I have previously stated that blogs about ailment X bore the living fuck out of me. But Suffering as part of slapstick is funny. My lower back is currently hurting so badly that I’m nearly in tears and I’m typing this to distract myself. It’s OK if people have a slapstick bad-back.
Our hero is resting in his bed, while downstairs his enemy, the meddling local hag, cuts a hole in his front door – in which to feed – cats. Thousands of them. He is awoken by the noise of cats fighting and staggers, bleary eyed, attempting to clear the house, hissing like a snake. But he is overwhelmed: Cats hang from light shades, from bannisters, from coat hangers, there are kittens in his shoes; his house has been redecorated, with cats.
He rushes to his bedroom to find his trusty golf club with which he hopes to reclaim ceilings by prodding. But the cats are smart. They begin leaping at him. Not scratching or biting, these are inherently polite and docile cats, but attaching themselves like thistles, like snowflakes, like limescale, until he is a heavy, writhing cone of mammalian purr. Unable to see, he staggers, attempting, panicking, to brush away the cats, unable to feel through layers of warm cat. But he feels the edge of the top step on the arch of his foot before falling.
As he falls, backwards, the cats leap to safety, and gravity takes him violently down the stairs. His back was fucked, but with the aid of the trusty golf club, and a water pistol, his house was eventually cleared of cats. And everyone lived happily ever after.
Tags: bad back, banter, cat, cats, golf club, self indulgent shit
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