Biting Furry Ass for Canada

From November 2004, the first extra edition of Neal’s Belch for llitPress.com – Based in Niagara Falls, Canada and run by a guy called RazZ, Illitpress was a bit like the MatchstickCats.com of that era but with hipper writers and more swearing. I did my best to fit in.

Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing but respect for those fine people who work in the cat food industry. Absolutely nothing at all. It’s just that there’s something hypocritical about people who purport to be doing everything within their powers to advance the health and status of cats, yet at the same time they’re killing innocent little fishes, including presumably catfish, and chopping them up to be put into cans. As far as I’m concerned (note to self: must insert gratuitous vulgarity – remember you’re at IllitPress now), this is all a crock of shit.

Several years ago, I, for a short time, worked in one of those factories, just like the one where they make the cat food.

Admittedly we were assembling and packing Christmas Trees, which did not come anywhere near the animal food chain until about ten years after their manufacture, when they finally reached the landfill next door to the cat food company. But that’s not the point.

If you think that that is the point, then you are sadly mistaken. You have allowed yourself to become distracted and perfussed, and you should be ashamed of yourself for losing control of your faculties in such a way. In doing so, you have lost much of the respect and benefit-of-the-doubt which I had previously allocated towards you in my mind. You fucking idiot. (Hey this is easier than I thought.)

I myself never would allow myself to be thrown off topic. Anyway, two cats walk into a sandwich bar.

One of the cats notices the presence of a Catfish sandwich on the menu, and immediately walks out in disgust. He rather kindly spares the other cat the knowledge of it’s presence.

Which is fortunate because the other cat is rather sensitive, and would probably have quite a shock, were he to see something like that. Anyway, in the first cat’s absence, the second cat orders a couple of BLTs and a side order of that stuff that looks like cat’s vomit, which I can never remember the name of but it’s the white messy stuff that you get with salads. What the cat doesn’t know is that in some of the less reputable sandwich bars, the similarity to cat’s vomit is not entirely coincidental.

Anyway, ten minutes later both of the cats are sitting on a wall enjoying their lunch. The first cat has forgotten about the unfortunate menu item, and is tucking into his sandwich. He lifts up the cardboard lid and peeps into the foil box containing the white salady stuff, and recognises yesterday’s dinner.

Fortunately yesterday’s dinner was curried chicken and chips, a particular favourite, so the first cat relishes the opportunity of re-living a previous supper, although he does carry quite a sizeable resentment at having to pay for it all over again. He only hopes that some work went into the re-preparation of his recycled dish, in which case he would feel a little less ripped off.

At this point I feel I should address my own website’s loyal readers who no doubt have stepped over here to see what I’m up to, and are a little surprised. They’re good people, and they’re used to cute little cartoons about talking kittens, and the odd article about nothing in particular.

And now they come here to find me writing about cat’s vomit, and resorting to crude, unnecessary words like “shit”, and “crapface”. Oh wait a minute I haven’t used that one yet. Well anyway, I understand how you feel.

But look at the likes of RazZ. Basically what he does over here is sit down for a couple of minutes, string together a few swear words and a topic of the day, and manage to make you laugh your ass off. It’s genius. Tonnes of people read it. And it’s much, much easier than what I do at the other place. And frankly, I want a piece of it.

I always like to have a piece of things.

I think it’s my natural instincts kicking in. Just yesterday my cat, Harry, was eating a dead mouse, and I couldn’t help myself. I jumped onto the rug and before I knew it, I’d taken a huge bite of fur out of Harry’s ass.

Harry was real pissed. He’d been planning on entering his ass in the local “Cute Donkey” competition, but now that he had a huge hole in his fur, all he was good for was lugging coals home from the shop. That might have been fine twenty years ago, but we’ve got central heating now, and there’s no point filling up the whole house with filthy coal and soot, unless one of the cats is going to get pregnant and develop an insatiable appetite for coal, as I believe some women do. Personally, I wouldn’t ever have a female in the house. They pee all over the place and you have to keep taking them to the vet for jabs and things.

Anyway, till next week, I’m Neal, I’ve found my new spiritual home.