I'll tell you one thing, whoever the bastard was who made the bloody T-shirt quote of "Never knock on Death's Door, ring the bell and run, he hates that" must have been a cat. If not a cat, then one of those goddamned bleeding-out-of-their-arses cat-lovers. Either way, mate, its associated with cats. When you get down to it, you can make a connection to the wretched fleabags with any sodding thing you want.
Its not easy being a reaper. No one asked me if I wanted the bloody job. Oh no, not at all. It was just "Here's your cloak, Gregg, now get your bony lot to work." Bloody "grand high poobah of upper arsecrack" lord of the underworld, he is. Sits on his throne and watches the souls come in but does he ever lift a bloody finger to help bring them? It makes me pissing sick, sometimes.
The height thing....ah yes, that's another matter. People are expected to take a two point five foot reaper seriously. "They'll see the scythe and cloak and that will be enough" my bloody arse!! Being the spectre of death is a bloody thankless job...especially when you're a sodding midget. If I hear "Aren't you a bit small to be a grim reaper?" one more time, the bloody git that says it is going to find all four feet of this bloody scythe handle straight up his arse and coming out his mouth.
I'll say it again, its not easy being me. YOU try telling some smart-arsed jock he broke his neck when one of his buddies cracked his duff with a rolled up towel and he fell on his head in the shower. You think he was grateful someone cared enough about his pissant soul to come and guide him to the hereafter? Oh bloody hell no. After the sodding short jokes are out of the way, he asks if there's bloody cheerleaders in heaven. Smartass...why do they always assume they're going to heaven?? This job's not without its perks. If only I had had a camera to catch that split second look on his face when I told him there was a special place in hell being kept warm for him and that he was scheduled to be eternally buggered by a hermaphroditic hippopotamus. Fan-bloody-tastic! I hadn't laughed so hard since that smartass Adolph asked me where the toilets were. He hadn't quite caught on to where he was just yet. I believe he has now. Last I saw, that mouth of his was being used as a birdbath for The Pigeon Of White Splatters. One of the lesser-known inhabitants of hell...meant as a plague on clean cars. Never caught on.
Getting back to cats (its my bloody article, I'll mention the damned things as much as I want). Did I mention I hate them? Nine lives. Nine bloody lives. Who's pissing idea was that? I've spent the better part of my career dealing with them. Why do I mind them so much? I have a quota to meet, mate. And let me tell you, I can only stand it so far when one of the bastards winks into the underground just long enough to wiggle its arse at me, take a piss on the floor, and then go on to life number two. A life of milk-sucking, chin-scratching bliss. What gets me the most is that I just KNOW they're up there buggering their brains out and making more of the damned things. Nine lives for each and a full tank of piss. And who ends up taking a chunk out of his bloody paycheck to fumigate my furniture when they've emptied it? Well it certainly isn't YOU, is it now, smartass?
In my perfect world, cats, squirrels and every-bloody-thing else would be born, live long enough to realize that the world is a bloody awful place, and then they'd be GLAD when I showed up. They'd say "Thank GOD you're here, Gregg...let's get the hell out of here!". Make my job so much bloody easier. One bloody life apiece. Its all they need, arrogant bastards.
Now that that's been said, I must be going. Have a certain ex-president to see. Bloody fits that he dies before his damned cat. I'll bet anything the entire oval office smells like a pissing litterbox. Feh. Right then, piss off.