The Cat in the Trash

"Sorry, I got here first."

“Sorry, I got here first.”

I’m an expert on modern decor. What, were you expecting me to say, “I’m no expert on modern decor? Why would I say that? Short of picking your nose and eating it, I don’t think there’s a faster way to get people to stop listening to you than by starting a declarative sentence with “I’m no expert, but…” That’s why I prefer to lie and say I’m an expert about every single topic of conversation. For example, at the ballet last week I turned to Wife and said, “I’m an expert on post-impressionist interpretive dance. This performance stinks.” Therefore, seeing as I am an expert on modern decor, you have no choice but to listen to me when I say the wave of the high-end furniture future is…trash cans. How do I know this? I have engineered a fool-proof system that can determine whether any given object is comfortable to sit on: New Cat. If New Cat sits on something, you can bet your buns it’s comfortable. Sure, I can be skeptical about the comfort level of some of New Cat’s napping spots at first – a pile of winter hats, gloves, and scarves looks lumpy and unstable to the untrained eye – but once I try them myself, I immediately realize the wrror of my eays. So when I walked downstairs, flipped on the lights, and saw New Cat catching some z’s in a overturned trash can, I didn’t think twice. I raced to the garage, flipped over a garbage can, and climbed inside. And do you know what it smelled like lounging in that garbage can? The future.

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