What Every American Expat Hears on the 4th of July

I have been living outside the US for 9 years; first in the UK, and now in Belgium. That’s a pretty significant amount of time. Enough time that my accent has long since lost that nasally twang and now hovers rather indefinably somewhere over the mid-Atlantic, I’ve accepted that ice cubes aren’t always present in drinks and I’m totally OK with the concept of instant coffee. I’ve adjusted fine; it’s American friends I talk to on the phone occasionally who haven’t.

Every year around this time I have a conversation that goes something like this:

FRIEND/RELATIVE IN AMERICA: So what do Belgians do for the 4th of July?

ME: The same thing they do on the 3rd of July.

F/R.I.A: they celebrate it for two days??

ME: No, they don’t celebrate it at all. It isn’t a Belgian holiday.

(PAUSE)

F/R. I.A: So how are you going to be celebrating it?

…And it is at this point that I wonder if they honestly imagine me standing in the middle of a Belgian street dressed all in red, white and blue, a hotdog in one hand and a sparkler in the other as the Belgians go about their normal activities around me.

And that would be a vegetarian hotdog by the way.

I’ve been a vegetarian for 20 years! There isn’t anyone I know who doesn’t know this! And yet still I also get phone calls in November asking, “What are you doing for Turkey Day?”

*sigh*


Do these particular Americans not remember how I was with the 4th of July when I was there? It has never been my thing. Why would I participate in a holiday that revolves around 3 things that I’m against: Meat, Fireworks, and Blistering Sunshine? Fourth of July parties were always an ordeal for me of having to bring my own package of Vegetarian hotdogs and then spending half the party standing there supervising while they were on the grill to make sure no one let them touch the meat. Then I’d hunt around for a bit of shade to sit in and watch as everyone else ate the rest of my Veggie Dogs (because they taste much better than the meaty ones).




Then just as I’d be nicely settled into a lawn chair drinking a Piña Colada and perhaps having a nice conversation, the party host would invariably shout, “Come on everyone! Let’s head down to the beach to see the fireworks!!” …No, let’s stay here where the beer and chairs are, I would think, but I’d end up getting swept along with everyone else. At that point my mood would begin to plummet as I overanalyzed the banality of it all.

Yes, I am the Ebenezer Scrooge of Independence Day.




Fireworks are like The Emperor’s New Clothes and everyone reacts with “Ooohs” and “Aaaaaahs” as if reading from a script. I can think of very little less impressive than fireworks. They are so predictable: They go up as one little light and then they burst into a big flower shape. Yawn! Once you’ve seen one fireworks display, you’ve seen them all. The only skill involved is that the people setting them off manage to light the fuse without blowing their hands off. Whoop-de-do. And every year some kid somewhere does manage to blow a body part off. Who ever came up with the idea of marketing explosives as entertainment? …”Here, kids, here’s something with gunpowder in . Have fun!! Whoops! Don’t light it in your hands, you might – -“ KERPOW!! …..Ooooooh! Aaaaaaah!


This year some of our friends invited us over for a “4th of July party for Jovanka” which was really just an excuse to get together and drink some beer. No barbecue, no blistering sunshine, and no fireworks. Just the way I like it.


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Fame

So I was out for a walk the other day and I saw this car. Luckily I still have the camera that I “borrowed” from The Russian a few weeks ago so I took a picture of it.

I couldn’t figure out what they were trying to say here. Was it a statement? Was it a request? Had they just got through seeing The Secret and they were “putting it out in the Universe”? Did whoever owned the car also have cars with the words, “Money” and “A Stable Relationship” emblazoned on them?

I spent enough years in Los Angeles to have personally witnessed the High Priest and Priestess of self-promotional vehicles owners; Dennis Woodruff and Angeleyne, respectively.

Angeleyne is the lesser of the two. She began her quest for Fame on a series of billboards in Los Angeles.



Her goal? To be famous. Period. She wasn’t an actress or a singer or even a model; she just wanted to be famous for nothing, making her perhaps the only truly honest person in Hollywood, also one of the few truly successful ones. She wanted to be famous for nothing; She is famous for nothing. Mission Accomplished! She’s so famous that people, including me, would squeal with delight whenever they’d spot her in her signature pink corvette.



I once made a wish in my mind while I was driving late one night, then I stopped at a red light and she stopped right next to me. And the next day the wish came true! Coincidence?! I hardly think so, my friend.

Dennis Woodruff’s story is a little more involved and far freakier. Legend has it that he came to Hollywood in the 1970s to be a star, it wasn’t working out, so he started decorating his car (which he was living in) with pictures of him in the windows and crazy colors and the plea, “Cast Me” lest you weren’t getting the message.



Every time he got a different car he would doll it up in the same fashion.



Meanwhile he started making his own independent films, which he would sell out of the back of his car. At first, people thought he was just crazy. But after several years of this he began to gain a little respect as a Hollywood fixture. Hollywood hipsters started paying big bucks for his cars and he started having cult appeal and getting cast in films – his little plan had worked! Oh don’t get me wrong, he was still crazy, but in Hollywood “crazy” sells as long as it’s packaged right.



What gets me is why this elusive thing called “Fame” is something that people think they want. It seems to me that fame would be a rather huge pain in the ass. Famous people are constantly scrutinized. They are followed and photographed and examined by a maniacal portion of the public who are waiting to see them at their worst so they can hold up pictures of them and scream, “See? Those famous people are all idiots!!” when all the time they themselves would like nothing better than to become one of Those Famous People.

Why? Can you imagine how annoying it must be to constantly be interrupted and be made to sign a piece of paper that is being shoved under your face? And by the way, what are autographs for, anyway? A sort of “I was there” proof that you actually “met” (accosted is more to the point) that particular celebrity? Surely something is wrong with the state of your relationships if your friends demand written proof? And then who’s to say that you didn’t just scribble the word “Madonna” on that napkin yourself? It doesn’t sound like your friends are trusting you much there buddy, so unless they’re expert handwriting analysts, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that. Can you get a DNA sample next time?


I’ve had teeny tiny tastes of fame, and that was enough. Not for me, thanks. It feels decidedly odd to have people grinning at you like you’re some sort of Circus Freak just because they saw you on Tee Vee the night before. If I ever did accidentally become actually famous, I would hire an actress to do all my interviews and public appearances. She’d be the one having to constantly worry about her weight and what her hair looked like, while I’d be in a back room somewhere eating pizza and speaking into a prompter she’d be wearing so she’d have clever things to say. This way if someone criticized “Jovanka”, I’d be able to disassociate myself from “her” and join in the gossip saying, “Yes, she has got really fat lately……Bitch”.

But whatever I say on the subject, people will continue to pull silly stunts in the quest for notoriety. Maybe Dennis Woodruff has developed an international following, with people from different corners of the globe aspiring to his greatness.

Still it’s interesting to note that when some Belgian guy saw this:



He decided to pare it down, remove all the bells and whistles and produce this:



No nonsense, straight and to the point. Because Belgians don’t go for all that crazy stuff.
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Me and Sports: Not a Good Mix

Football season is upon us. Perhaps it has been for several months, I really wouldn’t know. I only just noticed it last week. And by the way, when I say “football” I don’t mean what Americans call football, I mean what Americans call soccer. Outside of the US it seems you don’t really use the word “soccer” unless you’re a teenage girl in a badly fitting gym skirt trying to get out of P.E.

Right now as I write this, the finals of the European Championship are being played. It’s Spain vs. Germany; two nations with a common bond of past fascism and a love for goofy music (I give you Los Del Rio and The Kelly Family, respectively). Wim is in a bar with some friends watching it, and I am sitting at home in stripy pajama bottoms and a comedy club T-shirt not watching it, like a civilized person. I tried (I did, I did) to get into it this year. Three days ago I went to the same bar to watch Russia and Spain compete in the semi finals. I ended up being put off the whole sports thing once again as I was reminded of that caring-so-much-about-the-outcome-of-a-ball-game thing which I have never been able to get my head around, try as I might. I made the mistake of watching a football game that Russia had no chance of winning (apparently) with actual Russians. They were so upset by the outcome of the game that three days on their lives are still in utter ruin.

This was my friend Anya before the game:



Looking relatively happy and enjoying an evening out.

And THIS is Anya after the crushing 3-0 defeat of Russia:

Devastated. Lost. Inconsolable. It’s sad, really.

At that point I tried all my lighthearted ”It’s only a game” ploys, but she was a lost cause.

Luckily there was lots of alcohol.

But it got me thinking: I will simply never understand this phenomenon. The only allegiance I ever feel toward a particular sports team is if they have a lot of good-looking players or if I like the colors of their uniforms. All that running about and ball kicking they do is completely inconsequential to me. Don’t get me wrong: I like football. In fact it’s the only sport I really do like because it's easy to follow. The ball either goes one way or the other and if they get it past the little man and into the net thingy it’s a goal. I’ve been known to watch entire games and even follow a World Cup tournament. But at the end of the game, whether the good looking guys in the pretty outfits won or lost has no effect on me.

I once was hosting a comedy show in Denver Colorado on a night that the Denver team (American football) had lost to someone else in the Superbowl thingy. Like the truly hacky comic I was at the time, I started my set out by saying, “How’s everyone doing tonight?” to which I was met with steely stares and faint groans. For a few seconds I stood there flabbergasted staring back at them. I mean you would think I’d just bounded on stage in a Nazi Death Camp and said, “Hey gang! Why all the long faces?!” – So momentarily suspending all comedy (which didn’t take much effort in those days) I said, “Why are you letting yourselves get so upset over this? You should be happy! After all they came in second!” And I meant it with love. I mean clearly the Denver Broncos should have been proud that they were better than all the other teams except one, right? They had proved their skill, but another team just had a bit more skill, that was all.....These were the things I was arguing under my breath as I was dragged off the stage by the club manager to the angry jeers of the crowd.

I just didn’t get it.

Another time I was in San Francisco when one of their American Football teams won a big thingy (maybe it was also the Super Bowl thing. That’s the biggest one, right?) and there were people screaming in the streets and sounding their horns and this guy ran out of his car right towards me (Why? Why?), picked me up and swung me around screaming, “We’re number one!! We’re number one!!!!!”……I turned to a friend and asked, “Do you think he’s on the team?” because I didn’t know. And the guy was practically humping my leg and screaming the same thing over and over. I kind of got caught up in the frenzy of it all, but I still can’t say I understood it.

And why is it acceptable to act like that over a ball game but not anything else? Why don’t you see rabid Chess enthusiasts spilling out of sports bars in euphoria screaming, “Vladimir Kramnik Won! Valdimir Kramnik Won!!!!” and then getting into brawls with Veselin Topalov fans?



……….Am I missing something?

And here’s what I don’t get: What is this big thing that’s supposed to happen when your team wins? People always say, “It would be so great if __________ won” but after all the “We’re number one!” screams have died down, what really changes? Unless you had money riding on the game: Nothing. Nothing ever happens as a result of these ball game wins and yet every day millions of people jump around acting as if it does.

OK – Just now I turned on the TV out of curiosity and apparently Spain have just won. (This is the first blog I’ve ever written in Real Time!) They’re still in the jumping around and throwing each other in the air afterglow, and the German guys are looking like they’ve collectively just realized that Bratwurst is high in saturated fat. They came in second and they can’t even enjoy it. And their misery is made all the more painful by the orgy of jubilation the Spaniards are displaying. I’m pretty sure I can see them mouthing the words, “Numero Uno!” over and over again. Will one of them suddenly stop in his cute red shorts, realize “Nothing has actually changed in the world” and plunge head long into an existential crisis? Only time will tell.


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The Best Looking World Leaders

When I was about 7, there was a little boy in my class, also about 7 (or perhaps a rather well-preserved 8-year-old) who observed that if we wanted to avoid wars, what we should do is tell all the soldiers to go home and just have the leaders of the countries duke it out in a boxing match. I remember thinking he was very wise at the time. But now that I’m older and (I like to think) a little more political savvy, I laugh at that childish theory of foreign policy, and have instead developed one which I think is far superior: A Beauty Contest!!!

If you’re like me, (and for your sake I hope you’re not), then you have noticed that there are some pretty hot-looking leaders out there in the world. Now don’t get me wrong, there are some alarmingly nasty looking ones as well – more than once when I was doing the research for this blog entry I downloaded a photograph that made me avert my eyes and take a few gulps of wine until it all went away. There are an overwhelming amount of world leaders who look like Demon Spawn, and more often than not if you Google these freaks you find out they aren’t terribly nice people either. Interesting, and yet completely irrelevant when it comes to my list of The World’s Best Looking Leaders. This list is not about politics; it’s about Hotness. If you’re a good looking leader (male or female!) you make my list. If not, well, I’m sure you have a lot of other nice qualities, but in my own personal Utopia you wouldn’t be running things.

I am presenting my list in no particular order, but I invite you to pick your favorite and imagine what the world would be like if they were on all the coins. If you’d like to vote, you can do so by leaving your selection in my comments page and I will forward the information on to the necessary authorities if I ever figure out who they are (or if all those wishes of mine come true and I am made Queen of the World).

By the way, even though this list is equal opportunity and all that, you might notice a rather large proportion of South American leaders on the list. I’m sorry, but people in that region are rather astonishingly good-looking (if I can generalize an entire land mass) and the rest of us need to just deal with it.

So with out further ado, here for your consideration are the best looking leaders of the world IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER:



Nicolas Sarkozy FRANCE


Quite the hottie. Nicolas certainly has that je ne sais quois, because in his case he actually knows what those words mean, being French and all. And just in case you didn’t realize how good-looking he was, he married Carla Bruni who is a beautiful supermodel and used to date Mick Jagger (but then again, who didn’t?).




Anders Fogh Rasmussen DENMARK

It’s fair say that Anders has a slightly creepy edge – the kind of guy you’d go for after a few drinks when your guard was down. But handsome? God yes. If you can ignore the fact that it looks like he can shoot lasers out of his eyes. Some people would find this irresistible though. He must do very well in bars with low lighting I think. Also he might have a certain Goth appeal.



Denzil Douglas ST. KITTS AND NEVIS


First of all don’t pretend you know where St. Kitts & Nevis is. I didn’t. I had to look it up. And I’ll bet when ladies who meet Denzil at parties find out he’s Prime Minister of St. Kitts & Nevis they probably act like they know all about it and say how lovely it is there this time of year and then run home later and Google it like I just did. Just so you know, this is St. Kitts & Nevis:



They have a population of just 42, 696. Two islands in the Caribbean with a good looking guy running everything. No wonder he looks so good. Can you imagine anything more relaxing than being Prime Minister of two Caribbean islands? Every now and then someone probably barges into his beachfront office saying, “Mr. Douglas! We’ve run out of factor 15 Sun Block!”, at which Denzil smiles in a bemused fashion and lazily points to a box in the corner, never removing his lips from the straw in his coconut drink.



Alois, Hereditary Prince LIECHTENSTEIN


Although sort of run-of-the-mill attractive as far as European royalty goes, it’s worth pointing out that he lives in this castle:



Now how cute is he?



Dean Oliver Barrow BELIZE

Definite "Kojak" appeal. Telly Savalas, eat your heart out!!




Michaëlle Jean and Stephen Harper CANADA



I am presenting Michaëlle and Stephen together because it’s interesting to note that apparently Canada has taken the Good Looking World Leader concept and run with it. With a gorgeous Governor General and Prime Minister, an excellent Health Care system and all that maple syrup, it’s no wonder Canada’s immigration levels are rising!



Lee Myung-bak SOUTH KOREA



With someone as adorable-looking as this running South Korea, you wonder why the funny-looking guy with the bad hair from the North gets all the press.




Hugo Chavez VENEZUELA

*sigh*

OK, I’ll admit I’ve got a bit of a crush. Who’s got more charisma than this guy? He’s got the good-looking-South-American thing combined with a fun spirit.


He looks like the guy who sort of makes everything happen once he arrives at the party. Men want to have a cerveza with him. Women want to have a cerveza with him whilst sitting on his lap. What’s not to like?




José Socrates PORTUGAL


Doesn’t this guy look like a very very very good-looking Dustin Hoffman? I think so. Extremely Dreamy.




Doris Leuthard SWITZERLAND


In Switzerland they’ve got like 6 people at the very top running everything. I can’t figure it out. But this is one of them. She helps run a place with wonderful cheese and great skiing whilst looking fabulous!




Evo Morales BOLIVIA


Evo is really more cuddly cute than handsome cute, but quite a looker nonetheless. But what is going on with that hair? It’s like he’s the polar opposite of bald if that’s possible. Seriously, his hairdresser must have quite a time with it. I wonder if sometimes this overworked hairdresser just lets out a sigh, lights up a cigarette and says, “No, Evo, I just can’t deal with you today.”




Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner ARGENTINA


OK – This lady is 55 years old. Can you imagine? But look at her! She’s gorgeous! And I’ll bet she doesn’t annoy people by standing on balconies and singing to crowds with her arms in the air like certain other Argentinian ladies of days gone by.




Yulia Volodymyrivna Tymoshenko UKRAINE


Yulia is certainly attractive and yet not just a little odd looking. It’s hard to find a photo of her without this crazy Heidi-esque braided hair piece, for instance. But hey, it’s a look. And you can’t argue with that.




Rafael Correa ECUADOR


The similarities between this guy and Ricky Martin are uncanny. In fact he might actually be Ricky Martin. Does he live La vida loca? Who knows? He’s certainly got the cheekbones for it. Incidentally, when I was searching for photos of him, one of them was just titled, ”Wow”. I must agree there.




Vladimir Putin RUSSIA



I wasn't going to include V-Put here, but I found this photo, and like they say, "A Picture Speaks A Thousand Words". (Or in this case about 8 but really loud).
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My Triumph Over the T-Rex

Lately I’ve been having a run of dinosaur nightmares. I tend to get these whenever I watch any dinosaur based movie, namely Jurassic Park, or whenever dinosaurs are brought up in conversation or whenever I eat at a diner. I’m dinosaur sensitive, one might say. I just don’t like them.



And as if the fact that they used to exist weren’t bad enough, the mere suggestion that they could one day be cloned and live again is just too much for me to bear.



And I suppose also somewhere in the back of my mind is the notion that if “God” did indeed create us in His image, that this was only after his first project failed. After the Giant Flesh-Eating Lizard experiment didn’t work out we were, it seems, merely Plan B.

So along with my fear of clowns and flying, I live with a mind-numbing aversion to dinosaurs, and in particular T-rexes.



I am constantly on the lookout for cures for my phobias, and one method I believe wholeheartedly in is the immersion theory. I once was cured of my fear of heights by having a bunch of people hold on to my legs while I hung backwards over the edge of the cliff. Incidentally, this also cured me of my fear of Strange New Age People. So when I saw that Jurassic Park was going to be on television the other night, I thought it might be a good idea if I made myself watch it. It didn’t work. It only made things worse. It made me feel so creepy that I was actually checking for dinosaurs behind the couch cushions (stop looking for rationality in any of this or you’ll just hurt yourself), and that night I had a nightmare that a friend of mine had cloned a T-rex and needed me to babysit it while he was out of town.



The nightmare was so vivid that I actively resented my friend for several days afterwards and a part of me is still convinced that a baby T-Rex is sitting with him watching TV in LA right now.

So as TV stations tend to do these things in clusters, the same station that had shown Jurassic Park the other night then a few days later decided to show The Lost World (Jurassic Park II). I took this as a sign that I should continue my therapy and I watched it.

Read no more if you’re like me and don’t tend to see films until several decades after they’ve come out.

Well I hadn’t seen The Lost World before, but the basic premise was that a bunch of freaks return to the breeding island for the original J-Park and there are these hunters who cause all sorts of mayhem (I always approve when hunters of any sort are shown in the bad light they deserve). From what I can tell, The J-Park series operates on the same premise as all Ghost Movies. That is to say that people do what THEY WOULD NEVER DO IN REAL LIFE and spend the night in the house that everyone says is the gateway to hell even though everyone who stays there becomes possessed and goes on murderous rampages. Only in this case they return to an island with dinosaurs and an almost 100 per cent kill rate and decide to camp out for a while. “Everything will be fine,” They think as they pitch their tents, “because where the big flesh-eating monsters live is half a kilometer away and they never come here.” ..................Morons!!



Then of course the Big Game Hunters come, looking for the most ostentatious trophy imaginable to mount on their wall (What kind of furniture goes with a giant T-Rex head mounted on a mahogany panel?)



They take a baby T-Rex (and I struggle psychologically while that pulls on my heartstrings) to bait Mr. and Mrs. Rex, and after the now predictable tousles with velociraptors (who are thwarted by a child gymnast…I’m not making this up.) they all end up on the civilized mainland where the male T-Rex gets loose. At this point the film is not so much a monster movie as it is Kramer vs. Kramer as the daddy T-Rex runs all over town trying to get his son back. I ended up siding with the T-Rex, which while perhaps not boding well for Mr. Spielberg, did wonders for my Dinosaur Paranoia. By the end of the film I just wanted the T-Rex to eat the guy who started all the trouble and return home with his kid and that’s exactly what happened.

And that night I slept like a baby.



So, it seems that the cure for a fear of dinosaurs is not a Dinosaur movie so much as a really bad dinosaur movie. Waterworld might be just the ticket for Hydrophobia is what I’m saying.
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Naked People at my Gym

There are many cultural differences between Americans and Belgians. Most of the differences I find rather charming; like the Belgian paranoia of eating more than one hot meal a day, or the way they have to drink beer only from a glass that says the name of that particular beer on it. That stuff is cute and it makes me want to throw them up in the air and catch them while they giggle. But two things which really “get on my wick” (as the English say – because they know about these sorts of things) are the space thing and the nudity thing.

The space thing has to do with the difference in what one considers one’s personal space bubble. For most Americans that space bubble at which we feel comfortable having strangers stand next to us is anywhere from about 2 – 4 feet. If I’m standing in a line in Los Angeles and someone is standing less than 2 feet behind me, I feel perfectly justified in turning around, fixing them with an icy stare and saying, “Can I help you with something?” until they realize they’re violating the space code and back off. The one caveat to this rule is if the line happens to be in a super crowded place. But generally speaking, the more space there is, the bigger your personal bubble should be. The difference in the European interpretation of this space bubble is apparent in restaurants. In an otherwise empty restaurant, if you are sitting at the only occupied table, the next people coming in should understand that they need to sit as far away from you as possible. The people arriving after them will endeavor to do the same, and so on and so on until the place starts filling up and contact simply cannot be avoided. Belgians do not seem to understand this law. If you are sitting at the only occupied table in a restaurant, they might very well sit at the table right next to you, which is just weird. I mean, sure, the restaurant does eventually fill up and then it’s all normal again, but I can never quite shake the fact that these people came in and sat right next to us purposely like they wanted to listen to our conversation and copy what we ordered.

So the other issue I have is the nudity thing. OK, OK, OK, yes, I’m glad that you all live in a free non-Puritanical society where you can have naked people in TV commercials. That’s fabulous. But I prefer not to be confronted with it in my every day life, thank you very much. At my gym for instance.



Yes, I accept the fact that in the changing room at the gym there will be occasional nudity. That’s an unavoidable fact as we all change in and out of our gym clothes or stand in the communal shower (which I disapprove of, by the way). But for crying out loud, ladies, let’s keep it brief. This should not be a free-for-all nudity fest where you “air everything” while I’m trying to put my eyebrow pencil on.

I don’t know what it is with these people at my gym, it’s like they simply cannot wait to get naked. In fact some of them I’m convinced don’t even use the gym equipment; they just walk around in the buff in the changing room terrorizing people.



As an example – when you return from the shower, hopefully with a towel wrapped around you (how hard is this?), the first order of the day at that point should be getting dressed, shouldn’t it? Yes, we understand you have to blow-dry your hair, yes, we understand you have to put on makeup, yes we understand you have to brush your teeth, do the crossword and talk to your other gym friends, but surely all these activities could take place after getting dressed? Because here’s the thing: I don’t want to have to stand right next to you when you’re nude. And no, this doesn’t mean I’ve got “hang ups”, it means I just don't want to feel like an extra on a porn set. Is that too much to ask? Apparently so. I am not hung up, you are hung up. You are the one with the aversion to clothes, after all. And I don’t see why you have to do every activity imaginable naked while I’m standing there fully clothed and with a parka on trying to give you a hint.



Remember the space bubble I mentioned earlier? How I don’t like people standing too close to me? That goes tenfold when those people are naked. And all the more reason, people, why in an otherwise empty communal shower room with 12 showerheads (I’ve counted), you DO NOT need to come and use the showerhead RIGHT NEXT TO ME. I don’t care how free and European you think you are; that is just creepy.

It’s amazing what I have to put up with.

An Open Letter of Appeal To All Cats

To whom it may concern:

I am writing to you on behalf of the United Syndicate of Small Rodents (USSR) with regards to the practice of sport killing. Basically we feel that this is an inhumane practice that has got to stop. You people cling to the reenactment of threadbare stereotypes, insisting on tilting your ears forward and calling it a “game” when the other participant not only has no chance of winning, but never signed up to participate in the first place.



As a member of the race that opens your cans and scoops your poop, I am hereby calling for an international boycott until you people decide to organize and change your ways. By the way, none of this by any means means that I am Catist; some of my best friends are cats. I've got 9 of you people sleeping on my furniture right now. I'm not denying your cuteness or your fluffiness. But I'm also not going to turn a blind eye when I feel your actions are unjust.

You claim to want to live up to our finer achievements; you want to eat our food, sharpen your claws on our couches and sleep on top of our television sets – and no one begrudges you these social advancements.

But when you insist on emulating the very lowest of our society, you make a mockery not only of us, but of yourselves, and you can no longer claim moral superiority.



Now don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with feral cats who have to hunt for food - chances are not many of those cats have internet access anyway so they won’t be reading this – but to those of you who live indoors, eat out of aesthetically pleasing molded plastic dishes and think every time the refrigerator opens it’s all about you; to you I say: Stop the cruelty.

Or, in terms you can better understand: ...............No!
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