And Now, A Message From Lulu

Hello, assholes.

I haven’t been blogging as of late because well, I haven’t felt like it, that’s why. There is so much to DO in a day, I mean, I have to nap. I have to beat Finn about the head and neck. I have to prevent Toby from attempting to ride me like a goddamn pony. I have to yell at the human biped food slave to put the food in the bowl. There’s just so many hours in the day! You understand, I’m sure.

But I come to you today because there is something awry. The carrier is out. The tiny prison that I have been shoved into without a modicum of dignity time and time again is not hidden away in the closet, but out in the living room. Does the biped think I’m an idiot or something? I know there are shenanigans afoot. I am to be put in the prison, I just know it. The idiot boycats could not care less about the prison box, no. They’re just running full force around the apartment, leaping over each other and running into walls like they have no brain cells whatsoever (likely) but I know. Oh yes, I know. The biped doesn’t know that I checked her calendar while she was out smoking. It’s the bleakest day of the year. Allow me to explain.

Every year, I am dragged to the superstore of all things cat and dog for my inoculations. Why a cat that has never been outside needs a rabies shot is BEYOND ME, but here we are. So this is what is to happen. I will be stuffed into the prison box (just like John McCain in Viet Nam!) and dragged to the superstore. Once there, I will wait on a line not unlike a Soviet Russia breadline, which will move agonizingly slowly. The prison box will be unceremoniously set on the floor and SHOVED with the biped’s FOOT along the line as she jokes with the other idiot bipeds about my girth. There is no justice in the land. None whatsoever. Once we have come to the front of the line, the biped will DUMP me out of the carrier as I try to hide inside, SHAKING IT if I do not come out, I mean, what am I, a ketchup bottle? And then a needle of hideous size will be slammed into my beautiful self, as the cruel taskmaster biped and the idiot biped food slave discuss my weight. I would just like to add that all this talk of my voluptuousness reeks of irony, because the idiot biped food slave isn’t exactly the svelte young thing she used to be. Anyway.

That’s what’s happening today. I have already punished the biped by doing my new trick, which is to knock over the garbage and, one by one, bring the empty cat food cans into the living room and deposit them next to her. She was so stunned by my talents that she just let me keep doing it once until there was a pile of cans on the carpet. If she is to fill me with shame, I shall fill her abode with trash. Vile biped.

I believe that’s all, assholes. I remain your lord and mistress, the elusive, Rubenesque queen of all the lands, the one and only, Number one cat…


PS: The idiot boycats are going to find themselves blinded by my claws if they do not stop trying to ride me like I’m freaking Secretariat here. And I’ll kill the biped if she doesn’t stop pointing and laughing whilst they do it. I hate the biped.

PPS: Send treats.

PPPS: I hate everything.



And Now, A Message From Lulu — 2 Comments

  1. I’m very glad to see a bloggy from you. I was concerned that the stress of trying to keep everyone in line (we all know you’re the one in charge) had finally broken you. Thank goodness you’re alright! I have said it time and time again, Lulu: you are practically a saint for putting up with all of this madness! A SAINT! Stay strong, Lulu. Stay strong.

  2. Oh, Lulu, imaginary treats are one of my best skills. If cherry turnovers or chocolate eclairs aren’t to your taste, let me know and I will ask your Biped for advice. She’s not so bad, you know. You should let her rub between your ears for an hour, or something.

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