Babies probably taste like veal
There has been some confusion this week about a word I used a few posts ago, in which I declared my undying devotion for Lacey, who randomly left a message on my blog saying she’d date me even though she lives more than 3,000 miles away in Portland, my geographic nemesis. I opined, “I think I’m in love and want to have her catbabies.” The sentiment seemed innocent enough at the time.
However, I styled the text with a line through it to indicate I was revealing a closely guarded secret from deep within the recesses of my psyche. Apparently, however, “catbabies” looks like “eatbabies” to a few of my more depraved readers, including Lacey. This misunderstanding reminds me of the time I became offended and incensed when an Italian chef known for feasting on felines declined to dine on my cats, Teva and Isabel, who no doubt taste delicious.
I hastily replied in the comments section, but I want to make this perfectly clear to everyone: No babies were eaten in the making of this blog. Because babies are gross. And I’m afraid of them. And I don’t like to put gross things that I’m afraid of in my mouth. Usually.
Also, I’ve been a vegetarian for more than six years. Even if I wanted to eat a hamburger or a baby, I’m disciplined enough to hold back, thanks to a little something called “willpower” – unlike the frauds who identify themselves as vegetarians and yet continue to shovel fish, mollusks and sea-dwelling cockroaches into their pie holes. Those people are living a lie. Who knows what they’re capable of. All I’m saying is if I had a baby, I probably wouldn’t leave it alone with one of those conviction-less, meat-munching phonies. Unless I had a hot date and was clamoring for a babysitter at the last minute. Or I was looking to escape the mounting pressure and intense emotional and financial responsibility of motherhood. Or I had a deep-seated desire to go to prison. I don’t. Unless it’s so deep-seated that I’m unaware of it. Then if I were to, say, eat a baby, or serve one to someone else with Diet Coke and a side of curly fries, it wouldn’t be my fault on account of the deep-seatedness. This is all just basic legal theory.
Aside from possibly me, guess who else eats babies? Like, for sure? The Irish, according to Jonathan Swift in “A Modest Proposal.” And President Barack Obama. You know who told me? The interweb. That’s how I know it’s true.
While I’m on the topic of ingesting babies and other atrocities, a wanton web surfer recently found my blog by searching for “animalsexfun.com.” That’s kind of terrifying. He obviously came to the wrong place for sex of any kind, human or otherwise. Then I made the connection between his queasy query and the apparently poorly chosen name of my site, “Alone … with cats.” OHMYGOD. WHAT HAVE I DONE?
Also, F-U-C-K. Thanks to this post, more Googlers are going to find my blog by searching for “animalsexfun.com” and “eating babies.” I think it’s apparent that the palate-challenged baby-eaters and shifty sheep-fuckers of the world are winning, and I walked right into their trap. I’ve done all I can. It’s out of my hands now. I blame Lacey for this sordid mess. If not for her, I never would have said “catbabies” in the first place. I think we’re breaking up.