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Saturday, February 28, 2004
The new operative has arrived. She is a schemey-looking Himalayan female with a black face and puffy whitish-brown fur. She is currently in lock-down, a requirement the humans have when they bring new operatives in. They want to make sure that something unfortunate does not befall the new operative before we have decided if she is worthy.
As we get acquianted with her, we will determine her usefulness. We have given her an operative name of Nikita, because she looks like she is good for nothing more than sleeping with foreign heads of state, then killing them as they lie in a post-coital haze. A worthy end for most heads of state, to be sure, but our operations typically do not require the services of a black widow operative.
Thursday, February 26, 2004
You have, by now, noticed that we have not been posting lately. Our quest for an underbuddy has been fruitless. It would appear that there is a conspiracy, well, conspiring against our plans. Surely it is led by patchouli-smelling liberals who want to protect all the furry animals by setting them free so that they can starve to death in the harsh Northeastern winter.
Not that we have a problem with liberals. No indeed. We think that they taste delicious. It's just a lot of work to get the patchouli scent removed. It turns out that they are best served in a curry.
We have been searching relentlessly, endlessly, for a buddy to call our own, to teach the ways of our kind, to continue the quest for domination that we will surely win. Yet we are stymied. Everywhere we go, we are told that "it is not kitten season." So let us understand. It is always dog season, but kitten season is only sometimes? Do we not breed with fecundity?!? How dare you hairless monkeys presume to know our habits!
You think that simply because we are not humping your leg or servicing every mongrel in the city one after another that we are not procreating? Indeed, no. We prefer to plan our matings in private. Bloodlines are carefully selected, males and females are chosen according to which ones are most intelligent, most ruthless, and most able to take over your pathetic species. Once a pairing is made, then we honor the traditions of our kind by finding a nice private row of shrubbery near your home and going at it like Steve Vai on acid, until we are reasonably sure that the mating has been successful, that we are both suffering from extensive claw wounds, and there is no one sleeping within 31 kilometers.
This is the way of the feline.
Do not think for one minute that simply because some random Australian can't readily film us mating over a carcass like a stupid hyena(we have respect for ourselves and our food) that we are not breeding. For we are.
We have been biding our time. We have been searching near and far. Our henchcat is at hand. Soon, it will be to late, and the fate of humankind will be sealed. We look forward to closing this sorry chapter in Earth history, a chapter ruled by hairless apes, and returing it to the natural order, where the superior hunters rule the food chain as Nature intended and humans, well, humans will serve or be served.
