Through The Eyes of Lolita: The Move to NY

Dear Amateur Gourmet Readers,

Lolita the cat here. Please, I beg of you, contact PETA and relay to them the following.

1. Last week, without any prior notice, my master–your Gourmet–suddenly removed all of my beloved furniture, including the bed I’ve slept on and under so many times, without any reason and/or explanation. I was left without a bed and without a blanket to scratch and chew.


2. Then, suddenly, I was grabbed at 6:30 in the morning on Friday the 6th and held down, against my will, at which time my master–your Gourmet–shoved a small white pill down my throat. I began having hallucinations of a musical in which grown men and women dressed like me danced down the aisles of a theater while bad synthesizer music blared overhead. At the end I was on a floating tire and then I came to. I found myself on a strange windowsill in a strange city:


3. Finally, while my tormentor went out to find elicit (ilicit? HISSSS, I hate spelling) drugs and prostitutes, I was able to hide myself under the air conditioner. When he returned he scampered all over the apartment looking for me, until he discovered my whereabouts:


The jig was up and I was vulnerable, yet again, to the cruel caprice of a carniverous culinary caca-head. Please, I beg of you, to quote Aretha Franklin (or is it Fontella Bass? HISSS, I hate 60s music trivia): RESCUE ME.



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