Most of us can remember exactly where we were when we first heard the news about 9/11. Me? I was in high school, just a stones throw away from Ground Zero. Just a 90 mile toss of a stone from the financial district of Manhattan is where that stone called home at my high school in southern Connecticut. Which is where I was on September 11, 2001 when I first heard the news. More specifically, I was in theater class with my soon-to-be convicted pedophile of a teacher.
We gathered 'round an old black and white TV with a satellite feed of NBC on the screen (seems ridiculous, I know, but seriously it was a black and white TV running off of a satellite. The theater room was in the basement of the school, basically in a corner of its own. The superintendent would later question how my teacher got away with smoking pot and trading oral sex with a male student. I don't know, man, maybe because you put the THEATER room in the BASEMENT in its OWN WING with NOBODY ELSE AROUND and you filled that room with a PERSON WHO IS INCLINED TO TEACH HIGH SCHOOL THEATER.) Not smart.
But, I will never forget staring at that TV, not really sure what I was watching as the first tower fell. I remember vividly my teacher saying with a very frightening calmness, "I hope you know you're all watching the start of World War III."
He turned out to be wrong. He turned out to be a pedophile.
Now, here in 2010, I realize that no one has taken the time to ask domesticated animals about their experiences on 9/11. We have been all to busy selfishly wallowing in the human experience, oblivious (willingly oblivious in my opinion) to the feelings of the fury things that take your spot on the couch as soon as you get up to take a piss. I'm told they do that because your body heat makes that spot particularly warm and cozy.
I think they do it to be dicks. Also, my spot on the couch is the prime viewing angle when it comes to watching my nightly stories on the Television. It is with this evidence that I support my hypothesis that my cat is kind of a punk-ass dick who steals seats even when you call "fives", and he likes "Lost" a little more than he lets on.
You know what? Here I am with these two cats at a coffee shoppe fully prepared to ask them about what they felt that morning in September and all I can think is, "who gives a shit, they're just going to take my seat when I get up to take a piss."
This is why no one ever asks you questions about your life, Milo and Peanut.
What if I want to watch "Lost" too? I'm not sitting in the arm chair. I bought that for decoration, not comfort.
You sleep in the fucking mulch under the deck in the summertime. You can't sleep on that fucking arm chair? That thing is from Pottery Barn.
Is it the color? I realize it's a fern green whereas the rest of the room is designed around a more hunter green.
Wait, cats can't see color. More evidence to suggest their dickishness.
Also, Peanut just ordered a "LARGE coffee". Ha ha. We're at Starbucks you fucking n00b.
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