I dunno how I got to waxing nostalgic about all the pets I've had over the years, but I did. Perhaps I'll bore you poor fuckers with some of my recollections, should you not have the sense to get the fuck outta here.

For those who've remained, you are now my hostages.

OK. I got those fuckers outta here. Now we can get down to business.

Whew!

Anyway, I won't relate these anecdotes in chronological order cos I don't fuckin feel like it. As a matter of fact, the only thing I was gonna originally pipe up with is this:

I had this cat named Sarge. "Sarge" is a regrettable name, but what're you gonna fuckin do? I'm reasonably certain that the cat didn't care. It's kinda like when they put red #5 in the dog's kibble. The dog's not paying any attention. It's just plain ol Cheerios. But if it's red, you feel like the dog gets to eat red bullshit that he doesn't like very much as opposed to brown bullshit that he doesn't like very much. I credit dogs with much intelligence, including their not caring what color the goddam kibble is.

That, and I've seen dogs eat some extremely repulsive terribleness that makes me assume that the fuckin dog doesn't pay attention to the aesthetic value of his food.

Anyway, I wanted a dog and my mom only let me have a cat. The cat got named "Sarge". The cat was orange and white. Like a Creamsicle. I don't remember much from high school biology class, but I rembember enough to know that there was no such feline species as "Creamsicle". You know the type, so I won't pretend to know what the hell kinda cat Sarge was.

Now that I think about it, at least the poor bastard's name wasn't "Creamsicle".

If I had a daughter, that chick'd be mowing the lawn and changing the oil in my car. If I had a son, the fucker'd be washing my clothes and baking me some brownies.

Fortunately for my children, they're non-existent.

But I had a fuckin cat and I wanted a dog, so Sarge learned how to wrestle. He'd fuckin try to get you, too: I'd throw him at the wall while he was biting the piss outta my forearm, purring the whole time. He'd come back for more. You couldn't pet him cos he'd fuckin bite you, but he'd bite you with a grin. I think. Now that I think about it, maybe that cat hated my guts. Nah, this is my story and me and the fuckin cat were buddies.

I was 14 and/or 15 when Sarge was hangin out. I was in the process of teaching myself how to play the electric guitar. It was an extremely loud trial and error thing that normally resulted in error. I played all the time, and I played really really fuckin loud. I wasn't very good and I didn't care. I'd scream my head off into a microphone while I bashed Sex Pistols and Ramones tunes on my guitar.

Sarge loved it. He'd bask on my amplifier,seemingly purring, as if he were laying in a sunlit windowsill. He was a cool cat. I forget what happened to him, though I know he didn't just run outta batteries....