Monday, November 21, 2011

Papa not give kibble. He must have a Sprocket loose!

Your dignified guest blogger.
Papa is busy writing a novel this month, so he just didn't have the time to write. Since he didn't have the time to write, he needed someone to write for him (since he didn't have the time to write). He turned to his offspring and said “Offspring, I don't have the time to write this week. I need one of you to totally Billy from Family Circus this for me.” And since Papa only has cat for offspring, and since Otis is a really stupid cat, that task fell to me, Sprocket, his most smartest cat.

I'm much better choice than other kitties. Way smarter than that stupid stupid Otis. Otis had poop stuck to his tail the other day. He also chased his tail. Unrelated, but still show Otis very stupid. I hate Otis so much.

I use this space to talk about something that's weighing heavily on my mind recently. No, not the fact that on a scale of one to 10, I hate Otis the amount of furs I have (lots). No, it's the fact that it seems kibble time comes later and later every day. You might say “You're a cat, you can't tell time,” and that may be so, but I know when my tummy rumble rumble rumbles, and I make sure to tell everyone, but still kibble time comes so much later. I hate it!

Otis wouldn't figure out how to fit in here. I did.
And then when Papa finally relents to my non-stop whining, Otis tries stealing my food! That's my food! Now, I don't want to draw any sort of racial conclusions here, but did I mention that Otis is Black Cat? Pretty scary huh? He bring people bad luck, probably because I hate him so much. Oh, and he's stupid. Way stupider than me.

I'm not going to stand for this. Until I get kibble 24/7 and Otis goes to the great litter box in the sky (which he don't even know how to use right) I am officially on strike. I want endless supply of kibble given to me 24/7, and you better make it wet kibble. None of that dry stuff. Well, some of that dry stuff, because it kibble, and I like kibble, so I like dry stuff. Wet stuff also good, it taste like kibble.

As a striking worker, papa and mama will get no chance to pet all of my furs (which I have many of) and I won't do cute things for them like get stuck inside of three separate TVs on three separate occasions during a three year span. They'll be sorry they didn't give into my demands earlier. My cuteness will be for me and me alone.

The face of thy enemy (yet to die at my paw).
Oh, oh, oh, and Otis won't be allowed to have any kibble. Sure, one of my demands is he has to die, but he also not allowed any kibble. If I find out they placed kibble on his tombstone, boom, back on strike I go!

But if Otis not die, I want to have him still not eat kibble, so I can eat my kibble and then go breath on him. I say “Hey Otis, meow” and then whoooooosh, my breath smelling of Dick Van Patten's Natural Balance Pet Foods Duck and Green Pea wafts all over Otis. Undead Otis would be like “Oh, I wish I weren't dead, so I could have the kibble Sprocket is having. Why didn't I think of going on strike?'

I think it's obvious undead-dead-undead Otis, you didn't think of it, because you're stupid. Way stupider and less cute than I am. To show how stupid he is, I'd also have parents fashion a stupid hat that he'd have to wear, because he's stupid.

Oh, papa calling me, and, and, and it's kibble time!!!!! I must go!

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