Monday, January 22, 2007
You DARE to Cage Me? Taste My Wrath!
It was no surprise when Chuck Liddell called me for a rematch! He was pretty torn up (literally and figuratively) after our last Ultimate Fighting Championship bout; I left him hurtin' for certain! "This time," he whimpered, "I'll be ready. I've been training hard and growing my nails out, Kukka. I think we'll be more evenly matched. You're going down, little pussy cat!"
Bring it, Liddell. Bring. It.
I've employed a pretty rigorous training regime for our rematch (although, I won't need the conditioning). Each morning, I awaken promptly at 3:12 am and flick at the window blinds until my Agent yells at me in a sleepy haze (a.k.a. my signal to move to my next exercise station). After working out my triceps on the blinds, I leap to the dresser and give my biceps a workout by flicking things to the floor. A water bottle? Yes! Some papers? You betcha! Feel the burn, Kukka...feel the burn!
Flick, flick...more yelling...flicking, flicking...yelling, yelling. Off to the carpet! Plucking the fibers not only sharpens my claws (a must for any respectable cage match), it strengthens my paws. The better to tear your flesh with, Mr. Liddell.
I know the day of our rematch will involve a lot of drama. In addition to the standard gaggle of paparazzi camped outside my house, I will have reporters from ESPN, ESPN2, ESPN Classic, and YETANOTHERESPN at my front door beginning at 6:00 am. I don't mind the questions about the fight itself, but the pleas for me to go on dates? Have some pride, people!
Retrieving my signature pink, satin robe with a hole cut for my tail down from the closet, I worried I may have packed on a few pounds and wouldn't be able to belt it. Fortunately, my Agent had the foresight to sew it on the bias so it had a little stretch to it. As I daintily ran my paws over the ultra-feminine, flowery, iron-on white letters that spelled "EMPRESS OF EVIL," I couldn't help but remember my first meeting in the cage with The Iceman.
[Editor's Note: Insert embellished flashback here.]
Once the referee announced the rules (there were none) and had given us the go, I started rubbing myself against Chuck's legs. "Purrrrrrrrr..." I cooed. "Purrrrrrrrrrr..."
"What a pretty, little kitty!" he exclaimed. "Come here, kitty! Here kitty, kitty!"
I let him pick me up and rubbed my face against his.
"You are so beautiful, pookie-wookie!"
SLAM! My paw met his nose with a thunderous crack that echoed throughout the arena. Raising my paw, prepared to strike again, I looked deeply into his eyes. "But..." he stammered, "Pretty kitty? What the..."
KABLAM! I struck again, this time leaving bloody track marks from my claws.
He finally whipped me down onto the mat (how many strikes must a man take before he understands he is getting his ass handed to him on a silver platter?) and tried to kick me.
A booming voice from the crowd yelled, "You bastard! You can't kick a defenseless little kitty baby!" The rest of the mob wildly agreed and began booing The Iceman.
"Purrrrrrrrr..." I whispered, blinking slowly and ever-so-adorably.
"You're right, Mister," shouted Liddell. Reaching to pick me up again and offering a hug, he said, "Who's the prettiest kitty around? Who? Who? It's you!"
He brought me to his chest and cuddled me close. Not close enough, though, as I was able to lift my paw and strike twice on his chest.
"DAMN IT!" he yelled, throwing me across the ring.
"Too bad cats always land on their feet, you sorry, pathetic pussy!" I taunted.
According to the newspapers, it was at that point when the fight truly began. He chased me around the ring, reaching for my body, but never quite fast enough to succeed. I was spry; I was quick. I shouted obscenities at him and insulted his mother.
"You little bitch..." he hissed.
"You'll never take me alive, Ultimate Fighting LOSER!"
The climax of the fight was when I unveiled my signature move: "The Ol' Unleash the Funk and Punch the Junk." If you aren't familiar, you must live under a rock. Not only has this move proven successful for me time and time again, there have been countless fighters who have attempted to replicate it.
Yet none have ever mastered it...but me.
Before Chuck knew what was about to hit him, I first unleashed the funk. Tightening my abdomen and loosening my anus, I expelled a stank that would make even the fiercest human's eyes bleed. He staggered around the ring, wiping his eyes and weeping.
"I can't see!" he shouted. "She has blinded me!"
I needed to introduce the final blow quickly, before the funk cleared. Approaching his crotch with the speed of a cheetah, I reached up, brutally punched his junk and clawed my way down his shorts.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!" He stretched his arms and shook the arena with his bellow of torment. I have to admit, hearing Chuck screams echoing in my ears was the best gift a feline empress could receive. The chanting of "Kukka, Kukka, Kukka" from the crowd came in very close second.
As he fell to the ground, blubbering like a boy who was sitting home with his mother on prom night, his hands clutched his throbbing crotch (and I don't mean throbbing in the good way).
When the referee approached me, lifted me over his head and declared me the winner--something he had to announce twice so that the crowd could hear it over Chuck's wailing, I had to smile with pride. It was a true David and Goliath story...only, due to my extreme celebrity and popularity, I was really the giant and he was the itty-bitty boy.
So, I guess it wasn't like that at all.
Anyway, I kicked his ass and that night and became the Ultimate Fighting Champion. Later, the UFC asked that I retire from the ring and consider becoming one of the super-sexy Octagon Girls. When I was told there was to be no full-frontal nudity, I politely declined.
With these super-sexy multiple nips, why should I keep them under wraps?
Oh, I'm ready for our rematch, Mr. Liddell. I hope, for your sake, you wear a cup this time!