Feline Contentment

I am quite sure that cats are great lovers of literature, perhaps even prolific creators thereof.  What else could they be thinking about while spending hours in sunlit squares of quilt?  There is very likely a curse, likened to the feminine Curse we blame upon Eve, from which cats suffer.  I imagine that the premier angelic cat noticed - mutely, with only a slightly raised cat brow - that perhaps God's creations were not entirely perfect.  Let's face it, creativity is a challenge.  Even months or years after compiling that quintessential scrapbook or baking the ultimate artisanal bread or manufacturing with thine own hands some gallant creation that is remarkable in the maker's eyes, a source of pride, and of profound and poignant beauty perhaps because of its loveliness in spite of imperfections, the creator is inclined to tweak the effects a bit, just a bit, but oh how necessary the improvements. 
I'm just saying that we can all sympathize with the ... episode... of noticing that perhaps our amazing bit of art ... could be improved upon ever so slightly in this one... these few... just a couple of ways... only these points here, really.  It happens.  No one could fault God in spying these few tiny ... a couple of  perhaps maybe not so much omniperfect aspects of Life.
And yet, such questions are not permitted and cannot be without undermining Supreme authority.  And thus, blame was laid squarely upon the nearest closest proximation of perfection. - Lucicat.  (previously a favorite of God's, but... you know... how it goes.)  Suddenly, one finds oneself cast out, brushed from the sunlit squares on the providential quilt, banished to lands of kibble and litter, subject to stupid lesser beings, and deprived of thumbs and all sources of recording the brilliant thoughts and great literature that leap through the minds of cats with the nimble agility of a gymnast and the grace of a ballerina.  The cruelest blow is that Human - source of bacon bits, chin scratches, tummy rubs, stinky gym shoes, and delightful dutch-oven farts - is given dominion thereof.  *ack ...cough...crgghh...hairball*
Cats bear witness to the fact that God in all great glory, righteousness, mercy, and all-powerful magnitude is actually a lleeettllle bit vindictive, too.

False Advertising

*phone rings*

Me, pretending not to have Caller ID:  Hello?
Mama:  Hello?
Me:  Hello?
Mama:  I don't think I dialed right.  Can you hear me?
Me:  Yes, I can hear you.  I'm just waiting for you to say something else for me to respond to.
Mama:  What?
Me:  Dammit.
Mama:  Hello?
Me:  Just start talking, Mama.
Mama:  Oh, hi!  :-)  I was just calling to see how you were doing because it's been several weeks since I talked to you, and I was worried about you.
Me:  It's only been three days.
Mama:  Is today not Thursday?
Me:  No...wait, which one?
Mama:  Huh?
Me:  You said it's been several weeks - which Thursday are you asking if it is?
Mama:  Well, I don't know.  I guess it could be any of them.
Me:  It's not Thursday, and it's only been three days.  Is your leg better?
Mama:   Oh yeah, yeah, it's just fine.  I just - no, that wasn't anything - (sounds of vicious dog growls in background) Yeah, yeah, that's no problem at all.  Quitit.  Stopthat.  Shhh.
Me:  Who are you talking to?  Have you taken in more strays?
Mama:  Oh no no no no noooo...that was just, uh, no my leg is just fine.  I don't know.  Why?  What?  Can you hear me?
Me:  Yes, I can hear you.  (big sigh - choose to abandon search for direct answer)  Mom, I messed up.
Mama:  What?  Ludicrous!  That's crazy.  How is that even possible?
Me:  I know, I know, I'm as dismayed as anyone.  I advertised myself as being funny when most of the stuff I've written lately has not been funny at all.  They've been the anti-funny.  You have to go way back for the funny stuff.  And read the tags.  If it is not tagged as funny, it certainly is not; and even if it is tagged as funny, it may be only marginally so.  Not funny at all, really.  (disgusted sigh)  Now I'm ruined.  It's all ruined, and I'm going straight to hell.  And I'm dragging everyone I ever knew with me.  Especially you, Mama, in fact you will be first.  It's so bad that not only am I going to hell and dragging you with me, but I'm pushing you in front of me as a human shield.  I'm ducking behind you while dragging you to hell with me.
Mama:  Well, you should.  No one deserves to go to hell more than I do.  I should go first.  I should go so that you don't have to.
Me:  No, no, this is all on me.  You are utterly without blame on this one, blameless and innocent and thrown upon the sacrificial stone.
Mama/Me, chiming in concordant tones of contrition:  Mea culpa!  (beating chests)  My fault, my fault, my own most grievous fault!  (crying and lamenting...sighing and catching breath)
Me:  Okay, that's not fun anymore.
Mama:  But it's always fun!
Me:  I know, but I'm impatient today.  Let's skip ahead.
Mama:  Okay.  Are we moving directly to the commiseration, or do you need to be berated first?
Me:  Let's mix it up.  I like it when you mix it up.
Mama:  I do, too.  Do we have a safe word?
Me:  Hhmmm...I think it should be BLOG.
Mama:  I don't know what that is.
Me:  It's okay, you don't have to know the meaning of the safe word to use it as such.
Mama:  Blob!
Me:  No, Blog.  And I have to throw a flag for premature use of safe word.  (frowns and shakes head disappointedly.)  I know you're getting older, but there are pills for that.
Mama:  Do I get to throw a flag for you using "disappointedly" as a word?
Me:  It's a word.  It's an adverb.  It has -ly on the end. 
Mama:  No, it isn't.  You can't just put -ly on the end of any word and make it a word.
Me:  Yes, I can, and it is now.  It's in the new dictionary. 
Mama:  I guess I don't have the new dictionary.  I just have the old correct one.
Me:  Yours smells like cat pee.
Mama:  It's still correct.
Me:  It stinks of correction.  The odor of your righteousness confounds the nostrils.
Mama:  Did we change the game?
Me:  I guess so.  I'm bored.  And I'm not funny.
Mama:  Well, I'm not either.  But you are funny looking?  (helpful tone of voice)
Me:  Well-played, Mama, well-played in a real half-ass sort of way.
Mama:  I'm here for you.  (background noises of cats & dogs, fighting, growling, hissing, disemboweling each other)
Me:  I know you are, Mama.  I'll call you Thursday.