Me: I'm sorry...huh?
The Agent: This torn up bag of food! THIS one! What happened?
Me: Funny story. Well, not so much FUNNY as...scary. Yeah! SCAAAAAARY!
I came aound the corner from the hallway and saw him.
The Agent: Who him? Him who?
Me: This big, um...dog. And then, as he tore through the bag, his eyes glowing red with rage, I politely asked him to stop effing with my food. And then he turned around, apparently not a fan of the f-word, and glared at me. Foamy saliva pooled at the corners of his mouth. The stench of his breath filled the air as he panted and panted and panted and...
The Agent: Kukka, get to the point.
Me: And then I was all "You better check yourself, beast. The Agent will have your head on a stick if she catches you messing all over the counter with scraps of paper and shit, yo." And then...he turned back to the bag that was desperately trying to contain the kibble and spat. Yes, SPAT on the food! And then I went into a blind rage and batted my claws at his tail. And then one of my claws hooked into his wagging appendage and he yelped and ran away.
AND THEN...Oprah walked in, head moving about as if she were a life-sized bobble-head doll. She was like, "OH NO YOU DI'INT!" And then I was all, "What, bitch?"
That sent her off the edge. Over the next few seconds, amidst her high-pitched, shrill shrieking, I think I learned:
- The kitty-kibble-crunching dog was hers.
- That Oprah's dogs are allowed to do anything they wish because "...they are Oprah emmer-effing Winfrey's babies, skank!"
- That one of "Oprah's Favorite Things" is to viciously and repeatedly swat innocent cats on their super-sexy and robust hind quarters with no remorse.
She was all, "NOM, NOM, NOM! *belch* NOM, NOM, NOM!"
And then I was going, "No, Oprah! STOP!"
She was like, "NOM, NOM, NOM! OPRAH...HUNG...RY!"
And then she heard you coming up the stairs, jumped upon the window ledge, sprouted demon wings and leapt into the air. The wind from her flapping wings is what blew all the cat bag paper around and made a mess.
The Agent: So you expect me to believe that a wild dog, belonging to Oprah Winfrey tore open your bag of food, you swore at the dog, clawed him on the tail after which he ran away. Then Oprah showed up, yelled at you, engorged herself on kibble, sprouted demon-like wings, and flew from the window.
Me: Wait! I haven't even scratched the surface of the Willy Wonka angle and how the water was splashed from the dish and splattered on the floor! Those Oompa Loompas are a fierce gang of hooligans!
The Agent: So, Kukka, how long did it take you to obliterate the bag of cat food?
Me: About 4½ minutes. WAIT! NO!