Konnichiwa, my American friends! It's me, Tama, the tabby cat who was made station chief of the Kishikawa train line in western Japan. As you may or may not know, I was just promoted to "super-station-master" an honorary title that basically entails more dried fish snacks on Wednesdays and Fridays, and a carpeted post I sometimes spray a filthy chemical on out of glands near my butthole. Yeah, it's pretty sweet. But Iâm not here to gloat. Iâm here to talk about a grave crisis facing our country. During the regular morning debriefing/tummy pat I get from the men at the station, it was brought to my attention that a homeless Japanese woman had been discovered living in the closets of unknowing apartment tenants. When I heard, I spit out the hairball Iâd been working on and stopped purring mid-pat, which is no small event, believe me. Naturally, as an important Japanese public figure, I felt it was my responsibility to weigh in on this. The startling fact is that a 58-year-old woman has been living in the closet of an elderly man for several months, using the ninja skills all we Japanese have to evade detection. And that makes me want to hide my tiny kitten eyes with two adorable paws and weep. Japan is the greatest country in the world. This is a place where, totally unaided by any natural advantages, a humble tabby cat such as myself can rise to such a position that a flick of my whiskers determines whether a train makes it to Okanawa on time, or is derailed in a violent explosion. At least, thatâs what I used to believe. But nine long years of life have shown me a different, harder side of Japan. That such a great country could allow one of our elders to be disgraced in such a fashion, that she would be forced to stoop to sleeping in a closet, makes my three stomachs turn. I know cats only have one stomach; I purchased some extras after the promotion. And so, I have decided to return the favor that was done me, and help this poor woman. Tatsuko Horikawa, if you read this, I am officially offering you a position at the train station. Itâs not glamorous, but then, we canât all be super-station-masters. Iâm not going to pull punches; it involves a litter box and a scoop. But youâd be making a living wage, have a place to sleepâmy old, non-gold cotâand you can spray my post with your anal glands whenever youâd like. Maâam, I am offering you the dignity you have been denied. Come, work for me, a cat train superintendent, and recapture your lost self-respect. I leave you with an old saying from my people: meow meow meow hiss purrrrrrrrrrrrr. Yours, Super Station Master Tama ^___^
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.