I, Effing Feline, want to tell you what hisses me off about Ed, my pet human. He’s getting tired of being home so much, of not seeing other people, of not being able to go to a store and buy things he wants. Well, I say
Welcome to my life, Ed. We house cat always have to stay in the house. I never get to socialize. I never get to go to the store to buy things. Sigh.
I now interrupt by rant for a snippet from Ed’s manuscript, Never Saw a Purple Cow.
You’ve read about viruses that turn people into zombies. But how about one that turns people into geniuses? Janet Davis, a beautiful 44-year old suburbanite, abandons her husband, her luxurious LA home, even her life to risk madness and death on a quarantined island in the northern wilderness. She’s on a small supply boat and the drive is trying to talk her out of going to Gilford Island.
“You a poet?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Painter, and hoping Fireworks will turn you into another Rembrandt?”
She didn’t have to answer or pretend to be polite, did she? Wasn’t she close enough to death to indulge herself with that little grace? So she said nothing, just pictured his dark hands flowing over her alabaster breasts.
Alabaster breasts? Lord, even she could write better than that.
Effing Feline here again. I’m open to suggestions of what I should buy if I could browse through a store. Hey, a cat can dream, right?
Never Saw a Purple Cow
Purple Cow: someone who not only doesn’t fit in, they stand out like a . . . well like a purple cow in a dairy herd.
Grade-A example: beautiful middle-aged suburbanite Janet Davis choosing to live among the creative but insane quarantinees of remote Gilford Island.
Grape flavored milk, anyone?