I’m Sorry Kim Kardashian’s Cat Died
|Lots of work to be done|
Kim Kardashian’s cat died yesterday. Supposedly she’d given it away, and then, some time later, it perished. I’m not up on the details. I hopped onto Twitter and looked up Kim’s handle. “I’m sorry to hear about your cat,” I wrote, “I’ve lost cats, too. It’s a bummer.”
I waited for a few seconds to see how she’d respond. I waited a few more seconds because I know sometimes my Internet connection isn’t always top-notch. But then I started thinking, I’m sure Kim’s connection is as good as they come in our modern age, so why haven’t I received her response?
I don’t get mushy very often, and if I don’t get a reply, Ms Kardashian will pay for it. If somebody told me they were sad about my cat dying, I’d drop everything else I was doing to make sure I said thank you for your consideration. You didn’t have to think about me and my loss, but you did.
Maybe my Twitter account was hiccuping? It seemed to be functioning clearly. Hundreds of tweets loading up and rolling down my screen. I signed out, signed back in. Still, no reply. It’s now been almost 24 hours and I’m beside myself.
I vaguely remember stirring late last night. Had Kim tweeted me back? I blinked and tried to squeegee clean my bleary eyes. I checked my smartphone. The bright light was too startling in the darkness. Come on, Kim, I chanted. Come on, Kimmy. But still, there’d been no reply.
Like A Cat, No Longer A Virgin
In my mild, sleepy state, I had an Edisonian-moment of realization how much Kim’s face resembles the face of a feline. Without the fur, which is preferable, anyway, but its round chin and cheeks with those sparkling eyes. I thought of a cat I’d loved as a child. Spotty was her name (not a great name, but neither is Kim.) A sleek, white-furred, purring kitty. So sweet. And how if you’d strip the fur right off her face and revealed the pure white skin beneath, you’d have a miniature version of Kardashian’s face.
To make the transition complete, the bald cat’s cheeks and forehead would need extensive tanning, of course, and permanent makeup tattooed around its lips and eyes. It would need blush on its cheeks. An expert plastic surgeon veterinarian would have to carefully pump stuffing into the cats lips to fluff them to a desirable fullness — to a level just before bursting.
There’d be the delicate process of inserting butt implants. Tiny slits in the underside of the haunches. A plump rear end is always worth the minimal chances of garish scarring. Also, with a larger posterior, there would be the obvious need to enhance the breasts. Unlike managing two breasts, Spotty was blessed with seven. She had very little to work with — mere mosquito bites! An entire day of injecting silicone and stretching the skin to accommodate the desirable load they’d now be carrying. Never mind Spotty’s breasts would look more like utters, hanging nearly to the ground. She’d have to move carefully, slowly, but all that would pay off to have the biggest, shapeliest bubs on the farm.
It’s probably better I’d never had these thoughts about my cat. I moved off the farm a long time ago, and Spotty has since turned back into dust. But had I known who Kim K was way back then, I’d have coaxed my father into getting the work done on the cat, just for the sake of experimenting, but Lord knows after we’d have brought her home from surgery, her face swollen and bandaged, it would only have been days before she was ready to debut her new look to the other farm cats, mostly male.
Those males would not have left her alone. As she limped across the lawn, her seven breasts swaying romantically, and her ass so plump her hind legs barely keeping it aloft. Her fluffy nipples rubbed raw over the pavement, the gravel, and the grass. Hard to keep her back straight. So much pressure on Spotty’s spine.
Oh, the lips, the males would have said, and that smooth round face with the highlighted eyes and cheeks. And my goodness, those tits! Not just for nursing kittens any longer. It’s not even the season for mating, they’d have thought, but we want to procreate anyway. All day and every day until our tiny prostates burst and blood and semen dribble out our rectums. But we don’t care. The desire is so strong.
The two other female cats on the farm would have gone to their hay beds in the barn cold and alone every night, while above them, in the loft, the old dusty boards squeaked, and male cats howled with joy and the pleasures of domination.
Like Spotty, How Can Kim Maintain?
I dropped my head back onto my pillow. I know cats don’t think in English, but they certainly have thoughts and ideas. It’s not even clear Kim Kardashian thinks in English, but she’s learned enough of the vocabulary to scrape by in this society and make it look like she’s paying attention.
But she’s inundated by emotion, like anybody else. She’s still human, despite the amount of plastics in her face — plastics that will have to be re-updated constantly as her existence careens into its thirties and forties. She’s had doctors quite literally pin and tuck her into a personal prison that will need constant maintenance and readjustment.
So I thought I’d reach out and say sorry to hear about her cat. I know how much pets can mean to a person. I know how lonely famous people can be. I’ve talked to them. I’ve met rich people. Physically and mentally active — all kinds of plastic surgery appointments and parties and celebrations — but spiritually there is a hole so deep and so wide you’d wonder, over your third cocktail, how there could be anything within imagination that could permanently fill that terrifying abyss.
I’m still waiting for her reply.