Cats Choose Their Presidential Candidates

September 27, 2007

By the Cats

Yul’s Pick

Let me be first to go out on a limb and announce my human candidate. My pick will come as no surprise if you know me. It’s Barack Obama. We have a lot in common, beginning with being black males of mixed parentage (I’m said to have a streak of Siamese).

I like the way he’s been working like a cat in Washington, rather than going to the dogs like the rest of them. If Barack would drop by for a quick photo op, I could instantly boost his credibility because no one has ever accused me of not being black enough.

Adele’s Pick

We need an even bigger change than Yul envisions. To keep from losing interest after five seconds, men have to approach everything like it’s a team sport. That’s why they started these endless games: “Us vs. Terrorists,” “Repubs vs. Dems,” “Bush & Cheney vs. Sanity.”

The situation in Washington today is more foul than a litter box that hasn’t been scooped in seven years. That’s why my choice for president is Hillary Clinton. As always, a female needs to take over and clean up the men’s mess.

Fred’s Pick

I like Kucinich because he’s a guy I can look in the eye without standing on a chair, but I’m betting my cat treats on John Edwards. Like me, he’s a true Southern gentleman, and we’ve both gone through rough times. You can’t lose a son and help your wife cope with life-threatening illness without learning something.

Under Edwards’ attractiveness and perfect hair (both feline traits, by the way), you’ll find a sadder but wiser man. We’ve had our tails repeatedly stepped on for seven years, and it’s long past time we started yowling. We need a president who will sincerely care about the well-being of all Americans – not just the fat cats – and that’s Edwards.

Cats Declare a Political Party

September 25, 2007

By Yul

The upcoming presidential election is already in our face like an ingrown whisker, so we cats have been discussing how we’d vote if we could. (Don’t worry, that day will come.)

Fred, Adele, and I are in total agreement that we’re not Republicats. We call purely decorative lounge lizards who luxuriate in beautiful homes with plenty of soft beds and gourmet food from tiny golden cans “fat cats.” They view the world through rose-colored windows and think it’s a given that their cushy lifestyle will last all their nine lives.

I met some at the Richmond Animal League, the shelter I came from. Mostly, they were shell-shock cases whose owner suddenly died or moved somewhere pet-unfriendly. The lucky ones weren’t brought in all matted and half-dead after being tossed out on their tails to fend for themselves.

Once they had nothing, you’d be amazed how quickly their snooty smugness turned into deep gratitude for whatever pats and handouts they could get.

Fred grew up on the streets, and Adele’s earliest kittenhood was also spent at the League, so we’ve never taken our good fortune for granted. We know how fine the line is between being a beloved companion animal and feral.

We believe that every cat – regardless of color, age, neutered, spayed (or not), declawed or fully armed – deserves a safe home, a full food bowl, and veterinary care.

That sums up most of what we agree on. Conformity isn’t our specialty.

If we felines had a candidate, he or she would be an Independent or Libertarian. Unfortunately, we’re limited to human choices, so we’re declaring ourselves Democats.

How that will shake out around here is another tail…

O.J.’s Girlfriend is a Cat Murderer

September 20, 2007

By Fred

O.J. Simpson’s conflict resolution skills are improving. He’s toned down from fatal stabbings to mere armed robbery and kidnapping. If Bruce Fromong survives his heart attack, everyone may live to tell this latest sordid tail…uh…tale.

The other good news is that virtually everyone involved – perps and victims – are low-lifes who will say anything to stay out of jail. It’s like that “If a tree falls in the woods and nobody’s around to hear it” riddle. If criminals rob criminals, has any crime really been committed?

That’s apparently the crux of O.J.’s defense.

My attention has turned to O.J.’s girlfriend, Christie Prody, a creepy Nicole wannabe. It’s an ambition only the dumbest blonde could have, since we all know how Nicole turned out.

Giving my kitty curiosity free rein, I dug up that Christie’s boundless stupidity actually cost a cat its life.

During one of her many splits with O.J., Christie took off for a month, leaving her orange and white cat alone in her Miami apartment. After a neighbor complained of a foul odor, firefighters broke in and found the cat’s badly decomposed corpse lying in a doorway. They could only assume it starved.

O.J., who owned two dogs at the time (no surprise there – cats are too smart for him), claimed he hadn’t seen Christie in months and didn’t even know she had a cat. He also resented being treated by the police in the matter like something the cat dragged in.

So much for sympathy for the poor, innocent cat, who ultimately paid the price for being remotely associated with O.J.

Christie and O.J. seem to be a match of heartless killers made in heaven.

O.J. Simpson & Cat Discipline

September 18, 2007

By Fred

I’m the only cat old enough to remember O.J.’s trial for murdering his wife and Ron Goldman, the “Wrong Place, Wrong Time” poster boy. I’d recently been a feisty young stray who knew what it was like to do gruesome things just to survive. O.J., on the other paw, was sitting in the catbird seat. What was his excuse, I wondered?

I wanted to believe O.J., but no cat has ever left a couple of mangled corpses at the front step with a trail of blood back to his favorite bed and gotten off with the “If the collar don’t fit, you must acquit” defense.

If a cat’s got feathers stuck in his teeth, chances are good that some bird has come in for a landing – permanently.

But O.J. ultimately did go free to live happily ever after.

Last week, he launched a self-described “sting operation” in Las Vegas, allegedly to repo some cherished possessions. It just showed how well he remembered all his positive reinforcement from court. Consequences mean nothing to him.

When cats turn bully like O.J., they’re often forced to wear bells so they can never sneak up on anyone again. Or they’re sentenced to life indoors, where soft beds and regular meals turn them into marshmallows.

Unfortunately, O.J.’s going to be harder to fix . Now that he’s caged, humans need to 1) Make him understand that threatening or killing helpless things for sport is wrong, and 2) Put him where he can’t to do it again.

It’s the only humane thing to do.

I Don’t Get It

September 13, 2007

By Adele

Let’s lighten the mood by turning our attention to science. I watch a lot more TV than the average cat, and I’m not talking just Video Catnip. That’s how I learned about human “restless leg syndrome,” or RLS. It sounds crazy, but I know it’s real because cats sometimes get restless legs, too. But we don’t pop pills. We climb the drapes or chase something. Or chase something up the drapes.

Anyway, I saw this ad for an RLS pill called Requip. It said side effects may include intense urges to gamble or have sex. How nice. While you’re running amok in Las Vegas, spending your last dime and chasing floozies, you won’t feel fidgety.

And they call that a “cure?”

Then I read that doctors are distressed because women are refusing to pop some new pills called raloxifene and letrozole that could prevent breast cancer just because the teensy-weensy trade-offs are blood clots and osteoporosis.

Imagine that. Perfectly healthy women don’t want to take something to prevent a disease they don’t have so they can have heart attacks and strokes or become shrunken hunchbacks instead.

It makes me glad that cats have a solid reputation for spitting pills out. Who needs ‘em?

Who Does Bush Think He’s Kidding?

September 11, 2007

By Yul

At nearly 20 pounds of muscle and nerve, I’m a cat who doesn’t hesitate to put his claws where his mouth is. Just ask Fred. He’s tried to get the drop on me and ended up at the vet’s enough to vouch that I’m a tough sell.

So when Bush made a surprise visit to a “heavily guarded desert air base” in Iraq last week, who did he think he was impressing?

President Bush, if you want to get my respect, go strut your stuff down Main Street, Baghdad, with no air cover and no armed troops surrounding you. Don’t trip over any dead civilians, and then come back and tell us about it.

Any cat can proclaim what a tough, smart guy he is from under the bed, but you only know for sure once you put him in a dark alley with a bunch of gutter rats and see who comes out alive.

After a quick coaching session from Bush in Iraq, did it surprise anyone that General David Patraeus told Congress exactly what Bush and Cheney wanted them to hear? “The surge is working. Give us more time.”

In allowing American troops to continue being the common target for all of Iraq’s blood-thirsty factions, Bush can now claim he’s following his top general’s recommendations, not just stubbornly clinging to his self-inflicted fiasco, waiting for his fairy godmother to wave her wand and turn it into a triumph.

How convenient.

Will He or Won’t He (Craig, Resign)?

September 6, 2007

By Fred

I’ve got a morbid fascination in the mess that Idaho Republican Senator Larry Craig has made. Every time he opens his mouth, he squanders what remains of his nine political lives faster than a cat in the middle of a superhighway.

After agreeing to resign his Senate seat a few days ago, Craig apparently had one of those cartoon lightbulbs flash over his head: “Hey, wait a minute, guys! If I can beat this rap, I can stay!”

You should have thought of that before you pleaded guilty, Buddy-Boy. Even if Bush were to pardon you, your career on Capitol Hill is toast. Like Scooter Libby’s. Why drag your family through any more humiliation?

Like Craig, I wrestle with my own demon. Peeing in unseemly places. I can deny my puddles all day, but to Yul, Adele, and Karen, I’ll forever be “the cat who forgets the litterbox.” I have to live with that.

Craig seems to keep forgetting he’s gay. He got married, had kids. Oops!

His occasional lapses into gay mating behavior that don’t result in “getting lucky” don’t make him a heterosexual. They make him a gay wannabe who forgets he has a female wife at home.

Larry Craig, wake up and smell the dirty kitty litter. Males who aren’t gay don’t act gay by accident and get arrested. They never feel compelled to plead guilty to lesser charges – because there are no charges.

This is one pile you’re never going to cover up. Instead of digging your hole any deeper by continuing to protest that being gay is worse than death, why don’t you just shut up, go find yourself a boyfriend, and sort yourself out in private?

Of course, if you choose to stop being a hypocrite, you’ll probably have to switch political parties, too, because Republicans don’t like honest homosexuals, either.

al-Maliki’s Pets Don’t Stand a Chance

September 4, 2007

By Yul

Karen doesn’t know I read the newspaper because I don’t move my lips. Yesterday, I almost yakked in my waterbowl when I saw Iraq’s prime minister, Nouri al-Maliki, boasting that his government has stopped their civil and sectarian war.

“Stopped it with what?” I asked myself. His crazy F Troop army switches sides according to whose backs they can stab most easily. They make cats seem loyal and faithful in comparison.

al-Maliki’s fantasy that the war’s over must have made him think it was a dandy idea to let his government vacation for all of August. They had nothing pressing to do, right?

I’ll admit I wasn’t counting, but I’m pretty sure that hundreds, if not thousands, of Iraqi civilians died violently while al-Maliki and his cronies relaxed. He probably chalks up those casualties to “natural causes,” since it’s become more “natural” to suddenly croak from bullets or bombs than health problems or old age in Iraq.

So I started wondering about this guy’s pets – if he has any. Someone with so little regard for fellow humans seems like someone who’d take off on a month’s holiday forgetting to at least leave a big bag of food out and a faucet dripping. No one would be more surprised than he to find the starved, dehydrated carcasses of his former companion animals rotting all over his home upon his return.

“Don’t blame me, they died of natural causes,” he’d say. “You picky American shorthairs fail to appreciate my achievements as a pet owner.”

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