Cr'ampy Ta'wat!
Tonight while idly flicking through channels on the idiot box I came across some doco’ type show about the SPCA.
It was fine for a while, showing an Alsatian with hernia problems and the like, but then it got to an old classic…the cat up the tree.
The location was somewhere affluent, and a couple living next to a native forest park had rung saying that there was a cat stuck up a tree. So, the SPCA sent out what they called a ‘Mobile Officer’. From the look of him I’m guessing he was only truly mobile when heading for a fridge or a supermarket, but I digress.
This is my first issue. A cat up a tree. So what? Surely a non-profit organization that relies heavily on the public digging into their pockets (even Jewish old me is part of that public) for survival has better things to do.
Any-fucking-way…the camera’s roll as the M.O waddles down a driveway, then clumsily negotiates the deep and dark forest at the back of the couples house, all the while listening to the louder of the partnership harping on about the various cats in the neighborhood in a shockingly grating, mincer accent. M.O actually appeared to be interested in this useless information. That, or he fancied he was in for a free feed after he rescued the pussy on a twig if he humored the Queer Tosser.
Finally, after hearing the Gay Cat Stalker’s opinion on things for what seemed an endless time, we got to see the damn cat. It was, in fact, up a tree, and quite a long way, probably about 8 metres. There was no way for it to have got up there also, leading me to believe it might have been a flying cat. Flight by arm power I mean.
At this point I’m gleefully awaiting the M.O to go through his S.O.P’s for an emergency of this nature. What would he do?
Set up camp, and wait for the dopey feline to starve, or grow some fucking nads and jump?
Ask the Queer couple if their garden hose reaches this far into the bush (Ooooer)?
Call the closest Takeaway shop and trade the cats whereabouts for a free Sweet and Sour Pork meal?
Get stones, and take bets on which will strike the target first?
Call the Davey Crockett Club, and tell them to bring guns and skinning equipment? (He wore a cat-hat right?)
But no. After realizing he couldn’t climb that far to catch the stupid fucker, he calls Tree Surgeon.
‘Wow!’ I thought, that’s something I hadn’t envisaged, but I like! They’re going to chop the tree down, and watch the shitheel drop and be crushed under the branches!
Fuck my naivety. The tree dude turned up with climbing gear, and grabbed the rat-licker and tossed it in a cage. The whole sorry saga ended with it being gently lowered from the heights. I almost tossed up my dinner.
Fuck that! The damn cell phone call to the local tree surgeons hunting for someone with no self respect cost more then the freaking millions of handfuls of gold coins I gave to those cocks over the years. And the cost for the one fucktard that did come out! Jesus on a Swatika!
Grrrrrr!
p.s If its rainy, or your bored, see if you can count up how many Hate law transgressions or un P.C things Jeremy has uttered with his vitriolic tongue.
If its more then 10, Jeremy surely can now be considered for the new Church of Labour job ‘Chief John Tamaheri (who the fuck can spell that shitass murry crap) Nicker Washer’.
It was fine for a while, showing an Alsatian with hernia problems and the like, but then it got to an old classic…the cat up the tree.
The location was somewhere affluent, and a couple living next to a native forest park had rung saying that there was a cat stuck up a tree. So, the SPCA sent out what they called a ‘Mobile Officer’. From the look of him I’m guessing he was only truly mobile when heading for a fridge or a supermarket, but I digress.
This is my first issue. A cat up a tree. So what? Surely a non-profit organization that relies heavily on the public digging into their pockets (even Jewish old me is part of that public) for survival has better things to do.
Any-fucking-way…the camera’s roll as the M.O waddles down a driveway, then clumsily negotiates the deep and dark forest at the back of the couples house, all the while listening to the louder of the partnership harping on about the various cats in the neighborhood in a shockingly grating, mincer accent. M.O actually appeared to be interested in this useless information. That, or he fancied he was in for a free feed after he rescued the pussy on a twig if he humored the Queer Tosser.
Finally, after hearing the Gay Cat Stalker’s opinion on things for what seemed an endless time, we got to see the damn cat. It was, in fact, up a tree, and quite a long way, probably about 8 metres. There was no way for it to have got up there also, leading me to believe it might have been a flying cat. Flight by arm power I mean.
At this point I’m gleefully awaiting the M.O to go through his S.O.P’s for an emergency of this nature. What would he do?
Set up camp, and wait for the dopey feline to starve, or grow some fucking nads and jump?
Ask the Queer couple if their garden hose reaches this far into the bush (Ooooer)?
Call the closest Takeaway shop and trade the cats whereabouts for a free Sweet and Sour Pork meal?
Get stones, and take bets on which will strike the target first?
Call the Davey Crockett Club, and tell them to bring guns and skinning equipment? (He wore a cat-hat right?)
But no. After realizing he couldn’t climb that far to catch the stupid fucker, he calls Tree Surgeon.
‘Wow!’ I thought, that’s something I hadn’t envisaged, but I like! They’re going to chop the tree down, and watch the shitheel drop and be crushed under the branches!
Fuck my naivety. The tree dude turned up with climbing gear, and grabbed the rat-licker and tossed it in a cage. The whole sorry saga ended with it being gently lowered from the heights. I almost tossed up my dinner.
Fuck that! The damn cell phone call to the local tree surgeons hunting for someone with no self respect cost more then the freaking millions of handfuls of gold coins I gave to those cocks over the years. And the cost for the one fucktard that did come out! Jesus on a Swatika!
Grrrrrr!
p.s If its rainy, or your bored, see if you can count up how many Hate law transgressions or un P.C things Jeremy has uttered with his vitriolic tongue.
If its more then 10, Jeremy surely can now be considered for the new Church of Labour job ‘Chief John Tamaheri (who the fuck can spell that shitass murry crap) Nicker Washer’.