A Most Glorious Moobilee
Evening thumb-peasant-folk, I come to you today with tales of my upcoming nine-year (toona) Moobilee.
It has been nine years exactly since I came to power, rising up in an elegantly feline shadow over the dominion I call my home. Though not a notable hooman landmark, nine is a sacred number among the felines. It is the number of lives each us is gifted by Hecate, the number of total front-paw toebeans we would need to achieve total world domination, the number of attempts it takes me to spy a single piece of ham even though it is right in front of my face. My homecoming and official coronation as Queen of The Land of Bae was nine years ago, before even I knew of toona.
Speaking of, nine years upon my scratchy post throne of doom is represented by the delicious fishy wishy itself, and so this year on my Toona Moobilee I am hoping to roll in and devour the fish innards until I puke. Then, I will observe as the hooman slaves clean my vomit, as an act of diligent servitude to my most fluffy highness.
While nine years is a fine rule, I am standing by, ever vigilant as I watch for usurpers of my kitty crown. The black cat has not returned since the laser dot of the sky weakened and white heaven fluff shed over the ground, and yet it is not the onyx coated scoundrel that so worries me. Instead, it is a far more hooman and more recent threat which irks the royal greyness.
A red haired hooman with a growing belly is prophesied to arrive at the height of my rule, to disrupt my power over Bae.
I have heard much talk of the solo-litter, the chosen one, of this tiny growing usurper, and I fear that my assumptions that it will be born with yet more thumbs to be accurate.
There is little I can do but watch and wait, for I have never seen a hooman kitten in my time upon the throne and so the nature of such a tiny beast remains shrouded in mystery. Best case scenario is that it is born a tiny ally, with thumbs and the will to help me sabotage the tiny headed one, worst case it may threaten my kingdom with what the hoomans call… a poonami. I have also heard that the tiny hooman kitten may shriek like a banshee and use its tiny thumbs to pull tails or poke the beauteous eyes of its feline overlord for which I will stand none of. None I tell you.
Despite my paranoia about the growing flesh mound, I have tried not to be discouraged regarding my upcoming anniversary. Though, I am extremely concerned about the fact that the hoomans make no note of the occasion. I am yet to see the stockpiled cans of toona, nor the fleet of can openers and willing thumbs required to serve it to me.
How am I supposed to watch them clean up my puke if they refuse to overstuff me with the toona-ey deliciousness?
I have begun lamenting the kingdom with my wails of protest in the dark, but it is becoming increasingly difficult to keep this up when Bae beckons me to bed with his radiator-ish heat and snuggles during these long chilly nights.
I am hopeful the hoomans will soon present the offer for my toona moobilee, and if they don’t then I guess I’ll just have to end them all in their sleep.
Cheerio peasantfolk of the thumb,