If I hear one more word about the wonderful marvelosity of coal-fired power stations, I’m firing the utterererer. “You’re fired,” I shall say, and I shall say it to him, no matter how lovely his head of melting orange tuna bake may be.
Currently, my dear friends, and others, I communicate with you from this year’s movable convention (and tuna smorgasbord) of fellow Last Cats:
- Last Cat On Mercury (very sweaty, and living on a transiting show-off and shrinking domicile, too, but more to the point, how do cats perspire? Let’s pause a moment and answer with: paws – who knew? Well, me, naturally, teehee),
- Last Cat On Venus (always trying a new dating app – sigh – and you should see the litter left by the last tenants),
- Last Cat On Earth (so many Lasts, so little time as the waters lap closer),
- Me of course (enough said),
- Last Cat On Jupiter (composer of those so-called ‘ghostly sounds’ – hahaha),
- Last Cat On Saturn (who actually lives on Titan, Saturn’s moon, in the Dunes of Shangri-La: ‘biggest litterbox in the universe,’ so Dr On Saturn tells me),
- Last Cat On Uranus (a somewhat mysterious member of our troupe, but very happy to live on a rainbow-y planet even if it overcompensates somewhat with those 15 moons – 15, jeez),
- Last Cat On Neptune (and it’s just as well Dr On Neptune is a Russian Blue, if this image from Voyager 2 is anything to go by), and last but never least,
- Last Cat On Pluto (not a dwarf planet, never ever a dwarf planet, but a proud and bewildering solar system perennial: brought to you by Puffer-Upperers of Piddly Planets Way Out There Somewhere, of which Dr On Pluto is Chair, Vice-Chair, Secretary, Treasurer, and Committee Members, okay? Okay.).
Take a breath, sisters, brothers, and others.
So, as I tuck into my lovely and luscious outer space tuna delicacies, please enjoy a snapshot from my dear little pals, Rita and Frank. Bon voyage!