In college some years ago I wrote a rant poem for a class. It was shortly after a breakup so it was directed at one woman in particular but you can probably generalize towards a few of them. Enjoy, Gentlemen.

Pussies

I HATE pussies. I Hate them all. No, not the kind between your legs. Not the kind who backs down from the good fight. The furry kind. Nah, That doesn't help. The furry kind with claws and teeth and whiskers and shedded fur on everything you own. Yah... Short hair, long hair, not a fuck of difference. It gets everywhere. Black hair, Brown hair, white hair, even that bright fucking orange hair...Everywhere. I hate pussies....Clean, well groomed pussies; smelly, bad breathed pussies that recently ate too much fucking Grilled Salmon and Shrimp Feast in Gravy; Pussies from Siam, pussies that look like raccoons, pussies that look like milk cows without their redeeming, pendulous ice cream producing teats. I Hate pussies. The kind that keep you up all night. The kind that meow, quietly and consistently, and keep you up all night. The kind that Meow loudly and Randomly, and keep you up all night. The kind that shriek over some last, dried, crusty bit of horse meat byproducts some raccoon grifter got ahold of, and keep you up all night. The kind that wail because six neighborhood tomcats are trying to run a train on her, far from virgin, ass. I hate pussies. They are the pinko communists of the animal kingdom. The animal channel welfare queens. Taking free food and offering nothing in return. No chased Frisbees, no bitten mailmen, no alarmed burglars, no coming when they're called...(unless they hear a can opener), no licking your face...they wont even bring you a goddamn ball. They will, however, leave a rotting frog carcass in the middle of your living room. Just a little salt for that emotional wound they'll inevitably leave you. If they had a cardboard sign it would just say Give me stuff. Which reminds me...I hate pussies. They don't want you to pet them. They let you pet them until THEY'RE done. Then, they walk away, leaving you satisfied, unsatiated, and completely unfulfilled. They don't want you to pet them...they want you to fail at petting them so they can walk away leaving you wondering if you did it wrong. Too Hard ? Too Soft? What?!?! I hate pussies. Young pussies get you in the cat owner door. Fun and playful. They stretch out yarn and crawl over you like a goddamn jungle gym. They chase stuffed mice and twirling feathers. They do battle with dust bunnies and hunt sun rays through your window. You take them home and...there they lay; Old pussies now, with nothing left to offer. They wasted all the love they had on every passerby of that pet shop window, and now they will treat you to twenty years of contempt and disappointed aloofness, paired with demands for your attention on call, while they lay slovenly across you infants sleeping, nearly blue face. I hate pussies. Fuckin' meow. And, as if that weren't enough, they'll notice the scratching pads you've conveniently placed all over your house and then proceed to tear the ends off of every piece of furniture you own, beginning with the most expensive and working their way down. In the middle of this blatant disregard for your property rights, they'll realize that the litter box which makes your whole house smell like their ASS, isn't offensive enough and embark on a mission of vindictively inspired vomit attacks. But, no they won't puke on the linoleum in your kitchen. They'll blow chunks all over the hand loomed Korean rug your great grandfather paid twenty nine hundred dollars for in 1932. I hate pussies. I'll drown them in the lake for ten cents a bag or, if you share my own mild distaste, then for a slight up charge I'll also put em in a log splitter, throw them in a dryer...or washer, take them off roading...in the trunk, feed them plugged in Christmas lights, sell them to a dollar-a-scoop Chinese restaurant, or...hell...Ill even catapult em into a wall for ya...Fucking meow.