The Horror of the Marmalated Tommy Gun Cat Army

Post CLXIV

Here’s the story of revolution, a wasp, and Top Cat.

As I was banging by head against the wardrobe door, a sudden realisation occurred to me. I saw the first episode of a little show called Revolution the other day. A show where all electronics have gone out on Earth, apart from the electrons inside humans, which are somehow impervious to the shenanigans. It poses a very interesting question. A deep, profound curiosity that none of us can really find an answer for. How the hell did that crap get made? It’s like when parents want the sperm of a doctor. For reproduction reasons, not for some weird collection. “We can’t have children, but a doctor’s gentleman juice will guarantee a Nobel Prize winning inventor of the hobo transporter.” No, it won’t. Could grow up to be a mass-murdering lunatic. Just because you have some talented funk, means jack. It’s how one raises a child that counts. I met some wonderfully talented poetic bums on the New York subway. Use their stuff. Probably need the money, too. Social stigma is ridiculous. In any case, Revolution is now dead. A memory I’m trying desperately to get out of my head. Hence the wardrobe bashing. Probably better ways to do it, but I thought it would be a fitting ironic tribute to Revolution by doing something that makes no sense. Mmm.

I’m gonna stick with the show, readers. Oh, yes. The second episode was a marginal improvement over the first, so at this rate of marginal improvement, by the time I make it to the final episode it should have marginally improved by around 3% from the pilot episode. I’m very logical. Probably one of the reasons why I’ve never had a girlfriend. “Oh, Ally, you want to chat – is everything oaky?” “Oh, yes, quite okay, I just wanted to go through your quarterly girlfriend review – I have plenty of Excel charts and graphs, points for improvement, that sort of thing, erm, you know, and areas you’re doing marvellously in.” “Oh. Can I use the bathroom?” “Ah, make it quick, then, three hours is a long time for a review, you know.” Next thing you know, you hear the front door slam and that girl is gone like the proverbial shopping bag in the wind.

We logical people love a good bar chart. It’s the only human way to demonstrate physically how our brains work. Bill Gates is worshiped by us. I have a chapel dedicated to him. In retrospect, it’s probably a tad creepy and yet another reason a girlfriend wouldn’t last too long. In fact, her reaction to it would be YouTube gold. And it’s not often one can call anything on YouTube ‘gold’. “Oh darling, there’s a leak in the gutter – it needs fixing now, it’s starting to rain.” “Yeah, two minutes, I’m watching a cat play a piano!” God save us all.

At what point does that become weird and at what point does that weirdness become suspicious? Sure, it’s a cat playing a random collection of notes, but before you know it, and without noticing, it starts banging out some Mozart. And the internet folk won’t notice. It’ll be nothing but a blip on CNN before they go back to their day job of plane hunting. And before you know it, you’ll wake up one morning surrounded by cats with Tommy Guns wearing adorable tiny bowler hats! I guarantee that if you look at the first cat videos on YouTube and compare them to the ones today, there’ll be a clear evolution of Planet of the Apes proportions. It doesn’t help matters that the head of the company is Top Cat…

Speaking of that recalcitrant pussy has reminded me of Revolution. Specifically, what really surprised me about it. We are unbelievably unprepared for total disaster. I had a wasp in my bedroom this week that was, I kid you not, three inches long and a quarter of one inch wide. It was bigger than a Dutch windmill festival. I was incredibly frightened. I was pale and shaking. My heart beat louder than the echoes off the head of a nerd undergoing an epic noogie. My chest tighter than the G-string of a Hollywood hooker. I was covered in an immeasurable amount of sweat. Honestly, I was wetter than Leonardo DiCaprio after he drowned in Titanic. What? Too soon? The character he was playing wasn’t even based on a real bloody person! Geez Louise…

I started spraying the wasp with deodorant, it makes them dizzy, but to an outsider, it would’ve looked like I was trying to improve the scent of the vicious beast. That is a good point, but at that precise moment, I was screaming too much to care. I have an unparalleled fear of insects. The wasp eventually found its own way out of the open window. If a Revolution scenario happened at that moment, I would have been well and truly marmalated.

What use would I be in that situation? I can’t cook. I can’t hunt. I can’t make shelter. I can’t do anything of any use! Heck, they could put me on reproduction duties only to discover my genitalia are about as useful as a chocolate teapot! We are not prepared for that situation. But the thing is, you can’t prepare for it, because people will think of you as one of these ‘end-of-the-world’ nuts preparing for annihilation. So you find yourself in the strange situation of needing to prepare for the end of the world through logical means so the rest of the world doesn’t think you’re crazy, or hoping you’ll be the one that perishes in the nuclear fallout!

Think about that, readers. I must become, for example, a great hunter. But when people ask why, I’ll have to make up a reason. “Well, I just saw Bambi and I thought I’d give it a try.” You’re friend will think you’re a bit weird, but at least they’re still your friend. But if you tell them you’re preparing for the end, they’ll run away screaming. My solution is the second option. Expect to be one of the unlucky ones. You know the kind of luck I have. I was once attacked by a bauble. I’m fairly sure if Revolution happened, fairly quickly I’d be fairly dead.

You can never truly know what is gonna happen, can you? On late night television in the UK, they have repeats of TV shows from earlier on the day, but in a box slightly smaller than screen size. And that’s because in the corner, they have a person signing. Occasionally momentarily stopping to watch the program you’re watching, meaning you’re watching a man watching the program you’re watching to watch a man watching the program you’re watching. It’s wonderful. But I don’t know sign language. So how do I know what he’s saying? He might be telling me his weekly shopping list, you just don’t know. We don’t know anything, really, and I especially don’t know how we’d react in a Revolution scenario.

That’s if the scenario happened, not the scenario of a show like Revolution ever being brought back to our screens again. Because if that happens, the wardrobe door will certainly be getting some more attention from Mr. Forehead…

American actor and comedian, Robin Williams (1951-2014), once said, “You’re only given a little spark of madness. You mustn’t lose it.”

Peace Out :|:


I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the title on the top of this post if you are on the archives page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.


Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post

Hark Around the Words
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post


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