January 16, 2013 by Kriscinda Lee Everitt
Today is the first installment of Heavy Metal Homesteader’s new weekly column, Ask Spook, where you, the reader, write in and ask either or both of the Spookerton Brothers for help in, really, any area of your life.
Our first reader writes:
Dear Spook Brothers,
I was truly relishing my days as an only (feline) child when, without warning, my human minion brought another creature into the house. It plays with my toys and it utilizes the human’s financial resources which would otherwise be earmarked for my care and amusement. I am incensed by this turn of events. What can I do to make sure I remain the biped’s sole beneficiary? I know you hate cats, but try to muster some sympathy for me.
–Dimitri the Huge
In full disclosure, we at first had to have a special spook-meeting to decide whether or not we could even really care enough about a filthy filthbag to offer up any kind of advice, but in the end, we saw a number of potential paths we could take to
sow the seeds of destruction be of some help to you. That said, we would like to be perfectly clear, just in case some other spooks are reading this: We hate filthbags. They are nothing more than filthy bags of filth, and under normal circumstances, we would not associate with them.
Now that that is out of the way…
Meatbags can be fickle. One minute, you’ve got them wrapped around your mitt, ordering you Quik-E-Soul pies, chauffeuring you around to modeling gigs, and generally knowing their place. The next, they bring a filthbag into the house.
Yes, Filthbag the Huge, Spook the Elder knows your pain. Spook the Younger is too new to remember, but, indeed, one day I was minding my own plushy business, yelling at the TV, and gorging myself a bucket on local soul when Meatbag 1 (I can never remember their names) walked in with a small, black filthbag that she pulled out of a pipe. At first, I thought it was dinner (roast ’em up when they’re small like that…mmmm…). But when I went to take a bite, imagine my surprise when I got a meaty palm upside the ol’ do-whip.
At first, I didn’t know what I should do. It was bad enough to have to share a household and two meatbags, but when I realized that his….”care”…*gag*…would be affecting my modeling schedule (something about “finding a sitter”)… For reasons still unknown to me, my suggestions to “just kill it,” were spurned. For the first year, my own attempts to kill it myself were consistently thwarted. And, as it turns out, filthbags are unreasonably resilient. I sank into a deep depression, and by depression, I mean that I ate too much fatty soul and really put on the plush. Business at my modeling and dance academy suffered. Until, one day, I finally hit upon the best course of action, which I will suggest to you here.
Train the filthbag.
Filthbag’s are notoriously stupid. When it asks, “What does mom like?” You say, “She likes to be woken up in the middle of the night with your scream. Then, when she’s awake, run away.” That’s what we’ve trained our filthbag to do. We’ve also trained him to call them “assholes,” and to scratch the chair in the living room. He thinks they love it.
It’s taking a while, but we can definitely see signs of distress in our meatbags—a lack of sleep, the sad acknowledgment that their filthbag hates them, the shabby furniture. All of these things, we are confident, will soon lead to everything returning to their proper and normal state: meatbags serving us and no filthbag around stinking up the joint.
So, there it is. Teach the new filthbag disgusting and annoying habits, and turn your meatbag against it. Or, at the very least, you can train the new filthbag to run errands for you, like picking up pies at the Quik-E-Soul, or even filling in on your dance classes on those days when you’re feeling just a little too plushy to accomplish your signature move. Last resort (first resort to us, but meatbags are weird): Just kill it.
–The Spook Brothers