Friday, May 30, 2003


I've changed the font to Verdana as part of an ongoing attempt to destroy the bland hell that is Arial. Good / Bad ? You tell me. I was that close to trying out Wingdings. Or would you rather have my other other choice of Georgia?

Kittens. Time to post more kittens for the hairy-arsed former Hell's Angel.

"Molly Moo"

The following is a blatant repost of a story I first published last October. It's undergone a complete rewrite since and is republished now as part of Kitten Week. So, sit back and cower with terror as Scaryduck Productions proudly presents:

"Lesbian Rabbits Turned My Cat into a Man-Hating Mentallist"

Poor, sweet Molly Moo

This is Molly. She is my pet cat, and you couldn’t ask for a lovlier, fluffier little companion. But look again. Look at her face. She has a dark, dark secret that would twist the mind of any cat that has experienced the traumas she has, and seen the things she’s seen. If Sigmund Freud was alive today and could talk to cats, he’d have a field day. Molly never knew her father and her mother's an alley cat, but give a kitty an even break, eh? The truth is simple: LESBIAN RABBITS TURNED MY CAT MENTAL.

Molly is three years old. When we got her as an ickle fluffy little kitten we also had an ickle fluffy little rabbit called Wiggles. Thanks to a misprint by the Rabbit Insurance office, she became known as Wigless. Wigless was a girl rabbit. We knew this because a) she hasn't got a Johnson, and b) she's since had ickle fluffy baby rabbits. She was cute and had one floppy ear and a lovely wiggly nose. And come to think of it, big brown "get it here, you fluffy ball of rabbity sex" eyes, which should have been a warning to us all. Evil lurked inside that ickle fluffy rabbit mind.

Wigs lived in a rabbit run. I built it myself, and several hours’ work resulted in a Hilton-style bunny paradise. But after repeated escape attempts and Keystone Cops chases up the road, it soon resembled a cross between Stalag Luft 17 and the Battle of the Somme, complete with wire buried to a depth of three feet and a watchtower. She craved company, so it was only natural that we should put ickle fluffy Molly in with her to play.

It was the cutest, fluffiest thing you ever saw. They sniffed around each other. "Meow" said Molly. "Honk honk honk" said Wigs.


"Honk honk"

"Meow" "Honk" "Meow" "Honk"

It was lovely. We watched for a while as the new playmates gamboled whimsically in the rabbit run. Words cannot describe the sheer fluffy beauty of the scene. But evil was to rear its ugly head. Evil with long, floppy ears, bushy tail and a craving for carrots and innocent kitten flesh.

Seconds after we retired from this peaceful vista we heard a "meow". Then "Meow". And a louder "MEOW", followed by a pained "MEOOOW". Surely these two fluffy playmates hadn't fallen out? Surely they weren't fighting over the little sparkly rubber ball with the bell in it? Far from it. It was far, far worse than we imagined. Wigs was on top. And there is no other way of putting it. She was humping the hell out of poor, sweet, innocent Molly, and with every demented rabbity thrust came a pained "MEOW!" as Moll was lunged deeper into the muddy quagmire.

It was no good, something had to be done. Alas, it wasn’t going to be me doing it as I was paralysed with laughter. Not even Mrs Scary's cries of "Don't just stand there, hit her with the yard broom" could save me. In the end, and after a supreme effort of self-control, I managed to crawl up to the run and pull her off, tears running down my face. Whereupon she tried to hump my arm, the filthy little slag. She was going at it like...err... rabbits and nothing was going to stop her.

In the days that followed she tried to hump anything, including the guy next door, the milkman and her own hutch. We blamed the phases of the moon, those long lonely nights, her all-carrot diet, and nothing we tried could stop her. So, in the end, we gave her an old football, and she soon grew to love it like a special friend. Morning, noon and night.

"Daddy, what's Wigs doing to that football?" the Scaryducklings would ask.

She had to go.

Molly, on the other hand looked like a tiny lion skin rug. We peeled her up out of the mud, and she slunk off to the shed and hid under a bucket, and has lived there ever since. We take her food and keep her warm, but she's not half the cat she was and is scared of anything bigger than a bug. She's a mental case, and I blame filthy, depraved lesbian rabbits. Lesbian Rabbits must be stopped. If we do nothing now, the war on sex-case bunnies is already lost.

The Scaryduck Archive

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