It was around this time last year that my beloved George was dead in a space heater box in my living room that Liono and Easy Mac ended up jumping in while I was at work and therefore solidified their absolute fear of all future boxes.
You’re welcome, George
Some people think of Christmas and conjure up memories of Santa and family and a baby in a manger. But we both know that December 25th will forever be the day that human idiocy infuriated your old ass into death.
Miss you.
Yesterday, on Christmas, I spent an entire day on the train traveling back to my apartment. I purchased myself some holiday PBRs and got ready to have a full blown solo Christmas pity party. All of my intentions were focused on feeling totally sorry for myself because I was spending Christmas alone. However, George had other plans.
His plan?
Dying
This is exactly how he wanted to go, on Christmas: a day usually reserved for family, and happiness, and joy. Those are all of the things that he hates and stands against. Misery? Pain? Mournful tunes on the banjo? The last chapter of Oil? Ruining gift giving holidays? George knew that those were the real simple pleasures in life.
And, obviously, hating you. That was another of his favorite things.
Except, of course, there is more pleasure in dying. So, after a hundred and fifty thousand years of life George went to meet him maker.
I think we all know who George’s maker is
And I, for one, will miss the ever loving shit out of that miserable cranky cat bastard. And, while his cold dead body rests in the space heater box in my living room while I am at work (HE WOULD HAVE WANTED IT THAT WAY DON’T JUDGE ME), later on I will be memorializing him in the best way possible: playing The Ballad of Georgie on the ukulele and whiskey drankin’.
Bye, littlest evil.
My cats have been introduced in this blog already, as I prefer them to almost all carbon-based life forms. Their antics have been documented due to their insatiable need to ruin a night of pampering; and their cuteness has been lauded as a way for me to give into maternal instincts and still drink gin.
But until now their personalities have been little discussed. So let me introduce you to…George!
when Satan takes feline form.
George is evil. Pure evilness. That is pretty much the extent of his personality. Except one time, while I was sleeping on my back, he scratched my neck near the corroded artery. Another time he scratched me across my wrist making me look like I am a cutter to my co-workers and friends. Well, I guess those weren’t personality traits but rather illustrations of his wickedness.
Ah, George.
You life is not so great 