Posts Tagged ‘cat’

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Mutual Despair.

April 23, 2013

The harshest times can bring the greatest of enemies together. It was something Terry the mountain goat had seen scrawled on a napkin one time when he was drunk. In fact, he might have been the one that had written it. He couldn’t remember.

Regardless, one baffling summer, the words rung true for him.

Tiddles the cat was in a foul mood as always. It was mid July, and his name was still Tiddles. All the other cats relentlessly took the piss out of him for his stupid name.

“Tiddles!? That’s a right shit name!” they would say, inventively.

Tiddles knew he had a right shit name, but he hoped one day that he would wake up and be called ‘Dave’, or ‘Hansel’, or ‘Hulk Hogan’. Something ace like that. But today never seemed to be that day, and he secretly knew neither would tomorrow. So Tiddles was frequently super cheesed off about everything.

He hated all things, he even hated your face.

It should be noted that in the future it will snow in Summer, because the weather is already getting pretty messed up nowadays, so it can be assumed that nothing will make sense in about 20 years or so (that’s science). It should also be noted that this story takes place in the future.

It was a snowy summer day when Tiddles bumped into Terry. Terry had fallen out with his wife over whether or not they should tape Catchphrase. He was very upset because he had inevitably lost the dispute and would miss this week’s episode, so he had stepped outside to have a cry.

Tiddles was enraged.

“What are you doing crying out here again?! You stupid goat-sheep-man!” Tiddles had met Terry last week under similar circumstances and immediately decided that they should be Ultimate Enemies for no particular reason.

“Sh-she won’t let me tape Catchphrase! It’s a new series and I just want to see what it’s like!” Terry sniffled, a single tear descended down his cheek.

“I don’t care!” Tiddles screamed, “I’m called Tiddles! Do you know how that feels?! I have a stupid name!!”

They sobbed together for hours, all the pain and despair they felt about their respective predicaments howled through their bones and out into the crispy summer air.

Then suddenly, they stopped. Terry looked at Tiddles. Tiddles looked at Terry.

“Tiddles, I just remembered, I have magic horns. If you touch my horn and wish for a different name, it will be so.”

“You’d do that for me?” Tiddles’ face lit up. “Come to think of it, I have a VCR at my house, you can come ’round and tape Catchphrase there!”

And so, Tiddles (later to be renamed Hulk Hogan) jumped on Terry’s back and directed him to his home where they taped Catchphrase, and everyone was shockingly happy in the end.

To my house!

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Thanks to Miriam for the image. I do not know where you found it.

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The Tale of Mr. Custard.

May 3, 2012

Mr. Custard had never noticed it until the man pointed it out at the bank, but it was true, he did have a bird on a cat on his head.

Baffled, he trudged back home in a daze. Suddenly all those years of people pointing at him made sense. The whispering and laughing. That strange weight on his head that made his neck ache. All the pieces fell into place. It was like in the film The Matrix when stuff like deja vu is explained, and you realise that the Matrix is real, and we all live in it.

He needed a sit down and a cup of tea. A proper one, out of his extra large Spider-Man mug.

Cradling the oversized mug in his shaking hands, Mr. Custard eased onto the sofa in his front room.

“What does one do in a situation such as this?” Mr. Custard whispered to himself.

“We’re just glad you know about us now,” the bird said.

“Yes, we’ve been trying to work out how to break it to you for quite a while. But since we didn’t mention it straight away we felt it would be awkward to bring it up, so we kept quiet,” the cat elaborated.

“It’s been a pretty awkward couple of decades, if I’m honest,” the bird chirped, “Sitting about on this cat, who coincidentally is sitting about on your head. I haven’t called my mum in years. My wings are all stiff.”

“It’s hardly a flipping picnic for me!” the cat was anxious to let everyone know he was not enjoying himself. “I feel like the filling in a sandwich! Like a piece of ham, or some salad. It’s rubbish. I think I need some counselling.”

The pair went back and forth for a bit, all the while Mr. Custard listened as best he could while sipping his tea. It certainly was a predicament, and none of the participants in this strange inverted food chain tower seemed happy to be part of it. He sloshed the tea between his teeth, musing as it cooled. He knew over time this practice would stain his teeth, but he couldn’t give a damn, he had a bird sat on a cat on his head.

It was then that the idea came to him.

“Guys!” he interrupted. “Have you ever thought about just… getting off?”

There was a pause. The bird cleared his throat. The cat coughed. And then the pair shuffled about a bit and stood up, toppling onto the sofa beside Mr. Custard. The two animals dusted themselves off in silence, now separated, and then looked at Mr. Custard.

“Bit embarrassing, really. I wish we had spoken to you sooner,” the cat said.

“Oh well, at least it all worked out in the end,” Mr. Custard shrugged.

The trio said their goodbyes, shook hands, and the bird and the cat went their separate ways, leaving Mr. Custard to finish his tea.

Thanks to Dan H. for the image, not sure where he got it from (will update if the information turns up).

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A Ballad of Mr Snufflekins: The day the toaster broke.

March 14, 2012

The toaster was the centre of his universe. His whole world. His everything. The shiny rectangular thing that turned everyday bread into crispy, warmer bread filled his days with joy (and carbohydrates). Until, one day, the toaster was murdered, and everything changed.

Let me tell you a story…

Mr. Snufflekins had just arrived from the pet store. A dapper looking young rat, Mr. Snufflekins strode carefree about his new home, admiring things. He admired the sofa, he admired the goldfish, he admired his reflection in the mirror. BUT WAIT! No. It was a toaster, not a mirror.

As the years drifted lazily by, Mr. Snufflekins grew increasingly fond of the toaster. It was more than a mirror and a bread hardening machine, it was a friend. A friend that didn’t talk or go anywhere. A friend he could trust.

Then the cat arrived. That damn cat. The family named the cat “Lovely Face”. His face was anything but lovely, and his name was shit. When he arrived, instead of admiring things, he waltzed around the place looking down his nose at everything. He looked down his nose at the sofa, he looked down his nose at the goldfish, but worst of all, he looked down his nose at the toaster.

Mr. Snufflekins hated Lovely Face, so he told him.

“Oi! Lovely Face! I hate you!”

“I’ll get you for this insult, Mr. Snufflekins! And your little toaster, too!” Lovely Face sneered, and ambled away.

Mr. Snufflekins was worried that he had gone too far, but he felt that someone should stand up to Lovely Face. Someone should bring him down a peg or two. So Mr. Snufflekins closed his eyes next to his toaster friend, and sleep took him.

The next morning, the toaster was dead. It lay in pieces on the floor, springs and crumbs strewn about across the kitchen.

Mr. Snufflekins was distraught. Tears welled in his eyes as he dashed about trying to find all of the toaster’s parts.

“Morning.” Lovely Face smiled, like the dickhead that he was.

Rage. It was all Mr. Snufflekins felt. It tore through his mind like a chainsaw tied to a tractor. He leapt on Lovely Face, screaming, crying, punching.

The fight was terrible, until Lovely Face started crying, and Mr. Snufflekins relented.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please stop kicking the crap out of me!” Lovely Face sniffed.

“You murdered my friend! Your face isn’t lovely at all! It’s horrible! Like your twisted heart!” Mr. Snufflekins was very upset.

At that, something inside Lovely Face’s heart did indeed twist, and he felt extremely guilty. Now he cried tears not of pain, but of remorse.

“I’m sorry. I can help you rebuild him. I have a BSc in engineering.”

So they rebuilt the toaster, and it was as good as new.

Over time, they both discovered that they actually had a lot in common, not to mention a love of toast! They became great friends, and released an LP of middling quality entitled “Toast is Proper Good.”

Thanks to our competition winner, Dan, for the title! Excellent work! You now have the prize of the respect of your peers, and yourself. To all the runners up: thanks for entering (no respect for you, better luck next time). Thanks to Amy for sending in the image (still don’t know where it’s from, sorry, person who did the image).

See you next time, at Animal on Animal!

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Animal on Animal Title Competition!

March 7, 2012

Yes, my friends, yes. The time has come for me to do some kind of 21st century “audience interaction” crap. You are the audience, you lovely crazies, and I have a challenge for you.

Don’t worry, the challenge is not very challenging.

Can you come up with a title for a post that would contain this image?

(image found by Amy, not sure where she got it)

I’m not saying that I can’t, by the way, just so you know. If you could comment below with potential titles, I will pick the one that is the most exciting next week and write a post around it.

Example titles:

  • Kevin and Jim’s adventure in space.
  • The radiator that saved Harold’s life.
  • How the pirates found love.

Then I will have to work out what in the name of hell to do with your title and how I can make a story out of it. I think it will be fun for ALL INVOLVED.

Note: You do not win anything, except the respect of your peers, and yourself.

If you can get your titles in by this time next week (Wednesday 14th March), that would be dandy. If I get no responses, I guess I’ll have to make my own up (with a sad face) and feel generally embarrassed.

Please do not submit your titles on Facebook, as I may lose track of them. Do it in the comments on this post.

I have a “proper” Animal on Animal post coming your way tomorrow lunch time, so sit tight until then and prepare to have your face caressed with the mighty fist of laughter.

Happy thinking.

– Matt

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The Shelf Collector.

February 9, 2012

Well.

To begin I’d like to apologise for the last post, which was, put mildly, almost as good as the usual standard of posts here, but not quite there. Not quite. Hopefully today’s will be up to scratch. Read on, internet traveller…

Shelves. Tiffany had seen them all. Sometimes they were made of wood, painted in exciting patterns. Sometimes the wood was mahogany. Sometimes, it wasn’t wood at all, it was they weird stuff made of loads of tiny bits of wood and then pressed into a board. Once, Tiffany had seen a metal shelf, but she didn’t like to talk about that.

It was no coincidence that Tiffany had seen so many shelves. She was, in fact, a great lover and appreciator of the vertical standing, stuff holding furniture.

As her biographer, I should say that Tiffany was a cat. This information is important.

As a young cat she had travelled the world, searching for fine examples of shelving for her newly opened Pretty Excellent Shelving Museum based in Shoreditch.

Her life had been long and exciting. A bit like Indiana Jones’ life. Once she had opened a big box and loads of ghosts came out and killed some Nazis, it was quite horrific.

Anyway. One day, in her later years, Tiffany was walking through the streets near her museum, when she came across an alleyway she had never seen before. Meek ‘meow’ sounds were coming from within. As it was her native language, and not many people in Shoreditch tended to speak it, she investigated.

Peering in, she saw something that shocked her whiskers off. It was a shelf of living cats.

“Hello,” said the cat on the top shelf. “We are the Shelf of Living Cats. We come from the future, when it is massively fashionable to make yourself into a living shelf.”

Tiffany stared at them, trying to comprehend.

The Shelf of Living Cats continued. “We have come to meet you, as we know you have a museum of shelves and such. We wish to become part of your collection, and thus, the envy of our shelf friends in the future.”

After some baffling negotiation, an agreement was made, and Tiffany bought the Shelf of Living Cats at a reasonable price, keeping them fed and watered for the rest of their lives.

Unfortunately I don’t have a picture of Tiffany, but she was a cat, so you can just imagine.

Thank you to Amy for this picture, which is from here.

Many thanks as well to all the Animal on Animal fans for the recent influx of entries, I will get around to them all eventually, they are much appreciated.

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The Climbing King of Hamstoria.

January 12, 2012

That good old Review of the Year easy update I was planning isn’t working. So I’m going to have to bloody write something new by the looks of things… Are you ready? The first excellent post of 2012 is below. Let’s do this.

The King of Hamstonia was an adventurous sort of monarch. His favourite adventurous thing to do was to climb things. He climbed up mountains, onto pterodactyls, and once, into space (it was a long climb, that one, he had to stop for jam sandwiches half way).

The hamsters of Hamstoria didn’t really mind their king sneaking off to climb things, because when he was away they all had secret karaoke parties in the castle, which was always nice.

One day, the King was out and about doing his adventuring, when he saw a cat. He had never climbed a cat before, and he felt an overpowering need to clamber up its wiry fur. Not being much for self restraint, he rushed over and began leaping up the creature’s back without a second thought, eventually finding his monarchy self atop the feline’s head.

This angered the cat, as it distracted him from looking at a nearby red shoe.

‘Get off me, or I shall punch you,’ the cat whispered, still trying to focus on the red shoe.

‘No! I am the King of Hamstoria!’ The King of Hamstoria correctly asserted.

At this, the cat flew into a rage and punched the King right in the nose, sending him flying into space (where he stopped for a jam sandwich), and then back down to his castle. It was a very well aimed punch.

The King shook off the dizziness that now assailed him as he pulled himself to his feet. His blurred vision suddenly became clear, and he realised he was in his throne room, and all his subjects were there, and there was a microphone in his paw. He had landed in the middle of a karaoke party in his castle. His subjects stared at him, slack-jawed. The King stared back. Nobody knew what to do. It was a difficult situation.

A spokesperson stepped out from the crowd of subjects to break the awkward silence. He looked into his kings vacant eyes.

‘Um… Happy birthday?’

‘… how did you know?’ A smile spread across the King’s face.

And so everyone karaoked their tits off all night long.

Thanks to Miriam for the picture, who got it from here.

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It Started with Rollerskates.

October 12, 2011

The day started mundanely for Jessop the dog. Lazily shaking off his dream filled sleep, he wandered around the house checking everything was in the right place. The hoover was in the cupboard. Good. The fish were dancing around in their tank. Check. The rug was aligned perfectly to the wall. Nicely.

Jessop did his checks every morning, it helped him stay calm and ease into the day. It reassured him that nothing astonishing and scary would occur.

But then he saw the rollerskates on the bottom of the stairs.

“Bollocks.” Jessop grumbled, ambling cautiously closer to the offending article.

The rollerskates should have been in the wardrobe where they always were. Something was not right. Nobody had used the rollerskates since “The Accident” the day they were bought. The old dog continued to edge closer, sniffing the air, until he was stood next to the skates. He would have to return them to their rightful place, this was a big deal.

Except it wasn’t a big deal. It was A TRAP!

In an instant the imaginatively named KitKat the cat was upon Jessop, screaming incomprehensible nonsense such as “Habbubalubballur!” at the top of her tiny lungs.

Jessop flew into a panic. He couldn’t see because his very vision was clouded with the terrible blackness of fear. His heart thundered as though it were a thousand frightened wilder beast stampeding down a gorge after a tiny lion cub.

He ran.

Narrowly avoiding the fish tank, he crashed into the hoover and upset the perfectly aligned rug. As he would later recall in his memoirs, it was “unbridled anarchy”. Reeling from the hoover impact, Jessop ground to a halt in the middle of the floor.

A quiet moment passed as his senses flooded back.

“It’s just me.” KitKat said, as she clung to Jessop’s ears.

“You dickhead.” Jessop said.

Thanks to Amy for the image!