Romero’s Tales from the Darkside predated the Tales from the Crypt revamp on TV as a response to the popularity of Stephen King and Creepshow, back when money had some flavor to its genitals, and, more importantly, movies by the dozen recognized that every household cat holds a pernicious aptitude no longer favorable for discussion in our fey time. The EC horror comic aesthetic, pulp throwbacks more cinematically fitting than the quirkily humorous kid friendly franchise superhero cajolery still fashionable after a decade of tone deaf mass approval has politicked testosterone into both a myth and an illegality, twisted its camp renderings beyond morality: the only bent method by which morality should be broached in the arts, if at all.
Yes, I suggest more anti-feline propaganda in our media. It will quell this faux berserk era of oversensitive benumbedness. I can think of only two or so fellas who seem cool in their owning cats and it is as a juxtaposition to what manly fellas they indeed are (women who own cats, I dunno, fair enough, looks good, seems fitting, you’re the boss), not because they love their pet, though I fear they may, but rare passes can be issued in these cases. Wincing barnstormer of public appeal and former shit starter in need of a father’s fist Marc Maron and his latest non-effort at a special is nigh one of these men. The pampered and pampering purr boy Marons (or the boyfriend in Frances Ha, the beginning of the end of Baumbach’s talent and taste in partners) starring in the unnecessarily complicated kerfuffle on everyone’s jobsite (you know the neurotically whining, passive aggressive, female appropriating, like, type) need to have been raised by the likes of Cat’s Eye, The Uncanny, and the Tales from the Darkside film, in which our hero, an innocent hitman, is brought into reverse vomit mutilation, a walking blowjob with fur, at the hands of one of these soul sipping bratty excuses for an animal.
I would punch a cat in its goddamn snout for less than a penny. I’d burn the whiskers to a nub and turn the beast in circles until it swallowed all its puke. I would punt a cat into traffic and continue about my dinner. I’d cut off a cat’s tail and kick it into a panicked rush to paint my room. I would stare into the dead, pretentiously neon eyeholes of a kitten while crushing its skull and become aroused. I would hit a cat with a hammer and ask about its day. I swerve in pursuit, if they cross the street, you dig!? Having a shit year? It’s not the catnip refresher of your internet app, nor is it the collective hairball of who runs what. Cats are who’s to blame.
There are millions of them! Everywhere!
Sean Kilpatrick, raised in Detroit, published or forthcoming at Boston Review, NERVE, New York Tyrant, BOMB, Fence, Columbia Poetry Review, evergreen review, Hobart, Sleepingfish, VICE, Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora, Black Sun Lit, Spork, The Quietus, Whiskey Island, Talking Book, Fanzine, The Malahat Review, LIT, wrote Anatomy Courses (with Blake Butler, Lazy Fascist Press) and Sir William Forsyth’s Freebase Nuptials (Sagging Meniscus Press). http://sean-kilpatrick.tumblr.com