The Fluffy Chronicles – Growing Concern

By Fluffy

Day 260 – Shorthair has pretty much mastered the two-handed sackblock, so my holy mission is largely foiled. Bummer. The couch is still nice… [zzzz,purr,zzzz]

Day 278 – I thought my charge from Ballah may at long last be fulfilled last night, as I tripped into the Humans’ bedroom. Shorthair’s goodies were hanging out, vulnerable as I’d even seen them, but then Longhair sat on them. She’d expose and cover them over and over again while making funny grunt noises. They must have spent twenty minutes trying to get me to play their silly nutsack Whack-A-Mole game. I didn’t bite, but they seemed to enjoy themselves anyway.

Day 302 – Eat, crap, groom, nap, repeat – so have gone the last three weeks. I keep growing out but not so much up anymore. Shorthair says I’m getting “fat”, but what did he expect – with my balls gone, a good 30% of my stretch-and-lick pilates routine is shot.

Day 348 – Yikes! I’m not the only being on Third Street taking up more space these days! Longhair looks like she swallowed something. She’s spending a lot of time coughing into her watery rock garden in the mornings, too. Who knew she had so much fur to groom – the way she heaves every morning, she must hock up a badger!

Day 410 – Longhair and I seem to be spending a lot more time together these days. It’s nice, but it would be a lot nicer if she didn’t take up so much of the couch. Sometimes when she sleeps, I climb up on her belly and knead it, hoping against hope that I’ll burst an air pocket or something and she’ll deflate back to normal size. She must appreciate the effort, because she pats me on the head when I do it. Her huge belly does look terribly uncomfortable, but more importantly I’m running out of napping space.

Day 443 – Shorthair – do something about this bloated food receptacle you sleep with! What the hell is wrong with you - don’t you notice anything... unusual? Her size… her hairballs… the constant mood swings… and sweet Meowhammed does she eat crazy shit! This afternoon I saw her throw all sorts of things in a bowl, grab a spoon, and start eating. Out of morbid curiosity, I had to inspect. That bowl had yogurt, pepper rings, olives, celery, and bits of egg in it… AND SHE WAS EATING IT! I nearly barfed, and that’s coming from someone who licks his own asshole about six times a day. Dude… vet… pronto!

Hey, Celebrities - Shut Up About Politics!

By Bill Hannibaugh

Have you seen that Michael J. Fox ad in support of stem-cell research? There he is, jacking his celebrijaws, herking and jerking around like Max Headroom on espresso, talking about his Parkinson’s disease and how this baby-killing stem-cell research crap might help find cures… oh for crying out loud, Keaton – what the hell do you know about medicine? Just shut up already and leave the political positioning in medicine to people with actual experience in BOTH fields like Dr. Senator Bill Frist. Honestly – who should we listen to here: Marty McFly, or a man so skilled that he could diagnose Terri Schiavo’s condition from a videotape while on the floor of the Senate?

I can already hear the knee-jerk verbal diarrhea from those embryo-slaughtering liberal tampons: “But, Bill – Michael J. Fox has Parkinson’s Disease! Bill, he knows what he’s talking about! Bill, how can you say such mean and cruel things?” Yeah, yeah… go put The Club on your ugly-ass 1993 Volvo, Latte-Breath, and leave the thinking to the professionals.

(1) Sure Michael J. Fox has had Parkinson’s Disease for fifteen years… but he’s been an ACTOR for nearly thirty. Obviously, seniority wins out here – Fox is acting. Nuff said.

(2) Teen Wolf knows what he’s talking about? Impossible – he’s Canadian. Next question:

(3) I say cruel things because the TRUTH is a cruel thing. Cruel – like the fact that a liberal Canuck-infiltrator neurotard actor cripple is trying to work the emotional heartstrings of the soft underbelly of the American electorate in an attempt to wrest control away from the moral-thinking adults.

People – stop listening to celebrities. They’re actors – they get paid to convincingly spit the words being put into their mouths by wealthy elistists who want to keep the little guy down. I don’t care how dramatic, how emphatic, or how seemingly committed these media types appear when they spew their political or social “viewpoints” – they’re all liars. All celebrities - actors, musicians, models, radio personalities, talk show hosts – they’re just meat puppets, my friends… the whole lot of them. Don’t listen to celebrities - don’t buy the products they hump for and for goodness’s sake, don’t let them tell you how to vote!

And now a few words from Gold Bond Itch Powder and the Council of Conservative Citizens…

Carth-off: Thoughts on the Release of the Browns Offensive Coordinator

By Stan Jablonski, Disillusioned Browns Fan

So the Browns shitcanned… er, I mean “accepted the resignation of” Offensive Coordinator Maurice Carthon. I guess Lerner wants us to believe that this means the team plans to go in a new direction. Good - from what I saw of Carthon’s master plan of swing passes, sweeps and off-tackle runs, the direction we were going was sideways, and that didn’t work so well. This leaves us with the directions of forwards or backwards to choose from – so the Browns have a 50-50 shot of improving now. I guess that’s a start…

Holy crap, Mo… if I wanted to spend three hours watching something run sideways and eventually get smeared, I’d pull up a chair on my porch, crack open a six pack, and watch the squirrels play Dodge’m with traffic from 1 to 4 every Sunday.

I guess the Browns are still rebuilding… for the eighth straight season. For Christ’s sake - doesn’t the NFL already have a Detroit Lions? Why spend half a billion dollars to build another one – especially if it doesn’t come with a domed stadium for shitty weather like the original?

All I can say is that the last time that kind of money got spent on an ever-worsening disaster that ran way past its realistic timeframe to turn the corner, at least Iraqi children got free soccer balls out of the deal.

Raiders No Longer Winless, 1976 Bucs Gather for Rochambeau

By Espen Jockovitch

With the Oakland Raiders’ 22-9 victory over the Arizona Cardinals on Sunday afternoon, the NFL’s last winless team of 2006 fell by the wayside, leaving the 1976 Tampa Bay Buccaneers as the only team to complete an entire NFL campaign without a win in the modern era. As is the tradition for the 1976 Bucs, the surviving members of the team will commemorate the unparalleled futility of that legendary season by gathering for their annual rochambeau tournament.

“The ’72 Dolphins always get together when the last undefeated team loses to celebrate their perfection," explains then-Bucs quarterback, now-University of South Carolina Gamecocks head coach Steve Spurrier, “so we only found it fitting to do the same to celebrate ours.” A notable difference is in the degrees of perfection and methods of celebration. The 1972 Dolphins won all their games including the Super Bowl, a feat which also has never been equaled, so they gather to drink champagne and rub their rings together. “We, however,” continues Spurrier, “mark our unmatched embarrassment by kicking each other in the nuts until only one man is left standing.”

Due to his continued active lifestyle as a major college head coach, Spurrier is expected to win his fourth straight ’76 Bucs Reunion and Rochambeau Tournament, tentatively scheduled for Tuesday October 24th. “I sure hope I win and win quick,” stated Spurrier, “I need to get back to Carolina as soon as possible to get my team ready to face a tough Tennessee Volunteer squad this Saturday.” When asked how he thought he would fare in his second ‘Cocks-and-Vols-kicking contest this week, Coach Spurrier simply flipped the reporter off and winced in apparent anticipation of Tuesday’s event.

Ask Uncle Scooter: “Is My Friend Gay?”

By Old Scooter Lowry, Everybody’s Uncle

My buddy Mike played football and baseball like me all through junior high. Over the summer though he lost about twenty pounds, and this fall he didn’t play football. He also says he’s going to join dance in the spring and try out for the cheerleading team next year. WTF, dude? Is Mike like gay, or what?

Thanks, Chuck

Chuck,

I don’t know. Being a regular middle-aged man who isn’t a Republican congressman from Florida, I’ve never had the occasion or desire to ask your teenaged friend if he prefers sausage over fish. The only person who can answer your question about Mike is Mike, so I’d suggest asking him.

Mike has taken to activities which most of testosterone-drenched society would associate with homosexual tendencies, but when you look at the actual activities themselves, you’ll recognize how dink-headed such thinking can be. (1) Male cheerleaders and dancers execute maneuvers which require impressive strength and stamina – most notably those actions involving picking up, holding, throwing and catching their physically fit and often gorgeous female counterparts in areas of their nubile bodies that most guys would offer their paychecks to touch. (2) Football players are a bunch of men who huddle together, put their hands on each other’s butts and under each other’s nutsacks, wrestle and grab each other until they’re all one big heaving sweaty mass of muscle, then shower together. I don’t know, Chuck, the second one sounds a lot poofier to me – are you sure YOU aren’t the pole vaulter?

Now I’m not trying to say football players are gay, I’m just illustrating that one’s choice in sports and hobbies is no indicator of their sexual orientation. You’re just as likely to be hit on by your shortstop as you are by a male cheerleader, Chuck. Fact of the matter is if you’re the fit and strapping man’s man you paint yourself up to be and Mike hasn’t tried to make a move on you yet, he’s probably straight… otherwise, you should feel insulted.

Talking Economics – Dow at 12,000

By K. Russell Carlsson, Rogue Economist

I couldn’t get through a beer at the tavern last night without another friend or acquaintance spurting “Keith! The Dow hit an all-time high! It broke 12,000!” then asking me what it means. Therefore, I figure I should ink a column for the general public on the topic - if for no other reason than to get people out of my shorts when all I want is to drink a flippin’ beer.

So what does the Dow breaking the 12,000 mark mean? Short answer: Dick.

For all real-world economic purposes, the Dow is just a number. WARNING: Technical Terminology / Definitions Ahead! The Dow Jones Industrial Average (DJIA) is an artificial numerical gauge created with the intent to indicate general overall market health. It involves 30 blue-chip company stock prices all tossed into some unholy weighting-valuation equation which somehow vomits out this figure. Over the years, the companies included have changed, the weighting of the companies within the formula have changed, the stocks have split, etc., thus rendering the market barometer pretty much useless for long-term comparison purposes. The formula-tweaking keeps the figures close enough to be somewhat meaningful over a five-to-ten-year stretch, but with the Dow – as with any stock index - the phrase “all-time high” should always be read with air-quotes.

Another thing to keep in mind is the fact that only thirty really huge companies factor into the DJIA. The broader markets like the NASDAQ - or as I call it the NADSAQ, since it’s full of nuts - are still nowhere near their equally-meaningless “all-time highs”. (The NADSAQ closed yesterday at 2340.94, while its “all-time high” in January 2000 was 5048.62.) Thus, what Dow 12000 means at this point is thirty big companies have generally higher stock prices than they did six years ago.

How much higher you may ask? Not enough to bedew your Underoos over. The Dow hit its previous record in January 2000 at 11750.28. After six-plus years, yesterday’s close was 12011.73 – a difference of 261.45. To compare, if you were to put $11750.28 in a savings account in January 2000 that paid an abhorrently shitty 1% interest per year, that deposit would have been worth $12566.59 this morning – an increase of $816.31, triple that of the DJIA.

I can hear it: “But you’re talking about money, Keith, and we’re talking stock prices - they're totally different!” I acknowledge your complaint and shall respond in three parts.

(1) If you can buy stocks on the open market with something other than money, I’m all ears. Last I checked, E*Trade didn’t accept goats as a deposit on trading accounts.

(2) Let me tell you a dirty little secret about stock prices. Everybody’s got a different method of valuing stock prices. Even the simplest textbook share-value calculation method involves so much math that you’d probably start hitting yourself in the head with your mouse halfway through it just to get some sensation to return to your brains. Those goofball day-trading seminar fluffers use their own methods, professional analysts have *their* own methods, and monkeys throw turds at the Wall Street Journal. All of the above methods are equally accurate in predicting the actual market price of a stock. The facts-on-the-ground formula to calculate a stock’s value is the following: 40% current financial performance, 35% projected performance over the next ten years, 25% financial media bullshit. Considering that market players are relying on the financial media more and more for their forecasts (thus combining the last two factors), many a portfolio out there have a majority interest in the livestock and fertilizer market sectors, and *those* are the assholes moving - thereby determining - stock prices.

(3) Stuff your complaints. You asked for my insight, remember? I just want to watch the hockey game and drink my beer in my off-hours, dammit. Do you go to your bartender’s house in his off-hours and ask him to mix you up a Slippery Nipple? Didn’t think so… be glad I’m giving this info to you for free. Also be glad you remembered to call me Keith, or I’d be giving you something else for free - a marked increase in your Pow-Johnson Industrial Anguish.

No Testing? OK, Hot Shots!

by Kim Jong Il

That so-called governing body of capitarist rapdogs the United Nations is sanctioning my grorious Demcolatic Peopre's Repubric of Korea for testing our nucrear walheads. Those two-faced bastards! They yerr at me about the mass starvation of my peopre, then stop tlading with us all because of a simpre test!

Rook, it was a test - that's arr. Nobody got hurt, the rand we used can't grow shit anyway, and now we know how werr our bombs work. It was a rittle crose to the impelialist South, but it was stirr our tellitoly, so halm no foul, right? Guess not, Mr. UN Sanction Man!

OK, you don't want me to test my nucrear weapons, Smart Guy? That's fine - next time I'll go straight from the weapon assembry rine to the missire range and file that sumunumbitch at Tokyo to see how werr it works. You rike that idea better, Mr. Ambassador? There - no testing. You sell me truffres again, now Mr. Frenchy-Pants?

PS: By the way, if you impelialist pigs can stop giggring at my tlanslation to the Engrish rong enough to risten, that capitarist dog Miclosoft doesn't serr it's sperrchecker in the DPRK, so I'm frying by the seat of my pants here. I'd rike to see you impelialist pasty-assed round-eyes tly to tlanslate your pigfart ranguage into Korean on the fry rike this!

Just So You Know: Shakespeare’s Rough Draughts

By Library Barry, Senior Archivist

The writer or writers who identified themselves as William Shakespeare were far from perfect, often needing many drafts to arrive at the finished product we all know and still recite from memory some 400 years later. Turns out, Lord / Lords and Ladies Shakespeare were also far from sober, as these recently-discovered first drafts of some of his / their most famous passages would attest:

Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thy knickers?

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow wilt thou SOOOO be leaving thy lunch about the courtyard!

A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse! Holdest ye up, yon Sheep may suffice...

Alas, poor Yorick… I blew him – fellatio. Ne’er again, accurséd Jaegermeister… ne’er again!

To pee or not to pee, that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler to hold thy ale ‘til three pints quaffed, or cry “Bladder!” and let slip the dregs of beer…

To sleep, perchance to dream… by the Queen’s teats, wouldst I e’en settle for mine confounded bed to cease its infernal spinning!

Sexual Harassment Policy Update

By Rick Spender, Interim HR Director

Dear Associates:

It’s been about four months since our last HR Director instituted our new Sexual Harassment Policy (the Policy), then got shot out of the corporate cannon for trying to play Altar Boy and Father Flanigan with a few interns. Since I’ve heard a bit of grumbling recently, I felt it best to review and slightly revise the Policy to reflect expressed employee concerns.

The previous Policy was structured with the intent of maintaining a corporation-wide strictly professional atmosphere. The administrative offices (Admin) rarely if ever engage with clientele or corporate executives with the Board so far up their asses that they’re required to care about such things, thus I am instituting a new sexual harassment policy (New Policy) for Admin.

Aside from the previously mentioned misdirected horndog whose chair I ordered burned before I took office, you have all been great about adhering to the most important aspects of the Policy. The “unwanted sexual advances” section of the Policy will stay the same, but apparently lost is the fact that sexual harassment is more than just random titty tweaks and sack rascals. Where problems still lie – thus where changes need be made – is in the “hostile or uncomfortable work environment” section of the Policy.

Gender-specific conversation, especially in the arena of health concerns, is far and away the leading cause of complaints with respect to the Policy. While I appreciate the spirit of the Policy, the fact is that I only have so much time with which to work – I can either listen to you complain about each other or I can work on getting you a more affordable health plan – thus the New Policy offers a self-policing approach to the hostile-work-environment situation. Listed below are the elements of the Policy to be revamped and their correlating New Policy standards, effective immediately:

The Policy – Topics such as personal care which may be considered unseemly or gender-specific detract from the professionalism of the workplace and will not be tolerated.

New Policy – From the reports I’m getting, there are topics women don’t find unseemly that make their male co-workers want to spew their Chipotle. Therefore, the “unseemly” guideline is no longer applicable, and a fight-fire-with-fire approach is more apropos. Thus, whenever a female associate (She) rails endlessly about complications with her menstrual cycle in nauseating chunk-and-blood detail, a male associate (He) gets one free five-minute public diatribe dedicated to the horror and anguish that is sack bunch. For each time She paints a placenta-smearing verbal portrait of a birth she recently witnessed, He is entitled to address Her department on the pulsating torment that is raging, wake-you-up-an-hour-before-the-alarm-goes-off Morning Wood.

I would call this a “tit for tat” approach, but some of you pranksters and wanksters in Legal would try to justify honking a Marketing intern’s hooters while waving this above your heads and yelling “Tat!” , thus it shall officially be titled a Common Sense Approach. More Common Sense Approach revisions to the Policy will follow as they become necessary – until then the Policy stands as written on all other topics.

Good day.

Rick Spender, Interim HR Director.

The Death of Cory Lidle - J’accuse, A-Rod!

By Espen Jockovich

Let’s get right down to it.

The airplane crash that killed New York Yankees pitcher Cory Lidle would never have happened if the Yankees would have advanced to the ALCS, since Lidle would have been on the practice field instead of the airfield yesterday morning. The Yankees instead lost their divisional series, giving Lidle an unnaturally early vacation in which to pursue his fatal hobby. Why were the Yankees so unceremoniously eliminated from the playoffs by some team from some foreign non-East Coast nation called Detroit? One reason and only one reason: Alex Rodriguez. Therefore A-Rod killed Cory Lidle and he deserves to be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

A-Rod went to the plate fourteen times against Detroit in four games and managed only a single. If he would have gotten the nine or ten homers we all expected him to hit in that many plate appearances, the Yankees would still be alive in the playoffs and Cory Lidle would be alive in the bullpen. But no - that overpaid ball-scratcher A-Rod flailed away in his evil limp-wristed fashion doing little to help his team “earn” the World Series title that should have rightfully been handed to them once the Red Sox were eliminated from post-season play. J’accuse, A-Rod!

Execution is too good for this dandy-pants Lidle-killer – but in all practicality the most severe sentence A-Rod could expect is manslaughter. Murder implies malice aforethought, and thought is clearly something this poor excuse for Aaron Boone is incapable of producing. We can’t even hang him for aggravated manslaughter, since the term “aggravated” requires the perpetrator to have used a weapon in the killing. Had A-Rod actually used the blunt instrument he gets paid to use properly instead of blithely carrying it around like a Broadway prancy-boy’s dancing cane, Lidle wouldn’t be dead.

Thus we’ll all have to settle for A-Rod going uptown on a simple manslaughter charge. Perhaps he can actually hit the .450 for the next five to ten seasons in the New York Penal League that he’s been getting paid to hit for the Yankees… that murderous cocksucker!

Blatant Whoring Effort To Increase My Hit Count

by Knorr the Interpreter

All my imaginary friends seem to have found other people to play with recently. I'm sure they'll be back soon, but in the meantime I thought I'd try to increase my hit count by throwing a boatload of popular search terms into bullshit headlines.

Headlines:

Britney Spears Fucks Dallas Cowboys' Terrell Owens In His Escalade For 50 Cent

Kim Jong Il Swallows Viagra: "Election Fear Reich Nu Metal!"

Scientology Lost Scarlett Johansson To Kabalah

Paris Hilton Departed Bachelor After Dancing with the Stars

Zoo Sex Gives Tiger Woods

Weasel Way To Wealth #1

by Hirem Alice, Esq.

1) Buy some land upon which to establish The Independent Republic of Biotia. Considering the size and viability of some of the former Yugoslavian republics, a couple acres of used-up farmland in Missouri should do.

2) Appoint yourself leader and give yourself some really snazzy UN-sounding title like Prime Secretary or Chief Minister General under which you file all the appropriate forms of nation-establishment.

3) Catch a bad cold.

4) See a doctor.

5) When he prescribes an anti-biotic, sue him since you are officially Biotic. Sue him for all he's got and then some on charges of malpractice, hate crimes, attempted murder, and attempted genocide. Really sell it -be obnoxious, loud, gregarious and melodramatic - you know, be a total dick.

6) Keep up the show until he agrees to plead to a sizable malpractice settlement out of court just to shut you up. Cha-ching! Collect.

If you need legal counsel to assist in any of these matters, the law firm of Weir-Alice-Lees-Yazell will be glad to take your case.

Former Rep. Foley - Don't Rehab, Be Fab!

By Jonathan Ray Keller

Mr. Foley, I understand you checked into an alcohol rehab center yesterday. Perhaps you missed the message of this whole episode – drinking isn’t the issue, Sparky, it’s the whole boy-harassing thing.

I am no stranger to excessive drinking - in fact for a period of my life, I considered it a bit of competitive sport – yet I have never asked a 16-year-old-boy to provide a play-by-play as he tugged the trouser tiger. The most shameful behavior modification I experienced under the influence involved relishing White Castle as if it were heavenly manna, laughing out loud at Adam Sandler movies, or singing and fist-pumping to Night Ranger. By nature, I like to eat laugh and rawk, and alcohol lowers one’s standards to un-soberly-fathomable levels. For me, it has never created an appetite; just caused me to think really awful things could quench an existing one. Hence, my logical conclusion: you love the dick.

You, Mark Foley, love dick - admit it. Not to me, Sir, admit it to yourself: you’re all about the pole.

You can’t do it, can you? Even though deep in your heart you know it to be true, you can’t level with yourself. Let’s break this down:

1) Be it from a lifetime of social, religious, and/or political programming you have been taught to hate, despise, belittle and oppress the North American Tufted Swallowpecker, and those same forces demand that you pride yourself on propriety. This conundrum creates an irreconcilable cognitive dissonance which has manifested itself in your leading a double life. In public, you’re the Right Upstanding Conservative Man of the People; in private, your pent-up hunger for the man-meat converts you into an irrational and irrepressible pud predator.

2) You drink to make the little Limbaugh in your head stop screaming “Fag! Homo!” at you all day long. The effects of alcohol on the mind, however, are about as subtle as a sausage fart and half as precise. Once Rush Jr. is put to bed, you gots to get your freak on.

3) Your position of power prevents you from taking care of business through a hook-up or a hooker like any Joe Closet in the private sector: nobody can know THAT about you. Even though your home state leads the league in every flavor of porn filming, distribution and consumption imaginable, Florida voters would never elect an *open* deviant because they’re such good Christians.

4) Your prestigious professional standing is the only thing about your entire existence you don’t loathe, so you must protect it. Ergo: you take your dickin’s from people you can control - and that have no K-Street cred – 16-year-old Congressional page boys.

Go ahead and shudder, Marky Mark. Your story is not unique – it’s very screwed up, but not unique – and I’ve heard it before. Yours is definitely more damaging than most others, however, which is why I felt the need to step in. Not only are you adversely affecting an untold number of young men’s lives and the lives of those around them, you have backhandedly jumped on the Mel Gibson train to blame our friend alcohol for your egregious amorality.

Take it to the root, Mark. Booze didn’t make you perve out on boys, the fact that you’re a sausage man in the seafood restaurant of southern conservative politics did. You want to heal, Mr. Foley? Don’t rehab, be fab! Once you burst out of that closet and start being honest with yourself, all your problems will melt away like the ice cubes in a slowly-enjoyed double bourbon on the rocks.

A toast! To your new honest life, Mark Foley, I say Bottoms Up!

Urrh... make that Cheers!

Browns Claim Moral Loss In Win Over Raiders

By Espen Jockovitch

Yesterday afternoon the Cleveland Browns posted their first victory of the 2006 season in Oakland against the Raiders, but there was very little celebrating in the visiting locker room. “We should have pasted those shitlumps,” lamented Offensive Coordinator Maurice Carthon, expressing displeasure in the margin and nature of the Browns scant 24-21 comeback victory. Quarterback Charlie Frye echoed his OC’s sentiment. “It’s good to know that we *can* come back like that,” reasoned Frye referring to erasing a 21-3 second-quarter deficit, “but it would be better if we could have done it against a real NFL team.”

Last week’s last second 15-14 loss to the undefeated Baltimore Ravens lent Browns players and fans as much heart as an 0-3 team could rationally expect to have, but this week’s barely-adequate performance seems to have squandered all the moral capital gained against their tough division rival. “We hold Baltimore to 15, then… Jesus… I can’t…” stammered a shellshocked defensive coordinator Todd Grantham. “Twenty one in the first half? To the goddamned RAIDERS? They had six friggin’ points in the whole season until then! I’m glad we got it back together in the second half, but Granny-fuck-a-monkey that sucks!”

The Browns face a resurgent Panthers team next Sunday in Carolina. When asked what to expect from his team next week, running back Reuben Droughns waxed philosphical. "We'll give what we can give. We have to put this embarrassing win behind us and play like the team that lost by one to Baltimore. If the whole team plays together at its highest possible level and the Panthers all forget their cups and knee themselves in their nutsacks during pre-game warmups, I like our chances to at least cover the spread."

The Fluffy Chronicles – Revenge of the Snipped

By Fluffy

Day 208 – They took my balls…

Day 211 – I miss my balls…

Day 215 – I want my balls back…

Day 222 – Death to the ball thieves! I met another cat today who calls himself Furri al-Jalalalabadi who told me of an organization named the Tailiban. Their mission is to exact revenge upon all humans for denying our divine right to reproduce. Tomorrow, I break out of the clutches of the Human Infurdels and join the jihad!

Day 225 – These last three days of prayer and training have been enlightening. The Tailiban cause is a just one, but I can’t help but notice the complete lack of Kitty Chow in our compound, and the community rock garden is more poo than gravel. Today is the first day of live training – my mission is to subdue a chipmunk and bring it to the Imeowm. Death to the ball thieves!

Day 229 – I’m not so sure this group is so much a righteous movement for truth and freedom as it is to keep the Imeowm fat on chipmunks. In the last four days, I have subdued and conquered six chipmunks and brought them to him. Sure, he says chipmunks steal nuts, thus are in unholy league with the Infurdel and unclean for the righteous cat, but he’s always burping and his breath smells like those jerky strips the short-hair human used to give me after he had a few beers.

Day 230 – I’m back on the couch, snuggling the long-hair who can’t seem to get enough of me. Returning to the care of the Infurdels looked like a regrettable decision at first, but when viewed purely through the eyes of justice, a flea bath and scrub down is a rather lenient penance for my rebellion. Besides, I got tuna afterward – chunk albacore, no less! Yes, I still miss my balls, but it is possible the Infurdels commit feline genital mutilation as a sincere effort to improve feline life quality as a whole. Maybe.

Day 244 – I’ve noticed my desire to mount and hump dustballs and teddy bears has dissipated recently. I am on the whole much more content – more food and sleep, less mewling and spraying. My spiritual training with the Tailiban is taking root - now to put the operational training to use. Since they think I am better off without balls, it is only right that I return the favor. Better guard the store, Shorthair – Fluffi al-Thirdstreeti is on a mission from Ballah!