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The Journal of Literary Satire | Hastily Written & Slopilly Edited
Tuesday, June 10, 2003

Lady, What's With All The Cats?

Honestly, this place smells like Ed Begley Jr.’s place up in Zuma Beach after a visit from the Orkin Man. I’m having trouble breathing. Do have an oxygen mask? Or maybe a lead pipe so I can bludgeon the sense of smell out of my brain? Good lord. I don’t know how much longer I sit here.

I keep tripping over them. Don’t they have a room or something that you could put them in? I’ve probably stepped on about six tails by now. Don’t you hear that angry mewing sound that continues to echo through this house? Yes, that’s me, stepping on another one of your damn cats. How many cats do you have? 36? Why? Why would you have 36 cats? What is the purpose?

They are like your children? Lady, you are either insane or just stupid. I’m not sure I want to hang around to find out which.

A glass of water would be great. Thank you. Oh, gross. Is that cat hair in your water? How did you get cat hair into this water? I’ll pass on the water for now. There’s cat hair everywhere. Why did I wear black today? There’s hair on this couch. There’s hair on your clothing. There’s hair on the walls. There’s hair on the … oh my God. What is this carpet made out of? Is this carpet made out of cat hair? Lady, please tell me this carpet is not made out of cat hair. It is? You wove it yourself? O.K., this is getting creepy.

Do I want to know what you collect? No, I’m not sure I do. O.K., O.K. What do you collect? Pardon me? I’m sorry, I’m just not getting it. It sounded like you said “Feces.” You didn’t say feces did you? You did. You know, I’m set. I just went to the Cat Feces Museum last week, so I’ve seen all I can handle for the meantime. What? You mean there really is one? O.K., I was lying to you. I didn’t go to the Cat Feces Museum. I just don’t want to see your stockpile of decaying cat waste matter.

All right, look, lady, I gotta get going. Well, for starters, I feel like if I spend another minute in your demented world, I don’t think I’ll be able to escape. Also, I’m not really into cats. What are they doing now? Why are they all lining up like that? O.K., look, it’s been fun, really. But I gotta go. What is their deal? Can you get them to move away from the door? Did you make them build into a pyramid like that in front of the door? That’s actually pretty cool, but really, really weird. O.K., get them to stop. I need to get out of here. All right, enough really. Don’t make me start throwing them. OW! What the fuck? That little bastard bit me. I’ll kill you, you little son of a bitch. OW! OW! Get them to—OW! Stop biting me. OW! You little fucker—OW!

This is my last Internet date. I swear to God.

Geoff Wolinetz cannot be found on IMDb because the Hollywood community refuses to acknowledge the production of his seminal masterpiece Come What May, a gritty psychothriller starring a guy who kind of looks like Billy Baldwin and Erin Gray (formerly of "Silver Spoons"). If he were to be found on IMDb, his name would fall between "Geoff Witcher" and "Geoff Wood." In addition to his imaginary film career, Geoff also maintains an imaginary career as a baron of industry, is lead singer of the imaginary band Kick Ass, Falco, holds an imaginary Olympic gold medal and is an imaginary Pulitzer laureate in the field of journalism for his investigative piece on the albinos of Alaska.