptation of George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion, is about a wealthy phonetics expert named Higgins who sets out to subjugate, humiliate and exploit a young women named Eliza Doolittle, whom he considers “a draggle-tailed guttersnipe” — just to win a bet.
TCM thinks Alan Jay Lerner made the story’s ending “less feminist” by giving it the upbeat ending viewers wanted, instead of Shaw’s. Watch it yourself. Higgins and Eliza have just had a final reckoning where he admires her new independence, calls her a “consort battleship,” but she tells him she can do “bloody well” without him. Now, he’s returning home alone…
I’ve watched this movie dozens of times and see Higgins, the “confirmed old bachelor,” finally brought to heel. At last, Eliza has put him in his place. When he tries to save face by inquiring about his slippers, she just smiles because they both know she’ll never fetch again.
What’s surprising is that they haven’t gone berserk yet over another misogynistic musical written by those monsters Rodgers and Hammerstein based on a memoir published in 1870.
In The King & I, a young English widow with a son takes a job in Siam (now Thailand) as a governess. She immediately discovers that her workplace is toxic. Her boss, an Asian male, behaves like a king, walking around half-naked and demanding all subordinates — particularly women — to actually grovel at his feet. He forces Anna to live on-site against her will and be on call 24/7.
The climax of this woeful power imbalance may be the most prolonged and disturbing depiction of workplace harassment, bullying and sexual assault ever captured on film…
Since 1956, movie-goers have mistaken this movie, like My Fair Lady, as a love story without kisses. But now we know that Yul Brynner, his overpowering sexual magnetism notwithstanding, had NO BUSINESS touching Deborah Kerr’s waist without permission, let alone forcing her to do the polka.
Did I forget to mention that in both movies, not only was there great wealth and power disparity, but also age? Back in the day, these were called “May-December” romances, and no one considered themselves a victim.
PS: If Richard Rodgers were still with us, he’d be roasted alive on the spit of #MeToo with an apple in his mouth. He was a family man with two daughters who had a reputation for casual hookups. His music still pops up all the time in TV ads and comprises a sizable chunk of the Great American Songbook but, by today’s rules, we’d be compelled to silence and scrap his every note.
Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell is peeing himself over Democrats passing a federal voter protection bill. It could nullify 250+ laws Republicans are trying to ram through their state legislatures so they can stay in power with every form of cheating imaginable.
McConnell knows — probably from experience — that Republicans are toast without cheating. They’ve been the minority at least since 2000, when the Supreme Court handed George W. Bush the presidency.
Biden wanted a collaborative relationship, but McConnell’s having none of that, instead threatening “scorched earth” unless Dems continue to let the leader of the losers steer the country from the backseat…
Gauntlet, consider it thrown down. Democrats, stop playing nice. We voted for you to DO SOMETHING. Call McConnell’s bluff. Show him what scorched earth looks like. Shove the filibuster down his goddamn throat — because you can.
Just like Trump and McConnell lied to, stole from, sickened and killed Americans by the millions — because they could.
McConnell’s a crumbling wreck who can barely move his lips. His party’s loss put him in the corner. Keep him there until he croaks.
Now, stepping down the chain a link…
To racist Wisconsin Senator Ron Johnson. He’s the guy who has nothing but fond admiration for the Capitol rioters, but fears lawless BLM demonstrators…
Call his bluff, too. Since Republicans are so fond of “the good old days,” let’s give a contemporary twist to sorting out witches back in the 1600s and let Ron prove his patriotism.
U.S. intelligence predicts that Trump’s never-ending gaslighting of white supremacists will likely spark more mass violence this year, so let’s put it to good use. The next time a MAGA mob riots, give them Ron Johnson, Ted Cruz, Josh Hurley, Kevin McCarthy, and every other Congressperson who wanted to ignore the election and make Trump dictator.
They have nothing to fear. They’ll be among the peaceful, law-abiding voters they love.
If the seditious mob hails them as heroes, it’s proves they’re also insurrectionists. Swiftly bring them to trial to receive appropriate punishment for treason.
But if the mob turns on them, suffocating them with bear repellent, beating them with American flags or tearing them limb from limb, the joke’s on them for trusting a brainwashed mob.
It’s a win-win. Congress efficiently rids itself of Trump scum.
As frustrating as these situations are, we have only ourselves to blame. Every idiot who voted for Biden, only to instantly sabotage him by voting down-ticket for corrupt Republicans like Mitch McConnell should get help. There’s something seriously wrong with you. Do you want progress or not?
And don’t forget where your COVID-19 vaccination or your $1,400 stimulus came from. (Hint: Trump had nothing to do with either one. He was too busy playing golf, watching TV and planning insurrections.)
TONY BONUS: Last night, Tony gave us all a scare when he appeared at the third beam, beyond the balcony. This photo was taken from below. His shadow on the ceiling is two stories up. Every cat has ventured onto that beam once, when young and foolish, never to return. Roc, being very long, is the only one who routinely goes out there, because he can pull himself across the span onto the balcony…
I’m happy to report that I was able to talk Tony back in from the ledge, and third beam continues to be but a dream.
Here’s a quick and simple recipe for destroying a perfectly good Sunday:
1. Move all your clocks forward and lose an hour of it until November — or forever (keep reading).
2. Do your income taxes.
My taxes always hang over my head like impending doom until March because I spend much of February sorting out the 1099-miscellaneous income forms trickling in from my clients — with a few invariably wrong and needing a redo.
This year, my ever-present dread of doing taxes seemed worse because it felt as if I’d just done the freaking things.
Actually, I did them in March 2020 on what turned out to be my last weekend of freedom before the lockdown. Had I known that, I certainly would have gone to a movie, shopping or taken myself out to lunch somewhere.
I’ve been using TurboTax for DECADES and I still loathe it. Back in the ‘90s, I remember spending entire days struggling through it. Now I’ve got it down to about three hours total, but it never feels any easier. I always hit some snag, somewhere, that has me frantically clicking in circles, searching for nonexistent “help.”
I use the Home and Business version, which makes me vulnerable to entering expenses on the wrong side because Turbo leaves it a vast gray area. For example, after all my health insurance numbers entered under the business seem to take, Turbo again asks for them as personal expenses. So WHERE DO THEY GO? Does it matter?
Entering Schedule C business expenses is most time-consuming, and why I don’t hire an accountant. By the time I’ve assembled all the figures myself (from QuickBooks, another nightmare — let’s face it, I hate numbers), I might as well just do the taxes myself.
What never fails is that after hours of meticulously entering expenses and home office deductions, Turbo says, “Never mind all that! You’re better off taking the standard deduction!”
Last year, I inexplicably ended up owing the IRS $86 and blamed it entirely on Trump. This year I’m getting a modest three-figure refund.
So, after losing an hour of sleep, and then the entire afternoon to taxes, I finally got April 15 off my back. The taxes were filed, accepted almost instantly, and now I’m just waiting for my sweet little refunds to roll in. Whew, it feels good!
Speaking of losing an hour, have you heard that the Senate is scheming to make Daylight Savings Time permanent with the bipartisan Sunshine Protection Act of 2021? (Marco Rubio and Rick Scott are sponsors, so it already smells bad.)
I would love to stop turning the clocks back and forth. But first, GIVE US BACK OUR HOUR! I want to stay on Standard Time because nobody needs it sunny half the goddamn night.
And finally, the cat beat…
In his ongoing campaign to “be one of the guys,” Tony began checking out a new frontier he’s never ventured onto before (probably because it’s usually crowded) — the couch…
We call that team behind him “Mickey and the Teds.” (Mickey’s hunched in the middle.) Mickey once belonged to the late Rex back in the ‘80s. The blonde Ted is Roc’s and did always accompany Roc on his pre-COVID weekly visits to Granny and Grumpy.
The auburn Ted was the late Cole’s. Tony took a liking to that one when he arrived, so Cole’s Teddy is pleased to be relevant again.
(Max isn’t into teddies. His go-to stuffy is a caterpillar.)
As I was ending my lost weekend marching around doing my 7,500 steps for the day, Tony had the audacity to take MY spot on the couch…
J&J VACCINATION UPDATE: After I got the shot Monday, I felt fine. Tuesday, I woke up with a headache, and was exhausted by afternoon. That evening, I had a fever that peaked at 99.8° but was normal by bedtime. Now on Thursday, my arm feels like someone punched me. But that means it’s working.
Now, to Harry and Meghan…
I must comment on their tête-à-tête with Oprah on March 7. My sympathies lie with Harry. Poor guy lost his mother at 12. Now he’s estranged from his brother, his whole family, friends and country. And all because he’s been thinking with his “other brain” since he met Meghan Markle.
Their interview was so distasteful, my DVR revolted, taping only the first 90 minutes and cutting off Oprah in mid-sentence.
Coincidentally, Oprah and the Sussex-Markles are neighbors in Montecito, California. Do you think it was Harry who popped over to Oprah’s to borrow a cup of publicity? Or, more likely, did the girls casually plot what fun it would be dish some royal dirt?
When it started, Oprah announced the couple didn’t know what they’d be asked, but she and Meghan exchanged a look. Oprah also said they weren’t paid.
For Harry — and mostly Meghan — compensation must have been the satisfaction of burying hatchets in all of the royal family’s heads.
Her “delicate condition” with child notwithstanding, Harry remained off-camera while Meghan did the heaviest shit-shoveling. Her tale didn’t hang together too well. And actress or not, she couldn’t sell herself to me as innately regal, yet pathetic and vulnerable because her fin kept breaking the surface.
For example, she initially told Oprah she doesn’t read what’s written about her, but then said it had driven her to “not want to live anymore.” She topped that by claiming the royals denied her any medical or psychological treatment because it would “look bad.” Who was going to tell anybody?
She also claimed they’d “taken” her passport, as if they considered her a flight risk, even though they all hated her so much.
She professed near-total ignorance of the royal family from the outset, and no curiosity to learn. Harry had to teach her to curtsy, a thing she never thought the woman who’s been Queen of England decades longer than Meghan’s been alive would EVER expect her to.
If the royals weren’t utterly charmed by Meghan’s persistent American oafishness and refusal to adapt to centuries of tradition upon joining the family, I can’t blame them.
Leaving no shovel unturned, Meghan also accused them of spreading lies about her. We should disregard whatever’s been written about Meghan’s churlishness toward anyone in the palace and believe exactly the opposite, including that Kate made Meghan cry before her wedding.
Meghan essentially played a whole deck of victim cards, pulling a bunch of extra racism aces out of her sleeve for good measure because she knew those would go atomic. And they have.
Aside: I just happened across this little Meghan vs. Kate story about Archie’s christening. Yeah, that Kate’s one real bitch.
Speaking of Archie, Meghan’s story now is that she WANTED Archie to be a prince, but the mean Queen wouldn’t let him because he’s — biracial.
Fact: Great-grandchildren don’t have titles because it’s not done. William’s kids do because they’re in the direct line of succession.
Do you remember when Meghan refused to give birth in the usual royal hospital and insisted that her baby have a “normal” life? Or was that really “the Firm” denying her medical care again?
And was giving her baby the most common name she could muster, after Archie Bunker, the biggest racist in American sitcom history, intended as an ironic slap at “the Firm”? Or is Meghan planning to call her daughter-to-be Gertrude because she’s got a thing for ugly names?
Speaking of “the Firm,” that’s what Meghan consistently called her in-laws. To acknowledge them as human beings might have made viewers picture them being slashed and burned before our eyes. Particularly 99-year-old Prince Philip, who may be on his deathbed right now.
Harry was a bit more circumspect, gallantly refusing to name the royal who allegedly asked about Archie’s skin tone. That tidbit was dropped on us as if it was a matter of deep concern expressed by a card-carrying racist relative. Or was it rather a very tasteless, cringe-worthy joke, instantly regretted and never meant to be repeated? We’ll probably never know.
In the end, what possible purpose did those two have, except a play for attention and perhaps to drum up more lucrative deals?
Since they’ve now cemented a reputation as people who will pull out if the going gets tough, and then stab you in the back just for revenge and to make Oprah even wealthier, I’m wondering how receptive they’ll find Corporate America.
Since she didn’t take to royalty, Meghan has achieved another dream of sorts: A $14.65 million, 18,000-square-foot, nine-bedroom, 16-bath mansion on 7.4 acres of land where she keeps rescue chickens like a Beverly Hillbilly when she’s not swapping casserole recipes with real celebrity neighbors, Gwyneth Paltrow and Ellen DeGeneres.
Harry’s saddled with a $9.5 million mortgage and whatever skills he gained in the military to parlay into some sort of career to support his family. And, I’m afraid, future misery if he fails to deliver to Meghan’s satisfaction.
BUT FIRST, BREAKING NEWS: In what can only be described as a miracle, I just returned from receiving the one-dose Johnson & Johnson COVID-19 vaccine! The county sent an email late Saturday night with appointments today at the county fairgrounds, so I pounced. Four days shy of my one-year lockdown anniversary, I can barely wrap my head around knowing that normal life may finally be on the horizon.
Now, Twitter. It took exactly 10 weeks to confirm my status because Twitter euphemistically calls all disciplinary action “suspension,” including permanent banishment. I was indeterminately suspended on Christmas Eve and immediately filed an appeal. Hearing nothing back, a few weeks ago I requested clarification on the duration of my suspension.
By the way, all contacts with Twitter “support” get canned bot responses, so I don’t know if there’s any human intelligence involved, or if they just spit stuff out based on algorithms.
I’d had a Twitter account since 2010, but the three strikes leading to my termination all occurred during Trump. First, I was shut down for 12 hours for insulting Sandra Huckabee Sanders. Then I got seven days for calling Ivanka the C-word. At Twitter’s command, I deleted those tweets but have no regrets about what they said.
On Christmas Eve 2020, the hashtag #ImpotentTrump was trending (meaning thousands of tweets included it), so I joined in. Here’s the tweet that pushed Twitter to the breaking point. It was viewed 138 times…
And here’s their rationale…
Compare their list of protected categories to my tweet and you’ll see that none apply, unless they’re defending Trump’s potency. I was criticizing his POLITICS and utter failure as a president, as well as his family’s corruption. Perhaps instead of “tar & feathers,” I should have wished them coal in their stockings, or bags of dog shit on their doorsteps.
The lesson here is that it’s incredibly easy to have your message misconstrued.
Twitter revoked my ability to delete the tweet or deactivate the account, which still sits there in some weird Twitter cyberpurgatory with 8,000+ tweets.
I respect Twitter’s right as a publisher to reject my work. But, since they have rejected it, I don’t believe they have any right to hold it hostage, and have asked them to delete @CatsWorking altogether.
Twitter began to self-destruct when they refused for four years to rein in Trump for thousands of insulting, cyberbullying, lying tweets FAR worse than anything I ever tweeted. Now they’ve swung the pendulum hard in the opposite direction and seem to be banishing people willy-nilly.