The Cat-Sitters Club

"She may be a member of the 1%, but she only drinks 2% milk."

“I may be a member of the 1%, but I only drink 2% milk.”

Business is booming. If you climbed into a SmartCar, accelerated it to 88 mph, opened the door, jumped out, dusted yourself off, stepped into a time machine, traveled back to the year 2008, and told my recently college-graduated self that I would be a successful businessman in just eight years, I would have screamed and called the police. I know what you’re thinking: “Why the 88 mph SmartCar?” Because it’s a hilarious visual, that’s why. As for the business in question, I am course referring to my meteoric rise as a professional Cat-Sitter. Perhaps you’ve read about it in some of the trade’s most reputed periodicals? Just last week, I was on the cover of BusinessTreat Magazine. And keep your eyes-peeled for a feature write-up on yours truly in an upcoming issue of Furbes. What’s my secret formula to becoming a wildly successful Cat-Sitter in under a decade? Take one part luck, two parts determination, add a dash of catnip and a dollop of Tuna Flavored Furball Remedy Gel, mix it all up in a blender, and then serve that bad-boy on a crystal serving tray, just like they do in the cat food for one-percenters commercials. Repeat this every day for eight years (make sure to clean the blender, or you’ll start attracting raccoons), and one day, your business partner will go on vacation and ask you to feed and medicate his 16-year-old cat (let’s call her “Old Ironsides” to protect her anonymity), and it’s your time to shine. That’s it. That’s all there is to it. Checkmate, Cat-Sitter Graduate Schools.

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CatBat Fever

"I'm afraid I can't let you have that ice cream."

“I’m afraid I can’t let you have that ice cream.”

I just sold out. No, I’m not talking about how, in a moment of hanger, I agreed to the terms and conditions of Domino’s pizza points rewards program without actually reading them, and, consequently, must now divert a portion of Kid’s 529 to fund their secret ranch dipping sauce research facility in Antarctica. But I digress. The epic sell-out I’m referring to is that fact that Nailsbails.com is now the official sponsor of one of the hottest wearable devices on the market. I’m talking, of course, about CatBat®. Developed by the same geniuses who make FitBit, CatBat is the next-gen of activity tracking, calorie counting, and sleep analysis. Not only does the CatBat run on a 100% renewable organic power source, but it’s also completely autonomous. That means no fumbling with charging peripherals, and no chance of accidentally sending it through a spin cycle. Exactly how does the CatBat work, you conveniently, leading-ly ask? Simply head to your local animal shelter, rescue the cat with the highest predatory tendencies, bring it home, and live with crippling anxiety for the next 15-20 years. As an activity tracker, the CatBat outperforms every comparable on the market. No matter where you are in the house at any given moment, CatBat knows how fast your heart is beating, because it can smell fear. And the CatBat’s built-in calorie counter is second to none. Go ahead, try to get to the ice cream in the freezer without being CatBatted. As for sleep analysis, the CatBat automatically uploads its claws into your legs just as you enter a REM-cycle. Review your flesh wounds the next morning to see how much rest you got! If you’re still not sold on the CatBat, I’m not sure you’re the correct demo. In fact, you might be more suited for the less advanced, but still effective UpPup®. It gets you moving by destroying all your stuff.   

Can Cat Jump?

Can Cat Jump?

Yes.

It’s happening. I’m finally going to be an author! I can’t tell you how amazing it feels to know that all the blood (ketchup), sweat (salt), and tears (sausage, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwiches) are finally paying off. Well, actually, I can tell you. It feels very amazing. No, let me rephrase: it feels very much amazing, a lot. Plus, I’m going to make very much amazing, a lot of money. But that’s not why I do what I do. The answer to that burning question (which every literary genius must ask themselves twice a day, every day, and have a New York Times Bestselling Author Mentor ask them every six months (and they better be ready to answer because if they haven’t been asking themselves twice a day, every day, they can bet their bottoms they will be thoroughly roasted by their mentor (mine is Clive Cussler (he’s a tyrant)))), “Why do I write?,” has an equally burning answer. But before we gather ‘round The Bonfire of Burning Answers, we must first gather The Kindling of Inspiration, which, of course, are located in The Forest of Subconscious – what’s that? You don’t care about any of this? You want to know what my book is about? Oh. Ok. It’s a children’s book called Can Cat Jump? It’s just pages and pages of drawings of Cat jumping, soaring through the air, and clawing my legs (he can, in fact, jump). Also, I haven’t actually written it yet. Nor do I have a publisher. But I am accepting pre-orders. Five bucks. If enough people give me five dollars I will write, illustrate, print, and ship Can Cat Jump? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go eat very much amazing, a lot of blood, sweat, and tears.

Two Cats and a Baby

"Studies have shown that cats make excellent horror movie monsters."

“Studies have shown that cats make excellent horror movie monsters.”

How do you tell a cat you still love them, despite the fact that, lately, all your time and energy has been devoted to their new baby sister? You give them treats, right? Well, what if you’ve given your cat so many treats they’re starting to resemble Orson Welles (The Later Years)? What then? You rub them under their chin, right? Well, what if every time you try to rub them under their chin they bite you, like a drunk Orson Welles? What then? You play Chase the Laser Pointer, right? Well, what if instead of chasing the laser pointer, they just give you a thousand-yard stare from the room at the end of the hallway, which is really creepy because it’s basically the farthest you can possibly be from somebody in this house while still looking them in the eye. What then? You give up and tell the other cat that you still love them, right?  Well, what if the other cat hasn’t been home in days, and goes out all night partying with owls and a raccoon that bears an uncanny resemblance to Orson Welles? What then? You blog about it, right? Well, what if every sentence you write is in the form of a question, because you’re sleep deprived and creatively paralyzed by the infinite responsibilities of parenthood? You tweet jokes about topical subjects, right? WELL, WHAT IF YOU HATE TWITTER BECAUSE IT’S BEEN, LIKE, FIVE YEARS AND YOU’VE TWEETED LITERALLY THOUSANDS OF JOKES WITH LITTLE TO NO RETURN WHICH MAKES YOU FEEL LIKE THE WORLD’S WORST JOKE FARMER – YOU JUST PLANT JOKE SEEDS AND WATER THEM AND WAIT FOR THEM TO GROW UP AND BE FEATURED ON ELLEN AND WHAT DO YOU GET? WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEDS! What then? Eh, I guess I’ll make a breakfast burrito.

Paw Prints

"I'm afraid I can't let you print that, Dave."

“I’m afraid I can’t let you print that, Dave.”

Print is dead. Well, at least it is in our household. That’s because New Cat has made a habit out of sitting on our printer like a gargoyle – a gargoyle that loves belly rubs and licks your hair when it is hungry – rendering the various functions of the device about as effective as a those of a rock. As a result, I have realized two things. One: I can’t look at a cat sitting on a printer without laughing. I just can’t. And I would be willing to bet you can’t either. Just close your eyes and imagine the printer department at Office Depot. Now imagine that a bunch of cats are inexplicably sitting on top of every single show-model. Still not laughing? CONGRATULATIONS, YOU’RE A ROBOT. Two: I don’t really kind of sort of actually need a printer. Not sort of literally at all. I’m not in school, which means I have no term papers to print. I have GPS on my phone, which means I have no need for directions. And I laugh every time I see a cat sitting on a printer, which means I’M NOT A ROBOT. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to spend the next five days hand-copying my electronic tax return. What’s so crazy about that? How do you think Franciscan monks made copies of their tax returns? With an all-in-one printer-fax-scanner combo?!? Oh man, you-you’re funny. Not as funny as a cat sitting on a printer, but, still…pretty, ah, you know. Pretty funny.