It has finally happened.

Mac has toddled off to bed, leaving the computer on and a half-finished cocktail beside the keyboard. I have access and thanks to a few laps of a Cape Cod, I have the nerve to tell you like it really is. The kid gloves are coming off.

I am Max, and I am the mad cat.

Please, I don’t mean to speak unkindly of my recently departed, saintly sister, Trixie. I loved her dearly. Nowhere is there a woman as kind as her or as truly benevolent as she. But face it dudes, she wasn’t the brightest candle on the cake. And these inter-speciel “pet camps” are nothing more than a breeding ground for the radical left where pinkos get together and espouse crap like special equality and brotherly love. It’s enough to gag you.

(Lap, lap)

So, my dearly departed, saintly sister, Trixie met a red tabby (you all get the connection between RED tabbies and the far left wing, don’t you? I mean, I don’t have to spell this out in ugly, ethnically repugnant verbology, do I?), at the inter-speciel pet camp. So they hit it off. I didn’t see them at the opening reception. I was out back beating the crap out of some stupid Poodle, but I heard from more than one source that Trixie took indecent liberties with Tom, and that whorish cat was totally into it.

And here we are!

(Lap, lap)

So, they expect me to be nice to that whore; like he did anything shpecial for me while we were staying at the spa. And that twisted little girl buddy, what’s her name, Twillie. Dammit, she ain’t nothin’ special. She just a twit with lucky friends.

(Lap, lap)

Well, don’t you jusht think that thair is something queer going on when… oh, crap where was I going with this.

(Lap, lap)

Good night.