Keith Richard’s Cat

Tough Riff-master rocker

Keith Richards writes

in his autobio LIFE

that when he was a

kid, his mother Doris

“didn’t like animals”

and killed all his pets,

including his cat who,

his mother had said,

“was pissing all over

the place.” So little Keith

“put a note on her bedroom

door, with a drawing of a

cat, that said “Murderer.'”

But the parts of this story

that hit me hardest were

Keith’s comment: “I never

forgave her for that,” and

his mother’s reply to him

after he’d called her out as

a murderer: “Don’t be so soft.”

Maybe this, along with the

bullying Keith endured as a

kid, was why he spent much

of the 60’s high-enough-to-die–

despite the money, women,

and musical success. There

are some things we can never

forgive, no matter what the

preachers say. And I’m glad

Keith wrote about his cat the

way he did. It shows me once

again, that inside every tough

guy is a hurt, angry kid, who

should never forgive.

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie

 

Garbage Cat (for Alex)

One of his eyes was

pale. He had a bad

snaggle tooth, and he

was one big cat.

The trailer park tards

called him “Garbage

Cat” because he lived

out of the dumpsters.

The neighbor lady

started putting cat food out

on her porch. Sometimes I’d

watch Alex head there with

two small, black cats.

What struck me most

was the way he’d let

the little ones eat first,

and the way he’d growl

low and mean if you tried

to get too close. Then the

lady told me that the

manager was poisoning

strays. She and I both already

had cats, so I used her trap

and took Alex and his two

pals to a no-kill shelter where

he tested positive for the cat-

version of AIDS. Luckily, there

was a big, exclusive room there

for cats with that. It was furnished

with a couch, litter boxes, and toys.

Volunteers came to pet the cats and

clean. Alex became a celebrity there.

He lived well for over ten years,

and when he finally grew too thin

and tired, and didn’t want to eat,

I walked into his room, held him,

and said, “Goodbye for now.”

 

— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie (A Story of Passion and Compassion) : Mail-Order Annie

Way back in psych 101

We learned about parallel

Conversation. Two kids in

A sandbox talking: Billy

Says, “My mom is pretty.”

Betty says, “I got a new

Doggie.” Billy says,”My

Mom is the prettiest mom.”

And so it goes, neither listening,

Both just talking. But even so

Just being in each other’s

Presence makes them feel

Less alone. And things are

Pretty much the same

Today on so-called social

media. But even so, I might

Just post an old picture of

my mom, who really was

very pretty.

 

How LeBron Helps Save me Money

Word around Cleveland used to be

that LeBron was a lousy tipper or

didn’t even tip at all. Now I’m not

exactly what anyone would call

a great humanitarian, but for

many years I was a good tipper.

Better than most–even when

money was tight, as it usually

was and is. But whenever I’d

look into the careworn face of

waiter, waitress, or other service

worker, I ‘d always tip at least 25-

40%. After all, I told myself, we’re

all just slaves on this global

plantation now. Hell, I’d even

tip big at the sandwhich shop

down the street, whose spokesman

struck me as disturbing, even

before he was outed as a major

kiddie diddler. But then LeBron-

mania washed over Cleveland,

and the rest of the nation, like

10,000 tons of liquified BS.

The towering LeBron billboard,

featuring the man himself in a

messianic pose no less, stood

menacingly as an affront to the long-

cherished myth of Karmic Justice

itself. After all, if the rumors are

even half-true, could even a quantum

microscope detect the soul of a man

so tiny that it wouldn’t motivate it’s

corporeal host to leave big tips for

his own adoring fans, who wait on him

at table or bar? Of course, this criticism

is only valid assuming that the rumors of

him being a terrible tipper are true,

which I couldn’t vouch for myself,

though I have talked to a dancer

and two waitresses who personally

attested to the rumor’s validity. Well,

that was enough for me, that and

the fact that I’ve noticed most star-

athletes are jerks, whether it

be in high school or the NBA.

But getting back to how LeBron

saved me money….Like I said, I’d

gotten into the habit of tipping big

and when I was thanked I’d quip

back something like, “Hey, I’m no

LeBron, okay.” To which the counter

stiff, dancer, or waitress would retort

something like “Hey, as long as he keeps

winning us games!” or even “SO WHAT?

He gives in other ways!” as if tax-deductable

“donations” are the same as real giving–

face-to-face. Well, after getting enough

reactions like these, I really had to

wonder why I was wasting my hard-

earned cabbage on cucks and clucks.

I decided to save my money, donate

more to homeless cats, and use my

money and words to beat the crap

out of humanity instead.

 

–Fyodor Bukowski, author of MAIL-ORDER ANNIE (A Story of Passion and Compassion). I won’t even bother to link it here. Go buy a LeBron bio instead, morons.