Why Would I Write a Blog About Why I Loathe Cats? Why Would I Not?

The internationally notorious Bandit, here seen loitering

The fault is entirely my own. I knew from the start that my fiancée had cats. I hate cats. We got married anyway and now I have Scruffles, my hot cute wife, but am also stuck with a bunch of morons, idiots, and blockheads who throw up on the carpet when I am walking around in sock feet looking for the bathroom in the middle of the night. The stench from their poop could kill a rhino. They act like they're deaf when you are screaming at them for shredding Kleenex and leaving the pieces all over the house, or when they chew on your toes when you are asleep. They won't run away no matter how often you leave the front door open, though Bandit will walk outside, yawn, stretch, then wait for you to pick him up and bring him inside. Midnight will also rush out because in his microscopic brain he worships Bandit and will do anything Bandit does, especially lick Bandit's butt. More on that exciting topic later, even if it makes me throw up a little bit.

Am I a blockhead for living with cats? Of course not. I am a helpless victim of pure cat evil, a doomed soul whose work clothes are covered in cat hair, a human being treated like a medieval peasant forced to clean out litter boxes that would make a hyena retch. This blog is my tragic story, the woeful tale of Bear [not my actual name, because anonymity helps when you say am lot of bad things about cats on the Internet, though everyone knows it is all true]. You could argue that this is actually our cats' story, but my whining about cats will be a regular feature. My wife Scruffles [her "pet" name keeps people from realizing she's married to me]says she too will post here to set the record on cats straight with a healthy dose of reality, sanity, and wisdom, which is ridiculous because she loves cats and thus lacks all rational perspective.

Cats are both a threat AND a menace, and I can prove it. Wait and see.