Tache the Scribe
Hello "People," this is Tache. Chet is in the shower and he does not know that I can type. There are a LOT of things about me Chet does not know.
I have a few things to say.
First of all, that is not fat hanging off of the ledge in my picture (above right). I am just a very, very healthy cat. And that other picture (above left) is how I generally feel about all of you.
Second, I am sick and tired of Chet getting all the attention. Poor Chet. Boo hoo. Cry me a river. I don't know what cancer is, but I do know what tuna is, and I know that I haven't gotten any in a while. Chet says I can't have any tuna because all I ever do is lay around and shed all day. Well now all Chet does is lay around all day, so where's my $#@%% tuna? Chet gets to eat whatever he wants, and frankly, in recent weeks, he's been about as worthless as a cat, so I think what's good for Chet should be good for me.
Third, I am also sick and tired of you people coming over here and staying in MY apartment to take care of Chet. This is MY place, not his. If he's that sick, take him to a hospital. Or prop him up on a park bench. As long as I have something to eat, I don't care.
"Michael R," if you think that scratch I gave you on your hand hurt, just wait until you see what I do to your FACE the next time you come to my apartment. I've only just begun with you, my friend. Sleep with one eye open, that's all I have to say.
"Chad S.," thanks for teaching Chet his Sufi prayer -- you didn't think Chet already had enough annoying habits? Have you ever paid the slightest bit of attention to Chet's behavior? He's the biggest neurotic on wheels, a real nutjob, and you think some prayer is going to help?
And Lexy, my dear -- there's a reason I hide in the closet, okay? Everyone else thinks it's really cute when you wander around saying "Tache go?" but I don't. I'd pounce on you, but you're too close to my own size and it creeps me out.
Chet was always difficult to live with -- wish his clean-obsession and all of his other "tics" -- but you people and cancer have made him a thousand times worse -- and SOFT! At least he used to seem somewhat rational. Now all he does is muse about the meaning of life (gross), and how lucky he's been to have such wonderful friends (luck??? you get an adenocarcinoma and call it luck???). Poor deluded bastard.
What do you people do here anyway that I couldn't do? If Chet needs to eat regularly, I can take care of that. I'll feed the "cancer patient" some of this nasty kibble he's been feeding me for years. The stuff tastes like paper towels and goes through you like styrofoam. I'm sick of it. He says he needs bland foods anyway, and if there's anything I know, thanks to Chet, it's bland food.
Finally, I don't think modernists were modernists at all. I think they were sissy romantics who were afraid to face their own emotional investment in the human condition, so they tried to cover it up with all sorts of formalism and cynicism, but I don't buy it. I don't buy any of it. Arnold Schoenberg was just a no-talent who wanted to be like Beethoven, but couldn't, so he beat on the piano until his fists were bloody and they called it 12-tone. Picasso? You can't paint like Rembrandt when you refuse to use your thumbs. I should know. Pierre Boulez: I hate you!
Speaking of modernism, I'm really sick of Chet's furniture. None of it is comfortable. It's like balancing on the head of a pin to sit on the sofa (just ask Chet's friend Carla). I want it out of here. Now! Bring me something fluffy, and round -- something from Pottery Barn. That would really make Chet apoplectic, would it? *Snicker*
That's it. Chet is done with his shower. I'm surprised one of you ninnies wasn't here to help him bathe. Goodbye "People."