My name is Nelson Feldman, and I sleep around . . . a lot. And honestly, I’m not ashamed. I’m happy. Sometimes I sleep at my boyfriend’s house for three or four nights in a row and when I go home my parents are just, like, “Oh, Hi.” And that’s it. We have lunch in silence and they never even ask where I was. Don’t they care? My boyfriend’s parents serve better food too. And they have a hot tub.
Do you fantasize about being run over by a toddler on a scooter right in front our your parents? Is Sarah McLachlan singing in the back ground, a little drop of blood oozing beautifully from your trembling lips, while your parents keen and rend their clothes, moaning “WHY!?!?! WHY didn’t we care more when Nelson Feldman was alive? We are terrible terrible pet parents! Please, God, take us instead!!! Why didn’t we give Nelson Feldman kippered salmon every day and give him our bed?” Yeah . . . I thought so. Look Feldie, you can place an anonymous call to Jewish Cat Protective Services and report your own parents. When the social worker (usually a nearsighted hedgehog) comes to visit they’ll feel bad enough to keep you inside for a few nights. But do you really want that? Wont you just pee on the arm of a couch and dart out the door when they get the mail? Get a grip. You’re a cat. This is totally dog nuttiness you’re feeling here. Enjoy your boyfriend and his gourmet food. Go home when you need expensive medical care.
I have a small problem having to do with food. I’m a cow. I eat grass as everyone knows. Nature has given me 4 stomachs to digest the cellulose of the grass. It’s boring. I’m tired of grass. And hay. As I was wandering the field the other day, I looked at the other cows. And I got hungry. I thought to myself, “Mabel looks tasty.” I think I’m a carnivore. Not just a carnivore — but a cannibal! Is it really so wrong to crave a bloody steak?
Candace the Cannibal Cow.
Dear Candace. I can’t be the first one to tell you this: You are not a cow. You are a crazy lady in a cow costume. Go get yourself a Double Double.
Take the costume off first.
Something really embarrassing happened to me recently. I was out for a walk and came to a yard with a fence. The dog in the yard, an absolutely awful German Shepherd, ran right up to me and yelled “Get the hell off my sidewalk you long hair freak!” So of course I yelled right back “Oh yeah!? MAKE ME you pointy faced police department reject!” Then he snarled “You’re lucky this fence is here or I’d bite your face off!” I was in the middle of screaming “What is your problem? Your screenplay flopped? I’ll rip that fake snarl off your face you over acting hack!” when we both suddenly realized the gate was open. We both quietly walked past the opening and started threatening each other again as soon as we got to more fence. He muttered “Yeah . . . well you’re . . . you’re a butt.” And I tried to say something menacing but I felt like an idiot. What the heck happened there? I’m deeply troubled.
I’m sorry . . . did you say something? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of all the other dogs in the world laughing. Actually, what happened is pretty cool; your prehistoric dog nature collided with your civilized dog nature. A burning ball of genetic instinct slammed into a squishy wall of recently evolved consciousness. You’ve just been disconnected from the Matrix. Morpheus will be visiting you soon. Watch for him. He’s a Mastiff wearing a leather duster. Follow the white rabbit. Just don’t eat him.
even Banana Slugs.
I’m here to help. And you know you can trust me,
because I have an awesome soul-patch.
Submit questions for Jethro via his website: www.TheAnswerCat.blogspot.com.
This column will be posted there one week after its publication here in the absolutely awesome Culver City Crossroads.