Hyena Harpooning Safari
My cat’s been talking about going on some kind of African safari where he would get to hunt hyenas. I think he’s hoping to harpoon some hyenas, bring them back to America on the plane, and mount the harpooned hyenas on the wall somewhere. I keep trying to tell him that he’s too short to be able to mount any stuffed animals on our walls, since he’s just a cat, but he doesn’t seem to want to listen to reason.
He does like to listen to fizzy drinks, though. He can sit there and listen to my root beer fizzing for hours on end, until the drink’s fizz has fizzed all that it can fizz. Then he tries to drink my root beer, but I’m too fast for him. I wonder if his hyena hunting obsession is his way of compensating for his slow reflexes at drinking my soft drinks.
I have many jarfuls of root beer in my fridge. Like my granddaddy said, you can never have too much root beer! He also said that modesty means never warbling at the full moon, lest you wind up on newsreel footage for the entire world to see. His wise words have kept me always sloshing around with plenty of root beer inside of me, and to this day I have never once wound up in a newsreel because I was warbling at the moon.
Was there anything my granddaddy didn’t know? Probably not. I did never understand how his sweater could absorb so many different flavors and scents and mix them all together like that. If you took a deep whiff of a good lick of the sweater, you could just sit there for hours while your brain tried to process everything that was going on in your nose or on your taste buds.
I’d love to have a sweater like that one day, but that probably won’t happen any time soon. Maybe I can ask for one for Thanksgiving and hope that the Thanksgiving Fairy brings me one. She’ll probably just bring me another unicycle, though. I don’t know how many times I need to say it, but I don’t really need any more unicycles. I still haven’t learned how to ride the ones I already have, so having another one isn’t going to help me in any possible way.
I should probably just let my cat go on his safari. Maybe he can knit me the absorbent sweater that I so badly want out of hyena fur after he kills a few. He’s purring at the idea. I hope he’s saved up enough money, those African safaris aren’t as cheap as the cat food that he’s used to getting.
Ow! Hey! Let me out of this headlock! Of course you need to pay for it, I’m not paying for some crazy hyena harpooning safari! Hey! Watch the hair!
Thank you. You need to watch your manners and be more of a good fluff. Good fluffs get safaris and root beer, while bad fluffs get smog-filled trips to Utah and sour orange juice.
Wow, look at him go. I don’t know why my cat always makes a beeline for the neighbor’s Honda every time I mention Utah, but there he goes again. He always comes back after a few days, but never talks about where he goes. I still haven’t figured out if he really loves Utah and can’t help but take a road trip to there every time that I mention it, or if he can’t stand Utah and has to jump in the car and drive in the opposite direction until he feels that he’s safe from it’s demonic pull.
I guess I’ll just take advantage of his absence and play with his lumpy guitar while he’s gone. I love the way the lumpiness makes the sound so much fuller; it’s like I’m playing a quintet of the finest alabaster guitars when I’m really just playing the one lumpy one.
Hooray for lumpy guitars!