Because Angry Trumps Grumpy

"Oh hey AJ, why are you holding your knitting needles like that?"

Because I'm going to use them to lobotomize the next bitch who asks me if Grumpy Cat is me in feline form. That's why.

 
Seriously, people, this is what you think about? The world is full of happenings far worthier of your attention. I mean, China pulled 1000 dead ducks and 16000 dead pigs out of its rivers, and George W. Bush pulled a talent for painting puppies out of an unnamed orifice. There's a terrorist plot to mess up Donald Trump's hair by building a wind farm near his Aberdeen golf resort. (Well played, Scotland, well played).  The publisher of Fifty Shades of Gray just posted record profits, thus cementing the allure of plodding pr0n prose and the wallet-power of people who prefer masturbating to reading (I know you're one of them. Whatever, I don't judge. Just remember, Santa sees you when you're sleeping and he knows when you're awake and playing with yourself. So yeah, we'll see if he brings you that new American Girl doll after what you did there).  North Korea and Iraq want to blow things up, Cyprus is about to financially implode, and the worst international crisis of all is looming because Prince Harry is coming to the US in May to play naked billiards with your daughters.

And all you people can talk about is a constipated-looking cat?

Let me spell it out for you: stop sending me messages about Grumpy Cat. I thought it would stop after the first three but we're now on message #27 and counting.  FFS, enough is enough.

 

Don't get me wrong; I like cats. I like cats more than dogs, even. Of course, I like Godzillas more than cats, and I really like tequila. But I digress; those things have no bearing on this particular situation. My current frustration isn't born of anti-cat prejudices, that's what I want you to know.  I'm just sick of seeing that damned cat and having comparisons drawn.

Granted, David Letterman built his career on beating jokes into the ground through repetition, stomping on their dead punchlines and reducing them to bloody comedic pulp, then watching them resurrect and take on new lives as anti-jokes. That's not what's happening here, people. You aren't David Letterman, and sheer repetition of memes will not bestow the kiss of comedic genius upon your sweaty brows. Sheer repetition of memes will get you knitting needles to the skull.

And no, I don't care that Grumpy Cat is on the cover of Time Magazine. Whatever.  I'm on the cover of Cosmo.

And as the blockbuster sales of Fifty Shades of Gray proved, smut will always outsell serious.  Just like angry trumps grumpy.

So take that, cat.