So I have this cat.
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Actually itís my girlfriendís cat.
Actually we have two, a small grey tabby named T**** that is a blast to have around, and the ďother oneĒ.
Itís corpulent, bright orange and has medium length hair, so of course to me itís name has only ever been Fat Bastard.
(Iím not kidding, this cat is obese enough that itís gut leaves itís own trail in the middle of itís footprints after I vacuum the carpet, uniformly triangulating the food dish, the litter box, and the hammock it has steamrollered for itself in my underwear hamper)
Fat Bastard has a problem.
Itís very existence revolves solely around consuming anything organic.
I mean anything.
We canít have real plants anymore, not even cactus.
(My girlfriend didnít laugh when I, tired of the green vomit, suggested Poinsettias)
We have all of the food stored in cupboards that have child locks on them.
Opening the fridge involves holding a broom.
(Iíd love to teach the fucker a lesson by trapping it in there for a little bit, but beyond the cessation of all sexual activity when my girlfriend finds out, Iím pretty sure this thing is as well-insulated as a walrus and Iíd only open the door and discover carnage, not to mention fuzzy rage propelling itself to freedom with one of itís signature exertion farts)
We have a bungee cord holding the lid on the trash can, which also happens to be attached to the wall to prevent, as my girlfriend calls it, ďaccidental tippingĒ.
Ordering pizza involves trapping it in a bedroom, then listening to it scratch furiously at the door as soon as it gets a whiff of oregano.
It drinks pop.
We canít walk away from the stove while preparing a meal, as even scalding hot pots and pans have proven no match for itís powerful, powerful lust.
I love bacon, yet itís become contraband since the ďincidentĒ.
(Which my girlfriend still somehow regards as my fault, as if I encouraged the fucking thing to snatch sizzling bacon right out of the pan, headfirst, then tear-ass around the house alternating between muted howling and ragged, gasping swallows.)
It has, on a number of occasions, snarfed an entire pack of cigarettes.
Christ, this cat has eaten soap that smelled like melon.
It was entertaining at first, playing the ďLetís see what we can get in thereĒ game, but when this fucking beast blew right through wasabi, jalapenos, mustard, lemons, live grasshoppers, Skittles, and an extra-shot latte, I got the point.
Iím tired of having to treat simple food items like theyíre plutonium.
I miss having a bag of chips or a cold pizza on the coffee table while Iím watching the game.
Iím fed up with having to wait to do laundry because the basement has been fouled by a particularly rank dump.
Enough is enough.
If you want her, sheís yours.
The girlfriend or the cat, itís your callÖ
(Either way, you donít even have to get out of the car; Iíll just unwrap a Kraft single and throw it in the backseat.)
Please, help a guy outÖ