Several years ago, I had the honor of owning a cat who thought it'd be super awesome to try and give me a Glass Bottom Boat. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for me, we didn't have any SaranWrap, nor does he have opposable thumbs to make it possible for him to use such an item. What's a Glass Bottom Boat? Well, for the uninformed, I give you a this. Check it out during intermission and then return to your seat, as I am not finished with this post. Go on, but scroll down to number three (here I'll post the link again, in case you missed it the first time). Ok. Now that you've got a working definition for Glass Bottom Boat, we can proceed.
Simon was this totally sweet cat I'd adopted from the Humane Society after my first cat ran away. He was long-haired and gray and loved up on anyone, a real chum of a fella. But, he was also obsessed with food. I mean, he'd eat fucking anything. It was kind of disgusting and he ballooned from a svelte 9 pounds to 21. In six months. I know, I know. My fault. I shouldn't have let him eat his own shit when his food dish ran out. I get it. Bad owner. And despite his really taut and shiny stomach (it's what happens when you gain that much weight, apparently), I liked him still. Nicknamed him Obesekitty. And by the way, before you all get self-righteous about pet ownership and wonder what the hell I was doing letting a cat get that fat, well, let me tell you--I did take him to the vet. I had him tested. And he was an otherwise healthy kit who was simply addicted to food (maybe he was molested by his uncle as a child, or his daddy was never home, who knows what caused it). But this post isn't about a fat cat, it's about unconditional love. And I swear we'll have a coming to Jesus moment before I'm through.
I read on Facebook this morning some cheesy feel-good cyber poster about unconditional love. About how it makes the world go 'round and how people aren't perfect and all that other happy horse shit. To you, author of that post, I pick my nose and fling a booger right on your forehead right after I fart in your hat. How much you love me now?
Here at Skampcity we (and by we, I really just mean me) feel that the notion of unconditional love is totally ridiculous. Sure, we talk about it and it makes us feel good to think that we can be total fucking losers and some sad sack of a human is going to love us anyway. I call bullshit. Bull.fucking.shit. I mean, I love the shit out of my Mp, don't get me wrong, but I cannot say that my love is unconditional. If he suddenly developed a penchant for eating my boogers and wearing high heels, chances are I'm outta here. And what if he turned out to really enjoy having shit smeared on his face (see previously posted link)? Am I to love him even still? What if he starts beating me? How about then? See, love is entirely conditional. It's given on the condition that what or who you love isn't going to treat you like a football, or develop a sexual relationship with your brother, or mother, or best friend. There are so many conditions, and many of them aren't even conscious. Maybe if Mp had a differently sloped forehead (like those cave dudes from the Geico commercials), maybe I wouldn't have fallen in love with him in the first place, I dunno. Catching on yet, my brethren?
With all that said, Skamp is wise enough to also know that no one is perfect (except her, of course), and that everyone is going to annoy us and most assuredly our loved ones are going to hurt our feelings from time to time. And so long as these occurrences aren't too much for our hearts to take, then our love is likely to remain. But this isn't about love remains, it's about unconditional love and how unrealistic it is.
So just know, Mp asked me what I was writing about and so I told him. He said "but you love your dog unconditionally". Well, it's close but even still. If she started chewing my face off like that dude in Miami, you can believe I'll be having her put down and buried at the town dump. Screw that backyard shit. (Lucky for her, she'll never do that, and I'll have her buried nestled at the foot of my coffin--because I LOVE HER.) So even still, my love, it has conditions.
So this brings me back to Simon, and the epitome of my lack of unconditional love.
One morning, after a solid night of partying, I woke up and had to pee. I didn't have my glasses on and looked down onto my chest and saw some sort of unidentifiable substance there, which I assumed to be vomit. Rather disgusted with myself for getting so drunk that I puked on my own chest, I went to the bathroom. But when I came back into the bedroom, what I smelled was NOT my own vomit; that substance did not come from me. I had a sneaking suspicion of what it was, because it smelled like 3 dozen fucking cats had shat in my bedroom. Now I don't know if you've ever had the pleasure of smelling cat shit (because maybe you're like me and sensibly refuse to have a shit receptacle for your cat in your house and therefore aren't subjected to that ungodly stink), but it's possibly the worse smelling shit in the entire history of shit. Now put THAT in your imagination pipe and smoke the idea of one turding on your chest. A fucking litter box, right on top of me. What the FUCK?! And possibly the worst part (if there can even BE any "worst parts") is that it wasn't nice, perky turds in my bed, it was an ocean of shitty cat diarrhea. That mother fucker DIARRHEA-ED ON MY FUCKING CHEST. Wanna know what the term for THAT is? It's called a Cleveland Steamer. Yeah, that's right. My asshole cat gave me a CLEVELAND.FUCKING.STEAMER. Now, did I love up on him simply tell him "bad kitty?" NO. I 86'ed that fucker. Sorry, Simon, but mama don't love you no more. Your happy fat ass goes back to the Humane Society, you asshole.
Apparently, love cannot survive getting shat on on your chest. See my love, it has conditions.
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