A Parable of Cat-pitalisim, Part VII


The next day, the man, armed with his business plan, went to the bank.  Notably absent was the codger with whom he’d originally stormed brains.  But the kitten-stabbing industry had always been dog-eat-dog, and even his innovation wasn’t going to change that.  He acted alone.

Entering the conference room, the man set up an easel and a series of hand-drawn graphs.  The bankers looked him up and down, scrutinized his untailored suit.

“Gentlemen,” he began.  “I do not wish to stab kittens any longer.”

Gasps filled the room.


“In fact, I have an even more profitable idea.”

Over the next several hours, he detailed his plan, explaining how pussy-whipping could bring them all untold profits with a fraction of the cleanup costs of traditional kitten stabbing.  The worked and reworked the figures.  They grilled him on his projections.  But at the end of the day, they had cut him a big fat check.

He was now an industrialist, and the #9 Whipped Pussy Company was born.


Times were tough at first.  There were long nights, impossible odds.  But he kept his eye to the keyhole, he worked all night some nights, because he was determined that he would be a white-collar man.  And once the factory was up and running, he and his investors were quick to reap the profits.


Within six months, he’d managed to pay off the mortgage on a new home.  It was modest, but it was on the good side of town, where the water was clean and no one needed to lock their doors at night.

“Finally,” said his wife, “the life we deserve!”  Her brilliant exclamation became the basis of the company’s first ad campaign.


The new product was a sensation across the entire country.  From coast to coast, the papers talked of #9 Whipped– how barbaric the non-whipped products of the past had been, and how it was the “new standard of quality for a growing nation.”  In fact, that slogan became the company trademark.

It seemed that life couldn’t get any better for the man.  He had built a successful business.  He had security for his family.  He had the respect of his peers.

Why didn’t it feel like enough?



PAUL LAFARGUE enjoys lazy Sundays sleeping in and snuggling with his own kitten, Laura.  He currently resides in Paris, France, where he currently focuses on his writing.


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