All day, every day, (the parts I’m awake), I’m fielding requests to comment on politics. Journalists want me to give a few soundbites on the state of congress. I used to be flattered, move that someone wanted to listen to my opinion on a subject besides kitty litter. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve had to explain the dangers the average toilet seat poses to your typical house cat.
I said I was flattered, because I quickly figured out that it was nothing more than a crude joke. What they wanted was a fat cat to talk on fat cats. These pols have done something I’ve never dreamed of – gone a day without washing themselves. I’ve never seen a dime from a Senator, congressional page, or the damn gardener.
Presidents talk about their pet dogs. Turkeys on pardoned on Thanksgiving. Donkeys and elephants get decent press every election cycle. The truth is that “fat cat” as a term is a deeply hurtful slur. I don’t mind being fat or a cat, what I mind is being lumped in with the barely coherent husks shuffling through the capitol building. I don’t like being associated – even in passing – with the craven lobbyists and cynical operators chugging martinis in Dupont Circle.
Time’s have changed. Many phrases that were once acceptable are no longer kosher. Why not fat cat? I guess because we don’t have a constituency. Who am I kidding? I don’t care. In the end, I know I’m better than them. A cat’s greatest asset is his sense of superiority. Not that it’s particularly hard when compared to Washington doofuses.
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