I’m afraid I have to be the heavy today. Brace yourselves; they don’t call me Angela The Enforcer for nothing.
Wait, stop laughing uncontrollably. Stop it. STOP.
OK, fine, don’t. But I must continue. I must insist that y’all cease and desist.
The problem is, I’m not sure who y’all are, which makes stopping y’all somewhat problematic. I’m also uncertain why I have suddenly taken to addressing y’all as y’all, when (a) I come from the triforce of NY/NJ/PA rather than GA/AL/MS and (b) you deserve to be addressed formally and respectfully as “youze guyze.” But I digress.
Whatever I call you, I need to call you out, and you need to stop.
You need to stop giving the Lobby cats so many treats that they explode.
I am exaggerating, but I am only exaggerating very slightly. If you keep this stuff up, next week we will make the international news with the headline “Exploding Lebanese Wonderkitten Rocks Ringoes.”
Well on his way to popping, planet-sized Cotton is just one of the enormities feeding on your excessive generosity in our Lobby.
Olive should be renamed “Orb.”
Catbesity is cute, until it isn’t, at which point our brave staff is literally begging you to stop the turbo treating. This is not because they are mean; it’s because the paraplegic cats are all getting diarrhea, while also getting too turgid to have their bladders expressed.
I wish this didn’t all sound so hilarious. OK, it is hilarious. But seriously, you also need to stop.
And you need to tell me who you are.
In this time of lockdown, with no visitors and very limited volunteers permitted into the Lobby, we’re at sixes and sevens trying to track you down. Who are youze guyze, you treat-tossers and bacon-bringers (surely there has been bacon involved)? From whence comes the never-ending stream of snacks causing the ever-expanding waistlines of our Lobby lunatics?
I’m asking y’all to stop.
We will contact the FBI.
And they will laugh.
Don’t make me call the rikishi now.
And apropos of nothing, just because I love ya: