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So it turns out house cats are an ancient race of evil aliens who descended to earth en masse centuries ago to conquer and destroy.

But they quickly learned they didn’t have to do anything.


Human beings will willingly serve as slaves to the cats. As a race, they found “owners,” a nice sunny window and promptly went to sleep and got fat. They have taken a particular liking to oddball single women who live alone in one bedroom apartments which they will gleefully fill with four, five or six cats.

This film follows a particular cat, Scoop, a black and grey tiger tabby. (Any resemblance to my cat is purely coincidental. My lawyer made me say this. Scoop is a litigious cat. She actually sued the Rolling Stones over “Stray Cat Blues,” if you can believe that.)

Anyway, a cat not at all based on my cat decides she wants a shot at world domination and builds an indestructible cat-sized Panzer Tank based entirely on a show about Nazis she saw on the History Channel. The tank also has legs like an Imperial Walker and, of course, lasers. The cat does all of this behind her owner’s back while using his credit cards to purchase most of the raw materials off of Amazon. Thank you, Jeff Bezos.

So the cat, now inside an impenetrable death machine, sets about destroying large cities in “War of the Worlds” fashion. Democrats openly ponder whether or not it is the place of humans to tell an out-of-control kitty on a murderous rampage how to live her life. Republicans blame the entire mess on immigrants, teachers and poor people and give themselves a tax cut.

The military proves useless against the marauding kitty. This is partly because their weapons are obsolete compared to the cat’s alien technology, but also because they can’t be dragged away from their fascistic displays of patriotism at major league sporting events long enough to bring those weapons to bear. Ironically, the Space Force’s widely ridiculed camouflage uniforms prove useful when the wearer hides in the woods to escape Scoop’s magnificent death rays.

At one point, Scoop’s owner, based on me and voiced by Sylvester Stallone, tries to appeal to his former pet.

“You’re being a really bad kitty,” I say.

“What’s that noise coming from it’s craft,” a five-star general asks.

“Why I think she’s purring,” I reply.

For a moment, it seems like it’s all over, but then Scoop sees a tweet from the president calling her a pussy and continues her rampage with renewed fervor, or purrvor, if you will.

Scoop is eventually captured during a nap. The military tells the despondent owner his bad kitty is being handled by “top men.” They will say nothing else.

We cut to a one bedroom apartment, where Scoop, now in a bonnet, is being cradled by one of those peculiar women who already own five cats. She is baby talking Scoop, who growls through a series of increasingly tight close ups. The End?

Get with me, Pixar.

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