There is an old(er) joke that goes something like this: What are the two dirtiest animals on the farm? The punchline is, Brown chicken, brown cow.
Of course, to be funny, you read the punchline all together, as if one word, “brownchickenbrowncow,” and with inflection, so that it sounds like “Bow-chicka-bow-wow,” the universal background music for bad adult film.
What does this joke have to do with my cat being in adolescence, and hitting his pubescent stride? Read on. The answer is guaranteed to surprise you.
Rewind to a little over a week ago. Due to my legendary insomnia, I was stumbling off to bed at some unholy hour, and as I am wont to do after being out for most of the day — thus keeping my cats from my companionship and conversation — I left the television on in the living room.
I have found that letting the volume play at a very low setting seems to keep them happy, Mr. Kitty more than Miki since he actually watches the pictures playing out on the screen.
It really doesn’t matter what channel the television is on; the important things are the low volume and the moving pictures.
And as I only have the most basic of services, I was somewhat, though pleasantly, surprised to find the next morning that the channel had changed to one of the Showtime channels.
It turned out that the weekend before last, it was Showtime Free Preview weekend (yay), so what a lucky day for me!
There was, of course, the small question as to just how the television had magically changed channels in the middle of the night. Question answered when I found the remote control under Mr. Kitty’s rather expansive behind (yes, he is a chunky monkey).
I flipped to the guide to see what might await my viewing pleasure. The short answer was nothing. Nothing was on that held any interest, so I flipped to the Menu, which shows me a list of the shows I have recorded.
And what to my wondering eye did appear, but 28 minutes of an adult pay-per-view program, recorded at something like 4:30 in the morning!
My cat had ordered porn.
And my “lucky” day evaporated, just like that. Especially when I had to call the satellite company to inquire as to whether or not Mr. Kitty had actually incurred charges (he had not — it was probably the only thing that saved him).
Here’s a small excerpt from my call with the satellite company:
ME: Yes, I need to check to see if a pay-per-view event was charged to my account, and if so, I need to get those charges reversed as the program would have been purchased in error.
SATELLITE GUY: OK, can you tell me what the name of the program was that you believe was purchased in error?
ME (in an embarrassed whisper): “Hot Housewives….”
SATELLITE GUY: (silence…)
SATELLITE GUY: Could you repeat that, please?
ME (a little louder, but no less embarrassed): “Hot Housewives …”
SATELLITE GUY: I see, and how is it that this item showed up for purchase?
ME: My cat did it.
Yes, there was distinct snickering on the other end of the phone. Yes, he made me repeat the story. More than once, as if anyone could possibly make up something this bizarre.
And no, Mr. Kitty did not complete the purchase, so I was safe from both the charges and the humiliation of having “Hot Housewives” showing up in my purchase history.
And now, no matter what pains I take to put the remote somewhere I deem safe, I invariably find the remote control under Mr. Kitty’s big body. He’s hoarding the remote, probably waiting for my guard to go down again. As if.
I guess it could have been worse — it could have been kitty-porn.
So, it’s official. Mr. Kitty is a purr-vert.
At least there have been no more accidental porn orders. Brownchickenbrowncow.
Stephanie Grissom is a Herald correspondent.