So my wife brought a cat into our home. I’m not strictly against cats, and we have had them in the past and I have enjoyed them. But playing with a cat is like having an affair with a fat chick: it’s great fun until your friends find out.

What bothers me most about the cat is that it jumps up on everything, the kitchen table, the kitchen counter, whatever it feels like. This cat is always searching for food or adventure, and my wife tends to be fake mad at it a lot, the way women get mad at rich, good-looking men that cheat on women—oh, he was dating Susan, but then ran off with Susan’s sister Becky and went to Bermuda for a long weekend and rode her mercilessly, to the point where she needed a wheelchair at the airport, but Susan took him right back after he bought her that diamond necklace—so the cat is on the counter eating my damn omelet, and my wife says: “Get down from there you naughty kitty!” She puts her hands on her hips and stamps her feet just like in the movies and everything. Of course, she doesn’t make me another omelet (she didn’t make the first one, so why should she make the second?) but just picks up the cat and hugs it.

People say that cats are cleaner than dogs because they neatly cover their turds in the litter box, but the cat doesn’t wash his paws after using the litter box. No, the cat goes for a walk, making a beeline for the kitchen counter and my omelet. So we have these germs spread all over the place, and, in truth, I’d rather not even know, but having witnessed this, I can’t help but to think of all the places that cat has walked. I got out of the shower the other day and I see the cat on the bathroom sink, rubbing up against our toothbrushes. I guess he had an itch that needed scratching. So I threw my toothbrush out, and I used my wife’s toothbrush to groom the cat. Serves her right for not making a decent omelet. My wife and I don’t kiss much any more.