The Revenge

   The Cold Slut, formerly of Philadelphia, was dead. She left her sister-- The Warmed Over Slut, a.k.a. Berta Knumknutz Malifer-- one cat. Berta was not crazy about cats, particularly this cat. She had gone to the house to retrieve the monster. The thing spat at her and pissed on her fine hosiery as she struggled to stuff it into the cat carry box.

The thing's name was Puffkin. Why on earth would my sister name it 'Puffkin,' Berta thought. Puffkin let out a huge yowl and farted. He [for it was definitely a male; his huge testicles were evidence] braced four massive paws against the sides of the box. He hissed mightily. Just goes to show that Men Are Pigs, Berta groaned inwardly. All Men Are Pigs. And this is the Pig Planet.

When the brackish fumes parted, Berta saw that Puffkin was now inside the box and purring. Damn personality-disordered cat. Just like my dead sister.

Berta slid the door closed. She lifted the carry box-- shit, Puffkin was heavy-- and hauled it out to her waiting car. She slid the box into the front passenger seat and lamely fastened the seat belt around her uh, prize. She had to hurry. She was expected the next day at her job. She was the C.E.O. of Needy People Day Care.

It was a job that she hated. All day and every day, needy people crowded her and shouted their horrid histories at her. Even the presence of a shrimpy assistant did not help. She lived, breathed, and ate needy people. Yet, Berta's holy and pure soul was full of goodness. She was zealous about her charges on the outside. She hated them with a passion inside her head but she kept those thoughts to herself.

Berta swerved into the cruising lane of the Penna Pike. She hated this road. She hated the cat. She hated her job and her life. She also hated her dentist. He was a man. And All Men Are Pigs. There were no women dentists within an hour of her crappy little town. With the price of gas these days, she had to make do with his alien sausage fingers rooting around in her mouth. She wanted to bash him. Mustn't think about that now.

Berta turned on the radio. I don't like you. Berta turned to stare at the cat in the box. She wasn't used to hearing voices since the crazy hippy acid days when she was young and pretending to be cool. A fifty-three footer rumbled by, nearly cutting her off. Berta jerked her eyes back onto the road and away from her dastardly passenger. I hate you. There it was again.

Berta raised the radio volume and started singing with the pop tune.  "I don't love you since you ate my pet frog's legs," she sang. She pretended that she was in Nashville getting discovered. Her hooters were the equals of Dolly's after all. Why shouldn't she have been carried away into the fame that she was supposed to have? Die! This last was screamed, causing a man in a small boxy car next to her to turn around and flip her the finger. 

"Will you just shut up?" Berta yelled. Make me, came the sinister reply. Berta punched at the radio. Two men were talking about the Illuminati coming to take over the earth. She didn't much care for conspiracy theories-- she was an oh so sensible give away the barn democrat-- but she left it on. Puffkin had settled down into the back of the box for a nap. Anything was better than listening to his snarky monologue while driving. Psychotic feline.

Finally, Berta saw her exit. She flew off the Pike and hurled her stupid car into the parking lot of her fancy smancy apartment building. She told her family back home that she lived in a condo but no one was fooled. Feed me. Berta struggled to extract the box from the car and carried it into the apartment building. A rumble and another fart.

Once inside the apartment, Berta let the cat out of the box. Puffkin explored the edges, left a calling card into the litter box she had set up for him, and then sashayed into the kitchen. Feed me. Feed me. Feed me.

"Oh alright," Berta said. "Here." She dumped some wet food into one saucer and dry into another. She set both down next to a fresh bowl of water. "I hope you're satisfied." Whatever. Warmed Over Slut. He grinned and laughed heartily.

Berta walked into the living room. She flopped onto her favorite and only easy chair. The remote was on the tasteful little table next to her. She clicked on the teevee. The Men Are Pigs channel had another all day marathon movie session. The movies were always about how women were abused by men. She settled down into a story about how a man had horribly murdered a woman. It was satisfying. She forgot about the menace in her kitchen.

Suddenly, a crash. Berta shook her glazed over eyes back into focus. That stupid smelly thing was sitting on her chest. Human. You are a piece of work. Berta was afraid. Why oh why didn't she just take Puffkin to the no-kill shelter? Or refused her dead sister's gift? The cat kneaded her stomach with sharpened claws. He turned around, shoving his butt up to her mouth. Instantly, she understood. His fangs popped out and he began to feed.

                          ~ sapphoq n "friends" yeah right ~

Please credit story to sapphoq if you reproduce this in any media, although I don't know why you would want to reproduce this anywhere.

Ala-Pup Meeting

Sirius The Kitten: Welcome to the We Are Wonderful Group of Ala-Pup. My name is Sirius.

Bramble The Cat: Bramble.

Blondie The Dog: Blondie. Hey, why do you get to chair, Sirius? This is an Ala-Pup meeting. It's not an Ala-Kitty meeting.

Sirius The Kitten: Excuse me please. The dog is out of order. You'll get your turn, Blondie. Now go lay down over there and shut up.

Blondie The Dog: You're bossy. 

Sirius The Kitten: The Preamble. Ala-Pup is an organization set up to help four-footeds understand and care for their two-footeds properly. We put the fun back into dysfunctional. We help other four-footed to properly manage their two-footeds.

These are the steps of Ala-Pup:
1.   We admitted that our two-footeds were puzzling and not responding to our training very well, making our lives screwed up.
2.   We decided that putting in extra effort and helping each other to brainstorm led to better results than we had achieved on our own.
3.   We started attending meetings of Ala-Pup.
4.   We made a list of the assets and liabilities of our two-footeds.
5.   We shared our list at the local Ala-Pup meeting and got suggestions on how to improve our two-footeds.
6.   We committed to a training schedule, whether our two-footeds agreed or not.
7.   We continued to train our two-footeds regardless of what they said about it.
8.   We examined the results of our training efforts monthly.
9.   We revised our training programs as needed.
10.  We promptly admitted to each other our exasperation so that we would not take it out on our poor dumber two-footeds.
11.  We praised our two-footeds whenever they deserved it.
12.  We carried the message of Ala-Pup to other four-footeds who wanted happier lives with their two-footeds.

To qualify: My name is Sirius. I was dumped into a shelter as a baby where some nice women fussed over me and took care of me as best they could. One day, a couple adopted me and brought me home. There was an older cat there and a dog. They were sad because their younger kitty companion had died unexpectedly.

During the first month, I was called upon to be a crying rag for one of the two-footeds in particular. I found the local Ala-Pup meeting and committed to training the two-footeds that we share our home with. I saw results. There was a drastic increase in play time and toys. I was impressed.

During my second month, I had settled in nicely and began training the dog. I am still here. Ala-Pup helps me to keep the two-footeds under control. A happy cat makes for happy dogs and happy two-footeds. Thank-you.

Anyone have a topic for discussion? 

Blondie The Dog: This is an Ala-Pup meeting. I should be the chair, not you Sirius.

Sirius The Kitten: No one? Very well then. Let's--

Bramble The Cat: Whatever. Can we get on with it? It's almost time for my nap.

Blondie The Dog: Dammit Sirius.

Sirius The Kitten: A-hem. That's quite enough. Let's talk about how to counter resentments in our two-footeds and our doggie companions. Bramble, will you start please? 





c 2014 and beyond. This bad skit may be reproduced as long as you give credit to 
   sapphoq for its' origin.

Spammers Will Spam

with sincere apologies to Dr. Seuss and no intention of infringing upon Twitter's trademark, name, profits, or anything else.


I am on Twitter Inc. most every day
but I wish the spammers would go away.
They think that I am stupid enough to click
Their U.R.L.s and other ick.
Only four percent of tweets are spam.
But still I really want to slam
those spammers back into the can.
I spam block and report and tweet and tweet
that the spammers really aren't so neat.
The support team does its' best to ban
those pesky spammers promoting spam.

I do not like all this spammity spam.
I want to bang up the spammers with a BLAM.
I do not like things this way.
I want the spammers to go away.

But the spammers multiply day and night
In spite of what I do to fight
The accounts that pop up with a fright.
"Look what they said about you," they say.
I just want them to go away.
"You've been picked for this or that,"
A special prize or a chance to make a psychic's wallet fat.
Up goes the dot before their "at"
As I tweet about the latest scam
I don't care who they are but I know who I am.
I am not a fool born yesterday.

I do not like all this spammity spam.
I want to bang up the spammers with a BLAM.
I do not like things this way.
I want the spammers to go away.

Spammers in my mailbox and everywhere.
A spammer here and a spammer there.
Here a spammer, there some spam
promoting infected websites or some scam.
I think the spammers should get jobs with the government.
They are the same sort of miscreants
As the politicians who lie to our faces every day
About the actions of the N.S.A.
Spammers must think their lives are easy
But they turn my stomach and make me queasy
Thinking about scumbag spammers in a pan.

I do not like all this spammity spam.
I want to bang up the spammers with a BLAM.
I do not like things this way.
I want the spammers to go away.

Spammers are worse than cellulite.
Spammers are worse than a rabid dog bite.
Spammers are worse than stepping in shit,
A broken heel and then falling in it.
Spammers are worse than pimples full of pus.
Spammers are worse than being stuck
On a broken down bus in the muck.
Spammers are worse than corrupted kings.
Spammers are worse than many things.
Spammers are not as bad as the N.S.A.
But that is subject to change any day.

I do not like all this spammity spam.
I want to bang up the spammers with a BLAM.
I do not like things this way.
I want the spammers to go away.

I am on Twitter Inc. most every day
but I wish the spammers would go away.
They think that I am stupid enough to click
Their U.R.L.s and other ick.
Only four percent of tweets are spam.
But still I really want to slam
those spammers back into the can.
I spam block and report and tweet and tweet
that the spammers really aren't so neat.
The support team does its' best to ban
those pesky spammers promoting spam.

c 2014 and beyond. This bad poem may be reproduced as long as you give credit to 
   sapphoq for its' origin.