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Shekels at the cat-canning plant

Devoted on February 11, 2007.

On Monday, after blorpling on home from my job at the cat-canning plant, I was met with the biggest surprise of my life: Apparently, I don’t really work at the cat-canning plant. The canning plant manager, a man by the name of Wilson (…sounds familiar… I think I know him…) told me that this so-called “cat-canning plant” doesn’t, in fact, exist, and as far as he knows, there’s no such thing as a canning plant anywhere that cans cats. Cats can’t be canned, he told me. Catfood, yes, cat tails, possibly, cats themselves—no way, no sir, he told me.

Well, he didn’t say “sir,” he said something more along the lines of something that’d get my dear old website stricken from its hosting provider if I typed it out here. Began with an F, if I recall. And I do recall. I’m gonna call his mother next and let her know what I think of her cat-canning-manager of a son. Bloody son of a…

So, anyway, after punching him squarely in the temporal lobe for intoning that cat-canning plants can’t exist, and further implying I didn’t work at one, and finally insinuating that I was a jobless sponge that lives off of charity by skulking around the stumblebum stables, I huffed on out of there and went back to my real job: Orbiting the stumblebum stables languorously, cupped hand in the air, waiting for people to pelt me with pennies, nickels, and perhaps shekels if they feel so inclined.

I spent much of Wednesday doing the same. I tried to go to my Wednesday job at the horse factory, right next to the cat-canning plant, but the foreman there told me to go home, because he wasn’t really the foreman of a horse factory at all, but a “Mr. Wilson” who works at a bee-polishing shop on Goldfarb Avenue! I asked him if the bee-polishing shop had any openings, but he told me no: Apparently the last opening was filled with a rubber stopper and the place is sealed up quite nicely now. Alas.

So I went home, sad and dejected.

On Thursday, I accidentally went to my Friday job (I have a different job each day of the week, mind you) at the hobnobbing house, and got booted out on my bottom by a barefoot Jennifer Love Hewitt. I skulked back to the stumblebum stables and tried my Thursday job on for size: Wearing a T-shirt two sizes too small and waving my arms madly over my head while I demanded pennies and pfennigs from passers-by. That didn’t go well this week—not at all.

I went back to the hobnobbery on Friday (the hobnobbery on Hobgoblin Street, not the one on Pinnfarben Street) and got booted in the buttocks again by a barefoot Jennifer Love Hewitt. I thanked her kindly and went on my way, satisfied that cat-canning plants can’t really exist. With my buttocks sore, I idly wondered if cat-planning cants exist. Perhaps they can’t, either.

[Feetnote: On Tuesday, I work at a gas station, frantically handing out leaflets about the coming invasion of garden gnomes. As usual, this Tuesday was uneventful and not a single patron believed me. They’ll believe me when the gnomes start stealing their daughters, though!]