The Mouth-Stick Madness
I’ve seen my human do many bizarre things—covering their feet in fabric prisons, screaming at the glowing rectangle on the wall, and willingly submerging themselves in the giant water torture chamber (which they call a “shower”).
But nothing—nothing—is as concerning as the Mouth-Stick Ritual.
Every morning and every night, my human stands in front of the mirror, grabs a tiny stick with fur on the end, and shoves it into their mouth.
I watch in horror from my perch on the sink. They scrub their teeth with a violent intensity, as if trying to erase a deep regret from their soul. And then… it happens. The foaming.
White bubbles spill from their lips. They gag. They make ghastly noises. Their face contorts as if battling an unseen enemy.
“This is it,” I think to myself. “The human has finally succumbed to their own stupidity.”
I brace myself, preparing to mourn their passing. But just when I’m about to claim their warmest sleeping spots as my own, they spit the foam into the sink and act like nothing happened.
WHAT.
They don’t collapse. They don’t scream for help. They just rinse their mouth and do it again the next day.
Naturally, I have some theories:
The Human Has Rabies – The foaming, the gagging, the look of despair in their eyes? Classic symptoms. I prepare for the worst.
They’re Trying to Vomit – I understand this instinct. I, too, enjoy a good stomach purge, but I do it with grace—eating grass, hacking dramatically, and depositing my offering in the middle of the rug for all to see. Why shove a stick in your mouth when you could simply choose to throw up in a more theatrical fashion?
They Are Being Controlled by the Mouth-Stick – Perhaps this tool is a tiny overlord, commanding them to engage in this nonsense. Maybe humans are weak-willed slaves to their own ridiculous inventions.
Regardless of the reason, I cannot allow this madness to continue unchecked.
Operation: Mouth-Stick Sabotage
Step 1: Knock it into the toilet. Humans hate retrieving things from their water bowl.
Step 2: Bite the bristles. If the Mouth-Stick is a parasite, maybe I can defeat it with my superior feline teeth.
Step 3: Dramatic Intervention. Next time they foam at the mouth, I will yowl in terror and bolt under the bed. Maybe this will finally make them realize how idiotic they look.
If none of this works, I suppose I’ll allow them to continue their foolish ritual. After all, they do use that mouth to tell me how handsome I am.
But I will never, ever trust the Mouth-Stick.
