Alright, now some of you may know that I have a cat named Tiffany.
But a lot of you don't know that we have another cat as well.
And the story of how we got this cat begins two years ago,
when my wife and I were having a bonfire in our backyard.
We had a few friends over that night.
We were drinking a couple of beers, having a good time.
Or maybe it was several beers and we were having a great time, who's to say?
But all of a sudden this little kitten comes scampering out of nowhere.
And his ass is adorable as hell.
He's all black with a little white patch of fur on his chest.
Makes it look like he's wearing a tiny little tuxedo and shit.
"Oh hell, is that that kitty cat from Hocus Pocus?"
"Look at how cute he is with his little Thackery-Binx-looking ass!"
Now this kitten is cool as hell,
he's just hanging out with us all night long!
"Whose ass do I got to lick to get another Budweiser over here?"
And when it was time to go inside the house,
this little kitten didn't want to leave.
He's just looking at me, like,
"Hey are you gonna leave me out here?"
"If you do, I'm sure I'll be dead by the morning."
"Oh well, I'm drunk enough to adopt a cat right now."
"So come on in with your little Hocus Pocus ass."
So the next day rolls around
and here we are with this kitten that doesn't even have a name yet.
And we can't give it a name yet,
because we don't know how to tell if the cat's a boy or a girl.
"Uhm, I don't really know what I'm looking for here."
"Am I looking for a dick? Do cats have dicks? I don't know if cats have dicks or not."
We're googling diagrams on our phone and shit,
trying to learn the basic anatomy of a goddamn cat.
But after 20 minutes of staring at this cat's ass, we're just like,
- Uhm, what do you think, a boy? - Yeah fuck it, let's just say he's a boy.
So now that that's established, we decide to name the cat Pooter.
And if you don't like that name, well, you can kiss my ass,
because Pooter is a great name.
And Pooter himself was a great cat!
He'd hang out with us all the time in the living room.
He'd just hang out on the couch, sitting all unnatural,
like a fucking stepdad watching NASCAR.
Everybody loved Pooter the cat.
Everybody except for Tiffany that is.
Tiffany couldn't stand his ass.
But that was just because Tiffany was an asshole.
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But the thing with Pooter was, any time you would open the front door,
his ass would try to run outside, like the house was on fire.
And you'd have to go track his ass down and bring him back inside.
Now, one particular time he got outside and he was gone for, like, three days.
Before I found his ass in the backyard.
"God damn it Pooter, get your ass in here!"
"We house you, we feed you, I scoop your shit up with a tiny shovel!"
"What more do you want from me?!"
Now, I don't know what happened to Pooter
during those couple of days out in the wilderness,
but whatever happened, traumatized the shit out of him.
He didn't seem like the same cat anymore.
Instead of hanging out with us, like he used to,
he just sits in the corner of the room, paranoid as hell,
and stares at us, like a goddamn pervert.
And his ass would be staring at us all the time.
No matter what we did, where we were in the house,
hell, he could be taking a shit and he'd still be staring at us.
Now fast forward a couple days later, I'm outside sitting on our front porch.
And all of a sudden I see Pooter's ass strutting down the sidewalk,
looking like goddamn Laverne & Shirley and shit!
"Oh God damn it, Pooter! Get your wayward ass back in the house!"
So once again I bring him back into a warm, safe house,
where you'd think a cat would like to leave.
"Well, looks like Pooter got out of the house again."
- Uhm, that's not Pooter. - What do you mean that's not Pooter?
"Pooter's right there on the floor."
"Well, then who the fuck is this cat?!"
This cat that I had looked just like Pooter.
The same Tuxedo bullshit on his chest and everything.
"What the hell is going on?! Is hit a goddamn glitch in the Matrix?"
So I take the impostor cat back outside.
Because my ass wasn't drunk enough to adopt a third cat.
"Get out of here, fake Pooter! You're not the real Pooter, beat it!"
So I come back inside and sit on the couch and that's that.
That is, until I have a thought that pops in my head,
"Oh my God, what if that was the real Pooter?"
"What if the fake Pooter was the one I picked up from the backyard
a couple days ago?"
"Maybe that's why he's been acting so weird lately!"
You know, staring at us like a coke addict and shit.
"Ohhh, I think I just fucked up!"
"Uhm, I don't think we got the real Pooter."
"What? What do you mean? Like, he's not a real cat?"
"No, God damn it, I know he's a real cat!"
"What if I found the wrong cat in the backyard,
and I just booted the real Pooter outside just now?"
"Oh, don't be ridiculous! Look at him, he's the real Pooter!"
(*Thunderclap!*)
"Then why the fuck does he keep staring at us, like he's on methamphetamine?!"
"Are you the real Pooter? Huh? Blink twice if you're the real Pooter!"
"Oh yeah, 911? Can you have somebody come out?"
"My husband keeps interrogating our cat, because he doesn't think he's real."
So now we're in a very interesting predicament.
Is this the real Pooter that's on the floor?
Or did I boot the real Pooter out the door never to be seen again?
And the answer to that question is, "I don't really fucking know."
It's been two years since then and neither of us can say for sure.
I mean, my wife thinks that there's a 95% chance
that we do indeed have the real Pooter.
But I'm not buying it.
So now every time that he stares at me,
I stare right back at his ass.
Because I know that he knows
that I know that he's not the real goddamn Pooter!
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