It was France, the year was 1911. The cat’s name was Pierre. Il s’appelle Pierre. He was a kind and loving cat. He would say things like “Meow,” “Purr,” and “C’est super-chouette.” Except he would say that all in French because he was a French cat. That last one is the same in French or English.
He lived the normal cat life: playing with balls of yarn, sleeping, generally being less exciting in every way than dogs. He was real popular in jazz clubs. He was happy. Most people who petted him were happy. They weren’t necessarily made happy by petting Pierre, it’s just that you don’t see too many unhappy people with the desire to pet a cat in the first place. Unless of course it’s some faceless evil villain but there weren’t any of those in France then.
So it was that Pierre was happily living his life, not realizing that his own fate was being set on its gruesome course by a group of really smart people in Norway. These brilliant minds had gathered to briefly stop their normal activity of gazing at Scandinavian women (all of whom I assume to be tall, blonde and beautiful) in order to give out some awards. All but one of the Nobel prizes went to people who had accomplished something magnificent. The peace prize went to Edgar Vehoovenshooven. He had recently discovered a way to create world peace but had abandoned the idea in order that “we’d have something to pray for and there’d be easy answers for Miss America contestants.” Instead he had brokered a treaty between two warring tribes in Madagascar.
The prize for cehmistry was instead well-deserved. It went to Marie Curie, and when the news was delivered, Paris swelled up in joy and admiration. People ran through the streets cavorting and frolicking with an occasional gallivant. Everything was looking up for the townsfolk. Nobody was looking down. So it was that poor Pierre was trampled under the feet of the revelers. Over the course of the night Pierre was crushed into a furry, bloody pulp. The townspeople weren’t aware til the next morning that Pierre was “mort.” One thing was for sure though; that cat had not died under the usual circumstances. The Marie Mania that had swept the town had done in that kitten. It was Curie-osity that killed that cat.
Author’s Note:
Alright, first of all I apologize, I know it was awful but I couldn’t resist. For those readers who would enjoy a thought on the subject that doesn’t rely heavily on an awful pun and is, well, funny, I’d like to personally recommend Porter’s On One Cats Addiction from June 3 of last year. Good stuff. Hopefully, you got the jazz joke, for me it’s the redeeming value of the thought if there is any. Finally, I know humor based on the French language sucks, but there’s part of me that wants to put my high school education to at least some use.
Editor’s Note:
If you liked this Thought, why not check out this Thought. It’s incredibly similar!