My Dear Public,
The fog rolls in. Unlike most of my generation, I sleep soundly most nights, but lately...
I am standing on paper. White paper. I am in a large, flat field, a hundred acres or so. In the distance, I hear a scream. There is something dark against the far treeline. It is coming to me.
It leaves a trail behind it, and as it moves, I see that it is a stream of blood, moving quickly, its head driving towards me. I try to dodge around it but it widens, and my tiny white paws are turning red. All around me invisible people – men, women, children – are screaming. Their voices hem me in and I am vomiting more of the white paper.
I wake up.
Ever thine,
Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten
Monday, October 12, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
My Dear Public,
It is October, and the skies are grey. I should be frolicking in fallen leaves, enjoying the crispness of the air while snuggled inside my quilted 'SECURITY' vest. Despite my propensity towards cutting capers and gamboling, I do take my role as Little Orange Watchman very seriously. One must not think that I am anything but swift and thorough in dispensing justice to those who would attempt entry to my family's home without my consent.
I should say, though, that the job has changed – these days it is, by and large, quite tedious. My lengthy campaign of rodent genocide has effectively removed the local mouse population. Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of a squirrel, but they wisely keep to the trees, and away from my premises. Despite all this, it's not an easy job. One must be ever vigilant, and it is rather exhausting.
In order to take some of the pressure off, I installed seventeen motion-sensitive machine-guns on the property. I know they work, because my family can't come down the driveway now, I've been shot at six times, a police cruiser and firetruck have been demolished, and I am all alone in the house. The problems here are twofold: one, I might kill someone I am sworn to protect, and two, my food is locked in a Rubbermaid tub under the sink, and I cannot feed myself. Unfortunately, when I try to turn off the system, I get shot at and have to scurry away. In hindsight, putting the control panel outside the house was not wise, but I figured that it would help me get some extra exercise if I couldn't just turn it on and off from my bed.
If any of you have armoured personnel carriers, can you please, please come and help me? I am not inclined to begging, being a very proud little orange soldier, but if you come, I will let you have the Victoria Cross I was awarded after the Battle of Rorke's Drift. I've been eating out of the dog's dish and I think I'm going to die.
Ever thine,
Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten
It is October, and the skies are grey. I should be frolicking in fallen leaves, enjoying the crispness of the air while snuggled inside my quilted 'SECURITY' vest. Despite my propensity towards cutting capers and gamboling, I do take my role as Little Orange Watchman very seriously. One must not think that I am anything but swift and thorough in dispensing justice to those who would attempt entry to my family's home without my consent.
I should say, though, that the job has changed – these days it is, by and large, quite tedious. My lengthy campaign of rodent genocide has effectively removed the local mouse population. Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of a squirrel, but they wisely keep to the trees, and away from my premises. Despite all this, it's not an easy job. One must be ever vigilant, and it is rather exhausting.
In order to take some of the pressure off, I installed seventeen motion-sensitive machine-guns on the property. I know they work, because my family can't come down the driveway now, I've been shot at six times, a police cruiser and firetruck have been demolished, and I am all alone in the house. The problems here are twofold: one, I might kill someone I am sworn to protect, and two, my food is locked in a Rubbermaid tub under the sink, and I cannot feed myself. Unfortunately, when I try to turn off the system, I get shot at and have to scurry away. In hindsight, putting the control panel outside the house was not wise, but I figured that it would help me get some extra exercise if I couldn't just turn it on and off from my bed.
If any of you have armoured personnel carriers, can you please, please come and help me? I am not inclined to begging, being a very proud little orange soldier, but if you come, I will let you have the Victoria Cross I was awarded after the Battle of Rorke's Drift. I've been eating out of the dog's dish and I think I'm going to die.
Ever thine,
Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten
Saturday, September 26, 2009
My Dear Public,
I am only small, being the runt of my litter, but I have grand dreams. Unlike most of my kind, I am not nocturnal. Instead, I pass out through the night, waking at about 6am, ready for adventure.
I will begin for you here a dream journal that will stand in for those days when very little of consequence takes place in my waking life. Today being a rainy day with little in the way of hunting or other outdoor activities for a robust orange fellow such as myself, we shall travel arm-in-arm* down this path of dreamy tales.
A Kitten's Dream, as took place the night of September 25th/26th
I wake in the midst of frenzied shouting to find myself lying on a cot. The floor is dusty, and I realize then that it is sand. My tail is numb from lying on it the wrong way, and it makes me wiggle my bottom to loosen it up a bit.
Turning to my right, I catch a reflection of myself in a darkened window, taking note of my fine imperial handlebar moustache and red tunic.
There are more shouts from outside, and I bolt to the door. In the distance a tree is burning and I watch as the flames catch the thatched roof of a hut. There are men screaming inside, and I realize that it is an infirmary.
I am running to their aid.
'Don't fear, lads,' I cry. 'Never you fear, we'll get you free of that damnable blaze!'
I catch the arm of a panicked corporal running across my path with two privates in tow. Still running, I attempt to drag him to the hut while exhorting him to help me free the sick and injured men from the fire. He breaks my grip and runs off with me shouting after him. I keep running towards the hut.
Suddenly, from the darkness, a lone, long assegai whips towards me. I see it as though it is moving through treacle, its flight perfect, slow and sweet. It catches me full in the chest and passes through my body, hanging up inside me on the last foot of its shaft. I pitch forward into the sand, the air thickened by the screams of the burning men in the hut.
The pain is incalculable, and each breath causes the shaft of the spear to stir about inside me. I am growing weaker and weaker. The last thought that passes through my mind before my death is that I am still wearing my snood. I laugh at the absurdity of it all and die a true Englishman, a smile still on my tiny kitten lips.
Ever thine,
Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten
* In actual fact, as I am only small, tire easily, and am given to time-consuming distraction by birds and small creatures, you will need to carry me. Mea culpa. I apologize profusely in advance.
I am only small, being the runt of my litter, but I have grand dreams. Unlike most of my kind, I am not nocturnal. Instead, I pass out through the night, waking at about 6am, ready for adventure.
I will begin for you here a dream journal that will stand in for those days when very little of consequence takes place in my waking life. Today being a rainy day with little in the way of hunting or other outdoor activities for a robust orange fellow such as myself, we shall travel arm-in-arm* down this path of dreamy tales.
A Kitten's Dream, as took place the night of September 25th/26th
I wake in the midst of frenzied shouting to find myself lying on a cot. The floor is dusty, and I realize then that it is sand. My tail is numb from lying on it the wrong way, and it makes me wiggle my bottom to loosen it up a bit.
Turning to my right, I catch a reflection of myself in a darkened window, taking note of my fine imperial handlebar moustache and red tunic.
There are more shouts from outside, and I bolt to the door. In the distance a tree is burning and I watch as the flames catch the thatched roof of a hut. There are men screaming inside, and I realize that it is an infirmary.
I am running to their aid.
'Don't fear, lads,' I cry. 'Never you fear, we'll get you free of that damnable blaze!'
I catch the arm of a panicked corporal running across my path with two privates in tow. Still running, I attempt to drag him to the hut while exhorting him to help me free the sick and injured men from the fire. He breaks my grip and runs off with me shouting after him. I keep running towards the hut.
Suddenly, from the darkness, a lone, long assegai whips towards me. I see it as though it is moving through treacle, its flight perfect, slow and sweet. It catches me full in the chest and passes through my body, hanging up inside me on the last foot of its shaft. I pitch forward into the sand, the air thickened by the screams of the burning men in the hut.
The pain is incalculable, and each breath causes the shaft of the spear to stir about inside me. I am growing weaker and weaker. The last thought that passes through my mind before my death is that I am still wearing my snood. I laugh at the absurdity of it all and die a true Englishman, a smile still on my tiny kitten lips.
Ever thine,
Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten
* In actual fact, as I am only small, tire easily, and am given to time-consuming distraction by birds and small creatures, you will need to carry me. Mea culpa. I apologize profusely in advance.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
My Dear Public,
After having my personal diary put in a cupboard, I was temporarily unable to write to you. All that is over now. I love you very much, and I am very sorry that I have been gone for so long.
Today, I would like to talk to you about men with ponytails. There is no such thing as a man with a ponytail who does not look sleazy. If you have a ponytail, and are a man, you are disgusting and offensive to the eye. I do not want ponytailed men reading my blog, as I am but a tiny kitten and cannot handle such revulsion as I feel when confronted with such greasy types as exemplify the ponytailed man.
If you are a man with a ponytail, either get a haircut and take a bath, or get away from me forever.
Ever thine,
Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten
After having my personal diary put in a cupboard, I was temporarily unable to write to you. All that is over now. I love you very much, and I am very sorry that I have been gone for so long.
Today, I would like to talk to you about men with ponytails. There is no such thing as a man with a ponytail who does not look sleazy. If you have a ponytail, and are a man, you are disgusting and offensive to the eye. I do not want ponytailed men reading my blog, as I am but a tiny kitten and cannot handle such revulsion as I feel when confronted with such greasy types as exemplify the ponytailed man.
If you are a man with a ponytail, either get a haircut and take a bath, or get away from me forever.
Ever thine,
Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten
Friday, June 19, 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
My Dear Public,
If you are wondering what happened with the mice, I killed all of them. If you are wondering where I was, I was in jail for three weeks. It turns out that destruction of property is illegal, even if the property in question is a gas-guzzling SUV full of asshole mice that I may or may not have driven off a cliff, jumping out at the last second like a motherfucking ninja.
Anyway, I am pleased to announce my new music project, Cat For Lashes. I will be publishing some tight lyrics very soon, so keep your vaginas burning for me. I will fill them with hot, syrupy music soon enough.
Ever thine,
Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten
If you are wondering what happened with the mice, I killed all of them. If you are wondering where I was, I was in jail for three weeks. It turns out that destruction of property is illegal, even if the property in question is a gas-guzzling SUV full of asshole mice that I may or may not have driven off a cliff, jumping out at the last second like a motherfucking ninja.
Anyway, I am pleased to announce my new music project, Cat For Lashes. I will be publishing some tight lyrics very soon, so keep your vaginas burning for me. I will fill them with hot, syrupy music soon enough.
Ever thine,
Marvin Quincy Longbody-Horriblekitten
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Editor's Note: I have not heard from Marvin in over a week. The authorities have been notified. Please keep him in your thoughts and prayers. Below is an entry excerpted from a note he once sent me.
**************
The best thing about when there is a birthday in my household is that there is a cake. I fucking love cake. No sooner do flour and butter go in the bottom of the baking pan, than I am sitting on the stovetop, licking said flour and butter straight out of the pan. Then I get yelled at, and MORE butter and flour go into the pan. It's awesome.
Afterwards, they put the cake in the pan and bake it. At this point, it is difficult (even dangerous) to lick the bottom of the pan, as it is heated to very high temperatures indeed, and sealed securely inside the oven. It is possible for me to stand up on my hind legs, rest my front paws on the oven door, and peer in through the glass. This sustains me until the cake comes out and cools.
The next part is the even better part than the best part I mentioned earlier: they put ICING on it. I fucking love icing. No sooner do they ice the cake, than I am sitting on the table, licking said icing straight off of the cake. Then I get yelled at, and MORE icing goes onto the cake. It's awesome.
I love birthdays.
- Marvin
**************
The best thing about when there is a birthday in my household is that there is a cake. I fucking love cake. No sooner do flour and butter go in the bottom of the baking pan, than I am sitting on the stovetop, licking said flour and butter straight out of the pan. Then I get yelled at, and MORE butter and flour go into the pan. It's awesome.
Afterwards, they put the cake in the pan and bake it. At this point, it is difficult (even dangerous) to lick the bottom of the pan, as it is heated to very high temperatures indeed, and sealed securely inside the oven. It is possible for me to stand up on my hind legs, rest my front paws on the oven door, and peer in through the glass. This sustains me until the cake comes out and cools.
The next part is the even better part than the best part I mentioned earlier: they put ICING on it. I fucking love icing. No sooner do they ice the cake, than I am sitting on the table, licking said icing straight off of the cake. Then I get yelled at, and MORE icing goes onto the cake. It's awesome.
I love birthdays.
- Marvin
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