Dear Tabby: For three years, I’ve successfully sported a pixie cut. I could shower, dash for the closet, slip into something comfortable, and run to work fifteen minutes before eight. Now, I stumble into half-closed elevators, my hair looking like seaweed, coworkers looking concerned. What should I do to simplify?
Brush your damn hair. And invest in some Garnier Fructisse. It pains me to see you use dishwashing soap as you’ve got a way with procrastinating.
Dear Tabby: I sweep my apartment nightly. I also cook on the regular. How do I muster the self-assurance to invite a fellow over for tea?
Are you sure this concerns tea? Whatever your motives are, I’d advise you to first remove that bottle you keep as a centerpiece. You know, the one with all my whiskers I lost while losing weight. That, along with my presence, deters a man enough. However, I implore you to keep me.
Dear Tabby: The man in the elevator had a sizable shoebox. I asked if he went shoe shopping, and he told me that he was carrying around his divorce papers. Then he winked. What could this mean?
It means you should invite him for tea. Was it a shoebox from a past purchase? You know what they say about men with big feet.
Dear Tabby: Whomever should I vote for these upcoming weeks? My appetite for politics has withered.
The one with the good hair. You could always write me in.
Dear Tabby: How do you deal with anger?
Finally, it’s occurred to you that I don’t sleep back spread on your face in the absence of a justified reason. I hate salmon. Stop with your generalizations.
Dear Tabby: Are your whiskers magical? They quiver like a magic wand, like I’m Cinderella or something.
First of all, thanks to your reckless dancing, and running, and coffee table crashes, neither of your feet would perfectly fit any kind of slipper. Secondly, my whiskers are magical, but only in the sense that they ward off pesky hands that sneak up from behind to tickle me. My name isn’t Elmo.
Dear Tabby: Why do cats of your kind have an “M” on the forehead?
Why, because we’re majestic. What about the “K” on your coffee cup? Does it tell me you’re killable?
Dear Tabby: Whole milk, or skim milk? Which is healthier?
I’m not lactose intolerant. Both are good. As for nutritional value, I can’t provide an answer. I can say you’re pretty arrogant in the way you have to relish both in front of my face, petting me at the same time. Humans.
Dear Tabby: My migraines and joint pain are killing me. What are some good remedies?
All you need is me. Now, lay on your stomach and allow my claws to make music on your back. Be sure to moisturize. I hate dust.
Dear Tabby: You mean the world, so much that I’d quit my job to spend my days with you.
Don’t. Food ain’t free.
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