Wednesday, November 19, 2003

Feline Exploitation Curiosa (aka: "catblogging") 

I'd like to speak to all of you about an alarming developing trend that has been bothering me for some time. Namely the contagion of kitty cat pornography (aka: "catblogging") coursing its way through the circulatory system of our nation's cultural body politic.

First of all let me just say that I have nothing against kitty cats. I like kitty cats too. I too struggle with a bakers dozen, at least, of fond and giddy memories of cherished kitty cat cavorts and cuddly capers. I myself subscribed to Kitty Cat Figurine magazine for nearly twenty five years. I am a survivor myself. Whats more, one of my own favorite kitty cats, beloved and doted on as only a favorite kitty cat can be, recently croaked...I mean passed beyond!...earlier this Spring. It was very sad, perhaps even tragic depending on how much you'd had to drink.

Anyway, I buried her beneath a carpet of flowering forget-me-nots aside a shady woodlot while a small volunteer unit of the local Order of Hibernians played a sad fiddle keen and Saint Anthony himself hovered above a Forsythia bush singing Abide with me; fast falls the eventide.

She was a fine specimen and lived to the ripe old age of 19 or 37, I believe. At least it seemed like 37. Anyhow, she was intelligent too, you betcha, the smartest kitty cat I've ever known. And highly agile. She could leap in an instant from a otherwise motionless stance and deposit herself squarley, razor honed nippers flexed, upon the waiting breastbone of her chosen affection. Which could be a fairly jarring experience, to say the least, especially if one were unprepared for such displays of demonstrative grace. Respected she was.

Respected also for her ability to master complex phonetic relationships and patiently perform intricate outdoor autopsies on an ungodly number of small woodland creatures on an almost daily basis. That's how smart she was. She was like some kind of Spartan feline lamia coroner running around with a hatchet and a seclusion 3-D flea collar. Its was, to be honest for the most part, fairly unmerciful business, and some naysayers claimed she was little more than an attentive furbelow while others insisted she was nothing but a despotic hairy homicidal lunatic who shit in a box of sand and terrorized the pastural meadows and secretive forest floors of her own local critterdom. Kind of like ..well, never mind. In any event, I reject either assertion and suggest she was merely a fearless survivor with an unusual grasp of polysyllabic sounds. Kind of like...well, never mind. And lets face it, even your basic hedgerow or backyard birdhouse is a cacaphony of high pitched shrieks and trills and unholy blood curdling squeals. A seething Tartarus of brutality, genocidal horrors and naked sex crazed depravities. Such are the ways of the forest floor.

But thats not what concerns me here today. What concerns me today is what I like to refer to as nothing short of: The Pussification of Western Maleficence! Thats right. The slow torturous destruction of harmful malefic mischievous western cultural bad-ass evil through the constant repetitious exposure to an unsparing assortment of cloying saccaharine photogenic drivel known as "kitty porn!" (aka: "catblogging")

Personally I don't like the term "kitty porn" and prefer to identify such material as feline exploitation curiosa. I suggest you do the same whenever possible as "kitty porn" is nothing more than a clever suggestive ploy by feline exploitation curiosa dealers and collectors to diguise their true motives, move about stealthily behind a false front of edgy villainous waggery and feigned menace, while simultaneously luring their victims into a sop-bath of esthetcized dull witted kitty-catling pathos bordering on jabbering craziness. Adult baby-talk syndrome is a good indicator of jabbering feline exploitation curiosa dementia. Also know as JFECD disorder.

Now you may say to yourself, "so what, who cares about cute pictures of adhorable little kitty cats?" Eh? "It's just the harmless overindulgence of devoted moonstruck pet owners." Yeah, well, you'd be wrong. Its dangerous and unsettling and threatens to reduce each of us to doting dull witted gurgling saps who carry on eerie jejune goo-gooing conversations with skittish little natually homicidal burkers!

I'm telling you, heed this admonishment, do not allow yourself to be lured by the fervent milksopian glow of feline exploitation curiosa dependence. Once you've got that kitty on your back theres no telling how far you will go to satisfy any slavish maudlin craving. You'll start out with one kitty cat, and the next thing you know you'll need another kitty cat, and another and another and yet another. Nothing will satisfy your hunger and pretty soon you'll have kitty cats dangling from the draperies and crawling out from under the French settee with carved mahogany swan heads and your ears will fill with spectral yowlings and incorporeal ululations as if your home were bedeviled by a thousand ruttish ghouls haunting a heathered moor!

And it doesn't end there. Before you know it the gateway will be swung wide open and you'll be swept away on a rosewater current that spills into a vast sea of explicitly mawkish cat fancier degeneracies. At the very worst you may become completely lost in the bizarre sub-culture bazaar of Bradford Exchange kitty cat ornamental plate collecting! A cheesy orgy of ghastly bric-a-brac and knick knackery that would have scared Batu Khan's advancing hordes back across the Volga had such frippery been available at the time.

If you aren't familiar with the Bradford Exchange please allow me to introduce you to a small sampling of what I'm talking about. Because of the offensive nature of the following material I refuse to post these images here but please feel free to view them via the links provided below.
This page should give you a good idea what awaits you should you decide to lift a cup to the wassails of feline exploitation curiosa.

1- Click on the thumbnails for a larger image.

2- Kitty Cats and Bluebirds in a little cottage? Think about it! I don't think they even allow for this kind of thing in Amsterdam. See for yourself.

3- Finally (I don't even know what to say here) but this appears to be some kind of depiction of post coitus drivel. Which is ridiculous in and of itself if you think about it. Who wants to look at post-coitus drivel? And what is the point of coitus drivel in the first place if you can't get a good look at the coitus? Afterall, without the coitus its simply drivel. Who knows, maybe its pre-coitus drivel. In any case its offensive on so many levels that I'm thinking of starting my own political action committee or think tank or mass mail order activist network or blog to fight back against such assaults on common decency.

I'll be back later with more on the The Pussification of Western Maleficence, its further implications, as well as observations on those (you know who you are!) who barter in such monstrous invention.

But right now I feel dirty. Just revisiting this whole subject has sanded my emotions bare and after eighteen straight hours of preparing this statement I'm in need of rest. I plan to take a shower and have a strong drink and sharpen my Browning chisel point carbon fiber Piranha Knife for tomorrow's action. Then I will take a long nap and dream of shrieking horrors and the Great Possum and all the little depravities of the forest floor.

Good night and don't let the bed bugs bite.



Far out on the desert to the north dustspouts rose wobbling and augered the earth and some said they'd heard of pilgrims borne aloft like dervishes in those mindless coils to be dropped broken and bleeding upon the desert again and there perhaps to watch the thing that had destroyed them lurch onward like some drunken djinn and resolve itself once more into the elements from which it sprang. Out of that whirlwind no voice spoke and the pilgrim lying in his broken bones may cry out and in his anguish he may rage, but rage at what? And if the dried and blackened shell of him is found among the sands by travelers to come yet who can discover the engine of his ruin? ~ Cormac McCarthy Blood Meridian

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