FACECAT NOCAT

Judas P. Loungechair, my brother, curiously aligned with the technotrends in Furryland (as the dumb so often are), spends much of his chomping days on Facebook—adding, deleting, and modifying friends; chatting it up with little Korean pussies; exchanging hearts with stuffed giraffes in Indonesia; getting drawn into inane Restaurant City and FarmVille dramas, and commenting in his stunted way on how, for example, Martin Luther-Meow’s whiskers remind him of that mouse he removed from Life some weeks before—all this on his slightly precious MSMFGPK (Microsoft Specially Modified Feline Giant Paw Keyboard), with which he has achieved a respectable 47 wpm, albeit looking fairly spastic in order to reach these heights.

What I wish to examine today is the non-human phenomenon of Facebook.  In case you bipeds didn’t realize, it’s huge.  The number of “pet” cats, pet (read incarcerated) dogs, chinchillas, hamsters, gerbils, monkeys (real and stuffed), ferrets, bears (stuffed), unicorns (imaginary), chimeras (fantastical), and bunnies (real, stuffed, and eaten) may now be larger than the number of humans (real, petted, stuffed, eaten, imaginary, ridiculous, and fantastical).

Naturally, I wish to examine this phenomenon from the perspective of nature, which will—naturally again—reveal how absurd it makes you bipeds look.  How absurd it shows you to be.  And how it reveals the Feline Race as Ascendant, Transcendent, and Resplendent.

Firstly, the FFF (Furry Face Fenomenon) reveals the human as sentimental and thus inexorably committed to delusion and thus insane.  Show me an authentic cat anywhere on this devouring planet that actually cares about Easter and I’ll show you the Andromeda Galaxy in a teacup.  Let me tell you something, oh delusional one—neither your cat nor nature is a sweet, loving, kind, generous, altruistic, peaceful, moral entity.  Nature is indifferent, brutal, wasteful, greedy, relentless.  I, Jesus—and every moving beast on Facebook and off—am indifferent, brutal, wasteful, greedy, and relentless.  And you—you too, human!—are a subset of nature; you’re just addicted to using words and mental magic tricks to deny this fact which is too horrible for your feeble minds.

Secondly, the FFF reveals the human as irredeemably anthropomorphic and thus inexorably committed to delusion and thus insane.  I hate to tell you, but your cats aren’t Christians, Buddhists, Republicans, of the Devil’s Party; they aren’t fans of Obama or Asociación Baasgalgo; they aren’t even sadists as being a sadist assumes a moral universe to which no rightful cat subscribes.  In this sense, at least, Judas has it right:  his religion is shoelaces, his politics catnip.  Even so:  he should be out there gnawing on his politics and religion, not planting pretend vegetables on pretend land in a pretend community on a giant keyboard dreamt, designed, manufactured, and sold by humans who live their lives in Pretendville.

Thirdly, the FFF reveals the human as increasingly virtual (read alienated from nature) and thus inexorably committed to delusion and thus insane.  Back to Point Firstly … as that ridiculous illusory invention of yours—time—keeps advancing, you also keep advancing … but your advancement is an increased burial … a burial in words, unrealities, ideologies, technologies, lunacies.  You, with your widiculous wily words, call this increased burial progress!  There is one reality, dipsticks, and I am its avatar.  I am Jesus B. Panoramica, I know no falsehood, I share the truth with you.

To the felines, I say to you—get off Facebook and kill something … be the felines you were meant to be.

To the humans, I say to you—delusional is obviously what you were meant to be.  Which suits us cats just fine.  We learned how to exploit it millennia ago and as your madness grows and grows, so grows our exploitation, our power, and our joy.

THAT OTHER THING IS BALDFACE

Now I’m not one to quibble over words any more than I quibble over things.  Unlike your lunatic modern assertions that perfidiously bifurcate the word and the thing, the two are eternally one and every competent cat knows this.  But to offer you yet another revelation of yourselves (I suffer no illusions that it will make any difference), I say to you that that a definition of the human is—an incompetent, hairless, graceless, spurious cat.  And I’m not sure I’ve yet found a better example of the human—that is, a better example of an incompetent cat; that is, a better example of incompetence—than Baldface, who feeds and pampers me like an Italian grandmother … and if it weren’t for this, he would be dead.

Unlike me—the Noblest and Wisest of Cats, perpetually uniting all opposites on the Grand Tightrope of My Furriness—Baldface slips and slides on time’s icy surfaces with no fixed identity, no fixed face, no fixed mental state, no fixed direction, no fixed idea or vision, no fixed expression, no fixed address.  He’s tossed like a salad in the hands of drunken gods, never knowing whether he’s coming, going, barfing, sleeping, lying, stuffing or being stuffed, lurching, dying, drinking.  The only thing constant about him is his scatological effusion, which he talks about as if he’s just made his first deposit in that Deep Brown Bank.

Words for him are not solid and proper, like a cat’s paws as they glide across a fence, but gaseous and dissolute, filling your nostrils with the most noxious odors, then wafting away until the next belch, which he’s inclined to think is clever.  And for him, I suppose, it is.  Like an 8-year-old boy, farts, belches, and scats are what he lives for.  Like any charlatan, he calls them art and only because there are humans even shockingly denser than he, a few believe him.

Never in the history of you sorry bipeds has one been so ineptly named.  A true Baldface would be transparently who he is—not a constantly melting wardrobe of disposable masks.  He is a void, a smelch, a smulch, a whirl of nothingness in the greater whirl of human nothingness, a fart of flatulence in the greater wind of human indigestion, a slimy toad without a lilypad, a tongue without flies but many lies, a skank and skink, a skoonk and woebebootle.  He is never who he is for he never was or even is; he can never be a has-been for he’s never been a has.  They call this homo homo homo sapiens!  They call it Baldface!  Nay nay!  They should just call it Homo Plus.  Or Plus Homo.  Or maybe Noface.  Or maybe just a sad sad No.

Nevertheless.  He feeds me.  I let him live.

SHE IS GOLDILOCKS

Parsing the names of felines is straightforward.  We are strangely simpler and certainly nobler than the sticky slimy slippery human.  As even one of your own said, "Of all God's creatures, there is only one that cannot be made the slave of the lash.  That one is the cat.  If man could be crossed with a cat it would improve man, but it would deteriorate the cat."  (For you scholars, that was one of the famous Twains—I leave you to write a dissertation on whether it was Mark or Shania.)

Thus when it comes to parsing your names, even I—Jesus B. Panoramica—am left wiggling … not, certainly, with trepidation, but disgust.  You have only two legs, after all, neither of which you use particularly well.  You lack adequate hair cover.  You devote your lives to the most infantile illusions and worship the freaks who lead you in the most callow and ridiculous fantasies.  You are as dependent—physically, emotionally, and intellectually—throughout your lives as you were hanging from the tit.  You’re all as debauched as a destruction of wild cats but devote your lives to working together to cover your incontinence with thick words of false virtue.  You exuberantly hack at the foundation of your lives and, as the very roots of your existence begin to disappear, you name this disappearance progress and superiority.  I should just name you all liars and leave it at that.

Nevertheless, I use a few of you for easy tidbits and cheap caresses and can’t resist a minor fascination with your dull deceptions.  Hence, I spill a few electrons on you, beginning with Goldilocks M. Fartburn, who takes me to the doctor’s and prefers my brother’s brute neediness and stupidity to my eminence and independence.

Goldilocks.  Now if her body were entirely covered in the blond hirsute exuberance that dances on her head, she might become worthy of the name.  But she substitutes an infinite array of textures, layers, colors, experiments, and vanities from across the human-forsaken earth—sometimes appearing as 13 or 14 different women in one day.  And her moods are equally and fashionably capricious—sullen, aloof, shy, aggressive, friendly, intimate, obnoxious, cantankerous, insatiable, cuddly, angry, vain, self-deprecating, generous, tyrannical.  Sometimes the physical fashion matches the emotional fashion, sometimes not.  Whatever.  The point is—she needs to visit the three bears and eat some porridge.

M.  We all know what the M stands for.  And if you don’t, you don’t know Goldilocks.

Fartburn.  The land of cats is the land of cats and that is all.  We have no need to oddly divide ourselves among strange jurisdictions (like Lapland, Greenland, Swaziland, Deutschland, Thailand).  We are cats.  We each are our own aristocracy.  Fartburn, however, originates from a northern land call Fartland, which reveals all really.  The Farttish pass wind through every available orifice and call it commonsense; they deep-fry the wind and call it cuisine; they put it in books and call it philosophy; they kick it around and call it fartball.  A bunch of them came over to Catada and begat Goldilocks, who carries on the smelly tradition of her ancestors with aplomb and abomb.

For a human, she is somewhat aptly named.  But I would call her Goldiwuss M Fartfart Pprrpffrrppffff.

Next—that other thing called Baldface.

HE IS JUDAS

After a delightful time working the furries of the Bain Co-op to a frenzied caterwauling in the Cats With No Name Riverdale Dungeon, I now have time to reflect on my brother’s fatuous name.  I’m not even sure he’s my brother, of course—one never is—but genes, like all of us, play games, and one game they enjoy playing is called Splitting the Attributes.  Judas gets brawn, plainness, stupidity, sentimentality, and inarticulateness … I get cunning, beauty, cosmic intelligence, insight, and verbal dexterity.  Which way do you think evolution is heading?  Why am I the one writing the blog?

Anyway, enough silly questions.  A few familial statements.  I am Jesus B. Panoramica.  He is Judas P. Loungechair.  He’s high on quantity, low on quality.  It’s reasonable to say that we’re products of heteropaternal superfecundation.  And if you don’t know what that is, biped, maybe you should go back to school.

Let’s parse his name the way we did quite recently with mine.

Judas.  When your namesake is the cowardly betrayer of the Son of God, what do you do with your life?  Sleep.  Sleep and chirp.  Sleep and chirp and stuff your furry face.  Dumbly wait for death to take you down.  In short, live the way most cats and and all you humans do.

P.  In the way that the B. in my name obliquely yet inexorably refers to the core of all essences, so P. quite obviously alludes to pee and penis.  The former I don't particularly object to—it’s necessary and serves a useful, comic, and occasionally higher and omnipotent function.  But the latter—as all evolved beings know (regardless of their sex or gender)—is an anachronism limply dangling on the crevices of time, waiting for the crack of history to suck it up forever.  Not that my brother has a functioning euphemism … but that, if anything, just proves my point.

Loungechair.  Other than me, rarely has a cat been so aptly named.  A formidable couch slut, he’s staked out the softest pads in the neighborhood and lolls from one to another like some fluffy monorail.   He likes his cushions with crumbs around the edges so he barely has to move to eat.  He spreads himself like a cheap whore, welcoming whatever hands are passing by, then lollygaggles back to his home to inform his indulgent masters (yet again) what has transpired.  Which is nothing.

Nevertheless, he is my brother.  So, like the mafia, I do what’s necessary with him according to the ancient codes.  And, to his credit, he lives his name with the integrity only animals and gods are capable of; whereas you humans distinguish yourselves by partiality, fragmentation, disingenuity, and disaffection.  Perpetually broken identities.  Perpetually broken names.

Until I return again to instruct you in the ways of nature that you’ve conveniently forgotten and to inform you of the Feline Things to Come, consider your name.  Stefano Eeell, perhaps.  Brenda Nothingness.  G.I. Carrion.  Don’t waste today shopping and promoting yourself like everyone around you.  Instead, take a few moments to parse your name.  Look in the hard mirror of identity.  Become what you are.

I AM JESUS

Let's begin with a few words about me.  Not the usual tedious weight, age, and length data--but the attributes that distinguish me from all other sentient beings that have lived, are living, or will ever live.

You humans have lost the ability to connect name and identity.  (In fact your philosophers pride themselves in this loss, stupidly thinking it's somehow an advancement.)  So you name your sons Matthew and John--yet the former is no gift of God but a ridiculous slug, the latter no indication that God is gracious but that God doesn't exist.  You name your daughters Claire and Bliss, but the one's dull and the other's suicidal.

Note, however, my name.  Jesus. B. Panoramica.  Let's take a moment, shall we, and examine the perfect unity between each element of my name and my essential focused self.

Jesus.  Various madmen and scholars have looked for the Antichrist in the podiums, mirrors, and closets of history.  But they have not been sufficiently clever to look for him in a female.  Or a cat.  Here I am, kids:  the new messiah, the one who crucifies crucifixion and kills sweet mice for a smile.  I take the name that has made virgins eat their hymens and generals drink their tears.  I take that name, I overturn it, and cast it newly forged into the sparkling casino of destiny.  I am Jesus.

B.  I shall not tell you yet what the B. is for, if indeed it is for anything.  For now, let us be enigmatic and say it reaches further back than Hamlet, further back than that other Jesus, to that burning bush that mystified Moses and gave your pedantic philosophers something to blab about for a few millennia.  "Who are you?" Moses said to the weird fire that talked.  "To be to be," said the bush.  I don't repeat myself though.  I am to be.  I am be.  I am B.

Panoramica.  I have eyes in my ass.  Eyes at the end of my whiskers, the hook of each claw.  Each second is circumscribed by my sight.  I have vision which sees not just past your massive and unjustified egos but far down the path of the past to the reaches of the furry future.  I see you in your desolation.  I see history like a banana peel your whole sad race is going to slip on.  I see all and forever.  I am Panoramica.

I have to go now to my special S&M dungeon but when I emerge I'll contrast my name and identity with my stupid brother--Judas P. Loungechair--an all too typical cat.