Yahoo! News provides yet another compelling story today, this time relaying how bacteria that pass through little kitty poo can increase the risk of suicide in women.
Ah, yeah. Another reason to be happy to be born a dude.
My first thought was, “How horrible! About half my friends are women and almost all of them have cats!”
“Oh, I’ll make you pay for this indignity,” Fluffers thought as his tyrannical owner made him pose for yet another picture. “My poo is already killing you.”
My second thought was, “I should stage an intervention!”
“You think these bars can hold me, Leska?” Mr. Sweety-boo taunted me. “She’ll be letting me out in thirty seconds, twenty if I put on my pouty face. And then I’m right back pooing in my litter box. You can’t stop me!!!!!”
And then my thought was, “That can’t possibly be true. Cat ladies live for freaking ever.”
I’m not suggesting it’s a rich life, just a long one.
But scientists rarely lie. So clearly there must be some threshold after which you build an immunity to these bacteria.
“You win this time, Ms. Bond,” Catfinger snarled with his elegant British accent. “My elaborate poo-death machine was no match for you. Well done. Well done.”
Which means that this is a risk:
“Look upon me, Mr. Whiskers, and despair!”
To which this is the solution:
“Our bacteria make you stronger! Stronger!!!!!”
Which makes me wish that the cure for alcoholism was drinking more.
This is totally not a picture of my own apartment.
And that the cure for obesity was to eat more of these:
That looks delicious.