The Fourth Judge Dreams About His Mom Murdering His Cat

I had a dream that my Mom roasted a cat, mistakenly thinking it was mine. It looked just like a crispy roast duck you’d get in a Chinese restaurant, only cat shaped.

When I first saw the abomination (which looked perfectly cooked, to my Mom’s credit) I was devastated. How could my own Mother not only kill my cat, but attempt to feed it to me in an elaborate preparation? I knew I told her about the many problems he was giving me, but surely this was taking things a step too far, don’t you think?

After the initial shock of what had happened wore off, I started to appraise the situation. I had an inexplicable dream hunch that this might not be my cat, so I asked my Mom how she knew it was mine. She showed me a picture of the cat while it was still alive (it’s unclear why she took the picture), and I noticed that this cat didn’t have the same distinctive markings on its haunches that my cat does – black splotches on white fur that make it seem like he’s wearing assless chaps. This cat had no assless chaps!

I began to look for my beast and opened some sort of bread basket. I have no idea what a bread basket looks like, but this was, undoubtedly, a bread basket. Lo and behold, my cat was in the bread basket (it’s unclear how he got there)!

I picked him up and hugged him and kissed him, ecstatic that my mom had ruthlessly slaughtered the wrong animal.

After the touching reunion was over I started to think about my Mom shaving off the fur of whomever’s cat she had killed – no chef worth a damn leaves the fur on a roasted cat – before picturing her wearing an apron as she tied up the cat’s legs with cooking twine, slathered the skin with butter, herbs, and spices and placed the finished product in her state-of-the-art, restaurant quality oven.

Anyway, I think I don’t hate my cat anymore. We’ve got a long way to go before the relationship is sound enough for me to love and trust him, but I think we’ll get there.

I was at a bar the other night and struck up a conversation with the bartender. We flirted, she touched my hand a little, I bought her a drink. Everything seemed to be going well and I was getting all the right signals so I asked her for her phone number.

She gave it to me and I was pretty happy with myself as I was reasonably certain that it wasn’t a fake number. She was way out of my league in the looks department, but it’s not like I’m a completely hideous freakazoid, and when you combine that with my UNDENIABLE CHARM it isn’t the craziest idea to think this girl might go for me.

The following Tuesday I called her, still just a little nervous that she might have given me a wrong number. She was, after all, very attractive and dressed like a complete skank. Very attractive skanks don’t usually go for me. I don’t have big muscles.

The phone rang a number of times and I began to get nervous, but right when it seemed like it was about to go to voicemail she picked up. Success!

“Hey is this Broomhilda?” (Her name has been changed to Broomhilda to preserve her anonymity.)

“Yeah, who’s this?” she said.

“It’s Dingo,” I said. (I have changed my name to Dingo to preserve my anonymity.) “We met at Fuck Bagels the other night.” (I have changed the name of the bar to Fuck Bagels because it’s my prerogative to do such a thing.)

“Oh, right,” Broomhilda said. Immediately red flags went up. She did not say “Oh, right” the way a girl who wanted my penis inside of her would say, “Oh, right.”

“How are you doing?” she disinterestedly asked.

“I’m great. How about you? How’s the new year been treating you?”

“Can I call you back?” she said. I knew this was bad, so I stammered for a few seconds before replying to her.

“Uh, yeah, sure, I guess,” I responded. She hung up the phone without saying anything and I knew I would never hear from her again. It was quiet in the background, so there’s no chance she was at a bar or in a movie. My only hope was that she was in the middle of sucking somebody else’s D, which is hardly the kind of thing you want to root for, no matter how sex positive you are.

Fast forward a week and I still haven’t heard from Broomhilda. At first I was angry. I couldn’t understand why she gave me her number if she had no intention of seeing me again, but then I realized that she’s a bartender and bartenders work for tips and I’m an idiot. Then I couldn’t understand why she picked up the phone if she didn’t want to talk to me before realizing that not everyone is a neurotic mess who refuses to pick up the phone when they see an unrecognized number. Finally I got sad and wondered if I would ever find true love. After a few minutes of that I realized that my first thought when I saw this girl was, “I would never want to date anyone like that, and she seems incredibly stupid, but I sure would love to have sex with her.” I’m a jackass who got my comeuppance, not a hopeless romantic stuck in a cruel, unfeeling world.

The moral of this story, if it wasn’t abundantly clear already, is that I’m single and I like it when a girl sits on my face.

Speaking of girls sitting on my face, I want somebody to use me for my body just once in my life. Is that too much to ask? I want to find a woman who will use me for my penis (maybe she’s into double chins, too) and discard my lifeless carcass on the side of life’s highway like a third double cheeseburger from McDonald’s. Who can eat more than two double cheeseburgers from McDonald’s without wanting to puke? Does such an animal exist?

Why must attaining my hopes and dreams be so difficult?

Speaking of hopes and dreams, I joined SugarDaddy4Me.com the other day. It’s a site whose main purpose is to put Sugar Daddies in contact with Sugar Babies (their terminology). It didn’t work out, though, because I signed up as a Sugar Baby (male), looking for a Sugar Momma, which isn’t what people go to that site to do. Sure, it’s an option, but mostly its for poor young skanks looking for rich old geezers. I had to broaden my search to within 250 miles of my zip code to find one woman who claimed she was a Sugar Momma. Her boobs looked saggy, though, so I didn’t send her an email.

Honestly, go fuck yourself if you brush your teeth in the bathroom at work. What are you trying to prove? I don’t even brush my teeth before I go to sleep at night and I’ve never gotten a cavity in my entire life. Calm the fuck down. If you want to freshen your breath just chew some gum like the rest of civilized society. You’re a pox on us all, you haughty shithead. You’re purposefully trying to give us self esteem issues and I’m not going to let you get away with it. I hate you.

Speaking of bathrooms, I love it when I sit down to take a shit and the guy next to me immediately goes for the toilet paper roll. You know the poor bastard was just trying to avoid going back to work, but even work is preferable to sitting in a stall unnecessarily while a stranger pushes fresh fecal matter out of his butt hole. If it’s not, you’ve made some horrible decisions in your life.

I feel bad that I’ve cut short this man’s shit break, but knowing the psychology involved makes me chuckle to myself. It also makes me feel all-knowing and all-powerful, like I can see inside this person’s very soul. I UNDERSTAND THE HUMAN CONDITION LIKE NO MAN WHO HAS COME BEFORE ME!

I may be a bit delusional, but I don’t care. It’s basically the same thing as the placebo effect. Who gives a shit if this is a sugar pill? If I’m crazy enough to convince myself that it’s curing my cancer and then it cures my cancer, who’s the crazy one? In other words, HOW’S YOUR CANCER YOU WORK BATHROOM, TOOTH BRUSHING, EGOTISTICALL ASSHOLE?!

My fucking shoes won’t stop clicking and it’s driving me mad. I know I could get them resoled, but that’s neither here nor there. For the time being I am announcing my presence everywhere I walk. I feel like a child molester going to door to door informing my new neighbors of my presence due to the totally unfair provisions of Megan’s Law.

Subway is a disgusting establishment and I try to go there as infrequently as I can. I do, however, buy apples when I find myself at Subway. You’d think you couldn’t fuck up apples, but Subway has found a way. They cut them up and put them in sealed plastic bags.

First of all, is this not the most unnecessary thing that has ever been done in any context? I think we’ve decided as a species that we’re ok with taking apples off of trees and eating them as-is. Subway, however, feels the need to put apples through what I can only assume is an enormous, fecal-matter-covered, conveyor belt-driven machine that slices them and puts them in Earth-murdering plastic.

The worst part is that they put two different kinds of apples in the same bag. One red. One green. Who the hell eats two types of apples in the same sitting? Is this the reason that Subway cuts up apples and puts them in bags, so we can enjoy two different apple flavors at once without wasting half an apple? Are they assuming this is something we have been clamoring for?

Since they most likely are, let me tell them that we are decidedly not. The whole two apple thing is a horrible experience. It confuses your taste buds to switch back and forth. It’s like brushing your teeth then drinking orange juice. Random sensors get activated on your tongue and sweet tastes sour and sour tastes umami and black is white and night is semen.

Why did they feel the need to do this? To justify their use of an 800 billion dollar apple slicing and packaging machine? I’ve never been half way through a banana and thought to myself, “Fuck this I want pineapple.” How shitty does Subway think my taste buds’ attention spans are?

Fuck you Subway. Fuck you in the mouth with a roast cat.

Speaking of Subways, the other day I was walking up the subway steps when a woman’s shoe fell off ahead of me. A man behind her shouted “YOU DROPPED YOUR SHOE,” apparently under the mistaken assumption that people don’t notice when their shoes fall off.

It was delightful. I lost my shit immediately, which made me think, “Is it weird that I unabashedly laugh in public?” It probably is, right?

Let me know your thoughts on public laughter (the kind where a person who is by himself starts audibly laughing) in the bustling comments section below.

I don’t like Russian women. They are stern and they frighten me and fear does not make me horny. It’s weird because, as I have already mentioned, I like when women sit on my face, which is a domineering kind of thing. Maybe it’s because the Russian language is ugly as shit and all Russian women have deep voices. I like it when a woman sits on my face, not Boris Yeltsin.

My office vending machine charges $1.25 for a tall boy of Arizona Iced Tea.

It says 99¢ ON THE FUCKING CAN!

How can they get away with this? Vending Machine companies are worse than Feline Leukemia.

Did you seriously think I was about to make a fucking “Occupy” joke? I’m not some sort of work bathroom, tooth-brushing philistine. Give me a god damn break.

(This counts as an Occupy joke. I’m ashamed of myself.)

Stephen Hawking has Lou Gehrig’s disease. Don’t you think it would be funny to see Stephen Hawking giving the Luckiest Man In The World speech? Or maybe Lou Gehrig in a talking robot chair giving the same speech? Is this sub-Family Guy level humor?