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UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: Mac & Devin Go To High School

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Upsetting Day: 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers 🌭

No one. I’m not sure this book exists.

I feel weight, and see text. The pages smell like unwashed fur and embalming fluid. The Little Free Library outside my lair has a paperback-sized gap. Yet 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers is not there.

The lack of names on the front, side, or back stands out. A little pride’s natural, even if you list it next to murder as a sin. People autograph madness, hate speech, criminal confessions, and guides to mixing all three. 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers, at a glance, comes from the aether.

But the authors exist: 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers emerged in 2019, before automated plagiarism bloomed. This is handcrafted air. The legalese page credits Michelle Cox, Sylvia Schroeder, Lori Brown, Linda Gilden, and Edie Melson as “composers.” Solid word choice. “Writers” feels strong.

As for the cover? Pay artists. Just do it. They train to spare your dignity. No design student would let that clip art touch a printer.

If you were raised to honor pets, or even God, you’ve got the concept. But the intro’s worthwhile for parasite-free readers. Parasites from cats, I’m not Bill Maher. Unless you’re with HBO.

About ten minutes ago, we retired “Please drown my wife” jokes. I think cats absorbed that wink-nudge anger. It had to be someone; Honeymooners punchlines are a constant. Next time you see an overfed Birman, thank them for preserving the balance.

Back to our premise. For a full book. 160 pages of text, spread across a human year.

You might not be panicking yet. Welcome to the site! We celebrate offbeat media, personal favorites, and the guttural screams of the unsane. This is a personal favorite.

52 Devotions for Cat Lovers has a simple task: improvise cat stories, and staple-gun Bible quotes to them. You could do it. I’ve taught students at every level of drive, ability, and fluency. You could, barring allergies, write this in a week. This effort has five composers, determined to change hearts.

It doesn’t go well.

Here’s our opener. The starting gun for January 1, 2020. God’s balm for nightmare hangovers and the normal year that followed.

Note: I’m skipping all the Bible quotes. They’re fine. The book’s eaten enough empires for a clean edit. Try the second half for drama, and the first half for frog rain. If there isn’t a Wicked-style POV flip about Delilah, someone at Penguin is slacking.

I’ve never heard a softer customer rageout, so these must be clean stories. On that curve, this is devastating. This brute’s clearly unsaved by Bast Jesus. But why target Michelle/Sylvia/Lori/Linda/Edie? After all, they take equal pride in their customer service and dialogue.

It’s cats. The answer’s always cats. Even when it should be Christ or Satan, it’s cats. Before we’re done, you’ll wish this book featured twice the brainwashing and half the fur. Michelle/Sylvia/Lori/Linda/Edie don’t have Eric Ludy’s open hatred of people that fuck. They have cats.

A clever reverse-strawman might say “that happened.” Don’t bother. It’s a waste of neurons. You won’t make it to February questioning the composers’ honesty. Michelle/Sylvia/Lori/Linda/Edie are all about emotional truth, which the flamewar scorecard says is good now.

How do we powerslam that into faith? Poorly, like a county fair deathmatch.

I didn’t cut a word between quotes. The best tracts skip transitions to leave room for His Light. I call it “thinking in tongues.” It’s how “love thy neighbor” cuts to “let’s jumpstart the apocalypse.”

Thinking in tongues works in other genres: if you watched closely, the Holy Spirit turned Daenerys into Albino Atilla, and wove years of conflict between Arya and the Night King. For we are sinful, and have left the bowls of our betters empty.

They’re into lions, I’m on-topic.

Then there’s the stinger. Two sections that redefine effort:

Dog portraits would make better padding. 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers is four lazy cash-ins duct-taped together, and two are stolen. It is, by default, duller than letting a cat sleep on the keyboard. That’s where most horror sequels come from.

If you’re into God, stories, or customer service, you’ve been insulted. None of those matter in publishing, so I’m laughing like the middle hyena. I may be the composers’ first fan.

“Paws to think” isn’t a one-off pun. Those words hit me 52 times. This is my first column with hazard pay. I almost called it “Pet Seminary” to continue the cycle.

In fact, your lives are still too easy. Here are some other Devotion titles:

Fantastic move. Hell is mostly puns.

The book’s voices are distinct: two members of Michelle/Sylvia/Lori/Linda/Edie love puns. The other three love money. Church gets a few nods too, but there’s tangible passion for wordplay and retirement.

All five like fun facts. Leading to Sources for Fun Facts, the first bibliography I’ve read of my own free will. It’s a classy turn: a good Works Cited page separates plagiarism and still plagiarism. Here’s the truncated list of scholars:

In the composers’ defense, 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers overlapped with Buzzfeed’s longform journalism phase. That, like groundwater, died in a shareholder meeting. I hope you’ve prepped for Mad Max instead of Waterworld.

Note Quora. Where any of us can contest the moon landing and beat Buzz Aldrin in views, replies, and lives changed. Points to Shittier Askreddit for outliving arena rap and home ownership.

Now that we’re 950 words in, a second example might help. Most devotions cover unremarkable cats, but some remarkable owners sneak in.

Pierre. Cute. I finally understand Civ V’s culture victory: it’s conquering Earth and getting “fussy” as your stereotype. Let’s see how this child handles a Ming vase with feelings.

Now that’s adorable neglect. I came in expecting Chastity Garfield, not LMG: Into the MatchstickVerse.

“Disappeared” means expired. Bit it. Died freezing. Fox put starlets on farms for ratings, not mountain trails in the dead of winter. That ends in a high-fashion Lord of the Flies, and dibs. My idea. Mine. Yellowjackets meets Zoolander is money. Enough for me to forget this expensive cat starving to death.

A fine ad for apostasy, or at least PETA. How’s this lead to mass?

Great message, on its own. Today’s underdog is an emaciated popsicle. And Pierre’s traits were on the outside. His label said “I am a Warrior Cats jobber. Leave me in the cold, and I will die.” He still got a permafrost taxidermy. Pierre’s story is like Goliath stomping David into a closed casket funeral.

Maybe Buzzfeed can bring this home.

You know what? Points for relevance. Half the trivia says “try not to feed cats chocolate,” as if Easter snacks aren’t for the whole family. Or complete inania:

While 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers centers cat worship, the resentment subplot persists. Some sinners don’t deserve statues. There’s Shadow, who simply watches mice instead of culling them. He represents ignoring donation buckets, evening mass, and lonely pastors. Or Callie, who…kills too many mice. How much murder does God want? Why can’t I kill in peace?

Alright, fair enough. To impress God, don’t try to impress God. Take the Bruce Lee route and pray without praying. You might think Callie deserves a break, but St. Peter has other opinions.

Finally, consider Mr. Fritzy.

Is there another kind of cat? You don’t really have to like something much to be obsessed with it, do you? That explains dating coaches.

Aloofness and fur sound like every cat alive. But, based on my sales, I can be wrong.

Ah. Mr. Fritzy is the first cat in hell. I enjoy cats a sane amount, so I’m glad we’ll have one downstairs. We can hang when demons aren’t feeding me my eyes.

What’s wilder: guilt-tripping a cat, guilt-tripping a fourth cat, or guilt-tripping readers by association? I get the intent, and this book needs variety. But hellbound pets are the dumbest way to get there. You’re just adding reactionary voices to your singular fixation. This is a chapel bathroom reader, not a newspaper.

Cat epics only end a few ways: jokes about Mondays, endangered tiger lists, swordfighting Death, and mind-erasing isolation. Three of those take work, so 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers sprints into solitude.

At first, the cat story offers more nothing:

You might forget that as you read it, so the repetition has purpose. Then tension creeps in:

The narrator’s gritted teeth are much more compelling than her non-story. I kept a cat alive long enough to admire this passion. If you don’t feel rejection on your pet’s behalf, do you really love it?

Finally, the despair hits:

Someone check on Michelle. Not the other four, I know it’s Michelle. Pure loneliness demands a stock name. Sylvias and Edies use cats as living props for rich, full lives, annoying a varied social calendar. Virtuoso stereotype fulfillment takes a Michelle. Loving the Unlovable is at least 0.8 Madeas of friendly fire.

Pitch black, misspelled, and perfect. It honestly counts as a poem. For some reason, our narrator keeps running into unlovable people. Almost as if–look! Kittens!

This was never about Christ, cats, or cash. Pet prayers are just the lyrics to dying alone. Loving the Unlovable has a main-event slot, making this psychic scream the book’s point. Five composers wrung heartache from work, friendship, confidence, and pet ownership.

I came looking for a Copeland-adjacent speedbag, and found tears. 52 Devotions for Cat Lovers catfished me, and I deserve it. Consider Eric Ludy avenged.

Still, I’m glad something’s here. Most storytellers ask “what makes the audience give a shit?” Budget prophets stop at “God says they have to.” That’s dragging the cart uphill and shooting the horse. Try harder. Changing someone’s spiritual life might take a draft or two.

Don’t let McDonald’s GospelFest fool you: fundies aren’t a captive audience. Bored Christians can read the Book of Judges, featuring one-man graveyards centuries before Lu Bu. Why the fuck should they read about your cat? If they want to taste hell, they can just go to GospelFest.

Though there’s some competition.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Badger who, like the Scottish Fold, knows that humility is currency in the shadow of God.

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Upsetting Day: Baggage

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Upsetting Day: The Horror Movie Hidden in St. Elmo’s Fire

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Upsetting Day: Bill Cosby’s Childhood

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Upsetting Day: Any Which Way You Can 🌭

Hi everybody you might know i recently cured myself of a cripplin monkeyaphobia by usin compassionite exposure and i have taken advantage of my new flexability and mind freedom to consider a new stretch of simian landscape that before was closed off to me. By meanin i watched the ape movies i was too scared to before like todays object of interest:

Some of you may know this one is a sequel to a earlier film called Every Which Way But Loose, also with a magnificence cover:

Because in 1980 there was just no satisfyin the public thirst for Phylo Beddoe and his orangatang, Clyde, all gettin into scampish aventures in the glamorous location of the greater Bakersfield california metropolitan region. We’re focusin on part 2 today but Its ok if you didnt see the first one, we’ll get you up to speed real quick here just answer two questions:

1) what’s the best most authentic job a man could have?

Truck drivin, that’s correct.

And 2) what’s the best most honrable hobby a man could do in his off-hours?

Street fightin, that’s right.

And so Phylo is BOTH fighter and driver and you can already imagine the bell-bottomed box office stampede this by itself would initialize but then also our feather-haired moms and our permed dads learned that there was a MONKEY in this movie who could drink beer and flip the bird and lets just say many sweet vans were harmed in the rush to them theaters. That is only a little bit of a eggsadgeration for comedy effect, look:

So they called in Buddy Van Horn to direct this one (I will have a chapter on Buddy in my upcomin dissertation (Media Arts and Technology, DeVry University) about how many of our finest american films were made by former stunt coordinates). We start our story with a duet song called Beers to You sang by Ray Charles and Clint Easthood himself. If you have the time and incline nation you might click on that link to really allow your body to settle into a 1980 mindset by listenin to Eastwoods pretty weird and thin singin voice and some musical choices they didnt know were racist yet and ray charles sayin “Huh!?” at 1:33 like what the hell did i just sing. But most importantly: the dad culture in the comments is just wonderfuly fierce and in-passioned defenses of this as the best music and film of all time (but we know its really about fearin parts of there identities might also become unrelevant and not apreciated):

So the movie begins by showin us that Phylo he is still drivin in them trucks and fightin in them streets, and he is the BEST there is you can tell because the movie opens up with a motorcycle cop foolishly betting AGAINST HIM and Officer Shits-his-pants truly is a dummy because Phylo just TruckerPunches his ‘ponent right down into the california dust

Oh also and then clyde takes a shit in a cop car.

Well, his FIRST shit in a cop car, its kinda a runnin bit.

So, tone establissed, we’ll meet our main characters here, a course we have Phylo and Clyde but also: we learn a interestin fact that Geoffery Lewis, playin Phylos brother Orville, was once apon a time just a absolute peanut m&m snack of a man:

Look at him. I don’t care what your historical patterns of orientation are, imagine that you just finished up a fun weekend ice fishin but its gettin dark and that oncomin storm is lookin pretty ugly, is there any one you’d trust more at the handlebars of a ski-doo haulin ass outta there? while you hold tight from behind somehow feelin safer then you ever have before?

Rest in Peace Geoff, my good good bud.

Movin on we meet phylo and orvilles’ “Ma” played by acadamy award winnin Ruth Gordon who is very convincin in her performins comin cross absolutely drunk at all hours of every day and says many memorable lines such as: “Come back with some Oreos ya hairy ass!” and as we will see provides a model for maintainin sexuality even into advanced age:

And then also there is Phylo’s love interest Lynn (actressed by Clint’s real wife and pretty regular movie pard, Sondra Locke) shes a country-western gal here pictured singin a song about “Either Yours Is Too Loose Or Mine Is Too Tight”:

And then acourse who could never forget everyones favorite: Beans MOROCCO

In addition to characters there is also a plot, it starts with kinda a jarrin cut from Bakersfield to the staten island tugboat

and we enter a room with a buncha mafia types

Who are watchin a ferret fight a rattlesnake but they call it a mongoose probly because of Ricky Ticky Taffy.

Its unclear if the mongoose dies from snakebite or second handsmoke and the human depictions are not very culturally nuance either, you can kinda tell it was made for a audience who still isn’t sure: are Jewish and Italians the same thing or different? But dont worry about it too much it just means our bakersfield boys have inverdently landed themselfs in some East Coast Trouble.

Which you can probably imagine me having sorta a widenin smile watchin all this and just gleeful snugglin deeper into my barcalounger with a growin sense of: this is gonna be good.

But

Then there is a unexpected and upsettin subplot which starts when Lynn comes to Phylo with a bad case of 80s horny for a man who sleeps in jeans and no shirt and Phyllo is just not gonna say no when her voice is all husky like that and so they begin to sex but then:

So i paused this one for a second and considered what I had seen and kinda shook my head clear of some of the more disturbin implications and decided: maybe in the 80s this was just like letting the dog stay in the room while you made it; aka a personal preferants pon which reasonin people may disagree. Me, for example.

But when we come back to our lovers the morning after things arent really clarified any because we see Clyde givin Lynn a tender morning kiss

Then some sad music teaches us that: far from feelin satisfied and full-filled from whatever role he played in there lovemaking, it only hilighted his own lack of a lady partner.

The film pauses everything else here because it is very portant that we understand the depth of his orangutangular lonesome onwee. Here is a edited-for-time cut of the montage I have intitled: “Clyde, Alone”

To think that it was just a few months ago that witnessin such antics would of had me dissociatin right in my pants. But now i can watch them with a calmed heart and open curiosity and only a little bit of a dry mouth.

So Phylo understands his friends sadness and makes a decision to help, which in this movie friendship means you break into the zoo with your orangutang bud and give him, like, a turkey-baster syringe filled with roofie to inject into a banana to abduct a mate.

Now this is where i was very glad that i can now observe the ape without fear because what I saw and learned from Clyde was truly impact full. He is somehow operatin on a higher moral plain than his human friend and knows it is wrong to disrupt the automony of another, but he is unable to speak his objections in English. Faced with a important an impossible ethicle dilemma of his own making, in a flash of simian brilliants Clyde identifies: he is trapped and and and STABS HIMSELF with the syringe. Which, this shook me honestly and made me wonder: would I have the moral integritty to take a action so bold?

Such…courage. Cept I accidentally said that part aloud and laRene glanced up from her phone game and looked at me and said “did you just say `Such Courage’ about this movie?’’ and I looked back at her and said ‘’I don’t know what to else to call it” and her eyes softened up with mine and she held my hand for a minute.

But in the end Clyde’s concientous objection is for nought cuz Phylo goes and gets the female orangutang by himself and takes her and Clyde to a motel so they can consumme there love.

Clyde once again shows us some maturity in his understanding of intamate connections and declines to pursue sex in favor of just bein playful and allowin if there is a friendship compatibility between him and Bonnie what might develop.

But the humans in the vicinity think theyre making sex noises and hotdog reader: this is the horniest thing thats ever happened to them. Phylo for eggsample loses his mind and all dignity as he postures and presents for his lady.

Then they Do It. Theyre hump-sesh mightily inhanced by them imaginin about the monkeys in the next room doing the same.

But thats not all, like that part in terminator 2: judgemint day where we see the range of impact of a nucular blast, the film continues to follow the powerful waves of the monkey sexual field: There is another couple in the motel (the bad lady from goonies and her man) and when they hear the monkey-thumpin he is also overtaken by a bestial lust (you’ll have to supply your own comical bongo-bongo noises for this one):

Then they hump too.

We continue our gods eye view of this, the intire specktrum of human sexality. We meet The motel manager, who was struck by the erotic musk pulsing from room 104 and has been desperately tryin to peek in the window at the monkeys, and who comes along but Ma. He turns his lustful attention to her and we are treated to this special effects master’s piece:

Imagine how your mom and dad laughed and laughed in the theater when this happened and probably poked each other and whispered “That’s Bo Derek from Ten!” Like when i saw shrek in the theater that lady who’s arm went over the armrest into my airspace kept chucklin and saying stuff like “huhuh, spiderman” everytime there was a reference.

But Ma is into it and they retreat to tenderly and elderly sex each others behind the front desk.

I paused the tape once more here and went for a nature walk to again consider and reflect. I will tell you that I checked myself carefully for signs of a rousal and, findin none, asked myself: am I the amonaly, that witnessing ape’s sexual activities does not move my needle? Or, perhaps the transmissive of sexual excitation from monkey to human was very normal for the time and place and I too, but a leaf on a tree what happens to be in shade or sun through no choice or action of my own, would also have left the theater in 1980 in a state of: Ready for Love. When the next generation of hotdog writers is mining and scholarizing the popular medias of this current day and age, what will they find distastesome and gross that we nowadays esteam as really sexy?

Game of Thrones probly, I decided.

Anyways my deadline was coming up so I went back inside to finish the film and honestly there were many more parts that I just thought were so crazy and funny but not in the way they meant it that i laughed at and took notes about and made many witful obsirvations about, for example when phylo goes runnin for exercise in the heat of the sun in wranglers and a mustached-stranger says mind if i jog with ya and phylo says hell no and a hawk screams and then…

O but I am mindful of our plicit agreement here about how long these col-umms should be so we will jump ahead to the ape-sex finale, right after Phylo just won a street fight in Jackson Hole which:

Im tellin you people, the whole world just really loved this movie so much.

But Anyhow, we meet our heroes at the end of our tale right where we found em when we started, drivin in a truck. And here is where this motion picture makes a sudden final dive into dispear and hopelesness and makes our hearts hurt the likes of which i never seen since the end of The Descent because when Phylo asks Clyde what he wants to get up to now we learn that our once pure and moral king of the apes has been contammanated by the stink of mans need for control and manipulation. You see, Phylo looks over and sees that the orangutang has somehow ackwired some human pornography and has formed a attachment to the centerfold model:

Phylo and Lynn agree that this is pretty cute and ask Clyde: but what is your plan and, very unfortunately, he has one:

Which if that filthy grin and dirty glovebox nanner dont relapse me probly nothin will.

So i just guess its my sol’umm prayer that as this relationship continues to develop between human kinds and the apes of the field that we can find ways to borrow and emulate the best of each other instead of the very very worst and in the name of jesus christ amen.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Mike Stiles, who was once ground zero for an ape sex blast and now seeks to educate the world about horny ape safety procedures.