in which trollop experiences apoplexy

what. the hell.

is that.

Once he'd vanquished his foe, he beat a hasty retreat

(it was a beaver puppet that waged the attack)

trollop dreams

Territory: a discussion

Facilitator: Thank you for joining us today for this cat forum on territory, territorialism, and similar behaviors. With us are our guests, Trollop and Orwell. Thank you for being with us, kitties.

Trollop: Oh shut the hell up.

Orwell: I'M SCARED! SO SCARED! ARE PEOPLE WATCHING?!

Facilitator: No, no one's watching -- this is a blog. They'll read it....

Trollop: Can we move along? I've got things to go pee on.

Facilitator: Fair enough. Tell me, Trollop, why is it that you demonstrate your territory by peeing on things?

Trollop: First of all, dumbass, I prefer the term "colonialism" to "territorialism," okay? Reason is, the whole world used to belong to me and was at my beck and call until that black ball of fur came to my house.

Orwell: I WAS HOMELESS! I WAS LIVING IN A CAR ENGINE!

Facilitator: Orwell, did you mean to threaten Trollop?

Orwell: NO! I JUST LIKE IT WHEN THE HUMANS RUB MY BELLY!

Facilitator: Fair enough. So why do you mark your territory?

Orwell: I DON'T! BUT SOMETIMES TROLLOP SCARES THE, well, CRAP OUT OF ME AND I CAN'T MAKE IT TO A LITTER BOX IN TIME!

Trollop: Can I go now?

Orwell: ME TOO! I HAVE TO PEE...ooooooooh, never mind....

Facilitator: Hi, yeah, can we get a clean-up in here?

Orwell puts two brain cells together and his life explodes

Human: Orwell, you like to hide under the guest bed, don't you?

Orwell: I love it! It's the awesomest place in the universe!

Human: But you're afraid of your shadow...

Orwell: SHADOWS SCARE THE CRAP OUT OF ME! THEY DON'T LEAVE!

Human: So why do you like being under the bed?

Orwell: It's dark and no one can see me!

Human: But...it's dark because it's the bed's shadow.

Orwell: ...WHAT? HOLY CRAP MONKEYS! WHAT?! ...NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO—

Human: Orwell, dude, chill...

Orwell: — OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO....

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.