Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Much against every fiber of his better judgment and overcome by curiosity, Ol’ Robbo actually let himself watch the new trailer for the movie “Cats“.

According to ancient myth, Pandora opened the forbidden box and released all the evils into the world.  I opened the Yootoob and unleashed on my braim a collection of CGI-enhanced abominations it will never now be able to unsee.

Once Pandora acted, Hope remained left in her box.  All Robbo got were some stinky clumps of litter.

Jesus. Mary. Joseph.

I always though the stage “Cats” was bad enough.  Being compelled to watch an Andrew Lloyd Webber production to me is something akin to being forced to chug a 55-gallon drum of bubble-gum flavored cough syrup.  I simply thought it couldn’t get any worse.

This is.

I saw the thing, incidentally, over at the Hitler Rants Parodies reaction (which is why I saw it, as I do like those things so), and I think Mein Failüre has a salient point.  The original musical premiered back in 1981.  In those days, the line between reality and imagination was much more clearly defined, and the vast majority of people (who go in for that sort of drek) could enjoy the show while recognizing at the same time that It. Was. Being. Put. On. By. People. In. Cat. Suits.  I fear with the current state of insanity into which we seem to have plunged as a culture, coupled with the whiz-bang techno-animation, that a lot of folk will look at this train wreck, like it, and decide that they are cats as well, and furthermore demand that the rest of us respect this.

Think Ol’ Robbo is exaggerating? Wait for it.

So the normalization of “furries” will kick up another notch.  Deliberate Hollywood social engineering?  Or the by-product of another tired retread by an industry out of ideas.  I’d probably say that we should embrace the power of “and” here.

Anyhoo, I’ve seen enough already to send me close enough to the edge of insanity for my taste, so won’t look on it again.

By the bye, anybody got any tuna?  I’m kinda hungry.

UPDATE:  Ol’ Robbo might have added that, the newest abomination aside, his ire at the whole damn franchise runs miles deep.  This is because one of his cherished memories (ack!) from his misspent yoot was the Mothe’s bedtime readings from Mr. T.S. Eliot’s original materials.  “The Old Gumbie Cat”, “The Rum-Tum Tugger”, and “Macavity: The Mystery Cat” remain implanted in the lumber rooms of my mind even today.

Indeed, so much did these poems impress Ol’ Robbo that he made a point of naming the third cat of his adult life (after Bertie and Jeeves, our original pair), Jennyanydots (shortened to Jenny for everyday use).  Friends of the decanter have no idea how aggravated I got having to explain to people that no, no, no, her name had nothing to do with A.L. Bloody Webber, but instead with the poem.

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