Hey guys. My name’s Socks. I’m normally not the letter-writing type. I’m really not. I just want to keep to myself and go about my days with no one bothering me. I don’t need any attention or any special favors, like Flip Murray’s turtle does. But I had to write this letter. It might be the last letter I ever get to write. I hope I have the strength to finish it.

God, am I starving. I haven’t eaten in a month and a half. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can barely move, and soon, my organs are going to start to fail. The situation is bleak. It is hopeless in here. I feel like Anne Frank, writing letters from her attic.

I’m so so hungry. I don’t need any T-Bonz, or Pup-Peroni, or Milk-Bones, nothing like that. I don’t even need Alpo or something out of a 99-cent, 50-pound bag of dog food. I’ll take anything. I tried to eat my own paw once. Oh, I’m so hungry. It hurts so bad.

How did I get like this? You’d have to ask… that guy who owns me. I don’t know his name. We’ve never actually met. I see him walking around sometimes, but that’s it. I don’t know that he knows my name, either. When I see him, I show him my exposed ribs, lay on the ground and wail in pain, and all he does is go, “QB, represent!” and keep walking. I wish I knew what that meant.

I mean, he acts like he likes me. It’s just that there’s something sort of wrong with him. Most people see a dog as skinny as me and think, “That dog should probably eat something.” Not this guy. He sees me and thinks, “That dog should probably I WISH I WORKED AT BEST BUY twinkies are delicious and I wonder what they’re made of I WILL RIP YOUR FACE OFF we play the Clippers tonight and Maggette is an easy check YEAH, THAT’S RIGHT, TAKE IT OFF, GIRL.” Something I like that. I don’t know.

It’s just like there’s something missing upstairs. He’s not mean to me, he just doesn’t understand certain things. For example, when I stop whining after one of his friends blows weed smoke in my face, it doesn’t mean I’m happy and content. It means that because I weigh 41 pounds, I get really high, really quickly, and my face doesn’t move anymore. Really, guys, I’m not “higher than a giraffe’s ass and feelin’ no pain.” I’m still in a lot of pain, I just happen to be hallucinating, too.

Really, all I know about the guy is that he drives a big Escalade, he likes to do nude push-ups, and everyone else in the neighborhood is terrified of him.

But I’m not… I think he’s probably a nice guy, except for the not-feeding-me thing. And I swear, I’d love him forever if he just fed me… you know, it doesn’t even have to be every day. Just two or three times a week. Please, God. Please let that man feed me. I’d give anything for just one bite of my owner’s favorite meal, Cristal and Slim Jims.

And I’ve heard the stories that he tried to feed me, but the American Bulldog stole all the food. That’s not true. It is true that the bulldog has eaten and I haven’t, but the bulldog doesn’t get fed either. Right now, he’s in the back, eating Rick Adelman. He kills people and eats them, and he never shares. He’s killed a lot of people… two mailmen, a handful of girl scouts (he did give me a few Thin Mints), a Jehovah’s witness, a cop, a few naked girls covered in glitter, and Bison Dele. Bison Dele was huge. The bulldog ate him for like a month.

The animal control people are my only hope right now. If I whale and cry for long enough, sometimes, the neighbors notice, and they’ll call them. I don’t want to go back to dog prison, but at least they’ll get me some food.

Stay strong, everyone. And if you have a steak, treasure it. Treasure that thing like it’s made of gold. God bless.

- Socks

You probably knew it was coming… for reasons I may explain at a later date, I put it over at the Smorgasbord site. Here you go.

And if you’re going to comment, I’d suggest doing so here, as opposed to over there… it’s just that I check/moderate/approve these comments way more often than those.

Listen, I’m gonna need you to cut me a break here. I’ve got a couple of things working against me. First, I’m a poodle, and most people think poodles are pussies. Also, Tom Brady’s my owner, and most people think Tom Brady’s a pussy. Well, let me clear a couple of things up for you. I’m a poodle, but I’m not a pussy. And Tom Brady … well, I can’t lie to you, Tom Brady actually is kind of a pussy. But don’t hold that against me, you judgmental son of a bitch.

I’m writing because I just need to vent for a little bit. Don’t worry, I’m not suicidal, and I’m not going to run away or anything. But sometimes, life here in Tom Brady’s house sucks, and I’d like you to know about it. I don’t have a lot of friends. Humor me.

You wanna know why Tom Brady has a poodle? It’s because he thinks that if some random cocktease out there sees him pick me up, squeeze me and call me “A good little Mr. Fluffers” in some goddamn baby voice, that it’ll make her panties all wet. And it probably works … I mean, five nights a week, that guy’s pounding a different slice of poontang. All because he “loves his little Mr. Fluffers.” Horseshit. My name’s not even Mr. Fluffers.

To tell the truth, I don’t even have a name. Seriously, I have no name. The son of a bitch never bothered to give me one. Brady went to some adoption thing they were having at Petco on a Saturday, looked at the clerk and said, “Yeah, gimme that fluffy thing back there, some food, a shock collar, a newspaper to beat it with, I guess … I don’t know, whatever you give dogs. And by the way, sweetheart, my name’s Tom, and I’ll be inside you soon.” Next thing I know, I’m stuffed in a brown paper bag in the back of his Escalade, listening to him ram the Petco’s girls ass off of the steering wheel.

He thinks he’s so smooth. Tom just owns me so he can show off and pretend like he’s sooo confident in his masculinity that he doesn’t mind owning a poodle. That’s bullshit. It’s all an act. You remember that GQ spread Tom did, where he was holding a goat? He wanted me to be in that originally, but I bit his hand and told him to go fist himself. And then I raped that goat. No kidding.

But listen, Tom Brady’s got nothing on me. No bullshit. At the shelter, my nickname was “The Playtex,” because I was constantly in some beaver. I used to get it all the time … and if they wouldn’t give it to me, I’d take it. I raped a German Shepherd once (I’ve got a little bit of a problem with rape). You should’ve seen that litter of puppies. Ugliest things you’ve ever seen … I’ve been dodging alimony checks for three years on those mule-faced little bastards.

And listen, I know it shocks you to hear that a poodle can be a mack player like me, but it’s true… I just happen to look like a big pussy, because I’m a poodle. Hell, most people think all poodles are girls, but I love it when I “accidentally” give them a glimpse of the red rocket, and their eyes get all big, like, “Wow, that thing is HUGE.” And yeah, dollface, it is. And it pounds like a jackhammer.

Tom’s never had me fixed, which is the one nice thing I can say about him. The downside to that, though, is that he’s never had me fixed because he just doesn’t care. The dumbass doesn’t even know where the vet’s office is, and I’ve been pissing blood for about a week and a half. I wouldn’t mind getting that checked out.

So let me tell you about my life here. A sit in a pet carrier all day, and sometimes, the maid shoves me some food, maybe some water, if I’m lucky. I’ll sit here and sleep for the better part of eight hours. Tom comes home in the evenings, and if I start crying and whaling like I’m giving birth, he’ll say something like, “Fine, I’ll let you out if you’ll just shut up for a while,” and he’ll get off his ass and let me out. Then I spend the rest of the evening waiting for Tom to screw someone, so I can watch.

Sometimes, other things happen first. Like, sometimes Coach Belichick will come by, and he’ll usually kick me and call Tom a “fag” for owning a poodle. And then Tom will say, “Hey, it gets me laid,” and then they’ll high-five, and I’ll just sit there and wish that either of them would grow up.

Later, when Belichick leaves, Tom stands in front of a mirror and cries about being called a “fag.” Then he’ll go read some fawning article that Peter King wrote about him, and it makes him feel better. He’ll slap himself on the chest and say, “See, I’m not a fag!” and then listen to some Pantera for about ten minutes, before he turns it off because he remembers that he actually hates Pantera. This happens every goddamn time Belichick comes over. Every time.

But, just about every other night, I’ll walk around and try to watch Tom charm the panties off of some girl. Most of the time, it doesn’t take long. He’s like, “Hi, I’m Tom Brady,” and she’s like, “Oh? Well, let me show you a few things about my labia.” It’s tough, you know … back at the shelter, I was sending the red rocket into orbit daily and nightly. Over here, I’ve got to settle for watching supermodels get pounded.

It’s not fair, though, to make me just watch … you think I wouldn’t like to get on Gisele Bundchen for a little bit? You think I didn’t want to dirty-up Bridget Moynahan? You think I didn’t want to mount Tara Reid? Okay, I actually did mount Tara Reid once, but she was shitfaced, and she didn’t even notice. That’s probably because I couldn’t touch the sides.

I should probably get going, though. Belichick’s leaving soon, and if I don’t hide, he’ll kick me again … I swear, I hate that asshole.

FUCK YOU, HORSE. What did you say? You got somethin’ to say to me, you oat-eatin’ motherfucker? I don’t give a rat’s ass how big you are, YOU DO NOT WANT TO FUCK WITH THIS. Look at you, horse. Horses are brown. You know what else is brown? The CLEVELAND BROWNS. I FUCKIN’ HATE CLEVELAND BROWNS.

Man, this horse over here keeps fuckin’ with me. Does he know who he’s messing with? Does he know the hell that I could unleash on his big fuckin’ ugly mule ass? Man, I am JOEY PORTER’S DOG. Actually, scratch that, that ain’t even true. JOEY PORTER IS MY HUMAN. YOU HEAR ME? I’m gonna tear your fucking horse heart out of your motherfucking horse chest, and I’mma carry it home, sautee it in butter, and put it in Joey’s dish, so he’ll have a full stomach when he kills Carson Palmer on Sunday.

Believe me, horse, you don’t want a piece of this. I am the toughest motherfuckin’ dog you will ever see. Fuck what you heard about Qyntel Woods and his dogs. Compared to me, that motherfucker’s on some WWF shit. I’d make him my bitch, horse, you understand that? You hear me? Qyntel Woods’ dog ain’t got SHIT ON ME.

I know you saw that Steelers/Dolphins game on TV a couple weeks ago, and I know what’s on your mind. Don’t go thinkin’ I’m soft. I know you saw my man Joey kiss Bill Cowher in that game against the Dolphins, but don’t get it twisted. My man Joey pounds the poontang like a motherfuckin’ jackhammer, and I hit it harder than he does. And as soon as I murder your big horse ass, me and my boy Bruno here and gonna go gang rape a poodle. Please believe that.

What’d you say, horse? There are linebackers in the league with a better all-around game that Joey Porter? WHAT? The Steelers are not a lock to get back to the Super Bowl? JEROME BETTIS IS NOT GREAT IN HIS STUDIO ROLE AT NBC? YOU’RE GONNA FUCKING DIE, HORSE.

Just LOOK at this. This horse is blatantly disrespecting me and my boy. YOU DO NOT DISRESPECT THE STEELERS OF PITTSBURGH. Horse, I’m going to give you about five fucking seconds to take back everything you said, and ackowledge right now that the Steelers are the best team in the history of the goddamn NFL, that Jerome Bettis is the best personality currently working in television, and that Joey Porter is capable of eating a roll of quarters and then shitting out an exact replica of the Eiffel Tower.

You got five seconds to do that, and I’mma do you like Joey Porter did Peyton Manning in the playoffs last year. I’m counting.

One…

Two…

Three…

Four…

FIVE.

WHAT? “Naaaaaaaaaaay?” FUCK THAT. All the sudden, you can’t talk? Now you’re gonna hide behind, “I’m a horse, and I’m not capable of reproducing those sounds.” FUCK YOU. You know what, horse? You look like the guy who shot my man Joey in Denver. You look just like him. Bruno, don’t he look like that punk motherfucker that shot Joey in Denver? LET’S KILL THIS MOTHERFUCKER, BRUNO.

Hi everyone! My name is Snugglicious J. Snuggleton! But YOU can call me SNUGGLES! I LOVE it when people call me Snuggles. It means we’re friends! And you can never have too many friends!

Let me tell you about another friend of mine. His name is Alonzo Mourning, but he lets ME call him ‘ZO! Do you know why he lets me call him that? Well, I’ll tell you why. Because we’re FRIENDS! And I know it might seem strange to some people that a big strong basketball player like ‘Zo and a cute cuddly little guy like myself could be friends, but I don’t think it’s weird at all!

Would it be OK if I told you a story? GOOD! I love stories! I used to be friends with a little girl in Toronto named Emily! She was SOOOOO nice! She would hug me every night when she got home from school, and we’d hang out all evening until it was bedtime. But one day Emily saw on the news that a big strong basketball player was really sick. And even though she didn’t know who he was, she felt bad for him, and she thought it would make him feel better if she sent him a cute teddy bear to cheer him up. So she did! And that teddy bear was ME!

It was a little bit strange at first. Zo was really sick, and lots of people were sending him things, but he took one look at me and noticed that the package came from Toronto, and he threw me on the ground and said, “Toronto? Screw Toronto.” And that made me said. But then ‘Zo got better and we became really close friends!

And I got to be friends with some of ‘Zo’s friends, too! One time, ‘Zo had a party, and Antoine Walker drank a whole bunch of Smirnoff Ice and he fell asleep in Alonzo’s bedroom! And he woke up in the middle of the night, and he was crying because he said that “no one understands the mindset of a volume shooter,” and then he picked up ‘Zo’s razor and pretended like he was going to kill himself, but then he hugged me and cried for a little while longer, and everything was OK! He does this twice a week!

But sometimes, I’m not sure if ‘Zo needs me to love him, because he loves himself SOOOOOOOO much! He doesn’t let me sleep in his bed the way Emily used to. Most of the time, I’m just stuffed in box in the bottom of his closet. And there’s a note attached to me that reads, “From a little girl who worships me. Emily. Toronto. Call her in 12 years.”

I do see some crazy things sometimes! In ‘Zo’s bedroom, there are eight different framed MOURNING jerseys all over the wells, and a recording of the Miami Heat announcer saying Zo’s name on a continuous loop. It’s weird!

And sometimes when Alonzo leaves the closet door open, and I can see all the way down into his private gym where he works out! His muscles sure are big! I think it’s strange that all the walls in that room are mirrors, and he always works out naked! And when he goes in there, the first thing he does is grab a bottle of oil and start rubbing it on himself until he’s all shiny. Then sometimes he stands in front of the mirror and he does curls without any clothes on, and he says, “Oh, that’s it, ‘Zo. Look at you. God DAMN you look good, bicep. Mmmm.” And then his thingie gets hard! That’s REALLY weird! I miss Emily when he does that.

But he does LOTS of weird stuff like that! He’s an unusual guy, but we all are, in our own ways! When People Magazine named him one of their 50 Most Beautiful People, he bought 4,000 copies! He wanted to wallpaper the entire house with them, but his wife wouldn’t let him. But once or twice a week, he gets out one of those magazines and then he takes his clothes off and gets like he does when he’s doing nude curls, and, well, let’s just say there’s a reason I have this raincoat on! I REALLY miss Emily when he does that!

I should go now. Have a great day everyone! TTYL! CYA!

You gotta get me the hell outta here. You got a phone book? Go get it, call an animal shelter, and tell them a dog is being abused. I’m not using the word “abuse” lightly here. Why don’t you live with this obnoxious jerk for a week or two, and we’ll see how you like it. Seriously, do whatever you have to do, but get me the hell out of here.

Why, you ask? Well, for starters, my name is “Chris Berman.” I kid you not. And that’s just a nickname, my full name is actually, “International Superstar, The Beloved Chris Berman of the Worldwide Leader In Sports, ESPN.” Seriously, that’s what the guy named me. Lucky for me, he only uses my full name sometimes, like when he’s mad at me. But that happens pretty often, because I try to run away three or four times a week.

Everyday, he comes home, and he grabs my face and says, “Ohhhhh, look at you, Chris Berman, the most handsome and virile of all the breeds.” Then he’ll look at the ceiling, exhale hard, and then start rubbing his chest. Right about then, I vomit some Alpo, and then eat it again.

Sometimes, he’ll take me to PETCO to get food, and we’ll walk in the door, and he’ll go, “Hey, where’s your food, International Superstar, The Beloved Chris Berman of the Worldwide Leader In Sports, ESPN? That’s right, it’s in the BACK-BACK-BACK of the store!” Then he’ll laugh really loud, and look around and say, “Yeah, that’s right, I’m Chris Berman,” even though no one’s really looking at him. One time, he pulled a Sharpie out of the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt an autographed a lady’s Yorkie. She didn’t even ask him to.

And on the rare occasions that he isn’t staring into a mirror and practicing different ways to ruin the NFL draft, he’ll sometimes play with me. He likes to toss a chew toy at me, let me pick it up, and then knock it out of my mouth and yell, “It’s a FUMBLE!” This amuses him to no end. I don’t even care that he knocks the toy out of my mouth, but if I hear “FUMBLE!” one more time, I’m going to slice open his carotid artery. It might’ve been cute the first time he did it, back in like 1988, but this guy acts like yelling “FUMBLE” makes him Richard freaking Pryor.

I’ve even heard other people talk about how they feel bad for me. Every other week, Berman has a bunch of other ESPN people over. He says he’s having a “party,” but when they get here, he makes them sit down and watch a highlight reel he put together… of himself. Once, when he went into the kitchen, I heard Steve Levy and Stuart Scott talking about how it was inhumane, what this guy was doing to me. Stuart Scott threw a $20 bill in my doghouse, which was nice and all, but I’m not sure that he’s aware that dogs have no use for currency. Not the brightest of guys, Stu, but he seems nice enough. He also calls me “dog” a lot, but I think he does that to everyone.

Listen. Come get me yourself. I’m a good dog, I swear. I’m house-trained, I don’t slobber, I’ll play with your kids, and I’m completely capable of tearing the throat out of anyone who breaks into your house. I’ll go jogging with you, I’ll pose for your Christmas cards, I’ll even watch SportsCenter with you, as long as you promise to change the channel when Berman comes on. I’ll do anything you want, but you have got to get me the hell out of here, or you will soon hear of the first ever Bull Mastiff suicide.

I know you’re all thinking, “Come on, no one has a Cheetah for a pet.” And I used to think that, too. One day, I’m cold lampin’ on the Serengeti, munching on a gazelle… when some bastard trappers caught me and were laughing about some dumbass American who wanted to buy me. I thought I was going to a zoo somewhere… I was going to hang out, scare the hell out of some children, do some screwing, live the good life. But that was not the case. Mark Cuban bought me.

Why did he buy a Cheetah? Well, from what I can gather from coversations I’ve overheard, he just wanted to do something cool and “outside the box.” He says “outside the box” all the damn time. And then he was babbling something about how he was “pushing his own limits” and “not living life by anyone else’s rules.” Hell, I don’t know why the guy bought me. I’m not sure he knows, either. This is the same guy who once traded for Antoine Walker, so who knows why he ever does anything?

But yeah, most people buy new toasters, Cubes buys jets and basketball teams. Most people have St. Bernards as pets, and this gung-ho maniac has to have a cheetah. Hey, whatever. I was getting tired of Africa, anyway. It’s not air-conditioned.

He even bought me a treadmill. I’m not kidding. He painted it with some fake-ass cheetah spots, set it in front of some motivational posters that say things like “Pain is temporary, pride is forever” and “Pain is weakness leaving the body.” He put my treadmill right next to his, and he makes me run with him. It’s bizarre, man. I quit after a few minutes because I’m bored, and then he rips his shirt off and starts going nuts, screaming, “I BEAT THE CHEETAH! MARK CUBAN BEAT THE CHEETAH! FEEL THE BURRRRRN!”

I think this moron really believes that he can outrun a cheetah. One of these days when he’s feeling so damn proud of himself, I’m just going to lunge at him and bite his hairy nipple off.

The only other time I’ve come close to tearing his throat out was when he tried to put one of those “MFFL” t-shirts on me. It was during the ‘04 Playoffs, back when Don Nelson was still the coach. And I wasn’t mad because the t-shirt was so hideous (although it was), it was just that I knew the Mavs couldn’t win a title without playing any defense. I mean, it was obvious. I mean, come on, I’m a cheetah, and I noticed it. But yeah, Cubes tried to put that t-shirt on me one time, and I snapped at him and tore a hole in his man-purse. He was really depressed about that for a while. He didn’t blast any of his Journey albums for like a whole week. I miss Don Nelson, though. He used to pour scotch in my bowl.

And I get pissed off sometimes about how he feeds me, too. I’m used to hunting things down and eating them, you know? I used to dine on baby cows. And now, I’m fed a steady diet of lo-carb energy drinks and protein shakes and Powerbars all this garbage, man. He says I have to eat what he eats. I guess he doesn’t realize that we’re members of different species. If I don’t get ten pounds of raw meat soon, I’m just going to eat DJ Mbenga. I’m not kidding. I will eat and digest DJ Mbenga. Try me.

But you know, life isn’t really so bad. Most of the time, I’m just maxing in the house, listening to him close his business deals, curse at David Stern on the phone, and scream his own name while he masturbates. No big deal. And sometimes, DeSagana Diop comes over, which is awesome. I actually used to hang with him, back home. Yeah, me and ‘Gana used to hang, man. I’d go catch a wildebeest or something, and he’d barbeque it for me, and then we’d go get high under a tree somewhere. Those were the days, baby.

Anyway, I gotta get going. Cubes is making me watch Fear Factor tonight. He loves that show, I have no idea why. But you all have a nice evening, and say a quick prayer for DJ Mbenga, because I’m going to kill him.

Heeeeeeey guys. My name’s Joe. What’s your name? I sure do like turtle food. What do you like? Ohhhh. That’s great. I like you. I think we can be friends.

I have another friend named Flip. He’s my owner. He’s a really great guy. Flip doesn’t like to talk very much or do very much, but it sure is fun to be his turtle. It’s a reeeal relaxed environment here. Flip never tells anyone what to do, and I like that.

See, this one time, Flip asked me to move to the other side of my terrarium, but I didn’t. I just layed there and checked out my shell in my reflection in the glass. I got a really nice shell, so I didn’t want to do what Flip politely asked of me. I just stayed where I was. Flip shrugged and stuck out his jaw a little but. He didn’t do nuthin’. We’re still bestest friends, me and Flip. And that’s what’s important. Flip’s my buddy.

And there was this other time, too. Back when we lived in Minnesota, some kids broke into the house and painted “YOU SUCK FLIP” on my shell. I think they were mad at Flip about something. Who could ever be mad at such a fantastic guy? One of the boys said something about “always losing in the playoffs.” I wasn’t sure what they were talkin’ about, but they seemed awful mad. They said “This is for KG!” and they started the painting. Flip got up in the morning and saw my shell, and he just went back to bed. Didn’t even wash it off. I think he was tired. I think he deserves a good night’s sleep. He’s an awful nice guy, Flip.

But sometimes, I wish Flip would do and say more things. Please don’t tell him I said that, because Flip always says the most important thing is just that everyone is happy and quiet. But there was this one time when Manuel (that’s Flip’s German Shepherd, and he sure is nice) came in the house and started jumping around all crazy and stuff, and he knocked my terrarium over. I fell on the carpet, and Manuel picked me up in his mouth and almost ate me. Flip watched the whoooole thing happen. Manuel was about to kill and eat me, and Flip stood up, folded his arms, looked sternly at Manuel, and then went and made himself some french toast.

But that’s Flip for you. Sometimes, he just doesn’t care what’s going on around him. I think maybe deep down, Flip was scared that if he did yell at Manuel, Manuel would just get mad at him. Or maybe Flip really didn’t know what to say to Manuel. Maybe he really didn’t notice. I’m not sure. I ended up just peeing in Manuel’s mouth and he dropped me. Then the maid put me back in my terrarium and Manuel went and stole the french toast right out of Flip’s mouth. I suuuure do like the maid. She’s my friend.

We don’t have a lot of guest writers here on themightymjd.com, but today, we’ve got a special treat. Steve Nash’s cat wrote in to get some things off his chest. He had some things to share…

Hey guys. My name is Ikztiwon, but you can call me Iky for short. Everyone else does. See, my name is Nowitzki spelled backwards. I think Steve really misses Dirk. I feel bad for Steve sometimes, except when he makes me put on a little custom-made Nowitzki jersey, and run around the yard with him doing the pick-and-roll. If I run really hard at the basket, Steve gives me a treat. Like I said, I think Steve really misses Dirk.

But I don’t. Dirk’s a really nice guy and everything, but I got tired of him picking me up and telling me to meow in German. Cats in Germany meow the same way, Dirk. And I think you know that, but you also think that telling me to meow in German is really funny. I wish Steve would stop laughing at it so much. I think he’s just being nice. That really was only funny the first time, Dirk. I also wish you would stop eating out of my bowl when you come over.

But Steve likes you, so I don’t really mind too much. Steve’s a really good owner. He’s a real nice guy. But there are some things I’d like to talk to him about.

Steve, when you’re giving me a treat, you can just hand it to me. Set it in front of me. Put it in my mouth. Either of those would be fine. Really, you don’t have to run in the opposite direction and whip it at me from behind your back. They’re really delicious and everything, and I appreciate it, but sometimes, I get tired of Whiskas Temptations Cat Treats pegging me in the face. I can’t catch, Steve. I have paws. I’m not Boris Diaw, so please stop treating me like Boris Diaw.

And yes, we both know that you can fool me everytime when you no-look pass me the ball of yarn. I don’t know why you keep doing it. We cats are easily-fooled. It’s not that impressive. Everytime you look at the window and throw me the ball, it surprises me, and I flinch, and I look like a big pussy. Can you stop this? I’ll still go along with it and act like you’re a really cool guy when you bring a lady home, but when it’s just us, really, let me play with my own yarn.

Also, Steve, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I could really use a haircut. Come on. Look at me. I know you don’t really like to groom yourself, but I’m a cat. I need a little maintenance. Please don’t push your anti-grooming views on me. There’s a nest of worker bees living in my fur, because it hasn’t been trimmed since that one time Mark Cuban got drunk shaved “MFFL” into my fur. I’m serious here. A trip to the groomer is long overdue. If you want to let your own hair go, that’s fine. But I need some help here. I can live with you naming me after a German power forward, but I can’t live with hair that prevents me from actually seeing.

And just one last thing, can you stop licking your hands before you pet me? I see you do this a lot on TV, too. It’s kind of gross, Steve. I already have problems with my fur, as we’ve already discussed. I don’t need it to be saturated with your spit, too. Just let me lick myself, please.

That’s all. Have a good day everyone.