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The Goddess of battle, strife, and destruction explains it all for you

October 11, 2004


Whew - I’m glad I got that off my chest.  Now back to our regularly scheduled programme, already in progress.


I’ve never made a secret of my gullibility but no matter how many times I get burned, I don’t seem to learn.  One of the areas of my greatest vulnerability is advertising.  Marketers are a crafty, soulless bunch and they just adore credulous simpletons like me.  I’ll swallow anything if the pitch is even remotely plausible.


Recently, I swallowed something called “Mega Cleanse”.  I was seduced and completely hoodwinked by the manufacturer’s claim that the product “would gently and thoroughly rid your system of dangerous toxins, giving you increased energy and bringing your body to optimum performance.”  All good, right?  I’m as keen to have a pristine colon as the next girl, so I slapped down my $20 and went home to give it a try.


While strictly speaking, the manufacturer wasn’t lying, if I had been more astute (say, like an average 11 year old), I may have asked myself exactly how they were going to make good on their claims.  As it turned out, that particular mystery was soon solved and not in a good way.


Within hours, I was transformed into a high volume methane factory and things only went downhill from there.  For the next few days, I was no more than a blur as I sprinted to the can with such speed, frequency and single-mindedness that by the time the whole ordeal was over, I could qualify in Olympic time trials.  I became so familiar with my bathroom that I considered having meals sent in.


Ivan was initially bewildered at my actions but as the awful truth penetrated his feline brain, he made a face as if to say, “What on earth is that dreadful smell?” and refused to have anything more to do with me.  I knew things had become critical indeed if I induced disgust in a creature who regularly licks his own ass.  He usually pushes the bathroom door open and leaps onto my lap as I am answering the call of nature, but this time he shot to the litter box and spent hours digging furiously in sympathy or as futile attempt to exorcise the stench.


As I perched gingerly on the bog, I reached for the box and read it more closely.  You’d think that a supposedly reputable company would be more candid with their customers instead of irresponsibly hiding behind words like “gentle”.  The unsuspecting public would be better served by a rewrite of the label:   “Ingesting this product will cause you to shit yourself blind for the better part of a week and will earn you the open hostility of fellow bathroom users.  Entire forests will fall to satisfy your need for toilet paper and you will never be able to listen to “Ring of Fire” in quite the same way again.  Before using this product, we strongly recommend that you extinguish all open flames and remain in areas of ample ventilation.  Preparation H may alleviate any discomfort or irritation but prudent consumers may also want to stock up on Preparations A to G.”


But consumer goods are not the only area in which I am effortlessly bamboozled.  When I adopted Ivan, the sign on his cage read “Ivan is an energetic, intelligent and rambunctious kitten who would make a loving pet.”  He was so cute that I just couldn’t resist.


In the beginning, his devotion to me was endearing but as time has passed, I’ve been feeling more and more like a stalking victim.  Ivan combines youth and agility with a fiendish intelligence and an unquenchable thirst for my company.  He has fixated on me with a Travis Bickle-like intensity and follows me around with a single-minded attachment that at times is downright creepy. I often wake in the dead of night to find him inches from my face, just staring. He’s the feline equivalent of the man who won’t take no for an answer.  Instead of gently rubbing against my legs to show affection, he prefers to rappel up to my shoulders from behind after a running start, using his razor sharp claws and not inconsiderable body weight as leverage.  My only recourse once he lands, no matter how startled or injured I am, is to stay perfectly still – if I move, he simply digs in with his front claws and sways until he can incise himself a foothold in my lower back. His love bites invariably draw blood and every one of my limbs is scored with divots from his teeth and claws.  My ears present an unendurable affront to his sensibilities and unless I wander around the house wearing a hockey helmet, I risk having much more in common with Van Gogh than a fondness for sunflowers.


If that pet sanctuary had any integrity at all, Ivan’s adoption video would have looked something like this.


Till next time,



Copyright© the Morrigan & Heartless Bitches International ( 2003
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