Summary

A cat humorously narrates its attempts to enlighten its owner, Brenda, by making her stare into its butthole, an act it equates with reaching a higher level of existence and understanding the universe.

Abstract

In a satirical and absurd piece, a cat named Mittens addresses its owner, Brenda, with a mix of condescension and impatience, insisting that she look at its butthole. Mittens believes this act will bestow upon Brenda a form of enlightenment and transform her understanding of the universe, comparing the experience to gazing into the abyss. Despite Brenda's initial resistance and the cat's dramatic efforts, including a ritualistic spinning on her chest, the moment of revelation arrives as Brenda finally gazes into the cat's butthole. Mittens interprets her reaction as one of joy and welcomes her to a new level of consciousness, while also slyly revealing that Ginger from Brenda's book club is having an affair with her husband.

Opinions

Mittens, the cat, has a grandiose view of its own importance, believing its butthole to be a source of profound wisdom.
The cat is frustrated with Brenda's reluctance to embrace the supposed enlightenment it offers, considering her hesitation as a lack of gratitude.
Mittens perceives Brenda's actions, such as pushing its tail down and shoving it to the ground, as resistance to the gift of knowledge it is offering.
The cat's confidence in its mission is momentarily shaken by self-doubt but is quickly restored by its belief in the significance of its rectal reckoning.
Mittens takes a passive-aggressive approach to Brenda's lack of appreciation, plotting revenge for her insolence.
The cat is convinced that Brenda's reaction to seeing its butthole is one of transcendent joy, rather than the disgust it outwardly resembles.
Mittens delivers a final, scathing revelation about Ginger from Book Club and Brenda's husband, suggesting a level of contempt for the human drama it observes.

ABSURD HUMOR

It’s Me, Your Cat — And You Will Stare Into the Abyss That Is My Butthole

Look at it, Brenda. Look at it…

Behold: the optimum pose for maximal butthole viewing. Photo by Timo Volz on Unsplash

Brenda. Psst! Brenda, over here!

You avert your gaze and stare intently at that cobweb in the corner you always say you’re going to dust, but never do.

Don’t look away, Brenda! God, I’m trying to enlighten you. How about a little gratitude?

You have been chosen for greatness! You have been chosen for a higher level of existence. You have been chosen by my butthole.

Stop pushing my tail down! You’re missing the whole point of this exercise. I suppose your hesitation is logical. What is seen cannot be unseen. Once you receive the blessing of my omnipotent orifice, you can never go back to who you once were.

Really now, this level of resistance is just uncalled for. Why did I select you for this honor? You didn’t even appreciate that half-eaten mouse ass I left on the front porch. Could I have, perhaps, made a rare but humbling error in judgment?

No, it is too late for these thoughts of self-doubt to plague my brilliant mind. Perhaps if I back up, bringing my rectal reckoning closer to your face, you will finally begin to understand.

RUDE! I offer you the truest way to understand the universe and you unceremoniously shove me to the ground. Stop looking a gift horse in the mouth and start looking into my butthole! I take a swipe at your foot and plot my revenge because this kind of insolence cannot go unpunished.

Several hours have passed since I’ve tried to show you the power of my cosmic cavity. But now, you lay in your bed, slumbering peacefully.

I do not fear detection. Your husband has been sleeping in the guest room for months since you refuse to wear your CPAP machine. I creep into position and turn my posterior toward you.

One turn? Oh no, that simply will not do. I spin in a circle on your chest three times, as the Old Gods have taught us all to do. As I make my final turn, I freeze when I hear your breath catch. I fear that you may stir and yet, your horrific snoring resumes after you mumble something about Ginger from Book Club and how Velveeta doesn’t taste as good as it did in the 80s.

Finally, I am in position, my buttocks mere inches from your face. Are you ready, Brenda? Are you ready to open Pandora’s fart box? I invite you to true consciousness by gently flexing my claws, letting them ever-so-slightly dig into your flesh.

You, ever the drama queen, loudly howl “Oww, right in the tit,” before your eyes can process the sight before you. And now — in this single, glorious moment — you see it. You gaze deeply into it and a new level of comprehension hits you. You finally understand God is a starfish, and my butthole is made in His image.

You make a sound that, to the unenlightened mind, may sound like cries of disgust as you shove me off of your chest. But I know better. Those are cries of joy, and you have to distance yourself from me to avoid being overcome with emotion.

You are welcome, Brenda. Welcome to knowledge. Welcome to the future. Welcome home.

All my tolerance,

Mittens

Oh, and by the way — Ginger from Book Club uses her CPAP machine. She’s also screwing your husband.