I thought that Baseball Season in my house would have ended by now. I was mistaken. It has not only continued, it has gained in intensity. Non-amusing in the extreme.
It would appear that my male two leggers favorite team refuses to stop playing. In all previous years, they have quit playing by mid September and the male two legger has restricted his yelling at the talking box thingy to Sundays when he watches football. But this baseball playoff madness seems to have no end.
Apparently his team, the Rangers, are competing with the Giants in The World Series. I have heard that the winners of this competition get to wear special jewelry and then go visit a six foot tall talking mouse thingy named "Mickey". Big deal.
However, something puzzles me. Where do the two leggers come up with the names of their teams? I have pondered this at length and have reached no satisfactory conclusions. Please allow me to explain my confusion:
The Giants: They do not appear monstrously large.
The Rangers: They do not seem to wander any more than the other teams.
The Mariner: They wear neither floppy hats nor eyepatches, however it seems that their ship has indeed sailed.
The Indians: They appear be to neither Native American nor Hindu.
And finally, The Yankees. This moniker is possibly the most confusing of all. It is my understanding that in order to have a "Yankee", there must first be a "Yanker" I do not understand how there can be the one without there being the other. So I took a poll. I inquired of of all the people that I know that follow baseball. Here are the results:
.
2% said that I misunderstood the term "Yankee" (Highly doubtful, and their shoes will pay later)
3% said they didn't know.
95 % said "Yankees" and "Yankers" are synonymous.
This greatly amused my two legger
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Cats Your Fate To The Wind
You may have noticed that I have been somewhat lax in updating my Chronicles. It is not my fault. It is the weather's fault. The weather is the one thing that I have no control over whatsoever. Even if I could control it, I doubt I would. It causes enough chaos on its own without my aid.
As many of you know, I live in the Puget Sound region. The weather here during October is, shall we say, predictably unpredictable. Sometimes it is rainy. Sometimes it is windy. Sometimes it is windy and rainy. At other times, it is rainy and windy. It is often rainy and windy and rainy with wind. It has been known to be wet and blustery. Moist and blowing. Gusty and pouring. Sprinkly and gusty. You get the idea. It just so happens that this weekend, we had wind and rain.
I spent the entire weekend watching a tree in the front yard. This may sound like a boring way to spend a weekend, but I have my reasons. Okay, really just one reason. I know the squirrel lives in that tree. I was awaiting his demise.
As soon as the windstorm struck, I began imagining the squirrel being blown out the tree, falling from the upper branches to a final meeting with Mother Earth. Perhaps he would scream or at least squeal all the way down. Perhaps he would realize in his final moments how incredibly irritating his constant, irrational optimism was to all other creatures in his vicinity and repent. I entertained a mental image of him falling and not dying right away, but instead suffering, while Ivan and I watched from our warm abode giggling, as his limbs slowly went numb.
Alas, my wish was not granted. Apparently the same claw thingies that enable him to scurry up and down the tree in the most annoyingly nimble manner also allow him to cling securely to said tree even in the highest winds. I am annoyed.
At the same time however, I am amused. I am amused because I can imagine how he spent the last seventy-two hours. Hanging on for dear life while the wind whips around his arboreal abode, the rain penetrating every millimeter of his flea bitten fur. My dearest wish is that he can see me from his precarious perch, sitting in my window, comfy, dry and totally unaffected by the wind.
It was not to be. The storm subsided this morning. The squirrel scurried out of his tree looking none the worse for wear. The storm also succeeded in knocking the rest of the pine cones out of the tree making the squirrels labor that much easier.
Sometimes I honestly believe that Mother Nature truly hates me.
As many of you know, I live in the Puget Sound region. The weather here during October is, shall we say, predictably unpredictable. Sometimes it is rainy. Sometimes it is windy. Sometimes it is windy and rainy. At other times, it is rainy and windy. It is often rainy and windy and rainy with wind. It has been known to be wet and blustery. Moist and blowing. Gusty and pouring. Sprinkly and gusty. You get the idea. It just so happens that this weekend, we had wind and rain.
I spent the entire weekend watching a tree in the front yard. This may sound like a boring way to spend a weekend, but I have my reasons. Okay, really just one reason. I know the squirrel lives in that tree. I was awaiting his demise.
As soon as the windstorm struck, I began imagining the squirrel being blown out the tree, falling from the upper branches to a final meeting with Mother Earth. Perhaps he would scream or at least squeal all the way down. Perhaps he would realize in his final moments how incredibly irritating his constant, irrational optimism was to all other creatures in his vicinity and repent. I entertained a mental image of him falling and not dying right away, but instead suffering, while Ivan and I watched from our warm abode giggling, as his limbs slowly went numb.
Alas, my wish was not granted. Apparently the same claw thingies that enable him to scurry up and down the tree in the most annoyingly nimble manner also allow him to cling securely to said tree even in the highest winds. I am annoyed.
At the same time however, I am amused. I am amused because I can imagine how he spent the last seventy-two hours. Hanging on for dear life while the wind whips around his arboreal abode, the rain penetrating every millimeter of his flea bitten fur. My dearest wish is that he can see me from his precarious perch, sitting in my window, comfy, dry and totally unaffected by the wind.
It was not to be. The storm subsided this morning. The squirrel scurried out of his tree looking none the worse for wear. The storm also succeeded in knocking the rest of the pine cones out of the tree making the squirrels labor that much easier.
Sometimes I honestly believe that Mother Nature truly hates me.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Field of Snores
The male two legger is excited. This annoys me. What has him so excited? Baseball. Apparently "his" team is doing well. The success of his team causes him to jump and shout at unexpected intervals. Since I don't understand two legger sports, I decided to first observe, and then if I deem it worthy, suggest improvements.
When I first heard the two leggers discussing baseball, I actually found myself becoming interested. They spoke of bats, flies, balls, running home, and most intriguing of all: "fowl balls". I thought it might be some sort of culinary competition. However, I was mistaken.
After careful observation of a game on the talking box thingy, I can safely say that two leggers who watch sports develop a completely different lexicon. For instance:
Bat- A large wooden club, not a flying mousie thingie.
Balls- Ok, they are pretty much round objects, made to be thrown and chased. However, it also means a poorly thrown,.....well.....ball.
Running home- No, they don't leave the park and go to their house, they run between four white things, returning to the white thing they started at. Very confusing.
Fowl balls- Well, I totally misunderstood both the meaning and spelling of this term. Apparently avian anatomy has nothing to do with this sport. (See also "Fly balls")
Now to say that the logic of this sport escapes me would be a massive understatement. At first glance it appeared that the man holding the ball (or pitcher) was trying to hit the guy holding the bat. (batter) The batter then attempts to fend off the ball with the big wooden club while simultaneously trying to drive the ball back at one of the two leggers standing behind the pitcher. After hitting the ball, the batter then drops the bat and runs to one of the white things as the other two leggers try to tag him with the ball. ( If he just kept the bat with him, I bet the other two leggers would stop trying to tag him.)
However, upon further observation, I realized that the pitcher was actually trying to miss the batter, but only by a little bit. And the batter was actually trying to hit the ball AWAY from the other players. After watching for about a half hour, I realized that there would be little or no bloodshed involved and decided that somewhere there was paint drying that was in need of watching.
Other than allowing all the players to carry bats at all times, I have no suggestions for making this sport more interesting.
In short, I've come to this realization about two leggers: Two legger sports are nothing but excuses to shirk their duties and drink beer. I guarantee that if they televised me stalking and slapping Tiger Lily, some two legged male would grab a six pack, forget his lawn, and spend four hours a day on a couch yelling about how in his day he coulda slapped her better.
Perhaps they'll give me my own channel.
When I first heard the two leggers discussing baseball, I actually found myself becoming interested. They spoke of bats, flies, balls, running home, and most intriguing of all: "fowl balls". I thought it might be some sort of culinary competition. However, I was mistaken.
After careful observation of a game on the talking box thingy, I can safely say that two leggers who watch sports develop a completely different lexicon. For instance:
Bat- A large wooden club, not a flying mousie thingie.
Balls- Ok, they are pretty much round objects, made to be thrown and chased. However, it also means a poorly thrown,.....well.....ball.
Running home- No, they don't leave the park and go to their house, they run between four white things, returning to the white thing they started at. Very confusing.
Fowl balls- Well, I totally misunderstood both the meaning and spelling of this term. Apparently avian anatomy has nothing to do with this sport. (See also "Fly balls")
Now to say that the logic of this sport escapes me would be a massive understatement. At first glance it appeared that the man holding the ball (or pitcher) was trying to hit the guy holding the bat. (batter) The batter then attempts to fend off the ball with the big wooden club while simultaneously trying to drive the ball back at one of the two leggers standing behind the pitcher. After hitting the ball, the batter then drops the bat and runs to one of the white things as the other two leggers try to tag him with the ball. ( If he just kept the bat with him, I bet the other two leggers would stop trying to tag him.)
However, upon further observation, I realized that the pitcher was actually trying to miss the batter, but only by a little bit. And the batter was actually trying to hit the ball AWAY from the other players. After watching for about a half hour, I realized that there would be little or no bloodshed involved and decided that somewhere there was paint drying that was in need of watching.
Other than allowing all the players to carry bats at all times, I have no suggestions for making this sport more interesting.
In short, I've come to this realization about two leggers: Two legger sports are nothing but excuses to shirk their duties and drink beer. I guarantee that if they televised me stalking and slapping Tiger Lily, some two legged male would grab a six pack, forget his lawn, and spend four hours a day on a couch yelling about how in his day he coulda slapped her better.
Perhaps they'll give me my own channel.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
G.O.A.Ts. (Goofy Outside Amusement Thingies)
I have living outside my house two incredibly amusing four leggers. They are of the variety that the two leggers call "goats". In fact, they may even be my favorite non feline four legged type critters. I spend hours watching them from various windows in my house. What is it about them that fascinates me so?
I'm not sure.
The two goats (named Bobbie and Gracie) seem cheerful all the time. Normally this annoys me, but in their case, it works. They spend all day in various totally unproductive activities. I respect this. They hate dogs, also worthy of my respect.
Gracie appears to be the leader of the two. This is curious because she also seems to be less intelligent than Bobbie. Granted, her horn thingies are much larger than Bobbie's, and she is somewhat larger, but these things should not automatically bestow authority. If size and lack of intelligence were the standard for leadership, Ivan would be crowned Supreme Ruler for life. Perhaps goat society is based on a different philosophy.
Be that as it may, goats are highly entertaining. Lacking claws and teeth, their only method of defense appears to be their unnaturally hard heads. When threatened, or sometimes for no apparent reason, they will stand on their hind legs, hold the pose for a moment, and then bring their heads crashing down onto the noggin of whoever has roused their displeasure. This produces a sound not unlike the sound that is made by dropping a ten pound lamp on a five pound teacup poodledog. Very amusing. It was once my great honor to witness Bobbie smash a large pitbull so hard that caused the offending beast to wander in circles for five minutes muttering like Bob Dylan's speech therapist.
Occasionally, while they are peacefully munching their grass, one of them will, for no apparent reason, jump straight into the air and take off running, kicking and pitching. I've no idea what triggers this conniption, but I admit it reminds me of Ivan when I tell him a brainwave is headed right for him.
Of all the things I enjoy most about them though, is the chaos they cause when they manage to escape from their enclosure. They always plan their escapes for the middle of the night. This is no bid for long sought freedom, (they never go far) it is simply a way for them to prove to the two leggers that two legger dominance is but an illusion.
As if I haven't proven that more than once. I guess the goats aren't the only species with hard heads.
I'm not sure.
The two goats (named Bobbie and Gracie) seem cheerful all the time. Normally this annoys me, but in their case, it works. They spend all day in various totally unproductive activities. I respect this. They hate dogs, also worthy of my respect.
Gracie appears to be the leader of the two. This is curious because she also seems to be less intelligent than Bobbie. Granted, her horn thingies are much larger than Bobbie's, and she is somewhat larger, but these things should not automatically bestow authority. If size and lack of intelligence were the standard for leadership, Ivan would be crowned Supreme Ruler for life. Perhaps goat society is based on a different philosophy.
Be that as it may, goats are highly entertaining. Lacking claws and teeth, their only method of defense appears to be their unnaturally hard heads. When threatened, or sometimes for no apparent reason, they will stand on their hind legs, hold the pose for a moment, and then bring their heads crashing down onto the noggin of whoever has roused their displeasure. This produces a sound not unlike the sound that is made by dropping a ten pound lamp on a five pound teacup poodledog. Very amusing. It was once my great honor to witness Bobbie smash a large pitbull so hard that caused the offending beast to wander in circles for five minutes muttering like Bob Dylan's speech therapist.
Occasionally, while they are peacefully munching their grass, one of them will, for no apparent reason, jump straight into the air and take off running, kicking and pitching. I've no idea what triggers this conniption, but I admit it reminds me of Ivan when I tell him a brainwave is headed right for him.
Of all the things I enjoy most about them though, is the chaos they cause when they manage to escape from their enclosure. They always plan their escapes for the middle of the night. This is no bid for long sought freedom, (they never go far) it is simply a way for them to prove to the two leggers that two legger dominance is but an illusion.
As if I haven't proven that more than once. I guess the goats aren't the only species with hard heads.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Prestidigitation, and Other Naughty Sounding Words
I have spent quite a bit of time explaining WHY we felines do the things we do, but I've yet to explain HOW we do the things we do. Allow me to correct that oversight now.
Two leggers have always marveled at our many abilities. We can hear the sound of a tuna can being opened in a sound proof room, encased in lead, during a rap concert, in a hailstorm. We have the ability to defy gravity when it pleases us. We know to within .0001 millimeters, the spot on your body that hurts the most and the best way to step on said spot in order to cause the most discomfort. We are even able to become completely invisible if you decide that you need to remove us to a different room.
There is a perfectly reasonable and scientific explanation for how we do all this. It has been studied at numerous universities and other places where alcohol is consumed. The answer?
MAGIC
Yes, you read correctly. Magic.
I'll elaborate, but first I must explain for those unfamiliar with feline history how we came to receive these powers.
Very early in our history, long before the two leggers climbed down from their trees and started building cul de sacs, I believe it was during the Mittens Dynasty; the reigning patriarch, Tucker Ironclaw, discovered a magic catnip mousie thingy. (Back then catnip mousie thingies were made from real mousie thingies that had been caught and force fed catnip until they expired) While he was stalking his new toy, the spirit of the mouse appeared and offered Tucker three wishes if he'd spare him the indignity of being slapped and slobbered upon for countless hours. Tucker, being the wise ruler he was, demanded six wishes. They finally compromised and settled on 24 wishes.
His first wish was to make all dogs idiots. the next 22 wishes he spent on scratching posts, feathers and a Chia Pet. His last wish was to grant all future felines magical abilities. Not to use for the furtherance of peace on Earth or any such silly cause, but rather simply to amuse us.
The magical catnip mousie thingy was spared and the rest is history.
Now I can tell that many two leggers will be somewhat doubtful of my explanation. But trust me, the only parts of this story that are untrue, are the parts I made up.
Two leggers have always marveled at our many abilities. We can hear the sound of a tuna can being opened in a sound proof room, encased in lead, during a rap concert, in a hailstorm. We have the ability to defy gravity when it pleases us. We know to within .0001 millimeters, the spot on your body that hurts the most and the best way to step on said spot in order to cause the most discomfort. We are even able to become completely invisible if you decide that you need to remove us to a different room.
There is a perfectly reasonable and scientific explanation for how we do all this. It has been studied at numerous universities and other places where alcohol is consumed. The answer?
MAGIC
Yes, you read correctly. Magic.
I'll elaborate, but first I must explain for those unfamiliar with feline history how we came to receive these powers.
Very early in our history, long before the two leggers climbed down from their trees and started building cul de sacs, I believe it was during the Mittens Dynasty; the reigning patriarch, Tucker Ironclaw, discovered a magic catnip mousie thingy. (Back then catnip mousie thingies were made from real mousie thingies that had been caught and force fed catnip until they expired) While he was stalking his new toy, the spirit of the mouse appeared and offered Tucker three wishes if he'd spare him the indignity of being slapped and slobbered upon for countless hours. Tucker, being the wise ruler he was, demanded six wishes. They finally compromised and settled on 24 wishes.
His first wish was to make all dogs idiots. the next 22 wishes he spent on scratching posts, feathers and a Chia Pet. His last wish was to grant all future felines magical abilities. Not to use for the furtherance of peace on Earth or any such silly cause, but rather simply to amuse us.
The magical catnip mousie thingy was spared and the rest is history.
Now I can tell that many two leggers will be somewhat doubtful of my explanation. But trust me, the only parts of this story that are untrue, are the parts I made up.
Monday, October 11, 2010
The Name Game
I have had several followers ask me "Why doesn't my cat come to me when I call its name?" There are several possible explanations for this behavior.
First and foremost, unless you have food or a catnip mousie thingy, we see no need to answer your summons. Trotting up to you whenever we hear our name like some, I don't know, umm...DOG! This does not amuse us. We are not dogs, we have too much dignity and self respect. If a cat should happen to come to you after hearing its name being called, trust me, it is nothing but an ugly coincidence. Do not flatter yourself.
Another reason we don't answer when you call, and my personal pet peeve (no pun intended) are the names you call us by. We simply disagree with your choice of moniker. I have yet to meet a cat that considers "Fluffy" to be a good name. It is a description and shows a basic lack of imagination. Have you ever seen a two legger infant named "Short, Stubby and Hairless"? This theory also applies to "Blackie", "Ginger" and "Demon Beast From Hell". Simple descriptions, not names.
On the other hand, some two leggers use entirely too much imagination when naming us. Names like "Harry Squatter" and "Mr. McWhiskers" come to mind. We are not amused.
And of course, there are the names that are so inane that no explanation is needed. Why do you insist on naming us "Kitty" or Kitty Kat" or "Puss"? It baffles me.
If you must give us names and expect us to reply, you need to name us as we see ourselves. "Fang", "Goliath" and "Mouse Munchin Thingy" are all names I'd be proud to wear. Ivan is very pleased with his name. (though he'd actually prefer "Guido") Tiger Lily likes her first name, but whines about her last name. (I'll smack her later)
So, if you really expect us to come when called, call us something that doesn't embarrass us. I doubt we'll answer, but at least your shoes will survive.
First and foremost, unless you have food or a catnip mousie thingy, we see no need to answer your summons. Trotting up to you whenever we hear our name like some, I don't know, umm...DOG! This does not amuse us. We are not dogs, we have too much dignity and self respect. If a cat should happen to come to you after hearing its name being called, trust me, it is nothing but an ugly coincidence. Do not flatter yourself.
Another reason we don't answer when you call, and my personal pet peeve (no pun intended) are the names you call us by. We simply disagree with your choice of moniker. I have yet to meet a cat that considers "Fluffy" to be a good name. It is a description and shows a basic lack of imagination. Have you ever seen a two legger infant named "Short, Stubby and Hairless"? This theory also applies to "Blackie", "Ginger" and "Demon Beast From Hell". Simple descriptions, not names.
On the other hand, some two leggers use entirely too much imagination when naming us. Names like "Harry Squatter" and "Mr. McWhiskers" come to mind. We are not amused.
And of course, there are the names that are so inane that no explanation is needed. Why do you insist on naming us "Kitty" or Kitty Kat" or "Puss"? It baffles me.
If you must give us names and expect us to reply, you need to name us as we see ourselves. "Fang", "Goliath" and "Mouse Munchin Thingy" are all names I'd be proud to wear. Ivan is very pleased with his name. (though he'd actually prefer "Guido") Tiger Lily likes her first name, but whines about her last name. (I'll smack her later)
So, if you really expect us to come when called, call us something that doesn't embarrass us. I doubt we'll answer, but at least your shoes will survive.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Ode To The Squirrel Thingy
This bit of prose
I write by special request.
Not for a special friend,
It's for my special pest.
The pest that I speak of
Is the front yard squirrel
He acts happy all day long.
It makes me want to hurl.
Scampering across the yard,
Doing squirrely things.
Leaping from branch to branch,
Flying without wings.
I sit in the bay window,
Chittering my displeasure,
Someday I'll get hold of him
And consume him at my leisure.
Even at nighttime,
There's no escape it seems.
I wake up in the wee hours,
After having squirrely dreams.
I hope you do not doubt me,
I know of which I speak.
There's none so maddening
As this pine cone munching freak.
I am not his only detractor,
Ivan, he shares my disdain.
He'd love to get ahold of him
And cause him lots of pain.
The day it is approaching,
The rodent he will pay.
I'll bust out the window screen.
The rodent I will slay.
And so I'll say in closing,
Before I take my nap.
Only Tiger Lily
Would be more fun to slap.
I write by special request.
Not for a special friend,
It's for my special pest.
The pest that I speak of
Is the front yard squirrel
He acts happy all day long.
It makes me want to hurl.
Scampering across the yard,
Doing squirrely things.
Leaping from branch to branch,
Flying without wings.
I sit in the bay window,
Chittering my displeasure,
Someday I'll get hold of him
And consume him at my leisure.
Even at nighttime,
There's no escape it seems.
I wake up in the wee hours,
After having squirrely dreams.
I hope you do not doubt me,
I know of which I speak.
There's none so maddening
As this pine cone munching freak.
I am not his only detractor,
Ivan, he shares my disdain.
He'd love to get ahold of him
And cause him lots of pain.
The day it is approaching,
The rodent he will pay.
I'll bust out the window screen.
The rodent I will slay.
And so I'll say in closing,
Before I take my nap.
Only Tiger Lily
Would be more fun to slap.
Monday, October 4, 2010
I Crack Myself Up
Several of my followers have written me and asked whether we feline types tell "jokes". I assure you we do. In fact, I would like to share a few of my favorites with you now. Please bear in mind, my jokes are targeted towards a higher intellect (feline) and therefore some two leggers may require their four legged companions to explain. They may or may not be happy to offer explanation, it is their choice. I, myself have often tried to explain my jokes to my two leggers only to be met with vacant or even baffled stares. So here goes:
How many squirrels does it take to carpet a floor?
Twenty, if you slice them thin.
How many squirrels does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
Why are they in a lightbulb? hehehehe that one always kills me.
Why shouldn't you eat mothballs?
Too hard to get their little legs apart.
Did you hear about the dog with wooden legs?
He caught fire and burned to the ground.
Why don't squirrels eat M&Ms?
Too hard to peel.
Why do dogs pant?
They haven't learned to skirt.
And finally: Why do cats sleep all day?
Because we can.
How many squirrels does it take to carpet a floor?
Twenty, if you slice them thin.
How many squirrels does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
Why are they in a lightbulb? hehehehe that one always kills me.
Why shouldn't you eat mothballs?
Too hard to get their little legs apart.
Did you hear about the dog with wooden legs?
He caught fire and burned to the ground.
Why don't squirrels eat M&Ms?
Too hard to peel.
Why do dogs pant?
They haven't learned to skirt.
And finally: Why do cats sleep all day?
Because we can.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Oktoberpest
Well, the two leggers are at it again.
Every October, two leggers have a tradition of making or purchasing Halloween costumes for us four legged types. This sits squarely in the "non-amusing" side of the ledger. Even if you allow for the scarcity of employed brain cells within the two leggers noggins, there is no possible way for them not to realize that this behavior does not amuse us. How can they honestly believe that we sit around all day, wishing that they would suddenly grab one of us and begin wrapping us in costumes that when finished, make us look like a clowns that are about to mutilate anything that comes within reach? Then they pull out their camera thingy and take as many pictures as possible before someone loses an eye.
I can't even give them credit for originality. Take Ivan's costume for example: Let's think..... he's round, slightly striped, hollow headed and goofy looking. Ohhh! I know, let's dress him as a jack-o-lantern! Duh.
Tiger Lily does require a little imagination, but not much. She's gray, irritating, totally unamusing and whines a lot, they put a necktie on her and call her David Letterman.
As for myself, I already wear a tuxedo 24/7 so they simply place me next to a martini glass and a pistol and call me "James Bond". Unfortunately the pistol thingy is not real, otherwise the only pictures being taken would be by those two leggers that wear the jackets that say "CSI".
Someday, when we finally put the two leggers on trial for crimes against feline dignity, these pictures will be exhibit A. The only sentence that could possibly rectify this vile injustice will be dressing them as four leggers and making them go out and spend hours among other two leggers.
Dang, they already do that.
Every October, two leggers have a tradition of making or purchasing Halloween costumes for us four legged types. This sits squarely in the "non-amusing" side of the ledger. Even if you allow for the scarcity of employed brain cells within the two leggers noggins, there is no possible way for them not to realize that this behavior does not amuse us. How can they honestly believe that we sit around all day, wishing that they would suddenly grab one of us and begin wrapping us in costumes that when finished, make us look like a clowns that are about to mutilate anything that comes within reach? Then they pull out their camera thingy and take as many pictures as possible before someone loses an eye.
I can't even give them credit for originality. Take Ivan's costume for example: Let's think..... he's round, slightly striped, hollow headed and goofy looking. Ohhh! I know, let's dress him as a jack-o-lantern! Duh.
Tiger Lily does require a little imagination, but not much. She's gray, irritating, totally unamusing and whines a lot, they put a necktie on her and call her David Letterman.
As for myself, I already wear a tuxedo 24/7 so they simply place me next to a martini glass and a pistol and call me "James Bond". Unfortunately the pistol thingy is not real, otherwise the only pictures being taken would be by those two leggers that wear the jackets that say "CSI".
Someday, when we finally put the two leggers on trial for crimes against feline dignity, these pictures will be exhibit A. The only sentence that could possibly rectify this vile injustice will be dressing them as four leggers and making them go out and spend hours among other two leggers.
Dang, they already do that.
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