The Truth About Cats

The other day, Puppycat, who is a puppy who is also a cat but not one of those infernal beasts known as a Cat­Dog, poin­ted out a fun­da­mental truth:

The truth is that whenever there are two cats, there is always an out­go­ing one and one weird reclus­ive one.

It’s true! There is a Pan­talai­mon the Camel Cat (who is cuddly and a ladies’ man) and a Noc­turne the Owl Cat (who lives under the bed and reads Anxi­ety Cat and casts spells).

There is a Hand­some Cat (a cuddly Bur­berry stripy cat) and a Pixie Cat (a skit­tish Tuxedo cat).

There is a Chloe Cat (a derptastic tor­toise­shell who always falls over) and a Jesse Cat (an emo who was born with the dis­ab­il­ity of being pure white).

There are the cats at the hos­pice at MMC– a play­ful older Devon Rex and a reclus­ive Psychic Hos­pice Cat who may or may not be Nurse Catte.

My good­ness!


The Truth About Doctors

Doc­tors are vam­pires. They are after your blood. They stare at your jug­u­lar and palp­ate your carot­ids. They listen to the seduct­ive drum­beat of your heart. They cut you and bleed you. They feast on the arcane signs found within your altered, filtered blood. They cast ritu­al­istic spells with it. They pre­dict the future. They never see the sun. They never sleep.

Their agents are the Blood Sis­ters, a goth/earth mother les­bian band of space elves who roam the wards early in the morn­ing bleed­ing patients willy-nilly, col­lect­ing their life-forces and not even car­ry­ing pagers.

And radi­olo­gists are the worst. With their X-ray vis­ion and their powers of ulti­mate rejec­tion, they are the most arcane wiz­ards of medi­cine, those with the ulti­mate right of veto. Radi­ation does not tem­per them, it makes them only stronger! They never see the sun and live in the dark, their pal­lid eyes sens­ing only elec­tro­mag­netic radi­ation in the non-visible spectrum.

Worse yet, radi­olo­gists are never awake between the hours of 5pm and 9am (which is why they reject your scan requests). Which makes them…

REVERSE VAMPIRES.


MY TRUE SELF

Every­one knows that deep down I exist in the realm of the Les­bian Space Elves. I am prob­ably one of those ones that ends up liv­ing on the dark sibling-planet on the other side of the orbit of the Les­bian Space Elf planet that con­tains SECRET SPACE ELF MANS who are also CATS.

Thus, this is the avatar of my Soul:

MY TRUE SELF

 

True Self Know­ledge is a kind gift that strikes one at the most tender of moments (wait­ing for blood products on the ward after hours).

How vam­piric!


The Death of all the Bromance

It was the best of times, it was the blurst of times. I was in pos­ses­sion of many fly­ing mon­keys, who I refer to as my duck­lings and/or min­ions.

It was the oncology/haematology/gastroenterology ward aka Home and It Was Good.

Marky Mark and Fetlife/G were hanging out at Home at the desk with me and Puppycat, who had just finally tamed the manly and frayed ends of my motor­cycle jeans . It became obvi­ous that Fetlife/G and Marky Mark had a spe­cial bond (which is sim­ilar but dif­fer­ent to Fetlife/G’s ‘bromance’ with Puppycat):

Me: You guys have such a bromance! It’s bromantic!

Puppycat: It’s totally not gay.

Me: It’s only gay if the balls touch!

Puppycat and I burst into uncon­trol­lable spasms of laughter.

Marky Mark and Fetlife/G look at each other and at us nonplussed.

Puppycat and I con­tinue to giggle.

Marky Mark and Fetlife/G look incred­ibly disturbed.

Gig­gling con­tin­ues for 30 mins.

That Damn Sniper Dude. Totally free for pro­fes­sional devel­op­ment tutori­als at all times. Don’t call him, he’ll call you!


Sniper­girl

They fought that day, Father and St Ant­ony. Ant­ony is my brother, Saint because that’s what every­one treats him like. God. Except Father Super­ior, of course. That’s because he’s the Father of God.

The words burst into my ears from down­stairs. This wasn’t just another fight. So I stopped. Looked in the mir­ror at this man, sorry, girl. I pulled the cuffs long, adjus­ted the navy silk bow-tie, smoothed the eye­brow pen­cil mous­tache and really looked. My hair, just cut, was the right length for the suit. I would have made a great guy. I grinned quickly to myself, ran my fin­gers through my hair.

My brother blas­ted some more abuse at Father, the kind of stuff he got away with.

Shut up! You shut up now!” Father finally shouted some author­ity crap at him. Dream on, city boy. Then a thud, crash, splinter. What the hell was that? I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to know. I breathed in and looked back up into the mirror.

I slowly ran my clammy fin­gers down my jaw, then across Father’s stiff, smooth, Armani shirt col­lar. Down to my pain­ful breasts, hot and bare against the clean fab­ric and to my quaver­ing heart.

There was a thwack. An animal shriek. Thud­ding steps on the staircase.

What was I doing? I tore off the suit, fol­ded it. Ran back to my room naked and guilty. Shit, shit, where were my clothes? I ducked into the closet as they ran into my room. Father hit Ant­ony, hit him so hard. Every time he opened his mouth, another slap. Maybe a punch. But that wasn’t all that caught me. It was what he was wear­ing. I knew what this was about. And I knew where my clothes were.


Sniper­girl or Peter Pan or how to mans.

(the tl;dr ver­sion of this is that I am a man and I’ve just put it together. A female bod­ied man I guess whatever that means. But I think the nar­rat­ive below is worth read­ing, as is the rant about the state of the mod­ern man)

Dear All,

When I was 15, I wrote my first ever good short story. I did it as a writ­ing exer­cise — I’d decided that I really liked writ­ing and I was going to do it some­what ser­i­ously. Every­one knows that in writ­ing this story I also got my other pseud­onym, “Sniper­girl” from the incred­ibly cool Hallowe’en out­fit a caller into the radio had had (“I went as Sniper­girl!” she said). But I haven’t really talked about the story itself.

It was kind of an awful time for my fam­ily in that basic­ally every­one had decided to self-destruct. In the back­ground, I’d dis­covered that I was into girls. Really into girls. And I was just recov­er­ing from being incred­ibly depressed while being at an all-girls school where every­one was para­noid about “the gays”. Oh yes, and one of my friends had outed me a year pre­vi­ous. For such an awful time it might be sur­pris­ing but there were some pretty hil­ari­ous times too.

I had star­ted sneak­ing into my dad’s ward­robe and put­ting on shirts and ties and pants. Believe me when I say I make a pretty cute guy. I do. It would make me feel sim­ul­tan­eously scared and excited (in a non sexual way). One of my first memor­ies is of walk­ing next to my dad when I was 3, con­vinced that I was going to grow up to be a man just like him.

I idol­ised my father as a child. I did not real­ise that he had been thwarted in his desire for a “per­fect son” by my brother hav­ing aut­ism. So luck­ily for me I guess I got to absorb all the les­sons a father gives a son. Like how to match a tie and a shirt? Or that real men can cook?

But mov­ing coun­tries and puberty changes everything. My dad got really weird and my fam­ily self-destructed. It’s no won­der that so many stor­ies are writ­ten about the end of puberty I guess. Just think of Peter Pan.

So Sniper­girl is about a girl(?) who sneaks into her father’s ward­robe and puts on his suit furt­ively while her dad and brother are hav­ing a phys­ical fight down­stairs. I did not real­ise what a hell I was liv­ing in until I left. Still, it could have been worse. I was not sexu­ally abused or raped. My par­ents were crazy but our home envir­on­ment and my par­ents could have been much worse. I could have had broken bones and bruises. I could have been someone without the means to get friends or help. I could have not been smart and focused enough to get into med­ical school and escape.

I came out as being into girls at the end of high school too. My par­ents didn’t accept it for years. Now they do. But I have never iden­ti­fied as a les­bian. Bisexual woman? It does not feel hon­est. But a mostly-straight man does. It feels unbe­liev­ably hon­est. I finally recog­nise the per­son in the mir­ror.

I am a man. A mostly straight man. An effem­in­ate, silly camp man. A man who isn’t afraid to wear pink and give out manly hugs. A man who is full of per­sonal strength and some per­sonal weak­ness. An hon­est and warm man with integ­rity. A man who is in touch with his fem­in­ine side. A man who is strong and sup­port­ive. A man who rides a motor­bike and plays gui­tar and some­times wears flan­nel and watched rugby at the pub the other day. A man who paints and likes flowers and writes poetry.

In other words I am incred­ibly com­fort­able with myself and my man­hood.

I do not need hor­mones or sur­gery or to be born XY with a huge cock for that. (I am more than sat­is­fied with my abil­ity to pleas­ure hot girls in bed, thanks)

What does it mean to be a man? Good ques­tion. Other than the obvi­ous (gender iden­tity), for me it means being an adult man and not a man-child. What does it mean to be an adult? It means being someone who takes respons­ib­il­ity for my actions. That’s about it. It’s pos­sible to be a respons­ible adult who plays with Lego and jokes around and some­times takes a sick day and some­times needs other people. Being a man doesn’t neces­sit­ate being a moun­tain man liv­ing in a log cabin (though, the thought is appeal­ing).

So I guess it is an ongo­ing dis­ap­point­ment to see that my age peers have a sig­ni­fic­ant minor­ity of man-children. People who define their sense of self by whether or not they are “banging hot chicks”. Or like the “men” who once did a fur­niture removal for me, base their sense of self on mak­ing fun of a poor dis­abled woman say­ing “would you root that”. Abus­ive men. Needy men. Men who use their pos­i­tion of power to lie and cheat. Men who refuse to have under­stand­ing of those who are less for­tu­nate than they are and instead whinge about how tough they have it because no-one real­ises what a “nice guy” they are. Entitled men. Broken men.

I don’t know what the solu­tion is. The major­ity of 30 year old men are not like this. I am sur­roun­ded by awe­some, inspir­ing, sup­port­ive men. Some of them have men­tal health issues. They are not per­fect. They have flaws. But they are good men.

Hav­ing grown up with the exper­i­ence of a woman’s life I can say that women out­side of fam­ily struc­tures sup­port each other and define a sup­port­ive iden­tity for each other in a way that men have only rel­at­ively recently star­ted to do. Women struggled a lot — and much more than the mod­ern man — until they ban­ded together and star­ted help­ing each other.

I star­ted the week won­der­ing what it is to be a man and it turned out that I was lucky enough to have had pos­it­ive role mod­els in my fam­ily and around me. And I still struggled. I struggled with being a needy man and a “nice guy” in my late teens and the very very start of my twen­ties (until women kicked my ass and I was forced to grow up). Many of my male friends went through sim­ilar exper­i­ences. Almost all of them got over it, as I did, fairly early on. But a few slipped through the cracks and they are the “lost boys”. The guys blam­ing women and fem­in­ism and other men and racial minor­it­ies for their prob­lems. Look­ing online, con­vinced that spend­ing thou­sands of dol­lars learn­ing the “art of seduc­tion” will cure the deep, hor­rible black void within them.

It sad­dens me immensely. It is a major prob­lem. Some of these people are the rap­ists and abus­ive part­ners and par­ents that cause so much dark­ness around them. That per­petu­ate the prob­lem where young people — male and female — grow up exposed to viol­ence and abuse and neg­lect and inap­pro­pri­ate rela­tion­ship mod­els.

There is a reason that chil­dren do bet­ter in a single (non-abusive) par­ent fam­ily than with two par­ents of whom one is abus­ive or unsup­port­ive.

It is a prob­lem that is too big for me to really cover or con­tem­plate fully right now. But I am myself and I am free and happy and com­plete. I am myself and I glow as bright as the sun on a summer’s day.

Yours,
Deutschy, mov­ing zug since 1804 for great justice.


IIMS: Sooth­ing Relax­a­tion Big Brother Edition

Look around you: IIMS.

Ima­gine your­self on a beau­ti­ful beach: IIMS.

The light­house is actu­ally a pan­op­ticon and its eye is star­ing straight at you: IIMS.

Think deeply about mead­ows: IIMS.

Now you are sink­ing deeper and deeper into the ocean: IIMS.

Under­neath the ocean is a sub­mar­ine: IIMS.

Also Cthulhu: IIMS.

Cthulhu is w͙̗̜͔̹̤ͯͬ̆͋͞a̷̫̖̖̬̰̞̖ͧͬ̊t̴̀̒c̨͕͖h̜͖̃́̓͂̅i̯̒n̹̰̳̜̿̈ͨ̌ͪg̯̞͙͕ ̝̭̳̩̂̈́ͥͫ͂͘y͖͎̥̝̋̑ͣ̆o̫͖̤̲̲͎̤ͨu̮͍̲̱ͬͪͩ̑͂ and may or may not be put­ting in an I͍͔̝͉̭̳͖͊ͧͨ͆͛̐̏I̛͚͚̳͓͓̗̝ͪͫ̓ͩ͊̆͆͠M̸̥̈́̑̀Sͩ̐̽ͪ͏̘̲̠̟: IIMS.

As the demonic effigy takes over your sub­con­scious mind you slowly sink into the utter relax­a­tion of IIMS.

~fin~


IIMS EVERYTHING: T-SHIRT EDITION

Want to show your sup­port for IIM­Sing every day? Why, this t-shirt is prob­ably for you!

The #YOLO gen­er­a­tion will #IIMS because #TGIF and #LMAO!

#ZOMG.

2014-05-23 21_20_07-WHEN IN DOUBT_ IIMS EVERYTHING - Zazzle.com.au

This lovely piece of apparel fea­tures the car­dinal rules of IIMS:

  1. There is only one real way to deal with dis­putes: IIMS.
  2. Intern leav­ing the ward to urin­ate: IIMS.
  3. Received IIMSIIMS.
  4. For­got to put in an IIMSIIMS.
  5. Did an IIMSIIMS.
  6. Not sure whether to IIMS or not? IIMS.
  7. No-one did an IIMSIIMS.
  8. Empty beds: IIMS.
  9. Hos­pital is full: IIMS.
  10. IIMS is full of IIMSIIMS.
  11. Busy doing actual work: IIMS.

Happy IIMS!


IIMS EVERYTHING

It has become clear that there is only one real way to deal with dis­putes in the Hospital:

What is an “IIMS” you may ask. How dare you ask. That’s def­in­itely worthy of an IIMS. And after that IIMS, there is only one way to respond. With an IIMS.

IIMS EVERYTHING.

Patient bed move: IIMS.

Intern leav­ing the ward to urin­ate: IIMS (doc­tors must always be in acute rental feulire)

Doc­tor starts gig­gling: IIMS.

Doc­tor does an IIMS: IIMS.

Patient is on Liso­prolol: IIMS.

Patient is in bed: IIMS.

Patient is not in bed: IIMS.

Cats sleep­ing on a bed: IIMS.

Cat doesn’t sleep on dying patient in hos­pice: IIMS.

Doc­tor makes a joke with a patient: IIMS.

Patient has unevent­ful recov­ery in hos­pital: IIMS.

Nurse and doc­tor are friends: Def­in­ite IIMS.

Received IIMS: IIMS.

For­got to put in an IIMS: IIMS.

Did an IIMS: IIMS.

Mak­ing fun of the intern: IIMS.

Nurse is a catte: IIMS.

Patient’s fam­ily thanks the treat­ing team: IIMS.

Staff mem­bers are not using the broom closet for repro­duct­ive ses­sions: IIMS.

Doctor’s room doesn’t have spare physio­ther­apy equip­ment and nurs­ing office in it: IIMS.

Intern thinks “cath­et­ers are piss easy”: IIMS.

Think­ing aloud: IIMS.

Some­thing is done for the patient: IIMS.

Noth­ing is done for the patient: IIMS.

Think­ing about doing some­thing for the patient? IIMS.

Patient decides to put in an IIMS: IIMS.

Empty beds: IIMS.

All the beds are full of patients: IIMS.

Patient is still in hos­pital: IIMS the patient.

Recurs­ive Möbius Meta­pseudoIIMS: IIMS.

Not sure whether to IIMS or not? IIMS.

No-one did an IIMS: IIMS.

Busy doing actual work: IIMS.

No-one is at a tea break, teach­ing, depart­ment meet­ing, mul­tidiscip­lin­ary meet­ing, IIMS com­mit­tee meet­ing, IIMS response depart­ment chapter branch masonic bap­tism or tak­ing a dump: IIMS.

Patient got their Liso­prolol: IIMS.

Patient is on Neur­o­fen: IIMS.

Patient enjoyed a hos­pital meal: IIMS.

Patient is steal­ing hos­pital sup­plies that no-one else wanted any­way: IIMS.

Patient has nine lives because patient is actu­ally a catte: IIMS.

Doc­tors love to IIMS: IIMS.

Nurses love to IIMS: IIMS.

IIMS com­mit­tee depart­ment response chapter branch masonic bap­tism of fire prin­ciple IIMS respon­ded to by an IIMS in the appro­pri­ate fash­ion: IIMS.

HOW DOIIMS: IIMS.

Even those who know how to LADIES do know how to IIMS and those who may CATS may also IIMS.

There is no limit to IIMS. IIMS everything.

IIMS is the very found­a­tion of the hos­pital system.

IIMS is the major employ­ment of admin­is­trat­ive staff.

IIMS crashed the IIMS sys­tem due to over­whelm­ingly IIMS of the IIMS and it got IIMS.

Someone sus­pec­ted IIMS of being a fun­da­mental force of nature and that was shown to be IIMS.

Every­one was insep­ar­able from their IIMS. When severed, their soul frag­men­ted into mul­tiple meta­pneumo­cysticosili­co­coni­osisIIMS.

The heav­ens trembled and the only people safe from IIMS were a close-knit group of friends, all bound together by their shared secret IIMS.

The IIMS emerged from the bowels of the patients and the light­nings of the plate­let machine that fea­tured a prom­in­ently IIMS.

It was given form by the earths of wards­men stand­ing guard over the patient beds in the lifts of the hos­pital, replete with nurse-cattes, and IIMS was found to be the words of IIMS.

A CEO was Abbor­ted within the broom closet in which the eld­erly IIMS were sequestered.

The masonic IIMS com­mit­tee wor­shipped the gods that were both IIMS and not of IIMS but some­how were also IIMS.

And lo, there was IIMS, and there was noth­ing that the faith­ful band of trav­el­lers could pro­tect the patients from.

And the IIMS rav­aged the land with legs made of IIMS and scuttled amongst the bod­ies of the IIMS.

Piles of IIMS like a waste­land rose through­out the land and alas the end was nigh.

Infin­ite mul­ti­plic­a­tion of the IIMS that had called forth IIMS from the void had gathered like bac­teroides within a nec­rotic tumour and, lo, the IIMS was one with IIMS and all that had IIMSed the IIMS.

A shud­der as the world dis­solved amongst a sea of infin­itely IIMS IIMS and the words floated into the nec­rotic soul of the plate­let machine closet and the masons built an edi­fice that was only of IIMS.

The light­house called the IIMS forth and all

was

IIMS.


Dear All,

A few years back I figured out some­thing fun­da­mental about love. For years I struggled and struggled to artic­u­late it. I never man­aged to quite get the right words or the right tone. But I had it some­how encoded in me. And I think in many ways I didn’t dis­cover but rather redis­covered this fun­da­mental thing. Some­time around Christ­mas, I finally found the words:

“As a non-Christian I rarely quote the bible (unless I’m arguing with someone who select­ively quotes it to attack minor­ity groups). How­ever there are some great mes­sages in there regard­less, and I think this may as well be my Christ­mas mes­sage as it is my favour­ite pas­sage from the bible and one I think about often:

1 Cor­inthi­ans 13:
4: Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
5: It does not dis­honor oth­ers, it is not self-seeking, it is not eas­ily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
6: Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.
7: It always pro­tects, always trusts, always hopes, always per­severes.

The Greek ver­sion from which the Eng­lish is trans­lated has “αγαπη” (pron. agape). This is uncon­di­tional, self­less love (not neces­sar­ily romantic or sexual, and can include pla­tonic love). More inform­a­tion about words trans­lated into Eng­lish as ‘love’ from the ancient Greek can be found here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greek_words_for_love
I’ve been lucky enough (open enough?) to exper­i­ence this love. It is the true love of want­ing the best for someone, regard­less of whether that involves you or not. The love of caring deeply and self­lessly and intrins­ic­ally about someone. It is a gentle, ener­gising, invig­or­at­ing feel­ing. A feel­ing that feels true and right and fills you with light. There is a full­ness, a con­tent­ment in it. It is the way I (gen­er­ally) feel about my friends, my fam­ily, my cats.

I am def­in­itely not per­fect. I need to spend more time caring for and about the people I love. I think of them but I need to act on it, with gen­er­os­ity and com­mu­nic­a­tion and emo­tion. Some­times (not often) I get jeal­ous, and it means I need to step back and reflect and become a big­ger and bet­ter per­son.

Import­antly it is not jeal­ous or pos­sess­ive and it does not boast. Love is not about your Face­book statuses or photo albums. It is not about isol­at­ing the people you love from the out­side world to “pro­tect” them. It is not about get­ting angry because they spend time with oth­ers. It is not about being the centre of their uni­verse.

It is not about you. It is about them (or in my case, it is not about me). It is about want­ing the best for them, whether you are in the pic­ture or not. Some­times it is about lov­ing them enough to let them go their own way. It is about sup­port­ing them. It is about free­dom, not impris­on­ment.

Love is not an uncon­trol­lable tide of seeth­ing emo­tion. People are usu­ally not rational but we all have the abil­ity to mod­er­ate our emo­tions and beha­viour and to strive to be bet­ter people. When we are drawn to the dark, to being egot­ist­ical or dif­fi­cult or angry or jeal­ous, we need to step back and eval­u­ate and try and deal with those things rather than mak­ing excuses for them.

We must try our best not to be abus­ive or obsess­ive. These things are the enemy of love. Our love must be uncon­di­tional, not based on rules or bar­gains or pacts.

The idea of gift-giving and wish-giving at Christmas-time is not about get­ting an XBox. It is a reminder not just to be gen­er­ous and good at Christ­mas but to be gen­er­ous, kind and com­pas­sion­ate at all times. Love is not Christ­mas or Valentine’s Day or Mother’s Day or Father’s Day or birth­days or anniversar­ies only. It is all days.

Be good to each other this Xmas. Spend time in good com­pany and full of αγαπη. And carry it forth into the New Year.“

Yours,
Deutschy


The Truth About Friendship

Unfor­tu­nately, Ser­aphim’s (now ex)-friends are afflic­ted by “a touch of the Bogue” and are unfor­tu­nately quite the mod­ern example of a renais­sance bigot.

Tenda­foot, Ser­aphim and I all agree– we’d all cut off our dicks to get away from these people.

Which is super easy, since my penis lives in a jar next to my bed!

It’s def­in­itely bet­ter than hav­ing big balls, that’s for sure.

The solu­tion, I fear, is to arm the cows!



Silence of the Cats

In The Old Coun­try, all kind of things can hap­pen to an inno­cent cat.

Loku Mama’s adoles­cent cat van­ished without warn­ing one day. A couple of years later, one by one so did sev­eral kit­tens belong­ing to Pub­udini.

Sev­eral the­or­ies were floated, but finally it was agreed that the cats had been ated.

The first thought was that it was an evil snake. Then it was decided that it was a small pan­ther. Finally the con­clu­sion was come to that in fact it was a gigantic liz­ard. Not to be con­fused of course with the dragons in the moat around the par­lia­ment in The Old Coun­try.

Such a fate was that to be avoided by Nurse Catte, who had been inspired by Sia­mese cats who basic­ally hang out in temples beg­ging all day with nat­ural sun­screen on their ears, nose and tail.

There was once a time that Sudu Akka, a mat­ri­arch her­self, became host to a small fam­ily of cats. Of course, the mat­ri­arch of this fam­ily foun­ded a space cat colony and indeed a lin­eage, a dyn­asty of cats! At one stage there were 15 cats, all des­cend­ants of that pro­lific CATh­er­ine de Medici.

Even­tu­ally they needed to be “rehomed”. The story here gets murky.

The first story was that they were given to a temple. Then it was said that they were donated to a veget­able mar­ket seller. Then it was stated that they were given to a butcher!

Cats are an eat?

Oh noes!

:( :( :(

At least it was not Korea or China!


Nurse Catte

 

When Amma was a med­ical stu­dent in The Old Coun­try, a place where mos­qui­toes and stray amin­als roam the wards, she once found a stray cat sleep­ing on an empty hos­pital bed!

Nurse Catte sleeping on a bed

It’s Nurse Catte! Sheets col­oured for dra­matic emphasis.

This was, as Raena found out, indeed Nurse Catte.

Nurse Catte’s duties include sooth­ing people with purrs and pre­dict­ing the next death! Big jobs for a smalle catte!

She takes them on with poise, grace and acci­dent­ally fall­ing off the bed whilst try­ing to jump upon it after eat­ing stolen fishes.

Nurse Catte in uniform

Nurse Catte on duty!

Nurse Catte had to escape a ter­rible life as a stray cat on the streets of The Old Coun­try where she wit­nessed a hor­rible scene of a giant liz­ard eat­ing a kit­ten! She developed some sort of Lost High­way Syn­drome and re-emerged as Nurse Catte in a small hospital!

She is pen pals with Tama, the cat with greater status than any train ladies ever!

What an amaz­ing Colombo Kitsu!


Duck Duck Goose!

Per­haps I can have a pos­sessed goose. I could teach it to attack people I don’t like. Instead of a trophy wife, I could take it to the fair and it could win prizes for me, a trophy goose!

It would be pos­sessed by the spirit of an evil car. Like Herbie, but evil. In other words, the car from “2 Fast 2 Furi­ous” (2f2f, not to be con­fused with a sex change t0 female to female). Geese are pretty evil any­way so this would just be like adding a nitro tank to a goose.

Worse yet, as Sexy Ryan poin­ted out, would be a car pos­sessed by an evil goose. It would honk at every­one. It would be the star of Herbie 2: 2f2f2goose. All the other cars would be pos­sessed by ducks.

We would write this script purely to send to a copy-reader for the lulz. It would come back anoin­ted with the red ink of many cor­rec­tions. And then we would post a scan of the cor­rec­ted text to the inter­net! It would become a cult hit in the vein of “I love cats” and “My Immor­tal” and inspire a web series!

Diabolo would make an appear­ance as Maser­ati Diabolo who is only there for comic effect along with Lam­borghini Draco. Every time he comes on scene he’s des­per­ate for ICE CREAM SANDWICHES but skids on a banana skin from the banana split. Kind of like Shakespeare!

In the end Maser­ati Diabolo shoots the evil car and that’s it. No fun­nies. No jokes. No sur­prise resur­rec­tions. No bal­loons. No epic Lord of the Rings type good­bye scene for 1 hour while chil­dren and grown men cry because their blad­ders are too full in the back row.

In the expos­i­tion for Herbie 3 we learn that the evil car was dis­mantled into evil foie gras. It fea­tures all new char­ac­ters chas­ing down foie gras laced with evil car! It’s mostly an admin­is­trat­ive logist­ics thriller filled with ship­ping mani­fests. Pet­rol con­tent over 65% sug­gests the pres­ence of car.

Can­ola con­tent over 65% how­ever (due to the high rape con­tent) sug­gests that it is imit­a­tion duck foie gras!

To be hon­est there is only one con­sist­ent rape vic­tim look, and that is basic­ally look­ing like a duck of non-specific gender who may or may not be alive.

This may be a valid reason (other than the pres­ence of Kim Young One’s brother) to skip Disneyland.

Yuck.