Sunday night, when I desperately required a good night’s sleep, I was roused at about 2 A.M. by a rattling noise at the window. I nervously opened the blinds to reveal: a fat white cat tapping its paw on the pane! What kind of cat does that? Oh, I know: Satan’s cat. Anyway, I politely told the bitch to get the hell out of here, and like, go back to your master, who is known by many names, including Old Scratch. No dice. So I had to get out the Wiffle Ball bat and smack the sill a few times. Now the surely monkeypox-virus-carrying beast set up residence on a ledge a few yards away and proceeded to mew sullenly like a reluctant Weight Watchers disciple passing a Dairy Queen. Every time I started to doze off, the fleabag started whining again. For a while, I tried to get to sleep by envisioning fat white cats sittingly peacefully on a conveyor belt that dumped each off into a meat grinder, after which each was squirted into empty can labeled Purr-loin. But it didn’t work. Finally, at 5 A.M., the caterwauling ceased. I still haven’t recovered.


The finale of 24: what a tremendous let-down! Jack Bauer cried at the end? Wahhh, wahhh, wahhh. Big deal.