How Transat Air Killed my Cat

Dear Transat Air,

Last month I was a passenger of one of your flights, and the experience you have granted me has not only scarred me for life, it was indirectly the cause of the demise of my poor little kitten, Mittens.

Here is what happened.

About a year ago, a Canadian Playboy-Model Billionaire Philanthropist ordered me from a Dutch Groom magazine to become her lawful husband and on August 28^th 2012, she took me on a dreamy vacation through Europe.
The start of our trip would be in Italy, assuming that this would be an appropriate location to be all romantic and cute (but mostly, to flaunt our incredibly hot bodies).
Unfortunately, we have not mastered the skill of self-propelled human flight (yet) so we were somewhat reliant on an airline company called Transat Air to get us to our destination.

The horror of this flight began as soon as we lined up with 200 rowdy guitar wielding teenage hippies in order to check in for our flight. However, we repelled their hipster cynicism by being incredibly in love and sexy. As we finally made it to the check-in desk, we were met by the bastard child of Shrek and Gollum, who seemed to be completely unaffected by our radiant loveliness and sneeringly placed us in this shitty Transat plane, divided by a WHOLE aisle.

As our love has conquered distance before, we decided that we could easily deal with this set-back, and decided to valiantly sit apart for the next 8 hours. Of course, we would keep our minds occupied with a no doubt astonishing selection of beverages and inflight entertainment.
Little did we know, that the only complimentary drink on board was a shitty glass of apple juice, which was clearly intended to wash away the detrimental “main course” on board.
To add insult to injury, we were expected to PAY for our headphones and blanket, or choose to suffer the icy cold air that was blasting from the airco system.

The anarchists that we are, we refused to bow down to “The Man” and defiantly plugged in our OWN headsets in order to watch the sub-par selection of inflight entertainment, expecting to fall sound asleep until we would arrive on our destination.

"I will Murder you"

We were wrong.

I (6’6 man of awesome) had the pleasure to be seated behind a 4 foot child who seemed to lack any form of social values. As soon as the “Fasten Seatbelt” light turned off, he threw back his seat with MACH 3 right into my kneecaps. Now, despite the injury I immediately sustained, I was fortunate that the little bastards seat did not “lock” in position. So by jamming my knees tightly into the seat in front of me, he was unable to keep his seat in the “I don’t give a single fuck about anyone else in this plane” position.
He assumed that his chair was somehow broken, so he tried 3-4 more times, slamming his seat into the front on my defiant knees each time. I enjoyed the sense of justified glee so much, that I gladly traded it for the ever enduring pain in my legs every time that asshole dropped his seat on me, just to give it another try.

After a while he gave up and I mentally highfived myself.
However, a few minutes later, the brat tried again and caught me offguard. As he smashed his seat into my tender knees, I heard the chair lock into position and I knew he had won.
As my blood boiled, I witnessed my hands twirl the cord of my headset as if I had no control over them.
The mental image of whipping that cord over the chair in front of me and choking that little fucker out, was oddly satisfying.

Oh how sweet would it have been

Luckily for me, “dinner” was soon after served, FORCING the kid to put his chair upright again.
As soon as he did, I vowed to block this asshole for the rest of the flight no matter what the cost.
Alas, it seemed the kid was on to me.
As soon as he devoured his meal, he immediately slammed back his seat back.
I did not see this act of pure evil coming as I got clipped by my tray of food spilling my precious apple juice into my brownish goo called “beef”.

Despite being 12 years old, this kid was about to suffer my wrath.
After ignoring my subtle punch in the back of his headrest, I calmly tapped him on the shoulder to inform him of the awkward position I was currently in. Other passengers however, might have described this event as me smacking the kid in the back of the head asking him what the fuck he was doing.

Like a frightened rabbit, he put his chair back into a decent human being-position enabling me to barely survive the rest of the flight.

Luckily for me, you guys saved the BEST part of my experience with you for the way BACK!

Although we had 2 weeks to recuperate from this horrible horrible experience, we would soon be exposed again to your customer orientated service on the flight back.

Apparently, you seem to put completely random boarding times and gates on your tickets, so you can imagine our surprise as we arrived at our gate 90 minutes early, that we found ourselves boarding for a flight to Cairo instead.

After the ACTUAL boarding process, we found our seats next to a 1 year old toddler and a non-English speaking woman. No problem, because we were planning to once again enjoy your inflight entertainment system.

Which wasn’t there.

I guess you didn’t bother to equip your transatlantic flights with a personal entertainment system, but instead just taped a few old tube televisions to the ceiling playing an old shitty VHS version of Ms.Doubtfire.
Of course, we were supposed to pay again for a headset and blanket to protect us from the insanely cold air that was being blasted into our face again (Great selling technique).

Shortly after take-off, the guy in front of the mother with the toddler, immediately slammed his seat back into the kids face, showing no regards for the poor woman who now had no room to do anything at all.
I assumed he was related to shitty-recliner kid and I started hating the guy with my whole heart.
I should have probably left some room for additional hate, because after 5 minutes, the douchebag had the nerve to complain to one of your staff, that the toddler (folded up between the back of Douchy mc Douchebag’s chair and her mother) kept kicking his seat.

My face when....

Instead of telling the guy to get a heart and be a human being, the stewardess actually went and told the woman to keep her kid in check.
Struggling with this near impossible task, it didn’t take long before that heartless asshole turned to me and asked me if that child was my son.
He was VERY lucky, I have a limit of only punching 1 other passenger per holiday or I would have GLADLY decompressed his FACE!

Humanitarians that we are, we changed seats with the poor woman, so she could sit behind a little old lady, gave her our overpriced blanket and took out our books.
However, the light wasn’t working…

At this point I just faded away into a fantasy of strangling the guy in front of me with the kid from the previous trip, but that could have been because of the Free Vodka the stewardess gave us for being so incredibly awesome. (So, props to your inflight personnel).

As soon as we made it back, I sat down in my comfortable chain at home trying to relax from this trip.
My cute little cat, who clearly missed me jumped into my lap for some cuddles.
However, I mistook that for another episode of Asshole-Recliners, flexed my legs, launching Mittens into my Industrial Grade Ceiling fan, turning her in Kitten Carpaccio.

Poor (Delicious) Mittens...

Now, if you would have a better policy on asshole passengers, I would not have had this Post-Traumatic Reflex and my Mittens would still be alive!

As you can imagine, I am not amused.

-         -  Dave Stevens

How eating at Pizza Hut Killed my Mittens

Dear Pizza Hut PR lady,
Two weeks ago, I was supposed to have an uplifting victory mean in your establishment in Cornwall.
After three months of pure misery in my personal life, I wanted Pizzahut to take part in the celebrations of a major life event. Unfortunately, what was supposed to be a night of pleasantries, ended up in the untimely death of my poor little kitten, Mittens.

Here is what happened…

About three years ago, I swam to Canada in order to establish a life here as an extremely hard working foreign laborer. Since day one I had been breaking my back doing all kinds of work, which the average Canadian was not up for. (I am talking: Alligator Dentist, Human Centipede (middle), and Midnight Vigilante etc.) Now I am not complaining, since Canada has been more than good to me. However, the moment I arrested the last criminal alive, Immigration Services decided they no longer needed superheroes and deported me without a second thought.

Fortunately for me, the moment they put me on a boat, crime rates spiked back up and the Canadian Government BEGGED me to come back. It took them about three months of begging before I finally caved in and made my return to Canada. This happened in Cornwall, ON, and that is where your establishment comes into play.

The ManBearPig

I walked into the restaurant with this supermodel I picked up at Border Services and was escorted by a really nice waitress to our table. Now, I doubt she had ANY ill intend when she placed us in a booth between two tables that already had other guests. For her, this would make serving us a lot more convenient and I truly appreciate such cleverness in employees. However, what she clearly missed was that the two tables were filled with a Manbearpig and an Overweight Banshee that smelled like moldy cheese. As soon as we sat down, Manbearpig and Overweight Banshee started shrieking at each other, which appeared to be some sort of communication ritual. The conversation went pretty much as following:

MBP: “Shreeeeeeee”
MBP: “Hissshhh CA-CAW”
OvB: “Snort” (shaking her head)

Now it took a while before I was able to understand their language, but for your convenience I’ll translate it to English.

Right after we placed our order with the competent and friendly waitress, we were treated to this gem from Manbearpig:

“One time, I cut my thumb so deep; I was bleeding all over myself. I left a trail from the kitchen to the bathroom”

Now, although this is already not the best dinner conversation, she blasted this line at 160 dB across the restaurant. My beautiful supermodel immediately gave me the stare of death as the words engraved themselves forever in her no doubt perfectly shaped brain. We gave it our best shot and tried to ignore the complete violation of at least 5 books that have been written on social etiquette, however, I couldn’t help myself and had to retreat to the washroom to vomit the mental image away.

I really wish I didn’t, because as it turned out shortly after, I needed the content of my stomach later on, since the previous comment was just a warm-up for the rest of the extremely loud and highly inappropriate conversation. As I returned, something must have been said, because my supermodel had a look on her face that can only be described as pure horror and disgust. Luckily for us, the nice and competent waitress had just brought us some delicious bread sticks with pasta sauce.

Unfortunately the sauce matched the conversation that now boomed across the restaurant.

OvB: “Oh, I can tell by my cramps that I will be having a heavy flow, but that won’t stop this stallion”

Have fun, you cannot unsee this picture ever.

With those 21 words, my supermodel date shriveled away into a little old lady with Alzheimer’s and spend the rest of the evening rocking back and forth and I couldn’t chomp away those delicious breadsticks fast enough in the hopes my stomach would turn it into barf for another round of mental cleansing.

Did you know the straws you serve at your restaurants are not rigid enough to pierce a human eardrum?
I do…

The only reason we did not leave at this point is because we already put in our order and we didn’t want to waste good pizza because, you know, Africa and stuff. So, we soldiered on and I had to use all my knowledge of Jedi-Mind blocking to make it to the entree.

Now, I am a BIG fan of pizza (no seriously, I’m a huge man) and I was CONVINCED that whatever these two demi-humans would blurt out in front of their OWN kids, couldn’t ruin my appetite for delicious pizza.
But, once again, their little crocodile brains managed to wiggle something in between me and my Meat Lovers Goodness.

MBP: “We don’t bother with hormones anymore, I just keep my legs in the air for a while so it can really seep in”

 My little Alzheimer lady immediately burst into a weird green flame and even the pepperoni on my Pizza reformed itself into a sad smiley face that could only mean “Dude..what the fuck?”
As I coping mechanism I drifted off in a very lucid day dream about ManbearPig and Overweigh Banshee strolling to a park, where they suddenly get torn apart by a group of hungry velociraptors who don’t even want to eat them.

"Yeah...i'm not gonna eat that"

This blissful moment doesn’t last long as I get brutally yanked back into reality by Overweight Banshee’s rebuttal.

OvB: “When we didn’t want to get pregnant, we just did it in the other hole, you know, the OTHER hole…the OTHER OTHER white meat?”

The little pile of ash that was once my supermodel date immediately reformed into her former self, just for the opportunity to explode into a pink cloud of embarrassment and I had to physically fight back a wave of disgust by stuffing napkins into my esophagus.

No amount of Purell would disinfect our brains after this and no amount of deliciousness would bring back our appetites for the next few days. We paid the waitress and tipped her for the good service, but still left your fine establishment in disgust.  We drove home slightly queasy and even the comforting thought that we were putting decent mileage in between ourselves and Manbearpig & Overweight Banshee could settle our stomachs.
We got home, hands still shaking, and sat down at our kitchen table planning to drown out our mental trauma with some hard liquor.

In my state of confusion I accidentally repeated the “other hole” phrase out loud, without knowing that cute little Mittens was prancing around at my feet.

Mittens, before her little head exploded

Being a kitten without any defenses against such words, she froze…started to shake and convulse and finally her cute little head exploded, leaving once innocent bits of cat brain all over my stainless steel appliances.

If Pizzahut would have stepped in and removed these vile persons from your otherwise fine establishment, I would not have been scarred for life, and my cute little kitten’s head would not have exploded.

As you can imagine, I am not amused.

-          Dave Stevens

How Santa Killed Mittens.

Hey Santa,

I am writing to you to make an official complaint about your poor customer service.

Considering your reputation on "All that is Christmas" i hold you personally responsible for allowing the Grinch steal my Cute little kitten Mittens.

It has been since 1957 and she has not been returned to me yet, this is what happened.

When i was living in Whoville back in 1957 i had everything i ever wanted.

Two beautiful wives, a big screen TV, low blood pressure and the most adorable little kitten imaginable, Mittens.

However, that year, some Douchebag from out of town decided he was going to be his douchy self and basically took all i held dear away from me.

Grinch captured on Camera stealing Mittens

Well, the whole village actually, but they get to send their own letters.

Now, one of the wives was getting a little annoying anyway, so i was like "Good riddance" but he shouldn't have messed with my TV OR my Mittens. When i woke up and saw everything was gone, i immediately got my Zombie Christmas Survival Kit and went out hunting for this Green Furry bastard. Now, I was certain that he wouldn’t be as stupid to hide in his lame little cave on his stupid mountain, so the first place I started looking was Canada.
It took me YEARS Santa, YEARS of spelunking, Ice climbing and a lot of innocent green furred animals were hurt in the progress. (Hey, if you don’t want to be mistaken for The Grinch, don’t grow green fur).

I remember one specific hunt, were I was certain I found his tracks out just south of Winnipeg.
The night was dark and cold, the wind pulling at the fabric of my light absorbing cloak of awesomeness.
The cave I was stalking ominously quiet, the only sounds being the whirring of my night vision goggles and the echo of my heartbeat resonating of the glistening cavern walls.
As I went deeper, a gut wrenching crunch crackled from underneath my Tiger repellent boot, sending a shiver up my spine. As I lifted my boot, I knew I was on the right track. A crystalline residue of red and white glazed sugarcanes was stuck in between the coarse edges of my non-slip vulcanized rubber profile soles.





I checked my Boxing Glove Launcher KYA 2000© and a smile crept across my face.
This Grinch was going to get the worst headache of his life once this baby would fire a lamb leather 32oz KNOCKOUT boxing glove right in the kisser.
But I had to be patient, or I would lose the element of surprise, so I stalked on.
Carefully avoiding the old crusty candy canes that littered the floor, I went deeper into this dank lair.
 
Not long after, an orange glow flickered in the distance and distorted shadows dances across the walls.
As I listened carefully for any sign of a distressed Meow or anxious kitten paws treading up and down, but I heard none of that. Instead a long stretched out moan rumbled through the tunnel.
The path narrowed as I got closer and the moaning of a beast in pain grew fiercer and louder.
In my heart, I hoped I wasn’t too late, I hoped another Grinch Hunter did not rob me of my satisfaction of punching this Green Maniac in the face. With my breath caught in my throat I prepared myself to swing around the last corner, into the small den the light and sound was coming from and confront this BEAST, this MANIAC,  that took the joy of my life. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. It wasn’t the Grinch waiting for my Fist of Justice, it wasn’t even a Bear, no, It was your damn Wife doing some kind of Webcam show for $2 a minute. Santa, dude, you gotta talk to her about this, because the things she was doing with those elves is uncalled for and possibly illegal. Also, Fire your Reindeer.

So I got out, poured myself a drink and had horrible nightmares for a week.
After that, my Grinch hunting days were pretty much over.



"Dave Stevens is THE SHIT" - Mother Theresa



It was 2009 by now and I was still without Cat, Two Wives and Big Screen TV.
So I decided to head back to Whoville, and restart my life without my Cat, Two Wives and Big Screen TV and decided to just be GOOD and hoping YOU would make up for my terrible terrible loss.
And Santa, I’ve been good, I’ve been so good, Mother Theresa just texted me saying “Dude, can you tone it down, you are making me look like an ass”. And she’s a SAINT Santa!



Anyway, I got home, turns out The Grinch had a change of heart and returned all my shit.
My wives  divorced me both to pursue a career in Robotronics in Kyoto and my TV is so outdated that it now takes electricity to work. It was kind of an eyesore as a centerpiece and when I tried to remove it, I tripped on the damn cat, dropping the 9000 pound tv flat on her cute little head, flattening her like a pancake.

Now I am without TV, without wives, and a flat cat that can only serve as a coaster.
As you can imagine, I am not amused.

In the holiday spirits, I hope you can redeem yourself and use some of that Santa magic to make my life a little better.
I have recently found a new wife, who is allergic to cats, so one of those new TV’s would be absolutely awesome.

Oh, and I’m sorry about your wife.

-          Dave Stevens



How DJ TECH Roadkilled my Mittens

Good morning DJ TECH,

For the past week now we have been sharing a highway in Canada. You might have not noticed the fact that you are sharing this road with other people, because you drive like a douchebag. Not only is this highly annoying for everyone else on the road, it also eventually led to the demise of my poor little kitten, Mittens.

Here is what happened:



Sir Leaps-a-lot: Upgraded to Sniper



As a crocodile wrangler in Canada I have a lot of spare time, so I decided to pick up a second job to make some money on the side. With my broad range of skills and expertise, it didn’t take long before the Australian Government hired me to lead a secret program that they are piloting here in Canada for legal reasons.
Every day, I have to drive from my underground lair to a super-secret location that I cannot disclose to train Kangaroos how to wield and operate shotguns. We call them Death Leapers and they will eventually be a decisive factor in the War on Terror. However, this is a secret program, so I’ll have to send to send a Death Leaper your way to convince you to forget what you just read.

Now, ever since I invented the wheel, I’ve had a passion for driving. I liked the scenery, the sound road kills makes when I splash through a raccoons insides at 100 k/m an hour and sometimes I even listen to the radio.
However, since Ford (not Harrison) stole my invention and started to mass produce these “cars” of his, my pleasure in driving has been dwindling down significantly. Before this blatant intrusion on my patent, the roads were empty and I got to work relatively fast and I didn’t even had to invent the word “Traffic Jam” yet.
Fast forward 296 years and we have douchebags like you on the road. Instead of carelessly flattening squirrels and enjoying the wind in my hair, I have to actually pay attention to my surroundings and make sure my Davemobile doesn’t get butt raped by other cars who actually think that driving a $5 dollar footlong behind me qualifies as car bonding. It’s not,… it is the mechanical equivalent of sexual harassment. Now your Douchemobile seems to misinterpret the signals my Davemobile is giving out, or my rear bumper seems to have an undeniable attraction to your front bumper.   



DAVE SMASH!



Now let me tell you this Frank (let’s call you Frank) you are lucky I just completed my “How to deal with Anger and not send a Deathsquad of drunk Shadow Warriors to the people who piss you off” course.  Before this, you can bet your ass that every time your Douchemobile would be in arms lenght of my (Utterly Awesome) Davemobile, I would have opened a hatch of Angry Drunk Ninjas on you to peel off your eyebrows. However, every day we meet on the road, the words of my Anti Angry Sensei are getting foggier and foggier. I already had to upgrade my steering wheel from Granite to Adamantium because it kept crumbling up in my Rage fueled hands. Yesterday we met again and luckily enough, I was driving behind you at a distance dictated by the 3 second rule. This gave me the opportunity to observe your asshol’ish ways a little better because my eyes wouldn’t cloud up with Pure Anger this time. I noticed that it is not MY rear bumper that seems to attract your front, it is EVERYONE’S bumper.  Not only that, you seem to have taking pleasure into not breaking just the speed limit, but also the sound barrier when you try to pass someone on the shoulder.
When I saw you zipping in and out of traffic, dryhumping cars going slightly over the speed limit and cutting off at LEAST 3 little old ladies, you finally got out of sight. Although I hoped to pass you later on with your car flipped upside down and on fire, I wasn’t so lucky. I did pass you, but it was at a traffic light down the road.
Here I finally got to look upon the hideous face of the Douchebag driver that had been pissing me off for weeks.



Frank the Douchebag



Frank, you are not a pretty man.



I did stare a little bit, but that was merely so I could have my enslaved composite artist draw a picture so I could throw shurikens later that night towards a drawing of you.





When we drove off, I also got to take a good look at your license plate.
To my surprise your Douchemobile sports a vanity plate with DJ TECH written on it. Now, here is a free piece of advice. If you drive like a drunken maniac and you have a vanity plate with some shitty nickname on it, it will take a Bonafide Internet Savant like me about 1.9 seconds to find your ass on Google. You seem to be a “DJ” that basically plays shitty music at shitty parties and I would not be surprised if your day job is just as shitty.
Since you are obviously going nowhere in life, I do not see ANY reason why you would have to drive like you are some kind of important person.  Please stop for the sake of all that is slightly pleasant!
Although your annoying manners on the road are reason enough to Wake the Dragon, the real reason I send you this letter is because you are directly responsible for the death of my poor little kitten, Mittens.

Last frame of the security footage

During my research on your persona (don’t you just love Google) I came across a “Demo Track” that you uploaded somewhere on the Internet. I was hoping that MAYBE you would have some redeeming qualities as a human being, so I decided to play the audio file. Frank, the garbage that you call music was so horrible, that it literally shattered all the windows in my mansion. It takes no explanation that I use bullet proof black obsidian glass instead of your regular shitty glass, but the downside is that WHEN it shatters, the shards are sharper than Thor’s razorblade. Luckily for me I am nigh invincible, however, my poor Mittens got ripped to shreds.

If you would have been a decent driver, I would never have to research you and this would never have happened.

As you can imagine, I am not amused.

-          Dave Stevens

p.s.

Since I don’t own a shovel, I was unable to bury my mittens. I do however own a food processor so I turned her into a Mittens-Shake and froze it into little cubes. Next time you are “Deejaay’ing” in my vicinity, I will pelt you with little furry globs of Mitten-goo.

How a Rogue Floor Vent Slayed a Warrior Cat

Dear Manufacturer,

I am writing to you to formally submit a complaint about the hidden feature of you floor grates “The Kitten Slayer”. This feature came apparent to me when my normally indestructible cat, Ninja (XL) lost one of his precious lives when casually strolling over your product.

This is what happened:

Last year I decided my defenses against the Underworld Warriors were lacking. Although I have enough Dragon Blood in my veins to fight off the hordes of the Undead myself, even I need to sleep every now and then. It was quickly decided that I needed a nocturnal Demon Beast to take care of those precious hours where I was not at my most dangerous.

Underwater boobies: Not Aquadynamic

So I set forth and sailed the Seven Seas in search of a worthy Pet Demon Beast, having many adventures on my way. (In case you are wondering, yes Mermaids are real and no, they do not wear seashell bras…which is pretty awesome but not very aquadynamic).  After 49 years of traveling and tracking down legends of fierce Beasts, I found myself in 1889 B.C. Japan, in a village named “Awesometown”.  
While drinking copious amounts of Rice Wine with the local Warlords, I heard the story of a Legendary Shadow Warrior, feared and respected by all the village Elders. It’s nature was rumored to be so fierce that it had earned itself the name “ Mister McPurrs-a lot”. I was intrigued by his reputation so the next day I saddled my Fire Breathing Dragon and set out for its lair on top of Mountain Yudifosho. It took me about 15 minutes to get there and I found the hideous monster playing with a ball made out of live chickens wrapped around a core of aluminum foil.  This was surprising, because I hadn’t invented either chickens or aluminum foil yet. (You’re Welcome BTW). The beast growled at me when I approached his toy, so I gave it a stern look and placed the little fur ball in my super manly messenger bag and went home with my new found pet.

The vicious monster would henceforth be known as Ninja (XL)



Ninja (XL)'s Battle Armor



Unfortunately, when taken out of its natural habitat his power level went down significantly (Less than 9000) and for a moment I feared that I had overseen the true source of its power. However, it turned out he was just thirsty, so I gave him a shot of Gatorade in the face with my Supersoaker 15 Gazillion (Ultra-Turbo OMG Edition). This freshened him right up and he seemed ready for his first Zombie Massacre.

He soon proved to be worthy of his legends, because this Cat-like beast was fearless. Never in my years would I have thought I would encounter a creature that did not flee for a well-known Nemesis to all creatures “The Vacuum cleaner”, yet Ninja (XL) would face it without blinking. This kind of fearlessness actually had me worried for a moment that my new pet did not rely on auditory senses, but alas, he was just THAT badass.
It also turned out that I could enhance his fighting skills with the promise of Rice Pudding or Doritos (of any flavor). No army in the world could stop his rage when they got in between him and his pudding, nor should they, because he looks really funny with pudding all over his face.

For years Ninja (XL) and I fought side by side as brothers, with him guarding my back when I was asleep.
Nothing could touch us and we seemed undefeatable. Untill…I purchased a floor vent from your company for in my bedroom. I just repainted and the metallic golden would perfectly match and make the whole room FABULOUUUUUUUUUSSSSS!



Clearly your fault, yet i get to clean it



I placed my new vent in the designated hole in my hardwood floor. (Made from ancient trees of the Amazon, because who needs forests anyway). It fit and I was pleased.
I went into a slumber after a long day of fighting Zombie Robots and interior designing and about 20 minutes into a sweet dream about paper planes I woke up to a ruckus and cries of pain.
My highly intelligent Warrior Cat figured that your products were Certified and up to the latest revision of the Building code and deemed it safe to tread over the vent, getting one of his cute little toesies stuck in the grate.

His first reaction was to jump in the air with all 4’s stretched in the air, yanking the vent out of the floor and ripping his toe off in the process. Now, as it is scientifically proven, Warrior Demon Cats have their main artery in that toe, so you can imagine the bloodbath I woke up to. Besides the gushing river of blood coming from his paw, there were bloody kitten paw prints across the room, creating a slipping hazard and a very child unfriendly scenery. I managed to calm down my best Buddy (ever) by feeding him a alcohol laced horse and burning the wound close with The Fire of a 1000 Hells and a cotton ball. However, it was too late and one of his lives left his body leaving him twitching like Voldemort after Harry Potter destroys ones of his Horcruxes.

Now, I consider my Warrior Cat priceless, and your product just took away 1/9^th of his Pricelessness, leaving me with a slightly less priceless Warrior Cat, missing a toe. Now unless you can tell me how my cat is supposed to wield his Flaming Morningstar with just 4 toes, I expect some sort of compensation.
In this, I am not picky so I will accept one of the following compensations:

·         A fire breathing Robotic Bear

·         A poster of Wolverine

·         An apology written in Ninja (XL)’s native tongue

·         A  complete recall of your vents made out of Kitten Slaying Razorblades

·         A picture of your CEO looking really sorry

Of course, any combination of the above will make it even better.

I hope you will reply to me as soon as possible, considering I am again by myself fighting Demon Lords and Butt-Pixies.

As you can imagine, I am not amused.

-          Dave Stevens

9 Ways to Make The Best Out Of a Mummified Cat Situation!

YES! You might have read this post before, but you cannot prove it, because i deleted the old one.
However, this post has like, 9000% more awesome thanks to the art send to me by Twitterman @Disc10.

These AWESOME images of dead cats were provided by, Sam Porter, a fresh from college cartoonist. If you'd like to see more of his work, visit his website where you can find all sorts of things, including his (very short) series of videos "Adventures In Games... And Stuff! at http://maddoodles.herobo.com/

So enjoy the new and improved 9 Ways to Make The Best Out Of a Mummified Cat Situation!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometimes in life, a company pulls a stunt that will immediately kill your cat.
Usually this happens out of the blue and you come home unexpectedly to a crispy dried out Mittens. If you trace back your steps for a day or two, you can pretty much pinpoint who is to blame and write them a horrible horrible e-mail, but that won't bring your cat back to it's former fluffy state.


1. Use your cat to fight off Monsters.

A Mummified Cat can come in handy in the occasional (Or Annual, if you live in Quebec) Monster Invasion. Just remember the different kind of weaknesses Monsters have:

Vampires: Take a point end of your Mummy Cat and use it as a stake to stab it right through a Vampires heart. It might be hard to aim at first, but practice makes Purrrfect.
Another great use for a Mummy Cat against Vampires is to marinate it for a few days in a Garlic Oil and drape Mummy Cat around your neck for extra protection.

Zombies: Keep your Mummy Cat in the Freezer for a few days and  attach it to the end off a stick for a Cat Shaped Bludgeoning Weapon. Even the dimmest Zombie will think twice before taking a lunge at your brain.




Werewolves: Dip your Mummy Cat in liquid silver, let it dry and throw it at a werewolf.
Only 1 shot, but super effective.
If you do not have any Silver, you are pretty much done for, because Werewolves are immune to regular Mummy Kittens.

Ninjas: Throw Mummy Cat on the floor and run for your life, or you will be dead.


2. Use your cat to make Kids eat their Vegetables.

This day and age, kids seem to have no respect for their parents or authority anymore.
If you have a Mummified Cat, you can become a blessing for struggling parents by renting it out to couples (or single parents) with annoying kids.
Any kids will eat their Broccoli if the consequence of being bratty is that their goldfish is being switched with Mr Crispy the Mummy Cat.
You will soon be a Saint amongst parents and you can make decent beer money off of this.



3. Cat Jerky.

According to some prophets, the end of the world is nigh and you never know when your current luxurious life will be changed into the harsh life of a nomad at the drop off a hat. Having a Mummy Cat might give you the edge over your neighbour in survival, meaning you get to loot his shit when he dies before you do. A Mummy Cat will help you survive the worst of hungers by acting as a nice piece of Jerky that will get you through the winter.
Don't hold back and put that kitten in your favorite blend of spices today!




4. Water Retainer

A true Apocalypse Survivor knows that water is the main aspect of Wasteland survival.
If you are in possession of two Mummy Cats, the Apocalypse might just be your lucky day! You can carry One cat for Jerky and the other one as a water retainer.
At some point in your travels you will encounter a fresh source of water and this is where you can turn your Mummy Cat into a catshaped waterbag.
The dryer the Cat, the more water it will retain!
You will laugh at all the other suckers as you take a Catsip and take their belonging after they succumb to thirst!




5. Grow an Army of Mummy Cats.

Ever had a day where you just felt like you wanted to take over the world, but didn't have the resources? If you are the proud owner of a Mummy Cat, you can just plant it and grow a second one in a matter of years! Make sure the sand is dry and loose like the Deserts in Egypt. Don't feel discouraged by the long waiting time, your army will grow exponentially!




6. Juggle Act!

Unfortunately, you cannot juggle with just one Mummy Cat (if you don't want to be lame) so you have to get suckered at least three times before this becomes a viable option. If you already own a Mummy Cat, now is the best time to practice your juggling skills and wait for another douchebag to kill your new cat!



7. The Perfect Crime

They say that when you hit someone with a bag of oranges, your victim will not bruise.
However, people will still investigate your crime if your victim is believable enough and you don't have an Alibi.
Your Mummy Cat will keep you safe from any investigation!
You can pretty much hit the Chief of Police over the head with a Mummy Cat and no-one will believe him!
"Seriously, who gets hit over the head with a Mummy Cat, get outta here!"
Perfect Crime!



8. Three Words...

• Candy
• Stick
• Piñata!!!

9. Blog about it

Nevermind, i don't want to give up this gig.


-Dave Stevens

The "Your Product Killed My Cat" Themesong: CRISPY MITTENS!

Dear Readers,

I would like to share the following with you:

The first remix of the song - CRISPY MITTENS

As you can imagine, i hope you will be amused.

- Dave Stevens



p.s.

Awesome Artwork coming soon!