hardness.

what do you know about black ops?
unacknowledged actions, all top secret and ninja.
sometimes,
i swear i've got a crystal ball/gps built into my brains.
half secret universal plan, half werewolfen lunatic,
and 111% hard-style.
it would seem as if there are covert guerilla battle plans
being transmitted directly to my thought patterns by
the ghosts of grisly grizzled grist-grinding gravediggers.
that's that haunted-house kind of seance-type sh!t.
so before i begin to prepare a pistol for perilous plinking,
i'm starting out with less-lethal countermeasures.
what?
i've got a ball bearing air rifle at the ready,
zeroed in on the perimeter in a defensive position.
it's the full moon season,
it's stupid hot out,
and we've got a wandering cat problem.
that's all three strikes for bad decision making.
...you'll see.
now,
you may already know that our chipmunk population is
comprised, in the main and on the whole,
of loud, hard A*-holes, yeah?
agreed.
however,
they are beloved of my uber-vegan animal-crazy wife.
therefore,
by the rules of TAG, and it's inherent electricity,
if you mess with my 'munks,
you're messing with my wife.
and if you're messing with jess?
you get a softball-sized hole up in your chest.
ah-ha.
so now we're getting down to the nitty-grits, ninjas.
the cat problem.
now,
i would like to make mention of the facts:
there's this epic D*-lord feline who harangues our household.
and it's fruitblasting focus has meandered away from merely making
our dog sh!t her pants sideways in savage stormswept berserker fury,
and drifted towards dominating the ground-dwelling rodent population.
flippin' cats, y'all.
i just can't hang out.
and now,
neither can they.
watching and feeding the birds, chipmunks, squirrels
has become kind of a thing for all of us at
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
but all of a sudden, it's not working out so tough;
thanks entirely to that bag-o'-doots puss in boots,
THIS is happening:

mutha-b!tchin' muthalickers!

(note the absence of tremendous testicles on her)

one of our little ladyfriends got laced, kids.

and that smug little F*hole kitty was eating her face right off of her face,

as well as her shoulders,

in plain sight of the whole family-

both the two- and four-legged members.

do you know what that means?

b.b. gunshots to the torso.

that's word.

if i have to pick a side,

i choose Folk Life,

and definitely NOT gaytarded death machine pets.

i'm tellin' you-

foxes and hawks and sh!t?

word up.

that's nature.

infinity, duders.
forever and ever.

wild animals doo-doo that monstrous business-

but cats?

no me gusta.

they're pleasure predators.

i mean,

they have names,

and scratching posts,

and poop-coated feet from their in-house outhouses.

where's the hottness in being fancy feast eating,

house-sleeping thrill killers?

here's a hint:

it might be inside the b.b.s.

oh, stop it.

you know what else?

i may even eat something with honey in it, too, crybabies.

after all,

i could be using pellets,

or bullets,

or poison,

of F*ing gluetraps.

but i'm not.

soooo,

what's the vegan-friendly rationale in this?

where's the practical purpose of it?

what's the gain of pelting pussypants with zinc-coated copper dots?

uhm.. it's a little sumthin sumthin' called REVENGE.

c'mon.

the cat may have an inescapable infinite nature,

but unfortunately for it's stupid A*spot,

so do i,

and mine has a high-magnification rifle scope attached.

that's absolutely correct, folks.

there's a cat what needs shootin', son.

but rest a little easy:

i'm going to fight it,

but i promise i'll let it live.

...this time.

at any rate,

i'm not going to EAT it afterwards.

i guess now we'll settle the old argument about relative intelligence

in dogs vs. cats.

can you teach an old CAT new tricks?

i hope so,

because it's a hard-lesson session over here, y'all.

those chipmunks may be A*-holes,

but they're MY A*-holes.

battle-beasts forget their feuds when common foes show up;

never quiet, never soft.....