Profile for mcbotulism (604)
Personal Information
| Username | mcbotulism |
| Comments Posted | 6603 |
| Combined 'Cool!' Score | 129 |
| Total Tags Entered | 3325 |
| Total Frontpaged | not implemented |
| Frontpaged Stories (my headline) | not implemented |
| Frontpaged Stories (other headline) | not implemented |
| Rejected Stories | not implemented |
| Frontpaged Alt Headlines | not implemented |
| Rejected Alt Headlines | not implemented |
| Frontpaged Discussions | not implemented |
| Rejected Discussions | not implemented |
| Stfu Index | 0.0 What is this? |
| Nancy Metric | 0.0 What is this? |
Biography
Owning a cat is fine... assuming you're not allowed to have a dog.
I found myself in such a predicament a few decades ago, not terribly long after Bobby Kennedy was shot. Landlady said no dogs, but cats were okay. So I got a cat. Little jet black Halloween witch's cat. Tossed him a Frisbee and yelled "Fetch, boy!". Cat didn't budge. He just sat there looking at me with his soulless yellow eyes. Good God, did that piss me the fuck off! So I reached inside my suit jacket and produced my trusty M1911A1 and pointed it at his furry little head. "Go. Get. The fucking. Frisbee," I said calmly as I could. More staring from that tiny douchebag.
That's when I fucking lost it.
I began shooting, and he began running. He ran all over that little apartment, always staying a step ahead of my shots. After I'd emptied three magazines, I gave up. My walls, my windows, my furniture, my second-hand Zenith color television, my brand new hi-fi set, my bitchin' collection of jazz records, shit, everything was full of holes.
Everything, that is, except for that fuzzy little non-fetching asshole. After a few minutes of quiet he cautiously crawled out from under the now-ruined couch. His eyes met mine and after an awkward moment we both began laughing. We laughed and laughed for hours after and shared a bottle of scotch, the one bottle of liquor that hadn't been shattered in the chaos.
From that point on we were the best of friends.
Biographer: cannonhawk
If you were logged in you could write a bio for this user.
I found myself in such a predicament a few decades ago, not terribly long after Bobby Kennedy was shot. Landlady said no dogs, but cats were okay. So I got a cat. Little jet black Halloween witch's cat. Tossed him a Frisbee and yelled "Fetch, boy!". Cat didn't budge. He just sat there looking at me with his soulless yellow eyes. Good God, did that piss me the fuck off! So I reached inside my suit jacket and produced my trusty M1911A1 and pointed it at his furry little head. "Go. Get. The fucking. Frisbee," I said calmly as I could. More staring from that tiny douchebag.
That's when I fucking lost it.
I began shooting, and he began running. He ran all over that little apartment, always staying a step ahead of my shots. After I'd emptied three magazines, I gave up. My walls, my windows, my furniture, my second-hand Zenith color television, my brand new hi-fi set, my bitchin' collection of jazz records, shit, everything was full of holes.
Everything, that is, except for that fuzzy little non-fetching asshole. After a few minutes of quiet he cautiously crawled out from under the now-ruined couch. His eyes met mine and after an awkward moment we both began laughing. We laughed and laughed for hours after and shared a bottle of scotch, the one bottle of liquor that hadn't been shattered in the chaos.
From that point on we were the best of friends.
Biographer: cannonhawk
Recent Comments
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