Shakin hands was like shakin a hot, fat, oily bone holdin on for far too long.

[reddragdiva]

Just got the kitaens back from the vet, minus their reproductive capabilities. They both have their heads in buckets. Neo is lying across redcountess begging cuddles (Claire said how sooky he was at the vet) and Madam is hiding under the bed feeling depressed. While chasing Madam to get the bucket back on her head, the groceries came; the driver left me with the words "keep smokin'" and we think he'd had a bit himself, since he called ten minutes later to ask for directions to a completely different house and Liz had to try several times to get across that we were where we were and that he'd just been here. And I left my bag in the minicab, and cheers to the driver who brought it straight back intact. JUST A LITTLE FRAZZLED, YES.

I'm working on a prospective Uncyclopedia article about Cat Piss Man (as defined here by sclerotic_rings) and I would very much like your assistance. I have already sent a draft to sclerotic_rings for comment, but I would like your stories of and links to cat pissery of the human kind. It will be written from the viewpoint of someone aggrieved at the label, so quotes and links to use would be really good.

Update: And Madam just got out of her bucket again. What a clever kitty!

Comments

[barakta]

Cat Piss Man IS the Cleggs... Yes, plural. My ex used to work in a Games Workshop shop in the delightful shithole town Stockport. The Cleggs used to come in virtually every day, and always on a Saturday and Sunday.

I remember the first time I walked into the shop to talk to my ex before getting the bus home from the adjacent bus station. You'd have thought they'd never seen a real woman before. I have memories of them grunting alarmedly when I walked in and giving me dirty looks. They eventually got used to me but I never could understand what they said as their goofy teeth obscured their speech. I didn't especially want to know what they said either.

They used to go to the butchers next door and eat a whole family sized bag of chicken wings, wiping their greasy hands on their clothes. They'd get kicked out of the games workshop to eat which pissed them off no end...

The staff didn't like them, but the smarmy manager wouldn't ban them because they spent most of their dole money in GW every week. When the manager wasn't around when they would nitpick at the small children who were playing the games. Junior staff often had to intervene and threaten to ban them regardless of if they were right about page 67 rule 56A clause iv.