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 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?


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.

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.