Cats Will Kill Us All

I consider myself a pretty fucking nice guy. I obey the law, act respectably towards most people (especially black female singers), and rarely ask for sex on the first date. But there is something about stupid animals that transmogrifies me from a polite little shit into a crazed chainsaw-wielding psychopath, (not literally. relax.) complete with hockey mask and gruff voice that hints that I may have a heavy smoking habit. Think Batman from "Dark Knight" or Lindsay Lohan or something.

I love cats though, because they are evil, scheming, vindictive, bitter, human-hating fuckers who absolutely refuse to give a shit about anything. Have you ever seen a cat staring at you? Well, it wants you dead. When you come home from a long day working the street corners, a dog will run up and start freaking out from excitement like an idiot. A cat won't do any of that shit. If I wanted that level of unbearable obnoxiousness upon my arrival home, I'd have kids. Then I would yell at them and ban them from eating. Rather, a cat would sit there, staring, as if to say "There you are. My food bowl is empty, asshat."

Guess what else? I was raised by cats. That's right, my maniacally bastardriffic parents decided to lose me at the mall. I don't care what my psychiatrist says, it's my fault they left me, because I would just not shut up about wanting cream puffs. So a family of alley cats took me in, and taught me many shiny valuable redeeming life lessons, like always remembering to bury my own poop, running around with crazy eyes for no reason at midnight, and running up to random people and yowling at them just to be a loathsome modern-day barbarian beserker pillaging the mental village of blue-collar caffeine-addicted yuppies with my perilous metaphysical battle-axe of FEAR.

Don't judge them; I haven't knocked over any 7-elevens, and that's saying something.