QUELLING THE CAT

Did St. Francis preach to the rabbits? Whatever for? If he really liked rabbits he would have done better to preach to the cats.  Rebecca West (adapted for our theme, P.L. Ms. West originally wrote "birds.")


In the September 21 SGG cult bulletin, Dannie really got his freak on.

As we reported last week, the "Bishop's (?) Corner" featured some frightening thoughts on taking the switch to kids.  The bulletin's poetry section continued the theme of mayhem by reprinting a 1935 poem, "Funny Bunny," which Dirtbag Dan "edited for our times." This mawkish banality written for coy spinsters took as its subject a mangled, traumatized, tulip-nibbling bunny-rabbit that endured a storm-trooper tom-cat's ripping its tiny, little tail from the caudal vertebrae. Wee Dan, with the distempered pride of a school-yard bully's dad, updated the verse by inserting the name of his marauding, feral cat, which is wont to bring him and his side kick even more gruesome offerings: "And that reckless little rabbit/Saw a bulb and stopped to nab it/With Caravaggio the cat very close upon his trail;/So, if you see a funny,/Sadly frightened little bunny,/I think you'd best not ask him how he came to lose his tail."

Dannie gets a great kick out of praising his familiar's grisly tributes of lifeless, twisted bunny carcasses. What on earth possesses him to print those ghoulish anecdotes in the Sunday bulletin? Doesn't he know that such sadistic fare may fall into the hands of impressionable youth? Why, they might even be inspired to download animal torture-videos online. (Will "crush flicks" be next?)

Where is Dannie's sense of decorum? He's positively disgusting. On the Sabbath, even zombie cultists want to read (or have read to them) fine, uplifting sentiments. But what do they get? Merciless Dirtbag Dan's free-associating about goose droppings, whipping fantasies, and, now,  ... animal maiming. Oh, the humanity! (Or is it animality?)

Great Caesar's ghost! These are suitable conversation topics for feeble-minded 12-year old boys in reform school, not supposedly Catholic "clergy." In the name of decency: This Sunday savagery must end! Even the cultlings agree  -- or so we've been told by those capable of articulation.

To that noble end, inspired by T. S. Eliot's delightful "The Old Gumbie Cat," we've commissioned light verse that "One-Hand Dan" may cut out and frame, in order to rid himself of the dark compulsion to celebrate in the Sunday bulletin his beast's bloody adventures. From now on, he need not preconize this rapacious, predatory feline, which we call "The Old Scumbie Cat," for Pistrina has mercifully done so on his behalf (and for the relief of the shuddering, bug-eyed Gerties).

I have a Scumbie Cat in view: his name is Caravaggio;

His fur is of a bloody hue, with eyes green as pistachio.

All day he stalks the parking lot or dirty lanes or automat;

He stalks and stalks and stalks and stalks – that’s what makes a Scumbie Cat!

And while the Grand Pooh-Bah is hustling for pay,

Then the Scumbie Cat makes himself ready to slay.

And as all the clerics are counting the cash,

He puts on his jackboots the burrows to smash.

He is madly obsessed with the ways of the rabbits:

They are cuddly, cute pets with sweet, gentle habits.

So as the dear nestlings lie trembling and teary,

He slashes soft tummies and bites off an earie.

I have a Scumbie Cat in view: his name is Caravaggio;

A fiercer beast you never knew -- he loves Dan’s braggadocio.

All day he stalks scared cottontails, which shelter near the Laundromat:

He stalks and stalks and stalks and stalks – that’s what makes a Scumbie Cat!

And while the Grand Pooh-Bah is hustling for pay,

Then the Scumbie Cat makes himself ready to slay.

Since he kens that the bunnies will ever keep breeding,

He is sure he will never forego carnal feeding.

So eschewing the techniques of Monsieur Jacques Pépin,

He mauls 'em to death and leaves 'em misshapen,

Then drags ‘em to Master, whose rare gourmandise

Craves a bunny burrito, all drowning in cheese.

I have a Scumbie Cat in view: his name is Caravaggio;

He hisses with the cult’s clown crew, while Phony croons solfeggio.

He stalks the rabbits sans merci, then tears to shreds their habitat;

He stalks and stalks and stalks and stalks – that’s what makes a Scumbie Cat!

And while the Grand Pooh-Bah is hustling for pay,

Then the Scumbie Cat makes himself ready to slay.

He thinks that the lay folk have but one requirement:

To secure the full funding of "One Hand’s" retirement

So he trains them to flay every kit for its pelt,

In hopes that a furrier shells out some gelt.

He disturbs the bereaved to assure a bequest

So that he can thrash jacks in the stylish Southwest.

So for Old Scumbie Cats let us now send up jeers --

From whom mammonite clergy bid cruel souvenirs.

NOW STOP IT, DANNIE!