Friday, May 23, 2008

Guest Mirth and Woe: Kittehs

Guest Mirth and Woe: Kittehs

Today's Tale of Mirth and Woe comes to you from greatest living Welshman Russell T Davies Rikaitch and features – those of a sensitive nature had better look away now) – kittens, the foulest, most vile creatures ever to stalk God's Earth. No, hang on, that's Wildebeest. Kittens, then.

A tale of two kittehs

Tweety and Sylvester were two kittehs.

Tweety was just like the cartoon character, very smart, very cute and very nauseating.

Sylvester, on the other hand, was nothing short of a bully, picking on Tweety and making her life hell. He was also the spitting image of the cartoon cat, with a black back and white flash down the tummy.

Sylvester knew he was stronger than Tweety and would take great pleasure in getting Tweety into a hold akin to a certain alien attached to John Hurt’s face. He’d then get his back legs and kick like fury until Tweety retreated to a safe distance (the next room), or passed out in a wave of scratches like a wire brush on bare flesh.

Tweety would still return to Sylvester for more of this beating though, and I’m sure it was the feline equivalent of a Conservative MP with a gimp mask and a slice of citrus fruit up the bumhole (Kids! Ask your parents, they can provide a full and frank explanation...)

Now unbeknownst to most people – and this is 100% of FACT - kittehs don’t have taste buds for the first 6 months. This leads to a simple palate involving mother’s milk, the occasional small bowl of real Whiskas kitten food, and when the craving arose (quite often, actually) being introduced to kitteh litter meant a large dosage of high fibre.

All three dietary requirements have one side-effect. The kitten’s delicate and newly formed stomach has yet to work out completely how to digest this new found solid food, kitteh litter and most importantly milk, and so it would spend as little time as possible in the stomach. Tweety was particularly susceptible to an attack of the runs, whereas no matter what Sylvester ate, he would still make small poos vaguely reminiscent of indoor fireworks.

One particular day, the squitty kitty had an uncontrollable burst of bowel evacuation and produced a fine puddle of what can only be described as English Mustard.

Sylvester, with his strong constitution said to himself “Oooh, that looks yummy,” and set about having a feast.

"Om nom nom nom tasty poop," he said, "Nom nom nom"

Tweety turned round like cats do, only to see Sylvester tucking in to his new dietary supplement and decided to join in. Delicately, she lapped at the puddle on the floor, then started to look undecidedly pale, gave the customary cat cough (eyes bulging, mouth open, sound of "ack") and then puked Whiskas Kitteh food all over the floor as well.

Yes, the Ironclad kitteh had that as well.

"Nom nom nom lovely spew nom nom."

Meanwhile, I couldn’t watch any more. I left the room green myself, and when I went back to clean up a while later the mess had almost completely gone, and Sylvester was now licking the carpet.

We got rid of Tweety shortly after, but the repugnant bulimic (no, not John Prescott) is still here. I don’t think his taste buds have ever recovered.

No comments: