To the Garageless Sports Car Owner
It’s a $33,000 sports car. It’s the only brand new one I ever owned, and I work hard to pay for it.
Blah, Blah, Blah. Yeah, that’s you. Work, work, work. I’ll let you in on my career. I do nothing, and I get fed for free. In actuality, I’m so bored, I track up sports cars for something to do.
I’m kind of proud of it, and in being so, I take very good care of it. This means I don’t want to offer it up for your personal dance floor, so YOU can do your very own rendition of Tony Manero under the spinning disco globe on a nightly basis.
Who gives a shit if you waste 4,000 gallons of water on a weekly basis? Oh, and by the way, cat in the asshat, it rains every day in Florida – it’s my source of mud. So, you’re wasting your time. And, if you actually paid attention, the pattern was after the moves in the Michael Jackson “Thriller” video with a little mix of the winning play in the Auburn Tigers/Florida Gators game.
You see me wash it without fail, every couple of days, right? Why, oh why, must you insist on finding the only muddy spot in the neighborhood, to repeatedly dip your sponge pad paws there, so you can walk all over the entire car, and leave 110 brown prints on my Dupont Imron Paint? Why?
And explain the stamp pad factor of those feet of yours. Do you have to jump down for a refill and then back up, or does each foot hold a liter or two of dirt and it’s all in one trip? I have this vision of you stomping up and down like some sugared up 3rd grader in a mud puddle, doing your feline rendition of “muhahahahaha” and then traipsing all over said car for some form of gratification.
I takes me 3 trips. Each paw holds 10 prints worth of mud. 40 rounds per trip, and I only dipped 3 feet on the third round, just to confuse you.
Don’t you have better things to do? Some mice to hunt and kill? Occasional mating with the feral cats? Howling? Catfights? Well?
I’ve killed off all the rodents long ago. The squirrels and I signed a truce. I’ve fucked everything that walks around here (something you’ll never understand). My singing voice is shot, but, I still hold the UFC (Ultimate Fighting Cat) title in the ‘hood. What have you accomplished lately?
Now I originally come from a colder climate, and I know that you rough and tough outdoorsy types like to warm your balls on a freshly run V8’s hood, and I can understand. I like warm balls too, they feel, hang, and swing to and fro much nicer, and I’m in a better mood overall. But this is Florida, douchebag, and it’s not even winter yet. So there is no necessity in residing on my hood. The footprints on the rest of the car prove that you’re just out to fuck with me.
I just love to rub my balls on anything. Next time, do 120 all the way home and get your car really warmed up, so I can get a good nut-sack dangle going. I need to teabag the new calico that just moved in.
I saw your little skid marks on the windshield too. RainX, motherfucker…. Hahahaha.
Did you catch the shit streak next to the E-Pass? That was fun.
And if you EVEN think of extending just one claw, I will declare war faster than Franklin D. Roosevelt did in 1941.
That’s funny. You humans will freak the fuck out over one little scratch in your car, but then wear the ones on your back like a badge.
I will build a torture chamber consisting of 15 assorted steam radiators, with differing pressure relief check valves, and use orange juice as a base fluid in the boiler. Then I will lock you in there, to endure the “pssssst” sounds and the citrus stench, as I use a super-soaker full of mud water to blast your ears. I will, Tabby the Tap Dancer, don’t doubt it. I know how to fuck with cat’s heads.
Bring it on, Mr. “Bud Light Salutes YOU - High and Mighty Garageless Sports Car Washer”
I was born in the back of an orange truck in Frostproof. I lived at the Florida’s Best production center in Haines City my whole childhood, under the air compressor trailer. I have earplugs, and I know how to use them.
Now I think I know who your owner is, and yeah, she’s hot. Maybe you took it as an invitation when you heard me whisper under my breath, “I wouldn’t mind getting some of that pussy.” but let me reiterate, it wasn’t about YOU. Okay?
Well, I could have hooked you up by just rubbin’ on your ankles when you talk to her. She digs that, and gets all mushy when I approve of male humans. But you had to come on here,bash me, and stir up a hornet’s nest, and get everybody flagging shit and debating garages, packrats and whatever. I can be bought though.
So in closing, I will extend the courtesy of giving you another chance to find a different car to play “King of the Mountain” on. There are plenty of unwashed, un-waxed cars in the ‘hood.
Star Kist Select albacore, and leave the water in the can. Every Tuesday without fail, on the first landing of your stairs. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll leave the precious car alone. And....if you want to hook up with my owner, I need catnip, about ¼ ounce a week – and it has to be crippie. Got it?
- Location: The Cat
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