This is why we can’t have nice things.
I return home from a stressful day at the office earning money to buy you treats, food, and toys to discover that one of you heathens killed my only printer. What’s worse, after your violent slaughter, you dragged a piece of it to your bed like a prized scalp. That’s pretty fucked up. Why would you even do that?
I sincerely hope that the reprobate who broke my printer doesn’t believe that they’ll get away with this. I plan to swab for prints, take DNA samples, and hire a crime scene re-enactment expert (dressed like a cat, of course). How am I supposed to print my head shots now? Your daddy needs to be on stage. How else do you expect me to survive? I feed off of attention. Because of the broken printer, I will emotionally starve to death.
Here’s the deal: until somebody confesses or tattles (makes no difference to me), all cats residing in this household are required to wear condoms on their feet like socks – lubricated condoms. If nobody comes forward prior to the results of the forensic evidence, punishment for the guilty party will be more severe and will be as follow:
- Mr. Tiddles – You will be awakened every hour to the sound of the vacuum cleaner…your favorite appliance (note sarcasm).
- Blind Murphy – You will spend a week at a friend’s house…in unfamiliar territory…lost…confused.
- Reese – Don’t be surprised if the police suddenly get a tip about your prostitution while you work Elvis Presley Blvd…whore.
- Elvis Cat – You will be disowned…I never liked you anyway.
- Zoe Zoe – Don’t be surprised if your disability check is a lot lighter after I cash it for you.
The clock’s ticking, y’all.