A Question About Cats

Not sure what the question is, but the answer is yes. The answer is always yes. Yes, cats are the spawn of satan. They are the worst. Despite many cat lovers trying to justify their love for what I’m sure will be the pet of choice in hell, the discussion is over. They are awful. And don’t respond with all the positives of cats. The only positive is that they eventually die.

I believe cats were actually the animal that satan inhabited when he tempted Eve. Look at how a cat moves around. Does it not resemble a snake with legs? Adam was too distracted to get a good look at what it was, and retold his story wrong. I don’t blame him. He had a naked woman just walking around. You know she had a rockin’ bod. Her diet consisted of fresh everything. She was Paleo before it was cool. Crossfitters should have a shrine to her.

Back to the cats (see how easy it is to be distracted by a naked woman), I just don’t understand them. They serve no purpose. They’re not a loving animal. Humans are a huge inconvenience to them. They excrete waste inside your house. Despite the CIA’s best effort to find an actual use for these aloof felines, they failed miserably. And if our government thinks it’s a waste of money, well, there is no redeeming quality, because they will waste money on anything.

Where does this hatred come from you ask? This morning, I emptied a sandbox that stray cats had been using as a lavatory. This opened a portal to rage that I can rarely recall feeling. All my memories of cats flooded back to me. They obviously weren’t pleasant.

Childhood Sandbox

My neighbors growing up were cat people. I would say cat owners, but that implies some responsibility on their part. The cats were allowed to roam free and the world was their oyster. My sandbox was their toilet. Many a sandcastle was ruined by discovering what surprises these awful animals left me. This could’ve been me, if my sandcastle sculpturing growth hadn’t been stunted by cat poo and urine.

Father’s Boat

My Pops has a few inanimate objects that he loves. His 1964 Chris Craft is one of those things. Many hours were spent working on it. Many times being stranded out on the lake with the engine cover up while he worked on it. A beam in our barn fell on it and he definitely shed some tears. He loved that boat.

Remember those cat people neighbors? Again, they allowed their awful animals to freely inhabit whatever environment they chose and that included my dad’s classic boat. Upholstery that had survived three children, didn’t stand a chance against a half dozen cats. Over a thousand dollars of damage. My dad was found weeks later huddled in a corner, rocking, and mumbling something about Garfield being the only good cat. I assume it was his love of lasagna that made him okay to my dad.

These memories are just a snippet my completely irrational, yet undeniably justifiable disdain for cats. As I easily and effortlessly flipped a sandbox filled with over 400 lbs of sand (no big deal), my son protested. I said,”Grant, I’m not going to let you play in poo.” His response,”I love to play in poo. It’s my favorite thing to do.” That quickly became a song, thus furthering my point that cats are bad. They affect children’s brains and make them want to play in poo.

I’m not saying they can’t serve any purpose, but we need to explore options more thoroughly, because they aren’t cutting it as domesticated animals. Testing of makeup and experimental drugs gets my vote. Let them serve mankind the only way they know how: by being one step above a cadaver.

Nail in the coffin: They are the mascot for the athletic team loosely affiliated with the university that resides in Lexington.

Cats are the worst.


No One Else Would Have The Birthday Balls to Write This

Lacey is a master of evasion. If she doesn’t want to do something or doesn’t find it important, it’s best to move on. I have asked her to take a watch for repair for the last three weeks. Watch still broke. I’m positive that she had something to do with a misplaced leather jacket that she openly hated, but she will not confess and answers questions with questions that confuse me. We go to bed with two pillows each. She wakes up with three under her head and hugging the other. She states that it is accidental, but it happens quite frequently. Her abilities to evade questions, change the subject, and admit nothing make me believe that she’s secretly a CIA operative sent to spy on me.

Her powers of evasion seem to reach super hero levels around the 10th of November. I believe the axis of the earth in relation to the sun, creates a magnetic pull that sucks questions concerning the Marine Corps Birthday Ball from the air in front of your mouth and deposits them in the trash can. Lacey has managed to go 0 for 6. And that is amazing. Every year, she has weaseled out of it. One year she was very pregnant, but the other five have been a series of smoke and mirrors that would make David Copperfield jealous.

Not that I’m mad. I too, dislike the Marine Corps Ball. Notice I said the ball, not the birthday itself. Some motivated doucher will read that, show up at my door with a bottle of chloroform and I’ll wake up with “Semper Fi Mutha@$&/%#” tattooed on my face. I love the Marine Corps Birthday. A day that every Marine, worldwide will pause and reflect on those who came before us and appreciate their sacrifice. How can you not like that?

No, my problem is with the ball itself. A bunch of people that you see all day everyday, dressed uncomfortably, pretending to have a good time. And if it was just a gathering of the most uncoordinated dancers in the world (the Marine Corps is the whitest service by percentage), I could probably let it go. But it’s more.


This will touch in future bullets, so I will mention it first.
-Tickets average 50 bucks a piece. (100)
-Uniforms almost always have to be altered (30)
-Medals mounted (100)
-Hotel-More on that below (80)
-Gown (200)
-Hair (50)
-Nails (20)
-Gas, to and from (50)

Grand Total=630 bucks. Obviously, cuts can be made, but you get the point. Ball is ridiculously overpriced.


Despite having several venues close by, the powers that be always choose a location that requires a significant amount of driving. I could go outside, grab a handful of rocks, throw them in any direction, and hit 10 casinos. The ball I’m not attending this year, is taking place four hours away at a, wait for it, casino. This presents two problems. First, the cost of gas for an eight hour round tripper. Second, the need for a hotel room. Again, dollars piling up.

Time of Year

I get it. We can’t change the date they decided to start getting the drunkest people they could find to start signing up, but seriously, right before Christmas? See the above costs? This is seriously bad timing. Leadership douches will tell you that you need to budget for the ball. My response: If I have to budget for a party, things have gotten out of hand. And there are most likely less presents under the tree because of it.

Today, I will join with members of my unit to celebrate our heritage. Lacey again has used her Jedi mind trick to avoid accompanying me. Her powers of evasion are far too great to succumb to an overpriced night out. She will most likely spend the evening filling out reports and sending them to Langley. A CIA operative’s work is never done and she almost has enough information on me to convict.


A Douchy Love Letter to My Wife

Men thrive on the known. We are very reasoned and simple. Something isn’t right? Change it. Hungry? Eat. Something needs fixed? Hit it really, really hard with a hammer until it’s fixed. Lacey once spent her 20,000 word allotment to tell me all of her problems, which I solved in a series of nods and grunts that wouldn’t have counted towards my 7,000 word allotment. Men thrive in situations that contain problems and solutions. We are programmed problem solvers that hate the unknown. This hatred if the unknown, is of course why God made us need women.

Thursday night, I sat down to watch “A Football Life” on the NFL Network. Most of these contain a behind the scenes look behind Hall of Fame players or championship seasons. A glorified look at glory. This episode’s subject matter was Chris Speilman, the All-American and Pro Bowl linebacker. Before you roll your eyes, I know he is a Buckeye, and to be perfectly honest, I probably wouldn’t have cared to watch this episode had he not been a Buckeye. And that would have been my loss.

The episode chronicled his life as football player, but more importantly, his marriage to his high school sweetheart, Stephanie. Stephanie, in addition to being a doting football wife, was a breast cancer survivor/thriver/victim. I won’t summarize/ruin the episode, but is an absolute must-watch. I found myself amazed by the growth, sacrifice, and love. A salty, watery discharge may have escaped my eyes.

After I gathered my composure and depleted our tissue supply (don’t judge), I realized what strength truly is. Despite my efforts in the gym to sculpt my guns to gigantic proportions, my wife is the strong one in our relationship.

Exhibit A
After two hours of pointless pushing, Lacey was wheeled into the operating room where she was unceremoniously ripped open to reveal a child with a rather bulbous head. Within a day she was walking around barking orders like General Patton. In addition to that large head, our first born also had a defective ticker. Despite many trips from Pensacola to Louisville, I never heard her complain. In fact, when my mother was feeling weepy about one of the many surgeries, Lacey, in a very indignant tone, said,”Buck up, champ. It’s going to be okay.” And everything was okay. I’m not sure if I didn’t worry because Lacey didn’t worry, or if I was too stupid to worry, but I never felt uneasy about the situation. I knew it would turn out fine.

Exhibit B
In 2011, I deployed to fight the war on terror by applying my keen coffee making skills and document binding acumen. Behind, I left a pregnant Lacey with a three and one year old. I also had recently moved her from one dumpy house, to a less expensive dumpy house (she did complain about the house). Her response to this situation: “It’s bad timing, but whatever.” Well-intentioned people tried to comfort her, but they would aways ask ridiculous questions. Like how she was going to do it without me there. She would reply, indignantly of course,”Well, it’s not like I have a choice. Either I do it, or I don’t. I have no choice in the matter.”

Despite the rigors of that deployment (coffee burns, paper cuts), I never worried about what was going on at home. Lacey had it.

Exhibit C
Lacey drinks more Mountain Dew than a normal human being should. Her heart wants to burst, but it’s too afraid of what Lacey will do to it if it does.

Those three examples are just a glimpse into the many reasons that make Lacey the strong one. Recently, we’ve made some life changing decisions and I really have no idea where life will lead 14 months from now. That scares the bejeebus out of me. I’m making plans and trying to mitigate the unknown. Known variables are easy to plan for. Unknown variables are disastrous. But I’m relieved to know that when I’m in my darkest hour I’ll have Lacey to slap me in the face and indignantly tell me,”Buck up, champ. It’s going to be okay.”