Clarion Content

Welcome to a work of meta-fiction and gonzo journalism reminiscent of the late Hunter S. Thompson.

Brought to you by one of Durham's very own.

Some language and situations may not be appropriate for younger readers

Chapter One, "I once met this cat in South Carolina..."

A lot of people consider me a bad person, and I can never quite understand why. Okay, so maybe not a lot of people, the figure is probably closer to the vast majority of the people I meet, most of those people don't even matter though. The guy I sideswiped coming out of the Cookout? He's never gonna see me again; to him, I'm just an act of God. But among people I actually know and care about -- my friends, my coworkers, my family, the regulars at the Green Room, etc. -- I think the figure is significantly lower.

Might just ask the Chuck to make sure.

"Hey Chuck!"

"Yes, Geoffrey?"

"Do people think that I'm a bad person?"

He responds quickly and unconditionally, as though I had asked if it were raining outside "Yes"

"Okay... so a lot of people do, but how about you?"

"Well... yeah. You're an asshole, Geoff, but you're my kind of asshole"

So Chuck still likes me, in spite of my apparent failings as a likable human being. I should explain something: The Chuck is my roommate... well, no... roommates pay rent... I'd call him a houseguest, but houseguests don't stay at your house for 2 years. Ah hah! The Chuck is my infestation. I have an infestation of The Chuck. Now, I'm not particularly bothered by this... most of the time. Because the Chuck offers me a benign sort of quiet companionship, and I can afford to keep him around... (well, maybe he's more like a pet then... like one of those big ol' iguanas). So when I'm alone wondering something, my first response is to ask the Chuck. There are other people I call on, as I wonder about stuff a lot, but we'll get to that later.

In the mean time, we were busy talking about how I'm supposedly a bad person, but I'm not really! My methodology is different from most, but not in an evil way, just in an unorthodox way.

Take the time I pissed on a cat.

Now I know what you're thinking, that's insanely cruel and awful, and that is the definition of animal cruelty which is just one of those fundamental things that make people into bad people.

Trust me, nothing was so cruel as the Baby Jesus allowing this critter to stay alive.

I should start at the beginning. One long weekend, my Buddy Jamie and I went to South Carolina to visit a friend of his. I can't remember her name, so we'll call her Velma. Now, James was just going down to get his dick wet, and I'm reasonably sure that I was invited along as a courtesy. But still, it was my long weekend too, and I was determined to have some fun. During one afternoon's marathon blowjob solo by Velma, I'm wandering around her house, seeing if there's anything beyond your standard American diversions to pass the time. Low and behold, I did discover this beautiful Hibachi grill sitting outside. Once the lovebirds came up for air I asked Velma if I could use the Hibachi.

"Sure thing", she said, walking towards the window "but it can't be today. I don't have anything grillable in the house, and the neighbor's cat is in the driveway"

I failed to see the connection between the two phrases. "I'm sorry, what about the cat?"

"The neighbor's cat is in the driveway, we can't drive anywhere, and I am sure as hell not walking to the Farmer's Market"

I peered outside and saw no cat. I looked back at her and informed her that Jamie and I would move the cat, all would be well, and then there would be steak. She told us if we could, we were welcome to try, but in that condescending way that the queen tells the strange knight that he is welcome to try to kill the savage dragon. It would certainly be nice if he could, but too many have tried and died for her to get her hopes up.

Jamie and I sauntered out of the house to have a better look at the driveway. Now honestly, even up close I don't want to say that I saw the cat, because I didn't. This thing didn't look like a cat, it looked like a blob of fur, but it was certainly more cat shaped than the gravel on the driveway or the half a rake that had fallen in it. The blob was roughly circular, about 18 inches in diameter and 6 inches tall. No visible signs of a head, tail, feet, or life. Oh, and it was an orange tabby.

I first tried a rather direct measure.

"Cat!"

No response.

"Hey... Fat Cat!"

Still no response.

I nudged it a couple of times with my boot. Still nothing.

"Jaime, get over here and help me pick up this cat!"

Now before I go into the results of me trying to pick up the cat, I want you at home to go and do a little science experiment. Go into your kitchen (assuming that's where you keep 'em) and grab one of the bigger sized trash cans you own. Liberally grease the outside with cooking spray. Fill the inside with at least five gallons of water. Put it on your kitchen floor, and pick it up from beneath without using the handle.

Go ahead, I'll wait for you.

You notice pretty quick that unless your arms are the size of Henry Rollins's you can't get your arms to cover the entirety of the bottom of the surface area. All you can do is attempt to hoist it up at its center of gravity. Problem is, much like an incredibly fat cat, the majority of its weight is fairly fluid, so the center of gravity shifts and you end up dropping it a half a second after you get it off the ground. And much like be-Pam-ed plastic, cat hair is fairly smooth and slick, (though I'm happy to say not nearly as greasy), so you can't rely on friction to keep you holding on.

So regardless to say that the respective arrays of myself, myself & Jamie, Jamie, myself & Jamie with a rake, myself with a rake & Jamie with a shovel, and of course, Jamie with a rake & myself with a shovel & the vocabulary of a drunken wounded sailor with Tourette's, we were never able to get the damned cat off the driveway.

Jamie and I returned towards the house with our honor shattered.

"I told you so" Velma intoned from the doorway.

Nuh uh.

No

Hell No!

No one tells me "I told you so." Ever.

"I'm moving that damned cat"

So I start going though the various facets of cat psychology that I'd picked up from years of reading Garfield out of habit. Maybe lure cat with lasagna? No... there needed to be some kind of deterrent. I only had to ponder mere moments before I remembered something. Water! Kitties hate water. So I start looking around for a hose, of which there is none. Now a man in control over his wits at this point would have gone and gotten a bucket or something, but I was not in control over my wits at that point. I was possessed. Ahab and the Orange Furry Whale. "Hell" I thought to myself "If I can't use her hose, I suppose I can use mine"

So I went over, unzipped, and started pissing on the cat.

I pissed on that damned cat for a good 10 seconds before anything happened. Now before you go and think that isn't that long. I want you to imagine yourself in that situation, pissing, in public, on an animal. Now count it out in your head.

One thousand one.

One thousand two

One thousand three

One thousand four

One thousand five

One thousand six

One thousand seven

One thousand eight

One thousand nine

One thousand ten.

Finally, I saw the critter's head. It looked up at me with an expression of pure hate, hissed, and hobbled over the two feet it needed to go to get out of the yard.

I moved the cat, but Velma sure wouldn't talk to me for the rest of the weekend.

That steak was fantastic though.

Labels: Guest columns, meta-fiction