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There's no subject this blog keeps more rigidly abreast of than the end of the world, since there's nothing more important than Doomsday news to both of my readers. In the latest earth-shattering news, the Mayan Apocalypse, which was pretty well a big snore up until now, has been taken over by aliens hiding in a volcano in France.

About time. To this point in history, the French have not saved anyone, including themselves, from anything, but all that is about to change. Apparently, the aliens living underneath French mountains are much more altruistic than regular Frenchmen, who are chiefly known for their appetites for wine and unwashed prostitutes. The aliens have secreted themselves in a volcanic peak called Bugarach with an eye (or a bunch of eyes, maybe on stalks) to saving humanity for a new era that will follow the approaching Mayan doom this December 21st.

It is important that these French aliens not be confused with regular Aliens, the kind that live inside Sigourney Weaver until they are ready to burst out and wreak havoc. Although the inside of Sigourney Weaver is no doubt warm and dark like the inside of a volcano, Alien aliens, which you no doubt know from seeing the movie, would not save us for anything, except maybe dessert.

Who has the inside information on our alien redeemers? Impeccable sources, that's who, like the American Ramtha School of Enlightenment. These scholars put their faith in the existence of Ramtha, who discovered the secret of eternal life 35,000 years ago while battling Atlantis. Ramtha does not actually attend their meetings; he is "channeled" by a standard mortal woman named JZ White. The reason he does not show up for conferences is not that, being 35,000 years old, he feels kind of creaky. He does not make personal appearances anymore because he has "achieved another plane of existence." Technically, I suppose, one could refer to this as "dead." No one has really seen him since those battles with Atlantis—he is the original POW-MIA.

Another group endorsing Bugarach as the place to be when the lights of the cosmos wink out are the Raelians, a cult founded by race-car driver Claude Vorhilion (French!)

How can a religion founded by a race car-driver be wrong? I'm not even a fan of the sport, but a faith based on NASCAR would have to be more exciting than regular church. I have always noted, on the few occasions I get dragged there, that basic church is like traffic school for your soul—it's boring, you can't leave early, you're liable to embarrass yourself by falling asleep during it, but hey, you get the points anyway.

With these grave and respectable authorities as their assurance, up to 200,000 people are expected to clog the byways of Bugarach on December 21st, in kind of a Woodstock Armageddon. The French who live there can't think of anything to do except be livid about it. We Americans would already be printing up the t-shirts.


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The trailer is set in a desolate town called “Obamaville.” Here, gas prices soar so high that people seem to want to kill themselves (a man puts a gas nozzle to his head). The flame of a candle symbolizing religious freedom is blown out. A girl sits glumly on a bench in extreme poverty.

 
A description of Rick Santorum's political ad, "Obamaville," published in the New York Times.

Fast forward to 2014, after Santorum's triumphant march to the Presidency. Two men, former residents of Obamaville, are discussing  the fate of their town under the Santorum Administration.  Their names have been changed to protect them from political retribution. Actually, the names have just been reversed. The one called "Lem" is really "Clem," and "Clem" is really "Lem."

 

CLEM: Well, it's been two yars since Rick's been elected, and things are goin' pretty good.

LEM: I'll say, Clem. We finally got real religious freedom in this town, which is what we thought it should be all along….freedom for everybody ta have the same religion as us.

CLEM: We runned all the atheists off inta the swamp.

LEM: We wanted ta burn a mosque, but we couldn't find none…we finally found a 7-11 owned by one o' them Hindunesians and burnt it instead.

CLEM: "O' course, things ain't perfect, but I don't blame Rick. I was right behind him startin' a war with Iran the day after he was swore in. Who was ta think it would shut off all the oil from Arabia and whatnot?

LEM: Now we has to buy oil from Hugo Chavez at $400 a barrel.

CLEM: We don't got them long lines at the doctor that we was gonna get under Obamacare.

LEM: We don't got no doctor at all…he's in jail, fer givin' some woman an abortion without makin' her lissen to a fetal heartbeat first.

CLEM: Claimed that her bein' raped made some kind of difference.  O' course, it was a gang of illegal immigrants what raped her, like usual.

LEM: Shot right over our new border fence on them high-powered motorcycles they was riding is what the cops think happened…they was all wearin' Secretary o' State Newt Gingrich masks so none of 'em was caught.

CLEM: Naturally the girl got pregnant…she warn't on birth control. Illegal for insurance companies to cover it now. Tried to hold an aspirin between her knees, she says, but…

LEM: Don't believe her neither. Can you say "slut?"

CLEM: We ain't worried about jobs no more.

LEM: None of us has got one. As soon as Rick laid off all them  wasteful government workers unemployment went up to 19% and the economy tanked like the Exxon Valdez.

CLEM: We don't believe that rich people ought to pay no taxes, because we might win the lottery ourselfs someday, so we borrowed money fer the war  from them Chinese again.  They has plenty because they's selling the Iraquanians all their weapons.

LEM: That feller, Ahmada-somethin,' that we was so worried about getting' the bomb, got hisself declared Dictator-for-Life.

CLEM: They say he was gonna get tossed out until we puffed him all up by startin' a war with them.

LEM: So things ain't perfect.  But imagine what woulda happened if we kept Obama?

CLEM: None o' this, that's fer sure.


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Quarterback Tim Tebow, traded from the Denver Broncos to the New York Jets as a result of the Broncos acquiring the services of future Hall-of-Famer Peyton Manning, was praying in a New York  hotel room when the Lord, as he usually did, appeared to the young football player.

"Jesus, am I glad to see you," Tim said. "I have been cast forth from Denver, where we worked many miracles together, to this sinful city. I am glad you have not abandoned me."

The Lord appeared distracted. "Right, Tim. How's it going? Nice place you have here." He went to the minibar and poured Himself some wine. As He did so, He glanced at the minibar menu. "Ooooh. Twenty-four bucks for an airplane bottle of syrah? I should have  just changed one of those Vitamin Waters into a decent red," He muttered. "Sorry, Timmy."

"It's okay, My Lord. I didn't know you drank, though."

"If you had My Mother, Tim…"  Our Savior paused. "Never mind. What can I do for you?"

"I just want to make sure, My Lord, that you will be with me here in my exile in this city that never sleeps or stops sinning."

"Got your back, Timmy." The Lord took a deep pull on His syrah.

"And I will continue to be your most favored quarterback."

"Well…there have been some developments there."

"My Lord! All those divinely-inspired fourth quarter comebacks! They're not going to happen anymore?"

"Tim, it's like this. Me and some of the guys have a little fantasy league Up There, and there was quite a bit of manna riding on last season…"

"There's gambling in Heaven, Jesus? I thought gambling was a sin!"

"It is down here, Tim. Up There, well, let's just say eternity is a long time. The rules get stretched a little. I did happen to have you on My fantasy roster and when you started wafting all those prayers aloft starting about the middle of the third quarter in all those comeback wins, well, what could I do but answer them? I went from dead last to a solid season winner in the standings. My Father was okay with it…technically, it wasn't breaking any league rules, but the Holy Ghost can be a bitter SOB. He hasn't spoken to Me since the Super Bowl. And I'm pretty sure it was the reason the tires got slashed on My chariot. I suspect Peter or one of the archangels…they hang out at the tavern where I left it parked. So, long story short, I'm not going to be drafting you next year."

"Jesus! You're cutting me from the team?"

"Tough decisions have to be made sometimes. Best of luck to you kid, and I mean that sincerely."

"But here? New York? There's hardly any Christians here! The place is full of atheists, Muslims and Jews! And they already have a quarterback, Mark Sanchez! Could you at least break one of his legs?"

"This is New York, Timmy. There's plenty of guys who will do that for you here without Me getting involved. Talk to one of them. And Timmy, one more thing…"

"What's that, My Lord?"

"Annoy the Muslims and the atheists all you want, but the Jews are my peeps. Keep that in mind." 


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The Republican candidates got their Secret Service code names a few days ago, and the rumor is they're generally unhappy with them. I contacted a press representative for the Secret Service and he confirmed the rumors.

"Getting Secret Service protection is a big day for an aspiring Presidential contender. You're nobody in America until somebody makes a death threat against you. Getting a cool code name is like a candidate's bar mitzvah and prom night rolled into one. Usually a candidate wants something aggressive and masculine, but not this year. Romney originally wanted "Floppy Bunny Ears" as his handle because it's close to Easter, but we had to tell him no, because a code word has to be easily understood and pronounced. Then he wanted "Big Pointy Teeth." We finally made him take "Javelin."

That's nice. It's a big spear, right?

"It's also a crappy muscle car from the '70's. My dad bought me one when all the other kids were getting Camaros, Mustangs and Challengers. Romney's dad made them. My way of getting even. Then Santorum wanted "Gumpher," because that was what girls used to call him in high school. No wonder the dude hates women, huh? That was out, though, because it sounds too much like "Grumpy," which is Hillary Clinton's Secret Service name. All the Seven Dwarfs names are reserved for Cabinet-level officials."

I didn't know that.

"Sure. We always have a little pool every four years to see which one gets 'Dopey.' I picked Eric Holder and won in '08. Lord of the Rings names are used for high-ranking members of Congress. John Boehner is 'Frodo.' We finally made Santorum take "Petrus," which we told him was Latin for Peter, but it's really the name of a Russian oil company that's a secret CIA front. A little inter-agency humor there."

What about the other candidates?

"Well, Gingrich wanted "Newt Gingrich," but it turned out that Ron Paul already had dibs on "Newt Gingrich." The Newt really flew off the handle when he found that out. Not our fault, so we just gave him 'Bam-Bam' and told him to shut up about it."

A Flintstone name?

"They're reserved for candidates that really stick in our craw. Sarah Palin was 'Wilma."


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Caving in to the unwed Wasilla mother's demand, President Obama apologized to Bristol Palin today. Palin demanded the apology because comedian Bill Maher insulted her mother, right-wing Rockette Sarah Palin, by calling her a word that rhymes with what a football team does on fourth and twenty-five.

Palin felt she was entitled to the apology because her mom's friend Rush Limbaugh had called fifteen-minute-of-famer Sandra Fluke a "slut," after she was not allowed to testify at a Congressional hearing on health insurance coverage for birth control pills.

The full text of the apology is reprinted below:

The President wishes to apologize to Bristol Palin. He never wanted  to imply in any way that Bristol, who was knocked up in her teen years by a dunderhead north woods hunk, had anything to do with an intelligent discussion of birth control. He realizes that if Bristol had known anything about birth control, she would not be where she is today, an alumnus of Dancing with the Stars and soon to be starring in her own reality show. She would be as studiously ignored as the rest of the children of Fox News talking heads if she hadn't given her all to another horny teenager in a moment of fumbling, unprotected joy in some barnyard on the Alaskan tundra, and later given birth to a child who, were it not for the economic collapse of 2008, would have been only a fetal heartbeat away from being the bastard grandchild of the Vice President of the United States. One single condom being ripped from its packaging at that crucial moment might  have resulted in her being a nonentity today, and the President understands that Bristol finds any mention of that possibility offensive.

The President also wishes to apologize to Sarah Palin because Bill Maher called her a word that rhymes with the term for the smallest puppy in a litter. The President does not refer to Ms. Palin by this word. The worst thing Mr. Obama has ever said about Bristol's mom is that when she does that winking thing at her audience, she looks like a past-her-prime hooker in a hotel bar.


By the way, I referred to Bristol Palin as "Snooki of the North," in a previous post. Snooki, who gained fame by drinking and intercoursing in hot tubs with multiple partners, hardly deserves to be compared to these bleating Republican sexpots who hunger after public attention like starving Somalians after a truckload of Red Cross rice. My turn to apologize. Sorry, Snooki.


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Monaco--entire country depicted here


Recent articles in both Yahoo and the Huffington Post have featured the ten nations with the longest life expectancies, none of which is the US, and noted that all have of some form of universal health care, equivalent to Obamacare or something even worse. This information is probably being spread by the fem-lib-gay-healthcare types who want Americans to live longer.

They ignore that fact that national health care would infringe on our rights as Americans, particularly our right to die prematurely, which is guaranteed by the Second Amendment. All right, the Second Amendment only explicitly guarantees our right to die of a gunshot wound, but it implies our right to die prematurely of drinking, smoking, bungee-jumping or eating cream cheese wontons at every meal.

If you look more closely at the facts, you'll see what obvious fraud is being perpetuated by these kinds of studies. First off, there are only three regular-size countries on the list: Japan, Italy, and Australia. In Japan, people only live a long time because they're trying to outlive the Emperor, and those guys live forever. Most of them don't even get the job until they'd be old enough for Social Security over here.

In Italy, people live a long time because they are on a Mediterranean diet, which means they drink a lot of red wine, cook everything in olive oil and lie about when they were born. In Australia, vital statistics are known to be imprecise. Australian authorities calculate a dead person's age by counting the number of empty Foster's cans in his or her  house when they find the body.

The rest of the nations on the list are tiny, and I don't mean tiny like Belgium or Luxembourg. I mean tiny by being not much bigger than your average municipal sports complex. I mean Monaco and Macau, Andorra and Hong Kong. All seven of the remaining nations on the list would fit into San Diego County, where I live, and there would still be room for Rhode Island and Delaware. Unlike some of the statements I make here, this is not an exaggeration.

None of these countries is big enough to have a straight-line marathon, and in most of them you can't even go for a jog without a passport. San Marino is on the list, and most of you thought San Marino was a type of sheep.

Guernsey is on the list. Guernsey is definitely a type of cow.

How do these mini-countries keep their citizens alive for so many endless, aged years? For one thing, many of the opportunities we big nation citizens have to check out are not available in pint-sized principalities. You're not going to suffer snakebite in Singapore, or get hit by an avalanche in Hong Kong. There are no barren wastes in which to get lost in any of these itty-bitty burgs, no cliffs to fall off, no endless interstates on which to fall asleep and crash in the middle of the night. Tornadoes and hurricanes even find them too small to bother with. So they've got that advantage. But even when these city states try to keep up with the rest of the world in fatal statistics, like when Singapore executes people for chewing gum, or Hong Kong starts yet another of their crazy flu epidemics, enough of their citizens fail to buy the farm to make a dent in their soaring longevity rates. What gives?

First off, size matters. If you suffer a heart attack while running in Andorra, for example, chances are you've already run into the next country. Bingo! You're somebody else's statistic now.

Next is cheating. Monaco probably has a big billboard outside its border saying "Envie de vomir? Séjour en France!" which means "Feeling sick? Stay in France!" No doubt they also encourage their sickly citizen to emmigrate, possibly because they aren't even big enough to have their own hospitals. If you're feeling fatally ill in Guernsey, why not use it to wangle a free trip to London? That's international granny-dumping, is what that is.

Citizens in these tiny nations aren't allowed to shoot each other, either. This is not necessarily because they are gun-control wussies (although they may well be) but because any time they miss, their bullet flies into the next country and they've started a war. You can't have a gunfight when your entire nation isn't as big as the OK Corral.

So changing over to Obamacare isn't going to make any difference, unless we want to give up much more of what makes America great, which is stuff you can't get in these midget provinces—guns, highways and fried cheese sandwiches. It's too high a price to pay for a couple extra years of sitting around staring at an oxygen tank, not to mention the embarrassment of being ruled by a bishop or some prince with a hat nearly as tall as he is. And if the Monacans, San Marinos, Singapoos, Hong Kongers and the rest of them start feeling superior because they're still sitting in their wheelchairs in some foreign old-people warehouse while we've already embarked upon the adventure of being dead, let them laugh.

They'll still be watching our TV shows.


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With the news that Pope Benedict XVI has commissioned his own cologne from famed Italian parfumier Silvana Casoli, the subject of making the Vicar of Christ on Earth smell better than your average old guy in a gown is now open to media speculation. A secret list obtained by this columnist of previous exclusively Papal perfumes, their ingredients and the occasions that the Pope wears them has been Wikileaked below:

"Celibesexy"--The Pope enjoys his solitude, but knows chicks dig him—nutmeg and almond lightly washed by a base of sacrificial lamb.

"Confession" -- For when the Pope wants to contemplate his own moral failings. A trace of gun oil and bootblack brushed across the sweetness of a Bavarian pine forest.

"Secret of the Synod" -- When the Pope wants to celebrate his ascension to the throne of Peter he wears this triumphal scent--musk, mothballed altar robes and the clean smell of white smoke.

"Big Popi"--The Pope knows he's a superstar. A Broadway blend of fennel, fresh lemon peel, and pointed hatband sweat suffused with a big apple background.

"Old Relic"-- He's number 265, so when the Pope wants to feel the richness of papal tradition he dabs this one on—myrrh, beeswax, freshly washed feet with a subtle undertone of roasted heretic.

"Holy Aqua-Velva" -- the Pope slaps himself awake in the morning with this blend of coriander, burning candles and light halitosis with a background of fresh Communion wafer.

"Censored"-- The Pope gets into authority-figure mode with this one—bright dashes of cucumber and citrus suspended in smoky frankincense.

"Indulgences"-- When the Pope wants to drop his dress and party. Grape and other fruity mid-tones pop out from the fresh linen fragrance of altar-boy underwear.

"Cardinal Sin"-- For those papal moments best forgotten. A top note of wine and tobacco gives way to a hint of chastising leather against a base of new latex.

"Infallible"-- The Pope's fave. Nothing can stop him when he dabs on this powerful cologne. Papal skullcap scent with mid-tones of medieval sepulcher contrast with Christ-on-earthy base notes of denned lion and feasting Romans.


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A spokesman for the Santorum campaign quickly moved to clarify a remark the Republican Presidential candidate made the other day.

"Talk to a plant about carbon dioxide," Santorum said, when asked about the dangers of global warming, a remark that left this observer puzzled, since he hadn't tried to communicate with any plant life since he quit taking drugs back in the seventies.

"What the Senator meant was talk to an American plant," the spokesman explained. "You're not going to get any useful information from a foreign plant, and Rick doesn't waste his time talking to them. Take for example, both the Canadian and Japanese maple trees. They come from countries that have signed that global warming protocol thingy. Certainly he's not talking to African violets, since they probably just want more foreign aid. He's putting both fingers in his ears if he gets addressed by any Korean grass, especially North Korean grass, as long as that Kim il Fat Kid is running the place. And Brazil nuts are just that. Nuts, I mean. He does respect wandering jews for their strong pro-Israel stance."

"And Rick is most definitely not talking to any invasive species. They're the illegal immigrants of the plant world. There's nothing more important than a strong, secure border to keep them out.

"Rick is never happier than when he talks to an American plant. The old oak in his family's back yard helped persuade him to run for the Presidency, along with God. He always has a quick chat with the dozen American Beauty roses he gives his wife every Valentine's Day. And when he sees an amber wave of grain, there's no telling how long of a chin session they'll be having."

What do American plants tell Santorum?

"WE LOVE CO
2! SCREW THOSE ICEBERGS! PARK THAT LINE OF IDLING BUSES RIGHT OVER HERE! UNLESS THEY'RE FULL OF MEXICAN FARM WORKERS, THAT IS!"    

They shout at him?

"They're very sincere. Except for ivy. Those plants have been stuck in those snobby college buildings for so long they've absorbed secular humanistic global warmingism through their roots. Bunch of elitists. There's nothing more annoying than hearing a brick wall full of plants whining about the fate of the polar bears. You might as well be listening to the US National Academy of Sciences talking about rising sea levels, or Mitt Romney saying how it's inevitable that he's going to win the Republican nomination.

Everyone says those things are inevitable.

"If that's what you think, we Santorum people know what kind of plant you've been talking to, pal. Go roll yourself another one."

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I contacted my inside source in the GOP, veteran political operative Joe Redstate, to ask him about the "war on women" the Republican party was allegedly waging. His answer took me completely by surprise.

'It's over. Finished. Ka-put." he said. "At first, we thought it was a great idea. Treat women like any other minority group that everyone fears or at least finds distasteful, like gays, Muslims or Mexicans and garner votes by bullying them around. Then we discovered that only Republican men are afraid of women. Further research revealed that women are, in fact, 52% of the voting population. So the war on them is over. As a matter of fact, we never started one in the first place."

What do you mean by that? What about the grand pooh-bah of the Right, Rush Limbaugh, calling Sandra Fluke a "slut" for wanting her insurance to pay for birth control?

"No sensible Republican would ever disagree with Rush about anything. The whole controversy should never have happened. People misunderstood Limbaugh because he was speaking to his base. When we Republicans refer to women as "sluts" we actually regard it as a term of endearment. We in the GOP love sluts, especially since most of our wives quite sensibly refuse to have sex with us. Who wants to bed down night after night with a bloated, pasty, drunken golf addict? Sluts, that's who! The Miami sex industry is gearing up big-time for the Republican convention. Most of our to-do lists read 1. Prayer breakfast. 2. Lap dance or three. 3. Massage parlor, for the happiest ending until Obama gets defeated. 4. Nominate candidate."

Really? What about when Limbaugh defended himself by whining that rappers use terms like 'bitches" and "ho's" in their music constantly and nobody complains about them?

We Rush fans agree with our man Limbaugh. We think that a guy who's pretending to be a respected political commentator should not be held to a higher standard than men who are pretending to be pimps and drug dealers. Case closed.

What if your Presidential candidate is Rick Santorum, who thinks the states should be able to enact their own laws against contraceptives?

"Strong independent women, the kind we Republicans admire, are too proud to let someone else pay for their birth control. When we force them to drive across state lines to buy morning after pills or get abortions, we are admiring their strength and determination the entire time they're doing it. We Republican men wish we could demonstrate our personal responsibility by paying for our own Viagra, but most insurance companies force some kind of coverage on us."

Speaking of states, what about the states that want women to be forced to listen to a fetal heartbeat before they can get an abortion?

"We're recommending that most of those states stick a rider in those bills that says that instead of listening to a fetal heartbeat, a woman will have the option of hearing a cover of 'She's Gonna Listen to Her Heart" instead. We Republicans are huge Tom Petty fans."

I hear in Kansas that one legislator wants women to pay state sales tax on abortions.

"That's a clear example of where the biased liberal press are making our friends of the female sex oversensitive on this issue. They can have any other kind of medical procedure without being taxed, including everything from getting gallstones out to double organ transplants. And certainly we Republican males aren't trying to do anything really radical, like taxing breast augmentation. Those Kansas guys are just trying to raise a little revenue. No one complains that if we raise the beer tax, it falls mostly on men lolling in front of their TV sets watching ESPN."

Georgia state legislator Tom England just went on record comparing women to farm animals. What do you say to that?

"How can women complain about that? Tom is just trying to say that women are cuddly and wonderful, like cows, goats or ducks, or any other valuable farm animal that we can use for its meat or milk."

What about the Wisconsin tate legislator who says that when a woman ends up with an unwanted pregnancy, it is always entirely her fault?

"That's our way of paying tribute to the wonderful female reproductive system. The uterus, the ovaries, those watchamacallit tubes. It's just gloriously begging to be impregnated. What are our simple Republican gonads in comparison?"

I think the girls would agree, not much.

 "See? Peace is at hand."



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The Pussy Whisperer
From "Animal Planet" web site, 2012


While loafing in front of the TV instead of the computer the other night I came across a show called "My Cat from Hell." It featured young couples with a problem cat, an angry kitty that bit or clawed them with or without provocation. These bad cats are a picture of purring sweetness one moment and gnawing on their owners like they were a hunk of jungle gristle the next. In the show, a giant, goateed, bespectacled man comes into their house to make peace between the young couples and their cats. He plays with the cat with a toy mouse, scratches it behind the ear, and tells the young couples the major remodeling changes they need to make in their homes so their cats will be happy.

These simpering, anxiety-ridden, feline ass-kissers offended me. I'm not pretending to be some major macho character. The most dangerous thing I do on most days is drive to the supermarket on a California freeway. If I really feel like pushing the edge of the fear envelope, I'll grab a  cart without wiping it down with a disinfectant towel first. But I know how to deal with cats.

I first learned the secret of human-cat relations when I brought home a pound kitten for my then-small son. I worked at a nightclub that stayed open until four AM at the time. The first day in, the cat decided, after I had gone to bed at five in the morning, to begin tapping me softly on the cheek at six. Maybe it was hungry, maybe it wanted to play, maybe it was fascinated by my emerging stubble. In any case, I reacted instinctively. I palmed that sweet pile of fluff and shot-putted it overhead. At the moment of release, I remembered that I was then living on the 18th floor of a Waikiki high rise, and had left the full-length window open so the trade winds could soothe me to sleep. A fraction of a second later I heard the thump of its little furry body against the wall, knew I had missed that window, and gratefully went back to slumberland.

I want to assure you that the cat and I suffered no permanent damage to our relationship as I result of my nearly hurling the beast to its death. He remained a sweet and affectionate kitten, plus he never, ever sought my attention again before I was seated upright and eating breakfast.

I was therefore well-equipped to deal with the first Cat from Hell I encountered. This beast drew blood from me with its claw the moment I reached out to scratch its head. The young couple I was staying with for the weekend giggled their apologies, but it developed that both of them and their three dogs as well were terrified of the creature. A band-aid was offered me, but there was no hint of a behavior modification program being planned for the porch puma. As soon as my hosts left the house, I invented my own. If you have a similar problem, I advise you to use this approach, instead of disposing of your masculinity like so much kitty litter by calling the Pussy Whisperer.

Select a broom. Standard or straw. Not whisk or push. Whisk brooms are too short, and push-brooms lack the proper aerodynamics for the task at hand. They are for snakes. Take a couple full practice swings with your weapon. Do it in full view of the couch cougar. He suspects nothing. In his mind, he is still the Lion King. Hopefully, he is sitting in some spot forbidden to him when you approach, like the dining room table, so he gets a double dose of obedience training, but don't wait. Your friends will be back soon. There's no need for them to see this.

Make that first whack count. It is the only one you'll be certain to get in, but don't stop there. Just smacking the couch cougar once may be interpreted by the beast as an accident, and he may seek revenge. Follow after him, swinging. He is quick and agile, but in an enclosed space he may be trapped. Give him a good drubbing, backhand, forehand, overhand—whatever's possible. If you damage some small furnishings, blame it on the cat when your friends notice. You want them angry with their trailer tiger, so they won't examine it too closely for injuries when they get back.

Eventually the closet ocelot will escape. Don't worry about him attacking you as he shoots between your legs. He won't, and he won't ever again. He may still go after your friends and their dogs, but he knows now that there's a new Big Kitty on the premises and your future coexistence with the creature will be one of utter tranquility.

That's how you broom a cat. If you can't do this, then you know what you are. The name for you is contained in the title of the post.


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