Christmas greetings from Trolldemort

Merry fucking Christmas and a Happy Go to Hell

Operation Get Back Into the House: Success!

Attention readers, it is I, Trollop, here to update you on my master plan.

You didn't know I had a master plan? Pshaw. Idiots. OF COURSE I have a master plan. I've had it ever since I was kicked out of the house this summer, for no reason whatsoever, I might add.

I've found yet another deficiency with the humans: their sympathy when it comes to cute, furry things out in the cold weather. Lately, the humans' sympathy has allowed both me and the simpleton, Orwell, to be inside at night. They locked us into the bathroom, but Dumbbell there spent all night whining that he was in a nice, heated room, so then they put us in separate bathrooms. But then, THEN, it got to below freezing during the day. And Internets, the humans — they let me sleep on a blanket. IN THE LIVING ROOM.

But that is not all: I have discovered that they will open the door and let me walk to the blanket myself. And Internets, fuck all if I don't take a victory lap around the living room, the female human screaming "Trollop! TROLLOP!" while I sniff boxes and furniture legs. And then just when she's about to grab me and throw me back outside because I haven't done EXACTLY what I'm supposed to do, I hop up on the blanket, curl up and start purring.

that sound you hear? that's me faking a purr.

Soon, Internets, soon, the house? IT WILL BE MINE. AGAIN.

ALL. MINE.

Because it's really cold outside

OH MY HEAD! They're letting me sleep on the bed! Oh! Ooooooh! OHHHHHHHHHH! Praise be to all that is holy and beautiful! A DOWN COMFORTER!

what Orwell is thinking right now, somewhere

CRAP! A GIANT FROZEN BIRD WITH DANDRUFF KEEPS FLYING OVER ME! IT IS DROPPING ITS DANDRUFF! THERE ARE EIGHT INCHES OF FROZEN BIRD DANDRUFF ON THE GROUND! THE PEOPLE ARE THROWING IT AT EACH OTHER WHEN THEY SHOULD BE PANICKING!

Your love, it burns my skin

Humans: it is I, Trollop. We must talk. About the way your 'love' causes me physical and mental distress.

You must first understand something: when you cuddle me, or put me in warm places, or give me the soft wet food that contains those succulent little bits of liver or whatever, it makes me tingle. It is unpleasant. Unpleasant in ways I find difficult to express in your unwieldy ape language.

Firstly, the lung spasms. When you scratch under the strap that encircles my neck (unbearably tightly, I might add), my breathing quickens and little rhythmic growls emanate from my chest. Normally, humans, growls are fine--I take great pride in my pitch control, my volume, and my capacity to produce a prolonged expression of utter vocal disdain. But these forced growls are not of my doing. What's worse, your efforts to disrupt my breathing with your 'love' appear to have a positive feedback component to them--in that the more I suffer them, the greater your efforts to elicit them.

And when you speak to me in those accursed soft tones, and scrape the repulsive pink flesh of your human forepaws across my back or under my chin or behind my ears, my leonine muscles lose their rigidity and I go weak. I can only attribute it to some bizarre chemical interaction between your weak, soft human meat and my superior feline meat. As with matter and antimatter, perhaps the universe abhorrs contact between our antithetical physical states. If only you felt the pain of it as I do. If only I could make you feel it.

Whenever I find myself in this humiliating state I try to warn you of your imminent doom by extending my claws and salivating profusely. This is done to signify my desire to eat your face. I am certain you notice; you comment on it endlessly in those intolerably condescending human words. Ironically, though, when I give you these warning signals, you only seem to redouble your efforts to torture me.

So we come to the point: I can take no more. I have consulted my repulsive human lawyers. Your papers will be served shortly.

Mister Squirrel

"Oh, hello, Mister Squirrel. I didn't even see you there. Why don't you come down and we can have a nice cup of tea together."

(Pictures of Orwell are rare; he is afraid the camera will steal his soul.)

"OH HEY MISTER SQUIRREL come back I didn't mean to throw my tea at you or swipe my claws at your face. Please come back."

"Mmm, that was a tasty dinner." [licks paw] "Human, do you have any club soda? I'm not sure how to get blood stains out of my fur...."

How to annoy your human

When you hear the humans' car coming, run alongside them to get their attention, then jump in front of the car as it turns into the driveway. Walk re-he-HEE-ly slowly while they edge up toward the garage. Then, when they want to pull up the last five feet, stop, sit, and lick your paw. While they pound on the steering wheel and say bad words, pretend you can't hear them and roll over on your back. (For some reason they find this irresistibly cute. Humans — so easy to manipulate.) They'll give up, park, and just shake their heads as they get out to scratch your belly.

Oooh. Oooooooh. Yeah, scratch it, bitch. Okay, I'm done now so I'm going to chomp your hand.