The long-haired homosexuals from Cuddly Creatures™ came by yesterday with some animals that we could pet for the afternoon. The bleeding ass liberals started this program to comfort the lonely and old with an hour or two of furry love.
My retarded son and his wife, Tokyo Rose, feel that we are too old to handle the responsibility of a little pet, so we have these queers come out once a month with animals because Mrs. Aldrich likes to pet cats.
That’s all well and good. But every damn time the van pulls up, THOSE DAMN KIDS from the neighborhood flock around and follow those Peter Pipers into my house like some freakshow version of Pied Piper. “Can we pet your cat?” They’d say. “No!” I’d say. “Get your chocolate and marijuana hands out of my house!”
But those butt pirates always let the kids in on Mrs. Aldrich’s action. They all have a high-ho time petting these drugged up cats who just lay there waiting to die.
The one with the orange spot on his nose, Sprinkles, is Mrs. Aldrich’s favorite.
Snotlick from two doors down thinks the way to hold a cat is by the arms. Seeing that cat hang there in agony reminded me of so many of my buddies who had to endure Japanese torture chambers.
I looked at that cat. That cat looked at me. With my eyes I told that cat not to worry, Snotlick will be dead soon.
Mrs. Aldrich always cries when they take the cats away. That’s the only reason I let them come back every month.
As Cuddly Creatures™ pulled away, and Those Damn Kids returned to throwing rocks at squirrels, I decided to go to bed.
I’ll talk at you next week…
Lester Aldrich – Those Damn Kids
