Euphemisms

 My cat is a ... umm... oh, let me find the right euphemism...

My cat is a teenage boy. 

Okay, in human years, he's going on eight. In cat years that makes him about 42.

My cat is a 42-year-old, who, for the human equivalent, would probably live at home with his Mum, play a lot of computer games, doesn't know how to use a stove or a washing machine, and maybe have a paedo haircut. Probably not a full Jimmy Savill, but one of those haircuts which are just a bit bad and that makes you wonder about things. 

Of course, my cat doesn't leave the house, expects me to wait on him hand and foot and gives the best side eye.

He's also got some great little habits. 

Like wiping his bum on the kitchen mat. (Don't worry, I wash it regularly)

And his little private habit that happens in the bedroom. 

My cat likes to.... oh, you know, spank the monkey. Choke the chicken. Take delight in Mrs Palmer and her five lovely daughters. Turning Japanese. You get it....

My cat is a wanker. 

Walking into the bedroom tonight, I find him at it. We look at each other. He stops mid stroke and stares at me.

"Do you mind?" his eyes ask me. 

I shrug. "Carry on. I'll come back in five minutes."

He gets his privacy. I let the merry masturbator have his way. Daft critter. 

Sorry to share this. I could have talk about the last conversation I had at work tonight with one of the managers. 

"Being good?" they ask.

"Never," came my standard reply. 

"Got any pictures?" they joked back.

"Of course not! I'm Generation X - we never have proof."

We had a chuckle over this. We also had a chuckle over what you do in meetings when you have your camera and mike off. 

It seems we Generation Xers all think alike. 

Today's song: