Selective Tenderness

I don’t like my dad claiming a spiritual connection to my younger brother’s cat, because he bought him Fancy Feast the one week, he was in town this summer. Typical A Plus narcissist. He thinks his presence alone is enough to warrant non-stop pussy love. Wait a minute, that’s his favorite son, who owns the cat, that’s the only thing he got to keep from his divorce, my bad, who makes Hunter Biden come off as a serially underachieving slacker in comparison. We own a cat Miss Kitty, AKA, Miss Pretty, and I enjoy feeding her more than my own kids. And my 3 kids give me running jump yummy hugs like when I made them pecan breaded, Swordfish with a Strawberry, Mango salsa when my parents were in town. Actually, that dish deserved an extended hump leg hug actually. Still, I made the dish because my mom proposed a Shabbat dinner that we host at our place, because my younger brother is less grateful than AJ from the Soprano’s on Indigenous People’s Day after he started banging the model he met at the psych ward for 50 grand a week, I think. Or was that John Snow paying 50 grand a week to attend a rehab center in CT, which ruins everything. John Snow was supposed to be the Alpha Dog Orlando Bloom, minus the pan sexual star leanings. Except now, your left with the impression that John Snow would flinch after receiving a cutting stare from Gordon Ramsey on Top Chef, Celebrity edition. “These Dothraki Lamb burgers taste like burnt villagers Snow.”

I hate to attach symbolism to everything. But my dad claiming a spiritual connection with my brother’s cat that he got in the divorce, that they came back east to clean up for him, rubs me the wrong way. All of a sudden, my dad is a poet laurate of cats, who thinks he’s the Charlies Bukowski of Dutchess County, representing cottage life for the Hudson Weekly, the one week he’s around all summer, I don’t think so. Especially knowing how the cat’s name is Suey as in Chop Suey served in Chinese restaurants with her family. I’m offended personally, because I don’t recall my dad making any positive mention of our cat Miss Kitty, who’s the most fuss free feline imaginable, who licks my feet nonstop and mama’s to, which means she isn’t afraid of no bunions. Death wish lives, Challah. Thank you very much. But hey, I should be used to being the sloppy second son by now. So our cat receiving shabbier, selective tenderness treatment from my Dad shouldn’t be such a painful shock to my system anymore either. Like Trans Father Day, not being a thing on Twitter yet. Get over yourself Nipple tits, either you’re an involved father who doesn’t specialize in selective tenderness or not. Plus, feeling fucked over shouldn’t be such a major shock to your system anymore either, sloppy second sons included. Resisting selective tenderness, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth