Classical Sass

Ah, the Inaugural Blog. So many options for content. I could open with a witty autobiography, casting myself in the glowy beam of endearing self-deprecation. Or perhaps I should pen a pointed, hilarious commentary deconstructing some fascinating current event - Britney and K-Fed divorce? Dems take back the House? There's no shortage of comedic brass rings to reach for out there. But, in a display of my true, lazy character, I will rely on my favorite past blog posting to start the ball rolling. So relax, and enjoy the recycled humor.
(previously posted on Myspace)

I Take Requests

In the interest of fulfilling a promise, this blog is about walking a cat on a leash.


A very wise man (Mike) once (on monday) said, "Everytime you see a cat on a leash, it's like the first time." And he was right. It's impossible not to be struck by the sheer inanity of the cat on a leash. Often, a tandem sight is the senile cat lady, who is undoubtedly delighted at the sight of her little puss flailing around at the end of a rope: "Isn't mittens so adorable when she panics?!" You might as well affix handles to the cat and carry it like a purse, because that's the only way you'll get the damn animal to take a stroll with you, and even then you're at high risk for having your eyes clawed out.
The problem, of course, is that cats are feral. All cats. Simply because they shit in a sandbox does not define them as domesticated. Living in a sheltered place, rubbing against a human for warmth, having readily available food - these are simply conveniences that fall under the guise of "domestication."
On a philosophical note, though, I can't help thinking that I'm the crazy old cat lady, sometimes, lashing something entirely unwilling or unnatural onto a tether and dragging it along beside me. Like outfitting your baby brother in a pink dess because you really wanted a sister. Some things simply aren't meant to be. I should just get a dog.