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.