Socks the Cat, born in 1991, died today.
He was Chelsea Clinton's cat, and lived in the White House throughout the entirety of the Clinton era. I'll always associate his handsome face and beautiful markings with happier days, frothy times when the worst we had to worry about was the prodigal penis of our philandering POTUS. Nobody ever lost a job or a pension or got foreclosed upon because of the lust of bimbintern Monica Lewinsky and her exalted paramour. Clinton lied, and nobody died.
Some of his political enemies came close to keeling over dead though, because the thought of all that hot, naked getting busy in the Oval Office gave numerous among them brain lesions, perforated eardrums, gastric ulcers, and deviated septums. And it couldn't have happened to a more deserving crew.
R.I.P. Socks. We already miss you, just as for some time we've missed the time of your life.
2 comments:
It was a full life for a cat.
I always liked Socks because Socks always stayed true to himself, as most cats do. And Buddy, may he rest in peace as well, stayed true to himself too. Over the years I have respected, tolerated, or loathed various presidents and their first families, but I always liked their pets. Even Barney.
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