Thursday, October 29, 2009

The Seven Cats Of Hell

The following is based on a true story.

Fuck that.

This was a true story. And it will haunt you till the day you die, Johnnyheads—even more so than last year’s yarn.

The tale begins with something that inspires terror in even the toughest of souls: Doggy diarrhea. More specifically, Chocolate Labrador diarrhea.

A brief history of Labradorrhea. Labs—particularly Spanish Doggy—love to eat shit they shouldn’t eat. And I mean that quite literally: Their own shit, other dogs’ shit, deer shit, bird shit. Any and every type of shit out there. Basically, you shit it out, Spanish Doggy will eat it. As if that's not charming enough, he also loves to eat the dead carcasses of the animals that provide said shit. Over the years, he’s eaten everything from dead birds and rotting rabbits to flattened squirrels and—I swear to God—a decomposing manta ray.

Spanish Doggy ain’t the brightest dog on the block.

Needless to say, these things wreak havoc on his digestive system—and consequently, our rugs. (Surprisingly, when canines consume festering flesh and organs, they have trouble controlling their bowels.) Though our apartment consists mostly of hardwood floors, Spanish Doggy—God bless him—will only expel his leavings on the Oriental rug in the living room. Same spot, every goddamn time. Like anyone who’s ever banged an Olsen twin, the rug—no matter how much scrubbing—will never be clean again.

So there’s the back story. Time for the scary story…

A couple weeks ago, I’m sound asleep in my bed, dreaming of flying above the Colorado sky in a shiny homemade helium balloon craft made by my wacky scientist father, when I’m awakened by heavy panting and reeking hot breath on my face. No, my arch nemesis, Nobes, wasn’t lying beside me. Not this night, anyway. It was Spanish Doggy, standing by the side of the bed, tongue out, panting heavily in my face. It was 3:44am. He was clearly trying to tell me something.

“What is it, boy? Is there a fire at the old Miller place?”

No reaction.

“Is someone trapped in a mineshaft, boy?”


“Did you eat something unholy and are on the brink of a diarrhea explosion?”


I jumped out of bed, leashed him up and headed for the elevator.

He tried to squat in the downstairs lobby, but I held him off. We headed outside and ran across the street to Riverside Park, Spanish Doggy sprinting like a greyhound at the dog track.


Spanish Doggy’s relief was splattering all over the sidewalk.

Once fully expunged, I was immediately struck by how quiet it was. Eerily so. I looked around: Not another human being in sight. Sure, it was the middle of the night, but it was still the middle of New York City. It was unsettling to hear no noises whatsoever.

Still, we decided to walk a bit. Air out Spanish Doggy’s ass before heading back inside. And then we saw it. A sight that still gives me chills.

Sitting on the stone fence overlooking the park were seven cats—six black ones and a white one smack in the middle of them.

They were each sitting like hens on an egg, wide awake, staring at us. The site of a 90-pound chocolate lab did nothing to them. They didn’t flinch. Didn’t react one bit. It was as if they were saying, “You pussies don’t frighten us.” Pretty insulting coming from, well, pussies.

Even Spanish Doggy was taken aback by the scenario, initially cocking his head to the side in classic doggy fashion: “WTF?” Followed quickly by forceful pulling in the opposite direction, as if to say, Get Me The Fuck Out Of Here. The cats, unmoved, continued to stare. Were they communicating with Spanish Doggy? Threatening him telepathically? God, cats are such assholes.

Part of the reason we became so unhinged is that while we were well aware of a solitary black cat living in the park, we’d never seen more than one, so we just assumed he or she lived alone. (What does a lonely, single cat in the city live with for companionship? A smaller pet cat? A rat?) Little did I know there were six of them, plus the even more mysterious white one—each probably showing up at a designated time to take over the prior one’s shift. Surreptitiously replacing one another, like the Olsen twins on Full House. (Another Olsen twin reference? Really? After having a total of zero in the previous 161 posts? What’s that all about?)

Anyway, we’ve reached the point in the story where one of the leading characters loses it; in this case, it was Spanish Doggy. If this was a horror film, here’s where he would’ve inexplicably lit himself on fire and leapt out a window. Being a dog, he instead began barking and lunging ferociously, like the three-headed hound from Hades, Cerberus (NERRRRRRRRRD!!!), followed by what could only be described as a dying wolf's howl. Some of spookiest sounds you’ll ever fucking hear. Especially considering this is not a dog who howls.

All the while, the cats—the stupid fucking cats—sat there, frozen, staring at us. Except for the white cat, clearly their leader. She—so obviously a chick—began unassumingly licking her paws. The ultimate fuck you to us.

It was time to go.

Spanish Doggy and I did a quick 180 and headed home, each more grateful than the other. We rushed into our apartment, locking and bolting the door behind us. Did I invite Spanish Doggy into the bed with me because I was a little scared? Maybe. Did I kick him out due to unspeakable doggy gas? Absolutely.

A few days later, the two of us were walking through the park, trying to mind our own business. Sitting atop the fence, by his lonesome, was a single black cat. I stared at him, thinking, “I know your secret, cat.”

He hissed at us.

The nastiest fucking hiss you will ever hear.

“I swear I won’t tell anyone!” I blurted out, once again terrified.

Let’s hope those cats don’t have Internet access.


Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Friday, October 23, 2009

How To Never Get Pussy Again, Part Two

Might as well freeze your own dick in carbonite, as you will never need it again.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Friday, October 9, 2009

How To Never Get Pussy Again

Spotted in the trash on W. 87th Street, 10/9/09

Thursday, October 8, 2009

What Johnny's Currently Reading


Can you think of a better band name than that?
I didn't think so.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009