La Poulette

Tastes like chicken.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Damn, the kitty cat's tight!*

Like most couples in their early thirties who think it's time but aren't quite ready yet, my friends Husband and Wife got themselves a cat in lieu of a kid. It was an elegant silvery-blue Russian purebred number, with the sort of lineage that puts the French aristocracy to shame. And just like all doting young parents they fed it, played with it, cared for it, loved it and argued about how it should be brought up. The big question was: would it procreate or not? Wife dreamt of a pack of baby kitties, which she would give away to her friends. Husband - forever the rational Frenchman - was adamantly against. It appeared that high level hoity-toity cat breeding was a right kerfuffle: the only worthy tomcat with equally immaculate lineage lived in the south of France and demanded 200 euros per roll in the hay, which is significantly higher than the going rate of the ladies of the night in Amsterdam's red-light district. Between that and the air tickets the whole endavour would represent no insignificant financial burden. But Wife remained unyielding in her altruistic desires and while the negotiations were taking place, the cat was left in limbo hell. By her second season in heat, things were getting unbearable. She would spend days letting out heartwrenching moans that bordered on the indecent. She would nuzzle up to unsuspecting guests and were they to grant her with that obligatory pat on the head she would respond with dilated eyes that seemed alarmingly full of longing and promise. To jazz things up further she soon took to peeing all over the place, which unsurprisingly started to wreck havoc on an otherwise calm and loving relationship.
As with any problem child, extreme measures were called upon. After urgent consultations with the family veterinarian, a strategic course of action was decided: matters would be taken into their own hands via a pair of surgical gloves, a thermometer and some fast moves. The idea? Catch the cat, hold it down and stick the thermometer up its kittycat thus providing their baby with that much needed relief of sexual tension. People, I hear that question on your lips and the answer is yes, they actually did it (like any loving parents would). Three times (like only a perv boy would). Is it just me, or does that qualify as rape? Because if that be the case, I can now add bestiality prone deviants to my list of friends.

11 Comments:

  • At 8/25/2005 10:04:00 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

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  • At 8/25/2005 10:56:00 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

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  • At 8/25/2005 11:59:00 PM, Anonymous rainbow warrior said…

    Iiiii, they got to ya! Serial spamers!!!!! These comments are even more hilarious than your original post - I mean, MINKA ceiling fan, puh-lease! To say nothing of Long Island buses...

     
  • At 8/26/2005 12:04:00 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

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