I'm obsessed with cats. I have pictures of them all over. I even have a picture of a kitten in my wallet, and can spend hours on end playing with kitties. Yet I've met people who, when I tell them how much I love cats, suddenly think I'm a homosexual. Where does this analogy come from? This is one of the many things that pisses me off about sexual stereotypes. I see this even in movies. More often than not, in a family, they portray the girl as liking the cat a lot, and the boy as liking the dog a lot. A good example of this is Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey.

Besides, liking cats can really score you some points with the ladies.
I don't like cats. They make me sneeze. They shed their hair all over my nice black clothes and make me look messy. They dig their sharp claws into my lap. They make awful yowling sounds at night and keep me awake. They have the creepiest stares. I'm pretty sure they'd try to steal my breath if they knew how.

And not only am I gay, I'm an Evil Genius. This puts me in a double bind. I mean, everyone knows about the gay man cat stereotype, but now because of Blofeld and Dr. Evil, your average megalomaniacal misanthrope who employs a small army of minions and has a secret lair is also expected to tote around one of these furball coughing clawed creatures of gehenna.

Just last month I saw the far-reaching and devastating effects of this trend at a convention. I was chatting with a rather pleasant South American Dictator when I casually mentioned how his snappy paramilitary uniform was ruined by some rather unattractive white hairs. He sighed at me and rolled his eye (the other was covered by an eyepatch, I have no idea whether he rolled that one) and said, "Ahh, Eveel, ees tha cat!" He then dropped the rather silly accent he affected and whispered conspiratorially, "That damned Persian I carry with me to the all the meetings of the junta. I daren't leave him behind because word might get out that I've gone soft and the next you know there's a coup d'etat. Ruling an entire country is a hideous bitch Goddess, you're lucky you've only your tiny island". I ignored his rather obvious backhanded compliment and tried not to show how confounded I was that the man once called "El Hombre sin Corazon" was reduced to carrying around a pussycat to ensure fear.

But the Generalissimo was not the only victim; a few moments later I spied a lovely diabolical vixen whose acquaintance I'd made once before. After kissing the hand of the Contessa, I remarked that her stunning form-fitting body suit was marred by three vertical slashes down the left leg. The Contessa shrugged and replied in her trademark Dietrich-esque voice that, "I got a Siamese for my last birthday. Hate the bugger, but now all the supervillains have one. C'est la vie!"

It's life, but does it have to be? I say NO! Evilness does not require animals of the feline persuasion. Damien had hellhounds and he was the antichrist! I bet Ming the Merciless never let a long-haired russian blue ruin his snazzy silk gowns. Does Martha Stewart keep cats?! Well, maybe, but you don't see her carrying around the bloody fleabags everywhere she goes. And when was the last time you saw Richard Simmons cuddled up with a furry pussy? Enough is enough. I say that Evil Geniuses should no longer fear to be seen without these loathesome pointy-eared demons. If you must have a pet, get something cool, like a Dragon or a horde of smurfs.

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