The Cat

[redting]

[Note: Funniest thing I've read in a while. Gross, but
funny]

I used to share an apartment in Chicago with a guy named Jeff.
Jeff worked in the tech support department for Apple Computers,
a standard 9 to 5 kind of a job. I was a freelance musician at the
time, playing piano in jazz clubs across the city. Because of the
off-and-on nature of my job, a lot of the time Jeff and I spent
evenings at the apartment, watching sports, drinking, or taking
part in other manly activities. Everything was going great between
us until he brought home- the cat.

From the minute he brought the little bastard home, I knew life
just wouldn't be the same again. Somewhat unlucky in love, Jeff
showered the cat with all the affection within him. I myself am
mildly allergic to cats, and grew to despise it with all of my
being. With this cat came that which a cat requires: a cat box.
Despite being small, even runty, through some metabolic miracle
the cat was able to shit his own body weight over the course of
a few days. The cat box went in the bathroom, as if that place
didn't smell bad enough already.

This just plain sucked. I decided something had to be done.

I never cleaned the cat box. Not once. Jeff asked me to do it
as a favor a few days, when he was running late or was headed out
of town. I would never do it. It became a pet peeve of his,
much to my satisfaction. Why should I clean the filth of the
feline abomination which he brought into our home? Not that this
was the only problem: my clothes, furniture, and even food was
often covered in cat hair. Being an inside cat with claws, it
saw fit to scratch anything that sat still long enough. None of
these problems seemed to deter Jeff, who was even thinking about
bringing another filthy creature into our apartment.

But I digress. It was time to act.

As I stated before, I never cleaned the litterbox. Jeff knew this.
One day I set my plan into action. Approximately ten minutes
before Jeff was due to arrive home, I went into the bathroom
and removed every piece of stinking cat shit from of the box.
This I placed in a bag, and after carefully replacing the litter,
I carried the bag downstairs. To remove any possible trace of
my act, I threw the bag away in a dumpster across the street.
My deed completed, I returned to the apartment and awaited Jeff.

Perhaps I was hoping for too much, Jeff didn't seem to notice that
his cat had appeared to not have shit that day. Thus, I persisted.
In the mornings, before Jeff got up, I cleaned the box again.
Jeff never saw a single log in the box. Not one. My timing
was perfect. Day after grueling day I cleaned the litterbox, and
never told Jeff. After about a week, Jeff finally asked me if I
was cleaning the litterbox, because it had been clean every day,
and the cat most certainly should have shat by now. Of course
not, I replied, why the hell would I do that? He believed me:
as I said, previous to this week, I wouldn't touch the damn thing.

Upon Jeff's suggestion, we searched the apartment to find out if
the cat had been shitting somewhere else. I struggled to keep a
straight face as I reported that the cat had not made a restroom
of any other location. He asked if the cat was going outside,
which it definitely was not. In Chicago, during the winter, you
don't tend to leave windows or doors open for the fear of freezing
your balls off. This was beginning to disturb poor Jeff; my plan
was working flawlessly.

He took the cat to the vet...repeatedly. Every time, the vet would
assure Jeff that the cat seemed perfectly healthy, and that there
was no way that it wasn't shitting. Jeff performed more searches
of the apartment. He changed the cat's diet, the location of the
litterbox, and nearly foiled the plan when he tried to give it
laxative. I quickly discouraged the idea, arguing that it would be
unhealthy for the cat. On and on this went. A total of fifty-seven
days had gone by since my project started, and Jeff was nearing an
anxiety attack. I finally decided to end my joke, for Jeff's sake.

Only one surprise remained. To prepare, I left the house at
about 4 P.M. I traveled to a local White Castle restaurant
and bought about a dozen of those little burgers we all know
and love. Now, you need to understand that I am a person of
somewhat delicate constitution. I just can't tolerate alcohol,
I'm lactose intolerant, I get sick a lot, and nearly anything
spicy or greasy will make me shit up a storm. Needless to say,
White Castle is about the worst possible thing for me to eat.
After stuffing down those little greaseballs, I stopped off at
the drugstore for laxatives-for good measure. After consuming
the laxatives as well, I returned home and awaited the inevitable.

It didn't take long, but I was ready. When the "dance" began,
I was already in the bathroom, crouched over the litterbox.
Let me tell you, I have never shat that much in my entire life.
All different colors, textures, odors, and other variables were
mixed into one stupendous bowel-breaking event. By the time I was
done, the litterbox was absolutely filled to the brim. Laughing all
the way, I cleaned my ass off and returned to the living room.

When Jeff got home, at about 4:45, he idly made chitchat about
his day and his plans to take the cat to the vet again. He then
announced that he was going to take a dump and advanced toward
the bathroom. On the verge of tears, I waited. From the bathroom
came the cry of "HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!!"

Needless to say, we both had a big laugh about that. On the plus
side, I never cleaned the catbox again.

[brilor]

The tears are runningdown my face!

[Ratlady]

Laughed all the way through that.............never laughed so much at any of the posts before. I've got 4 cats, so I don't even have to imagine it.

Good one, Redting!