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The Only Thing Worse Than Cats Are Cat Cafés

The Only Thing Worse Than Cats Are Cat Cafés

I’ve done my fair share of hipster shit. I’ve seen some bands “before they were cool” and told people about it. I refuse to eat at places like TGIFridays, Outback Steakhouse and such, and I regularly attend and look forward to Farmers Markets. But I hit my limit when me and the Mrs. went on a trip to visit my home state, she suggested we go to a cat café. She had been on and off talking about visiting this stupid café for months, building it up like no other, but I was super skeptical.

For one, I hate cats. I want to find the person that domesticated cats and shove a broomstick up their ass. Although we have two cats, this was not my doing and at best, I am indifferent to them. Why? Because cats are entitled. They have an undeserving sense of self that is neither earned nor warranted. Simply put, they shit in a box, they don’t do anything cool, and if someone were to break into my house, they wouldn’t give a shit. Don’t get me wrong, I may say I hate cats but our one fatass cat is pretty sweet. He plays with our puppy, sits in my lap while I’m on the computer and when I click my gun boresights to play “lasers,” he shuffles swiftly to chase the laser around the room.

I am a self-admitted dog lover. Growing up, we didn’t get our first dog until I was in 7th grade and I grew up with a cat and some fish. We rescued a black lab from the Seeing Eye and he was a great dog. The thing about dogs is that most dogs are alright, with the exception of a few of them being shitty. For cats, it’s the opposite: most cats are shitty and a good cat is the exception.

One of the worst parts about cats are cat-people. Everyone knows at least one and you know when you meet a cat-person: hair all over their clothes, cat pins, an Instagram comprised primarily of their little box-shitter. They may even have some stupid quote on a bumper sticker about being the person your cat thinks they are. Cats sleep like 18 hours a day, I don’t think they really care what kind of person anyone is; all they care about is eating. I’ve thrown my wallet in the cat’s general direction several times when they meow at me for not getting up and feeding them right away. Cat meows are nails on a chalkboard.

Even after all of this, I thought, “I’ll be a good guy and go to this stupid cat place and it will score me points since we always do everything I like (because things I like are infinitely less shitty).” Upon arriving to this place, we were greeted by the owner? Honestly, I have no idea. I couldn’t get past the fact he looked like JP from Grandma’s Boy and referred to the cats as “Kit (pause) tees”.

You also had to sign a waiver, take your shoes off and you were explicitly told not to pick up the cats unless you felt you had a particular bond to them, in which case, to alert one of the beret-wearing employees (#hipsters) and they would evaluate whether or not the bond was there.

After signing my waiver, taking off my shoes (I was wearing year-old Sperry’s that particular day with no socks so my feet smelled) and attempting to pet one of the cats, I realized: this place is complete shit. The Mrs. had also realized this, but we were at the point of no return. There were like eight cats out, six of them sleeping and the other two licking their ass or being pet by other hipsters. The ones that were sleeping, we were told, were off limits. Personally, I love to pick up cats because they generally hate it, so the sole reason I even agreed to go to this place was shot down. Even after I befriended one of those furry little cocksuckers, I asked JP if I could pick it up and he vetoed me (the bond must not have been there), instead offering me up one of their other cats to hold.

It got old really quickly. I decided to make small talk and figure out what JP was up to. He had a very soft spoken voice and you can tell his 600-square-foot closet he probably lived in had like 30 cats in it. I asked about his establishment and how often they are adopted. He interrupted, stating, “most people are tourists so not that often.” He was not friendly. Sorry, I’m PAYING you to pet your fucking cats.

At this point, my $5 for a half hour was nearly up so I took one last look around the place. There was even a sign, describing each of the cat’s temperament with words like “cheerleader.” These cats live better than most people that do not live in North America or Western Europe.

The only thing this trip did was remind me about how awful cat people are. The look of defeat was on as the Mrs. sheepishly told me that she was disappointed and it wasn’t anything like she planned. She expected oversized chairs, coffee and books and a whole bunch of kit-ties. If your girlfriend/wife or heaven forbid boyfriend or husband wants to drag you to one of these, kindly point them my way and I’ll give you the free rundown. The silver lining was they did have some really nice, free trade coffee and this cookie that was the best cookie I’d ever had so that was cool.

Image via Unsplash

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Madoff

I specialize in damage control, being the drunkest at any and all functions and social assassination. Always appreciate a strong gif game. Follow me on Twitter. Sometimes I put up cool stuff about golfing at the local dirt tracks.

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