gntbldr
07-07-2004, 07:23 PM
I used to share an apartment in Chicago with a guy named Jeff. Jeff
worked in the tech support department for Apple Computers, a standard 9
to 5 kind of a job. I was a freelance musician at the time, playing
piano in jazz clubs across the city. Because of the off-and-on nature of
my job, a lot of the time Jeff and I spent evenings at the apartment,
watching sports, drinking, or taking part in other manly activities.
Everything was going great between us until he brought home- the cat.
From the minute he brought the little bastard home, I knew life just
wouldn't be the same again. Somewhat unlucky in love, Jeff showered the
cat with all the affection within him. I myself am mildly allergic to
cats, and grew to despise it with all of my being. With this cat came
that which a cat requires: a cat box. Despite being small, even runty,
through some metabolic miracle the cat was able to shit his own body
weight over the course of a few days. The cat box went in the bathroom,
as if that place didn't smell bad enough already.
This just plain sucked. I decided something had to be done.
I never cleaned the cat box. Not once. Jeff asked me to do it as a
favor a few days, when he was running late or was headed out of town. I
would never do it. It became a pet peeve of his, much to my
satisfaction. Why should I clean the filth of the feline abomination which he
brought into our home? Not that this was the only problem: my clothes,
furniture, and even food was often covered in cat hair. Being an inside
cat with claws, it saw fit to scratch anything that sat still long
enough. None of these problems seemed to deter Jeff, who was even thinking
about bringing another filthy creature into our apartment.
But I digress. It was time to act.
As I stated before, I never cleaned the litterbox. Jeff knew this.
One day I set my plan into action. Approximately ten minutes before Jeff
was due to arrive home, I went into the bathroom and removed every
piece of stinking cat shit from of the box. This I placed in a bag, and
after carefully replacing the litter, I carried the bag downstairs. To
remove any possible trace of my act, I threw the bag away in a dumpster
across the street. My deed completed, I returned to the apartment and
awaited Jeff.
Perhaps I was hoping for too much, Jeff didn't seem to notice that his
cat had appeared to not have shit that day. Thus, I persisted. In the
mornings, before Jeff got up, I cleaned the box again. Jeff never saw
a single log in the box. Not one. My timing was perfect. Day after
grueling day I cleaned the litterbox, and never told Jeff. After about
a week, Jeff finally asked me if I was cleaning the litterbox, because
it had been clean every day, and the cat most certainly should have
shat by now. Of course not, I replied, why the hell would I do that? He
believed me: as I said, previous to this week, I wouldn't touch the
damn thing.
Upon Jeff's suggestion, we searched the apartment to find out if the
cat had been shitting somewhere else. I struggled to keep a straight
face as I reported that the cat had not made a restroom of any other
location. He asked if the cat was going outside, which it definitely was
not. In Chicago, during the winter, you don't tend to leave windows or
doors open for the fear of freezing your balls off. This was beginning
to disturb poor Jeff; my plan was working flawlessly.
He took the cat to the vet...repeatedly. Every time, the vet would
assure Jeff that the cat seemed perfectly healthy, and that there was no
way that it wasn't shitting. Jeff performed more searches of the
apartment. He changed the cat's diet, the location of the litterbox, and
nearly foiled the plan when he tried to give it laxative. I quickly
discouraged the idea, arguing that it would be unhealthy for the cat. On
and on this went.
A total of fifty-seven days had gone by since my project started, and
Jeff was nearing an anxiety attack. I finally decided to end my joke,
for Jeff's sake.
Only one surprise remained. To prepare, I left the house at about 4
P.M.
I traveled to a local White Castle restaurant and bought about a dozen
of those little burgers we all know and love. Now, you need to
understand that I am a person of somewhat delicate constitution. I just can't
tolerate alcohol, I'm lactose intolerant, I get sick a lot, and nearly
anything spicy or greasy will make me shit up a storm. Needless to
say, White Castle is about the worst possible thing for me to eat. After
stuffing down those little greaseballs, I stopped off at the drugstore
for laxatives-for good measure. After consuming the laxatives as well,
I returned home and awaited the inevitable.
It didn't take long, but I was ready. When the "dance" began, I was
already in the bathroom, crouched over the litterbox. Let me tell you, I
have never shat that much in my entire life. All different colors,
textures, odors, and other variables were mixed into one stupendous
bowel-breaking event. By the time I was done, the litterbox was absolutely
filled to the brim. Laughing all the way, I cleaned my ass off and
returned to the living room.
When Jeff got home, at about 4:45, he idly made chitchat about his day
and his plans to take the cat to the vet again. He then announced that
he was going to take a dump and advanced toward the bathroom. On the
verge of tears, I waited. From the bathroom came the cry of "HOLY
FUCKING SHIT!!!"
Needless to say, we both had a big laugh about that. On the plus side,
I never cleaned the catbox again.
worked in the tech support department for Apple Computers, a standard 9
to 5 kind of a job. I was a freelance musician at the time, playing
piano in jazz clubs across the city. Because of the off-and-on nature of
my job, a lot of the time Jeff and I spent evenings at the apartment,
watching sports, drinking, or taking part in other manly activities.
Everything was going great between us until he brought home- the cat.
From the minute he brought the little bastard home, I knew life just
wouldn't be the same again. Somewhat unlucky in love, Jeff showered the
cat with all the affection within him. I myself am mildly allergic to
cats, and grew to despise it with all of my being. With this cat came
that which a cat requires: a cat box. Despite being small, even runty,
through some metabolic miracle the cat was able to shit his own body
weight over the course of a few days. The cat box went in the bathroom,
as if that place didn't smell bad enough already.
This just plain sucked. I decided something had to be done.
I never cleaned the cat box. Not once. Jeff asked me to do it as a
favor a few days, when he was running late or was headed out of town. I
would never do it. It became a pet peeve of his, much to my
satisfaction. Why should I clean the filth of the feline abomination which he
brought into our home? Not that this was the only problem: my clothes,
furniture, and even food was often covered in cat hair. Being an inside
cat with claws, it saw fit to scratch anything that sat still long
enough. None of these problems seemed to deter Jeff, who was even thinking
about bringing another filthy creature into our apartment.
But I digress. It was time to act.
As I stated before, I never cleaned the litterbox. Jeff knew this.
One day I set my plan into action. Approximately ten minutes before Jeff
was due to arrive home, I went into the bathroom and removed every
piece of stinking cat shit from of the box. This I placed in a bag, and
after carefully replacing the litter, I carried the bag downstairs. To
remove any possible trace of my act, I threw the bag away in a dumpster
across the street. My deed completed, I returned to the apartment and
awaited Jeff.
Perhaps I was hoping for too much, Jeff didn't seem to notice that his
cat had appeared to not have shit that day. Thus, I persisted. In the
mornings, before Jeff got up, I cleaned the box again. Jeff never saw
a single log in the box. Not one. My timing was perfect. Day after
grueling day I cleaned the litterbox, and never told Jeff. After about
a week, Jeff finally asked me if I was cleaning the litterbox, because
it had been clean every day, and the cat most certainly should have
shat by now. Of course not, I replied, why the hell would I do that? He
believed me: as I said, previous to this week, I wouldn't touch the
damn thing.
Upon Jeff's suggestion, we searched the apartment to find out if the
cat had been shitting somewhere else. I struggled to keep a straight
face as I reported that the cat had not made a restroom of any other
location. He asked if the cat was going outside, which it definitely was
not. In Chicago, during the winter, you don't tend to leave windows or
doors open for the fear of freezing your balls off. This was beginning
to disturb poor Jeff; my plan was working flawlessly.
He took the cat to the vet...repeatedly. Every time, the vet would
assure Jeff that the cat seemed perfectly healthy, and that there was no
way that it wasn't shitting. Jeff performed more searches of the
apartment. He changed the cat's diet, the location of the litterbox, and
nearly foiled the plan when he tried to give it laxative. I quickly
discouraged the idea, arguing that it would be unhealthy for the cat. On
and on this went.
A total of fifty-seven days had gone by since my project started, and
Jeff was nearing an anxiety attack. I finally decided to end my joke,
for Jeff's sake.
Only one surprise remained. To prepare, I left the house at about 4
P.M.
I traveled to a local White Castle restaurant and bought about a dozen
of those little burgers we all know and love. Now, you need to
understand that I am a person of somewhat delicate constitution. I just can't
tolerate alcohol, I'm lactose intolerant, I get sick a lot, and nearly
anything spicy or greasy will make me shit up a storm. Needless to
say, White Castle is about the worst possible thing for me to eat. After
stuffing down those little greaseballs, I stopped off at the drugstore
for laxatives-for good measure. After consuming the laxatives as well,
I returned home and awaited the inevitable.
It didn't take long, but I was ready. When the "dance" began, I was
already in the bathroom, crouched over the litterbox. Let me tell you, I
have never shat that much in my entire life. All different colors,
textures, odors, and other variables were mixed into one stupendous
bowel-breaking event. By the time I was done, the litterbox was absolutely
filled to the brim. Laughing all the way, I cleaned my ass off and
returned to the living room.
When Jeff got home, at about 4:45, he idly made chitchat about his day
and his plans to take the cat to the vet again. He then announced that
he was going to take a dump and advanced toward the bathroom. On the
verge of tears, I waited. From the bathroom came the cry of "HOLY
FUCKING SHIT!!!"
Needless to say, we both had a big laugh about that. On the plus side,
I never cleaned the catbox again.