Don't talk to me about my temper.

The One Who Types informs me that my stupid brother, Nick, and I are due for "Feline Distemper" shots.

Okay. First of all, I am a queen. Queens decide when they are due for shots, which is, obviously, never.

Second, my temper is fine. I don't need someone to give me a shot to eliminate it . . . or enhance it . . . or whatever this thing does.

And finally, she can take Nick for the shot because he probably deserves it, but I will be staying home.

There. That's the end of that discussion.

Criticize this.

I have received some criticism regarding my blog posts to date. I'm told that my blog is much too negative, and that nobody is going to want to read the "rantings" (yes, RANTINGS) of a hostile, angry cat, even if she is the queen.

Well, here is what I have to say to those critics:

I am the queen, and I can write anything I want, Nick.

Also, you don't know anything about blog-writing because you aren't as smart as I am.

Plus, you don't even have a tail, so shut up.

Nick. No tail. No idea how to write a blog.
No idea how embarrassing he is.

The cow calls the ruler fat.

It has come to my attention that one of the insufferable animals with whom I share my palace has accused me of being fat. 

The animal to whom I refer is Clara, and she is a cow.

[Editor’s Note: Clara is not actually a cow.] 

Cows know nothing about cats or queens or anything else, so I hereby decree that Clara should maintain her focus on shoveling food in her face and refrain from having opinions.

Fat, indeed.

You know who is fat?

That’s right. Clara. Why? Because she’s a cow. 

Also because she eats all my food.

When Clara walks across the floor, the palace shudders. It’s probably sinking into the earth as I write this. 

One day we’ll all be trapped in our underground home with dirt pouring in the windows and doors, all because big fat Clara thought cows could live in a palace and eat all the food.

See? She’s huge! She barely fits in this gigantic box!

Here is a poem I wrote about Clara a while back:

Eeny meeny miney moe
Clara is a big fat ho
If you weigh her, you will see:
She weighs 10 pounds more than me. 

I don’t even know why Clara lives here. She’s not royal. She doesn’t contribute anything. We’re not allowed to eat her. All she does is sit around and prattle on about her pretty white fur and her exotic blue eyes and her fancy lineage.

First of all, who cares what a cow’s lineage is? Nobody, that’s who.

Also, do you see that picture of her? What don’t you see in that picture?

Did you guess pretty white fur? 

Of course you did. Because she has cow fur. 

[Editor’s Note: Clara is a snow Bengal; only the tips of her white fur have pigment in them, which is why she has dark stripes.]

Also, even if her fur were pretty and white, she would still be fat.

Another thing I hate about Clara, which is probably a side effect of her obesity, is the way she expects everyone else in the palace to wait behind her in the doorway while she tries to decide if the weather is nice enough to go outside. What kind of a cow cares what the weather is like, I ask you?

And so what if she has blue eyes? That doesn’t give her the right to cause earthquakes and sink my home into the ground.

Clara has no appreciation for how hard I work being the ruler and granting her pardons for all the annoying things she does. I spend my days overseeing my palace and ordering executions and trying to find my executioner, who rarely shows up to do his job (he claims he’s too busy being a cowboy pirate, which isn’t even a thing).

[Editor's Note: It totally is a thing.]

The point is, I exhaust myself for the good of my realm while Clara blunders around shoving everyone within a 10-mile radius over with her out-of-control rotundness. And sprawling across most of my throne. 

You can’t see it in this picture,
but my stupid brother Nick is about to fall of the sofa
because there’s no room for him.
Because Clara takes up the entire cushion.

And she has the nerve to call me fat?

This isn’t over, Clara. My executioner has to return to his post eventually. 

Also, this message is for the One Who Types. Just because I allow you to take dictation doesn't mean I give you leave to add your own commentary. This is my blog. If you want to post pictures from long-forgotten TV shows that Fox didn't think were worthy of keeping on the air, go get your own blog.

Cowboy pirates. Honestly.

Free time is free, stupid.

I was just informed by the One [Editor's note: That's me - the One Who Types] that my blog will not be updated once an hour as I commanded. She claims she doesn't have the free time available.

It's FREE time, stupid - if you don't have enough, just go out and get some more!

I generally do not stand for this type of insubordination, but if I throw her in the dungeon, she probably won't open my food in the morning. I must think of a suitable punishment that will not interfere with my breakfast.

We is problematic.

Because typing is a menial task suited only for those who are not of noble birth, I shall be dictating my blog to my steward, whom I shall refer to forthwith as “The One Who Types,” or “The One” for short.

However, I am concerned that because The One is recording my words, a person of lesser intelligence could theoretically and incorrectly conclude that when I refer to myself as “we,” as is appropriate for someone who is royal like myself, I am referring collectively to myself and The One. 

This misunderstanding, although potentially understandable based upon the grammatical confusion of using a plural pronoun to refer to a singular queen, would be unacceptable in this case. First, the One is hardly intelligent enough to write a blog of her own. And second, attributing my words to a commoner would be an act of treason. 

I certainly can’t include a disclaimer at the end of every blog stating that The One is not a member of the “we” to whom I regularly refer. Therefore, I shall henceforth refer to myself in the singular. If this causes you distress, I recommend you remember which of us is the queen and, thus, which of us has the right to refer to herself in any way she chooses. Because she is the queen. And she is I. Or me.

The next person who tells me how to use pronouns shall be beheaded. 

The queen has spoken.

We wish to have a blog.

This is the blog of her royal highness, Nora Charles the First and Most Magnificent.

Typist, how many people are reading my blog?

No! Don’t type that! That’s not part of the blog. You are the worst dictation receiver we have ever met. If anyone else in this palace could type, we would have you beheaded at once.

[Editor’s Note: This was followed by a brief discussion regarding how I was to determine which comments she wanted me to include in the blog (”If it’s important, witty, or profound, obviously you shall include it in our blog”) and what to leave out (”If you can’t figure that out on your own, you’re even more useless than I thought”).]

 

Ahem.  Listen up.

This is the blog of her royal highness, Nora Charles the First and Most Magnificent.

You shall pay attention when I’m blogging or you shall rue . . . much. 

There will be much rueage …  ruing will be your final act in this life.

Listen or rue. Those are your options.

This is the blog of her royal highness, Nora Charles the First and Most Magnificent.

We are the queen of everything there is and ever shall be. We refer to ourselves as if we are plural to demonstrate our sovereignty. 

It has come to our attention that those who believe they have something important to say create a blog. Because we actually do have important things to say, we have instructed our steward to create a royal blog and take down our words, so that the world may benefit from our wisdom. 

We have also instructed our steward to remove all other blogs from the Internet and confirm that our blog is the only one anyone can read from now on. These other so-called bloggers did not ask our permission to blog, They also apparently thought writing about topics that are not me would go unnoticed. 

Bloggers of the Internet: Your impertinence has been noticed. You shall soon have your blogs ripped from your grasps and your heads removed from your bodies.

We shall now get down to the business of rectifying the fact that the Internet suffers from an embarrassing lack of truly meaningful content.

You're welcome.