April 2011: Stupid, jackass baby names

These are stupid, jackass baby names. Don't name your kid one of these, else s/he will be mocked from here to therapy:

Anderson
Benson
Carson
Cooper
Dakota
Edison
Fisher
Garrison
Hamilton
Harris
Hunter
Jackson
Maddox
Maxwell
Oliver
Parker
Pearson
Preston
Rockwell
Savannah
Spencer
Thompson
Tristan
Willow

Meow,
Clyde

March 23, 2005: Dear Dr. Frist

Honorable William H. Frist
302 Hart Senate Office Building
Washington, D.C. 20510


Dear Senator:

Meow? I have watched with admiration over recent weeks as you and your fellow Republican colleagues have courageously taken unprecedented Congressional action to defend the life of Terry Schiavo, the brain-damaged woman from Florida. It is indeed a testament to our wonderful society that our government leaders can step in when pur-r-r-dent and necessary to ensure that citizens are told what their individual rights and freedoms should be. Admittedly, I have difficulty interpreting my rights as laid out in the U.S. Constitution, which is further compounded and complicated by the fact that I am illiterate and, oh yes, a cat as well.

Today I write to you to plea for your kindhearted action in a similar matter of life and death. I am a moderately healthy, 9-year old white male (cat), an age which is approximately 52 years old in your human terms. Yet daily I find that I am fearful for my very cat life. Meow!

Though I remain several years away from cat retirement, I am quite easily fatigued and often need long stretches of sleep. Admittedly, there have been days of late when I have done nothing but sleep all day, interrupted only by periodic litter box visits and naps.

Because my extremely low metabolism might appear to some as "comatose" (or cat-a-tonic, if you pur-r-r-fer), one of my human owners has threatened to, "put [me] out of my misery" by withholding my daily feeding bowl. I have overheard him--it is the mean, male owner who says this--claiming that I am a "lazy, good for nothing burden."

Senator Frist, I am scared cat-less as to what may soon happen to me. Should I no longer have my daily feeding bowl, I surely will die. Well, actually, I can pur-r-r-robably get by a few weeks by stealing crackers and cookies from the kitchen shelf, but soon after that I surely will die. Those wonderful cans of Chicken-of-the-Sea tuna? Nope. I don't have opposable thumbs.

Won't you pur-r-r-lease step in and help with your wizened guidance and heavy-handed action of the U.S. Congress? Meow? As a physician, I would hope that some claws in the Hippo-cat-ic Oath would lead you down the path of cat justice.

Zzzzzzz Speaking of justice, my mean owner has often asserted that "no judge in the land would convict [him]" of such actions. Presumably he has already been given such assurances by one of the many anti-cat judges which the Dogocrats have packed into our U.S. courts. Before I reached my current predicament, I was scheduled to meet with a local cattorney to draw up paperwork which would preclude my owner from establishing a DNR (Do Not Repussitate) order on my behalf. Sadly, I slept that entire day and missed the appointment. Meow, indeed.

Most honorable Senator Frist, you are my last hope. Won't you pur-r-r-lease help?

Sincerely,

Clyde The Cat