Monopreme

Let’s play a game…

It is perhaps our only intuition rising to the level of instinct in the human animal – “The Game”. That and the irresistible urge to chuckle at the breezes in us as they make their daring breaks.

Oopsie, the gaseous villains boiling in my guts have decided to make a rather unexpected and rather warm departure from their colonic incarceration. It happens…

(It’s entirely unnecessary to immortalize that moment in writing – but what do you want me to do? Just hammer down the backspace until all the evidence of it has been purged from the text? That’s not going to freshen the air, and it’s not going to renew my shorts.

Besides, then what? Blame it on somebody else?

Firstly, no one else is around. I’m making up excuses for the benefit on no one. I’m not even saving face. I’m mostly killing time until the distraction fully clears from the air and I’m no longer at risk of pulling off a YakBlatt trifecta – sharting, sneezing and burping up gunk.

At least the cat would be mildly impressed. But how’s that going to shake out in the laundry tomorrow when my lies are made undeniably apparent?

“Did I find a Grumpkin from a YakBlatt on your sweatpants, honey?” No, those are your Grumpkins, dearest. Lie, deny, counter-accuse. It’s the key to a good time, all the time.)

…Playing games is the only other activity aside from gurgling up biscuits for a second revue of “that flavor™”, that we engage in without instruction. Only the sourest of puss amongst us must be compelled to engage in game – and to the credit of their puss, the sourness isn’t likely to be completely uncalled for. Many of us get suckered into playing stupid games, winning stupid prizes and as a result we cultivate an entirely sour puss.

“Wanna play a game?” No. My puss is sour.

The other players thank you, though. Nothing ruins a good game like a bad puss. Show yourself to the sour-puss corner and join us when it crusts over and you’re just salty. But not too salty. Water it down with some margarita to balance things out. And a prozac or something, if that’s still advisable. I’m not a doctor. This isn’t medical advice.)

/// BEGIN DEVIATION (DV) ///

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// END (E) DV //

What was I writing about? Flatulence? How does this always happen? And what’s up with that DEVIATION? Did I just glitch out?

/// BEGIN (B) DV II //

Jasper just went dashing out the door, nearly tripping me as he made his unexpected escape.

Jasper never did seem like the kind of cat who would want to freeze to death in the snow. There wasn’t any reason for him to want to escape. The vacuum was sleeping. Rocko was off napping somewhere. The canned air wasn’t even in the same room. I thought we had been treating them very nicely.

As nicely as is to be expected of a cat-captor.

I always gave him extra belly rubs in consideration of the whole testicle thing. I was against it, but the social pressure was too much. And if I’m being honest, I only wanted the pleasure of cat companionship if it comes without having them spray urine in my face. Even if only occasionally.

I don’t care if it’s a sign of affection, or whether they’re getting territorial or whatever it is. First of all, I’m not a cat scientist. I’ve never studied cat business all that closely so as to be considered expert in anything even feline adjacent.

I can crack a 550 cord on a stick like a whip and they love that. I’m pretty sure they think I’m some sort of lion tamer, and they’re in the circus.

Or I’m a wizard and they’re not.

Or I’m a clown and they are too – but they get to hang out with me, and that’s cool. They love that.

And getting spanked –

but other than that, their motivations and the goings on of their inner workings are a mystery to me.

I saw a video of a fellow getting sprayed right in the face with cat-juice. I knew then and there – that is never going to happen to me. I’ve learned my lesson from that person’s mistake. Remove the cat’s testicles.

I don’t care what you do with them. I’m too civilized to even ask if I could get them in a take-home-parts container. I’m not a Loon. Throw that stuff away. Burn it. I don’t care. Here’s money, enjoy the leftover junk.

Despite all that, ol’ Chunk Mc’Gunks himself, Mr. Jasper Harris – went dashing off into the deer infested woods in a winter woozy. Well, fuck him. Ingrate. Food probably wasn’t good enough for him. I didn’t rake the litter box after scooping, and shoveling, and bagging up his generous donations, day after day, after day.

The cat was a poop factory tycoon. And rude. Sure, he was a little sweetie sometimes. But he was always shrugging off pets like a king feeling the filthy, undeserving hand of a sweaty, poo-peasant daring to touch His Majesty, Lord Jasper.

“Fetch me a treat, slave”,

…is probably what he was thinking when he said, “meh.”

Purred like a Fat™, too. Pathetic. Wrapped up in a soft blanket, purring like a little chunk. Guh-guh, guh. Fat cat sounds like emphysema kitty. Its chortles have the timbre of a heavy rock being dragged over a flat, half-grippy bedrock beneath it. All – Gooh. Gouhf. Guh. I hope he gets eaten by coyotes.

Nah. That would be sad. God forbid Debbie found him out in the woods, all gnawed up and half-digested. That smug look on his face replaced by the frozen horror of death-by-coyote-mouth. His once strokable belly – eviscerated; obliterated. All lumpy and liquid like the internet always suspected. If I found his tattered corpse first, I could maybe salvage a foot to sell as a good luck charm at least. But that would be complicated. Not just to facilitate, but to explain. Let me try my best.

People in the market for cat-foot good luck charms is not zero. This is a fact of life most people would like to ignore. But not the frugal businessman with an excess supply of cat foot. “Waste not, want not, ese.” That’s what they always used to say on that infomercial. Good words to repeat. Economical, ethical, environmentally-friendly.

Never forget the 3 R’s of Recycling:

REFURBISH
RENEW
RESELL

Keep those wise words of the ancient infome™ alive, good goomper™. Let it abolish the infomo™. No ‘mo FOMO here bro-Jack. Hit the road with that scat, selling esoteric trinkets at roadside rest stops from the back of your mini-van.

Just like Jasper ran off to do a minute ago.

I should probably go see if I can capture him. For his own sake. He doesn’t know what’s good for him. Even if the coyote scenario doesn’t play out, it’ll be the fox. Damned sneaky fox. Or a dog. Maybe even a raccoon, or a possum. That pretending-possum doesn’t fool me (it did though, I’m just acting cool for the internet).

The deer. If nothing else gets him got, the deer will undoubtedly. If they’re not stopped first by one of our heroic hunters. I watched one of them kill a bird for fun the other day. Don’t let their boopable snouts deceive you. Hunters are your friend. “Bambi” was a psychological operation by a war-criminal conglomeration (that’s what our confidential source informed us).

Shoot every deer you come across one* if you love humanity. If you don’t, they will eventually swim to Australia and become kangaroos.

* Only with the appropriate hunting licenses, authorization to be on hunting grounds, permission from your wife, and a little taste for Uncle Buddy! This is not hunting advice. Monopreme does not promote, endorse or encourage anything – unless it’s visiting the new M’Merch Shop!

And then they’ll punch you, mate. In your soft, punchable face, ese.

And they’ll strangle your dog, too foo’. Then your cat, and even your kids – whatever’s choke-able and convenient. There’s even an app for it.

Don’t have the time or energy to do your own choking? Let the side-hustlers handle it for you with ChokeDash™ – now available in even MORE cities!!!

At least the deer here aren’t Australian. G’day for that, indeed. But he’s still got to contend with the cars. Jasper has no idea what the ramifications of disrespecting a car are. He’s a sheltered inside-kitty-moron. He’ll end up like the armadillo, all chunky and splayed out like charcuterie for the pests.

Better get a coat. Unlike His Excellence, Duke of Almost Tripping Me During His Abscondment – or southern Europeans*, I don’t have a coat of fur. It’s cold outside, and I’m not dressed for cat hunting. I rarely am. Now that I think of it, I haven’t been fully outfitted for a proper cat hunt since ’98. I don’t think I even have the pants still, or on. I’ll just grab a coat.

*not all southern Europeans have fur so thick it looks like a shirt

“Heating up the patio?” Debbie jested. I had been standing at the door, swinging it back and forth trying to decide which potential scenario was more likely and whether or not I should get a coat at the moment.

“No, yeah. That was a good one. No, Jasper. Got to go kill Jasper”

“What?!”

Of course that came out wrong, but I didn’t have time to explain.

After considering Jasper’s unlikely odds of survival I considered the possibility that he would survive. That he would transform from the pudgy, loafy house cat he was into the swashbuckling rougeish alley cat he was destined to be. Maybe he’d run into a scientist during his adventures that lives in a van and is on a mission to reverse catstrations.

A mad, mad scientestical scientist hell-bent on the liberation of puss. He dedicated his life to transience and poverty so that liberated cats could procreate and live the genetic dream.

And what if Jasper’s ancestors harbored a deep genetic resentment about that time I didn’t share any of those chicken wings. I don’t know if cats are supposed to eat chicken wings. Probably not. Either way he wasn’t getting any of that tasty bird meat and he knew that.

Jasper is just goofy enough to choke on one of those wings if he managed to outwit me and snatch one for his mouth fun. No. It’s better to end it now before natural selection has its was with my ancestors.

What kind of monster would I be if I let the common housecat loose and with the help of a renegade geneticist, it evolved back into a murderous jungle predator with a grudge against humanity for what they did to Jasper a millenia ago. Doesn’t sound very Christian. No, better go and do the lords work and choke Jasper to death in the woods. Can’t leave these things up to Midwest deer. Not with their flabby little chicken wing choking arms. Not nearly Australian enough for what needs to be done.

////// META DV (MDV) //////

As I was writing this macabre cat fiction, it occurred to me that writing it was not only a waste of time – but actually an unfair cost attempting to be imposed on some luckless future idiot. Perhaps even a few unfortunate bibliophiles in the present as well. You’re going to be robbed of a few precious minutes of your short life here in the Imaginarium™, thinking about dead cats that aren’t really dead. Jasper is fine. Fat as ever and just the right amount of friendly.

Not clingy like a dog. Independent like a rabbit, but fun occasionally like a bird.

Nothing like a lizard or a turtle or a snake. That’s what I like most about Jasper, his lack of snake-ness. Though his fur pattern is a bit suspicious. He might be a lizard-person-puss. What’s imaginable is inevitable. I suppose it’s nothing worse than the journalists do. Or people who post on social media about their dead cats. Don’t bum me out with your cat tragedy, fool. How dare you.

As a citizen of the common age, englubriated in media as many of our time are – my inner Greta Thunberg (since I have incorporated her sound bytes into myBorg™) says “How dare you!” make me think about how depressing it is to be you right now, with your dead cat. Shame. Then I ring the shame bell like that scene in Game of Thrones. Shame. Your cat was a loser. Shame. You dig, Diglet?

Not really though. I appreciate the tragedy. I can imagine a scenario in which you have no one in your life to share your sad cat news with, and your only outlet for venting your grief is your favorite message board on the internet. Now I have to think about how sad it is to be you in general on top of the fact that your cat is dead. Your one joy and companion in life got tired of living and called it nap time forever.

What’s the appropriate amount of time that should pass until you go get a new one and forget all about Mr. Pumpkin, or Miss Blumpkin or Zer. Williger? If you make me contemplate it too much longer I’m going to suck start this Dillinger. Please keep your tragedies to yourself. It’s The Right Thing to Do™. Or as the great prophet J. Nicholson once said, as the gangster, about a remark on dying, “We all are, act as if.” Thank you, come again.

Don’t you ever, ever, ever let anyone convince you otherwise. Compartmentalize all of your interactions with the world and everyone in it. Code-switch, change outfits, fake accents – just fit in. And be quiet about it. Put on your hat, eat your biscuits and play the D.U.M.B. game with the rest of us. The game is impossibly simple. Ignore the horror. It’s time for biscuits. And not disco biscuits, just yet.

First try your imagination. If that doesn’t work, try on a costume. Pretend harder.

Pretend you’re not a naked beast powered by the annihilation of other life forms for a minute. Then stack those minutes up until you have an hour. Keep on stacking until you’ve pretended your strongest all day. Go to sleep, wake up, repeat. Pretend the vegetarians are only on their high-horse for as long as it takes for quantum computing to enable communication with a variety of lifeforms, including plants, across time and space – and it’s revealed that corn plants have been sentient all along. Rue the coming of the inevitable day!

And the mushrooms, and the lettuce, and the po-tay-toes too, Gandalf the Glutton. All sentient, all this time.

And you chopped off their bits and made a stir fry that you called organic suggesting your barbarism was somehow acceptable because there hadn’t been any blood involved. Not any blood you cared to understand, you monster.

You’re all going to answer at the war crimes tribunal if the radishes ever get the upper hand. Best to wipe them all out now.

Choose Your Adventure

Refusing to eat your meat was just choosing face over everything else all along. Still killing to live. You monster. But you can’t just obsess about that all day long, it would be distracting. Distressing.

What are you supposed to eat? Titty milk? Like some toothless poob? Socially unacceptable and logistically infeasible. Besides, you know some dirt-bag out there would be running a milk farm in less than ideal conditions in some less than regulated country to gain the edge over their competitors. Probably not too far from the clandestine bioweapons research labs and the black-face secret super-sites where the CIA uses black magic to turn runaway cats into interdimensional demons, too.

And the toxic runoff from those facilities is bad for the well water that the exploitees of Big Milk consume on the Boobie-Juice™ plantation. All so you could pretend to ethically exist. Sure, the packaging makes you think everything is chill. It’s organic. It’s MoreGanic™. Tiddy-Milk Cows are vitamin enriched: Now with extra sunlight during non-production hours. Yum, it’s nutritious. It’s delicious. It’s renewable! Try some next time you have access to the breast of a pregnant.

Big Titty will get away with it too. That’s how the world works. Because that dang undeniable, dribbly, ol Betty’s-BooBoo bottled breast milk “Now for human consumption” is a refreshing treat when you’ve been driving for the last 19 hours straight. Stiff legged in a mid-sized sedan huffing cigarettes and chugging energy drinks, completely unconcerned with the drastic change in elevation over the last stretch.

Head rush.

Now you’ve passed out and driven your station wagon off the road into a ditch full of lava. Should’ve stocked the ice box with Gash’s Gastronomics instead. The only microbe enhanced “Fresh Milk-Style” beverage authorized by the Food & Beverages Administration (FBA) to treat elevation dizziness, thirst and flavor starvation.

Imagine Dave Chappelle as Rick James owning a human breast milk business and saying “I’m Rick James! I’m rich, bitch. I’m bitch-rich, bitch.” – not that we believe pregnants who choose to work in breast-milk bottling plants should be denigrated as “bitches”. It’s a term of art. A phrase, if you will, that evolves over time.

See, when you read this and were offended by it, it’s because you weren’t reading it in the proper setting. You were not the intended audience. It happens sometimes.

Most writers are aiming for fame and fortune in this lifetime, but not all of us. We here at the M’Monocle make every effort to keep our works as obscure as possible so as not to engage with unintended readers or supporters in the present.

But we make mistakes sometimes too. We’re not omnipotent. We’re fairly impotent, actually. Not phalically, but our tendonitis is flaring up a bit.

Blee-do-bup. Be-dee-doo-de-da-dee-do-dump.

That was a reference that you’d only understand if you could hear the melody I was playing on the keyboard this morning.

Here’s hoping that I don’t leave you hanging without some multimedia for your entertainment purposes only™…

////// EMDV //////

/// EDV II ///

/// DV III ///

/ – / subdeviation (sb) to DV III / – /

You can’t possibly expect to start another deviation from the main point directly after the conclusion of the previous deviation.

The whole point of deviation is to add a pinch of That Flavor™ to the reading experience. Readers today are desenstized to even the most tantalizing of plot.

That’s why Stephen King always let his readers fantasize about naked women every couple of chapters. Tumescence and titillation are an important aspect of any bibliophiles underlying motivations.

That’s why the romance genre is so popular. Matter of fact, I’m not sure why I’m not trying to cash in on that instead. Surely someone has organized an online directory of written smut. The tasteful kind, obviously. So, you can sell it without having to facilitate some kind of curtain to conceal the “Sleazebags Only” area.

/ – / EsbDV III / – /

Questions about spooky business. (The cat got me before I could explore that thought further) Something about the murder manuals they write up. The tech specs on doing the lord’s work for the glory of the flag. Or for the enrichment of their Uncle. Whatever is fashionable at the moment, as long as the bribery assets are liquid and untraceable. Just make up a currency and we’ll trade in that.

When the Tax Man™ comes around, as He surely will you better have Papi’s taste. Daddy’s slice of cheese for spreading around. A soft cheese, like a soft money. Pillow-bucks. Where’s that pillow dude when you need him? Back on crack? We don’t know that. No one does. And we didn’t say it. One can speculate wildly in fictional works, though.

What were we talking about?

Oh yeah, let’s play a game!

Join us next time when we dive in depth into the topic of “The Game” and how you should play it.

Look forward to a convenient collection of search engine optimized listicles to guide you. Feast your eyes on even more tastefully censorious AI generated illustrations to assist your flagging imagination.

Follow along as we diverge deeper and abbreviate even more things unneccessarily, next time in “The One Supreme Source for What You Need – to READ – Monopreme!