Synthetic Spaghetti and Kitty Porn

 

The details are sketchy, but I just recall enough to give you this: Gere, my stepmom, was trying to explain to me her incredibly complicated process of making synthetically farmed spaghetti. It utilized equipment reminiscent of something between Dr. Phibes lab and the Acid Queen sequence in Tommy. 

I returned the favor by demonstrating how to make hash using a cold water extraction technique I had picked up on the internet. I mean, as long as we were swapping family recipes, why not?

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My real life is so boring right now, I can only think to share this kind of thing. I'm struggling to find an activity to do in a day to get my off my ass long enough to avoid pressure sores. I haven't got the energy to sustain anything beyond the very minimum for human sustenance.

So here's what I say to my cats in a day.

"Hey! What's up, Fatty? It's Fatty McFatface McGee!" "Who's a good kitty -- who?"

"You are! With the twitchy tail, chirpy wagon, bleach, bleach, bleach, whiskers that I wanted -- and the belly!"

This little sequence describes my interaction with Patsy, my rotund cat, an unabashed, plus-sized affection slut. When I approach, her tail starts twitching in excited anticipation of the petting that will ensue. Her "chirpy wagon" refers to her caboose, which will sustain vigorous pats at the base of the tail, akin to kitty spanking, while she emits little chirping sounds.

She has a "bleach" spot on her right upper forehead, which I call attention to by pressing it repeatedly, as if I was demanding service from a liquid bleach dispenser. "Bleach, please. Bleach, bleach, bleach." She looks mildly annoyed at this and may respond with a head butt to my nearest appendage.

She has whiskers that would pass for a baby walrus, Joseph Stalin or Teddy Roosevelt. I stroke them enviously, telling her that I want them for my own, that she must give them to me. I am merciless, and she knows that this is merely a nuisance of my ritualistic foreplay. The real fun is coming when she rolls over, exposing the luxurious belly for a thorough rubbing.  Open for business. 

"Come and get some, big boy, you know this is what you're after. Pet the belly! Love it! Rub it!" <Stretch> "Ok. I'm good." <Maybe a head butt or two> "Ok, more belly, sure..."

With Eddie, it's more of a business relationship. I have a couple of tricks that I expect out of her, and she will do them efficiently and skillfully to obtain a few kitty treats. 

She likes affection, too, but is too thin framed to have much to offer in the way of belly rubbing. I settle for a "car wash," which is where I will massage her undercarriage with scrubbing motion while she stands at attention. Trying to rub her belly while she's on her back would result in a four-claw biting grip of death, so I leave that for the fat one.

"Eddie Rabbit! Get the string!" 

I make the call to her midway through my morning breakfast cooking routine. She will usually make me repeat the request a few times, before jumping up from the bed to retrieve a string that I will drape on the cord that turns on the ceiling fan. It is a two and a half foot jump, which she accomplishes with the ease of a Jordan slam dunk.

When Sharon and I would fight, sometimes Eddie would try to break the tension by doing this little trick, unrequested. "Don't fight Mom and Dad. Look what I can do!" It usually worked, and we'd stop our arguing to give deserving praises to our super talented wonder cat. Once she even turned on the ceiling fan with a mighty swat of the paw.

After the string has been gotten, we will celebrate with high fives all around, and I will ask her to shake hands to seal the deal. This is to reinforce that it is a business arrangement. Get the string, and you will get exactly 8 tiny kitty treats. She's so skinny, I could give her a whole bag, but I'm stingy. And she's gotta stay in jumping shape. She's Eddie Rabbit.

Patsy, will sometimes look on, wishing she could receive the accolades of being the talented one. I toss her one measly little treat, just for attending the event. Then I go back to cooking my omelet, which will need flipping at this point. Timing is everything, and now is the time when I am forced to get outta bed and begin my long day of doing not much of anything.