Oz, according to Paula

"It's so beautiful. I wish you could see it. Dumbledore was there. And Dennis Kucinich. I had these really big hands though. They were sort of melty looking. I brought back some shoes for Randy."

"Wrist Strong" bracelets for cats! The time has come.

I ordered a Wrist Strong bracelet from The ColbertNation.com, only to discover that their "One Size Fits Most" does not apply to me. Some well-meaning person suggested that I wear it as a collar. And then she blurted out, "I mean necklace." Nice save. The queen of backpedaling then proceeded to whittle down the rubber to make a cat sized version. I think it's very fetching. But I do miss the inscription. I think Stephen Colbert is overlooking a huge market share.

Stay strong, wrist-compromised people (and cats) of the planet!

I can't bring myself to tell him

Max is so dim. He still thinks the Packers are in it. And he can't figure out why the cheese tastes like plastic.

Meanwhile, there's a buzz around here, which I at first thought was a fly, but then Max caught and swallowed it (he is handy in that way). When I continued to hear the noise, I realized the buzz is about my upcoming Super Bowl XLII live blog.

So far, no one has challenged my claim that I am the only cat in the world who will be live blogging the Super Bowl. The Boston Globe has put their best fact-checkers on it. I am sure a few copycats will emerge, but I say — and permit me to mangle a famous quote:

"A cat who grabs Henry by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way."

The sky is falling. Again.

Well, it looks like we're gonna have some sleepless nights around here next month, as I have just learned that a large out-of-control, no-longer-top-secret U.S. spy satellite will crash into Earth, nowhere in particular, sometime in February. I am worried about where a cat might hide from such a thing, and Carla is beside herself.

She is having flashbacks to 1979, when she lay in bed at night wondering whether Skylab — NASA's space-station-gone-rogue — would drop through the roof. No one knew where it would land, and Earthlings were terrified.

Apparently Chicken Little was nowhere near the tiny town of Esperance in western Australia. Otherwise, the "chooks" in Elsie Thornton's chicken pen would've taken cover. Some charred remnants of Skylab littered her farm when it finally fell on July 11, and the chickens suffered post-traumatic stress disorder, Thornton told ABC (the Australian Broadcasting Company). They didn't lay eggs for the rest of the week, she said.

Can someone loan me a crash helmet?

Food critic weighs in: zero stars

I'm not much of a foodie. Frankly, my diet borders on monastic. I eat kibble in the morning. Later in the afternoon, I eat a little more kibble. And in the evening, I may eat a piece of kibble I dropped on the floor in the afternoon. On a rare occasion, I might have a lick of leftover butter-residue in the omelet pan. But recently, in a moment of recklessness, I had a roast "beef" sandwich from a place called Arby's that had some sort of "cheese" and a dubious condiment called horsey sauce (I don't want to know what that is). I've come up with a slogan I think would be appropriate for this restaurant:

"Arby's. The meal you'll regret."

News Update: "Henry The Cat" will live-blog Super Bowl XLII's fashion faux pas and all things absurd

Due to the overwhelming response to Henry's Sports Dish™ Vol. I (readers from 48 states stopped by to check on Tom Coughlin's frostbite and to read my critique of the Fox commentators), I have realized there is an audience hungry for more of the same. Technology willing, I will be live-blogging Super Bowl XLII, commenting on fashion do's and don'ts and other inappropriate displays and utterings.

These are situations I'll be monitoring with particular interest:

• What, pray tell, will Archie Manning will be wearing? It is my hope that the man will put on a New York Giants shirt! I was aghast when I saw him sitting in the box at the Giants-Packers NFC championship game wearing an Ole Miss shirt. Was his Giants shirt in the laundry hamper? Is Eli Manning that much of a second-string son? Or is old Arch living in the past, making sure the world remembers from whence he came. Let's hope he doesn't yell out "Go, Rebels!" every time New York gets a first down.

• Based on average temperatures in Phoenix for this time of year, it will probably be around 60 degrees outside. But weather won't affect participants anyway, as the game at the University of Phoenix stadium will be played sous la roof. The lack of a chill will make the Fox analysts' headgear less interesting. But you never know what might turn up on Terry Bradshaw's head. Keep the faith, fashionistas.

• Because it won't be six-ways-from-Sunday cold, Tom Coughlin will not have frostbite. However, if he's been hanging out in the tanning bed with Rudy Giuliani this week, he might have a lovely case of raccoon eyes (did you see Mister 9/11 on the Florida campaign trail? Rudy, call your stylist, stat!). At the least, Coughlin might have a booger hanging out of his nose.

Obvious Pigskin Prognostication #1:

Pumpkinhead? Mousse. Lots and lots of mousse.

Fashion Wild Card:

Tom Petty.

The Cat Whisperer: ID'd by dental records

When our household got a satellite dish recently, there was quite a lot of interest—on the part of the Madame—in the show "The Dog Whisperer." Ill-mannered dogs are a real sticking point for her, and I have to concur. Nonetheless, I found it difficult to watch that egomaniac demeaning the dogs, always in their faces going "Tsssssst, tsssssst." The Madame mused aloud once about whether there was a cat whisperer. Indeed, there was. He now takes his meals through a straw.

8 random things about me

Recently I learned about "memes", which as best I can ascertain is when one blogger "tags" another with a challenge to answer a series of questions. Then that person is to pass the challenge on to a bunch of other bloggers. It has a bit of the stink of a chain letter, I think. So as a pre-emptive strike, I'm going to provide my answers to the ubiquitous meme "8 Random Things About Me." Now you don't have to tag me, and I don't have to tag anyone else.

1. I am a fiscal conservative.
2. I have been playing with, I mean exercising with, the same toy for about 6 years. It is a modified tether ball.
   
3. When I lived on the streets, I once stole a sandwich from a homeless person.
4. Besides NFL football, I always clear my calendar for Olympic figure skating. Their motions are somewhat birdlike. And occasionally someone bashes someone else in the shins, which is a lot like football.
5. I like rats. Not to eat. To observe. I admire their cunning, their creativity and the great extent to which they value extended family. I particularly enjoyed that YouTube video in which someone filmed them having a middle-of-the-night food expedition inside the dining room of a New York City Taco Bell. I love the audio of the person on the sidewalk saying "Look. He's doing tricks for us!" Awwwww. Rats are so cute.
6. I once had an "auditory itch" or earworm (in which a song gets stuck in your head and plays over and over again) that lasted for about 12 hours. It was "Flamethrower" by J. Geils Band.
7. When I'm grooming, there is one spot on my back that I can never quite reach.
8. I am narcoleptic.

Tom Brady doesn't need your bracelets

Tom Brady has been spotted limping around with his foot in a boot brace. Talk show host Stephen Colbert challenged his audience the other night to buy and send as many of his "Wrist Strong" bracelets as possible to Tom as a show of encouragement and support (after all, Colbert says, the ankle is really just the wrist of the foot).

What Tom needs is high-carbon steel or whatever it is that 'bots are using to repair themselves these days. Did you see the last episode of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles? Tom probably killed some scientist for his eyeballs. It took him a while too, because it's hard to find a scientist with bedroom eyes. Tom will grow a new foot in time for the Superbowl. Send the bracelets to Eli Manning. He's the one who needs them.

Why do Hungarians get all the good parking spaces?

What I don't want for my birthday:

Urinal Cake
Likewise, I believe that no person in his or her right mind would bake, serve or eat "Litterbox Cake." TackyLiving.com has published the recipe, described as thus:

"Litterbox Cake is a moist, tasty medley of cake and instant pudding accented with green cookie crumbs and chocolate candy “turds”. It’s especially appropriate for a cat-lover’s wedding or birthday, but really it’s hard to think of an occasion when a Litterbox Cake wouldn’t hit the spot."

There's a photo of the cake, which you can see here if you must. It is served in a tray lined with a plastic bag and is doled out with—you guessed it—a slotted cat litter scoop.

Have you ever heard the term batsh!t crazy? Do you know how many degrees of batsh!t crazy you'd have to be to serve this at a wedding?

"If you're not familiar with the appearance of kitty litter or kitty feces," the recipe says, "do some research."

I think I can help you out there. And trust me: You're not gonna like it.

Self-portrait challenge: No contest

I've been trying to devise an excuse to post this self-portrait. I googled "Henry" and "self portrait" to see if I could find a self-portrait of someone else named Henry that was perhaps more attractive, in which case I'd be gracious and modest and publish that one instead. Alas, most of the self-portraits of subjects named Henry were just prune-faced old men from the 18th century. But during my research, I happened upon a blog called the Self-Portrait Challenge. The current theme is "Celebration." I don't celebrate. Thus, I have nothing to contribute at this time. I will keep my eyes open for more appropriate themes, such as "Skeptic."

Mike Huckabee is a Racist Who Eats Squirrels

The squirrel-eating I can forgive. Here's to Christopher Hitchens for telling it like it is.

"Deceive, Enveigle, Obfuscate."

Do not believe what your eyes are telling you.

There are doors on these cabinets.

And there is nothing behind them.

Tom Coughlin's Frostbite

I know it's late to be blogging, but I couldn't sleep. I could not stop worrying about Tom Coughlin's frostbite. When I close my eyes, his blackened cheeks are all I see. I had to get up, come in here, boot up the computer, log on and google "Tom Coughlin" and "frostbite" just to see if someone else was obsessing about it. Someone else is! Thank you Wilablog. I now leave this matter in your capable hands.

Henry's Sports Dish, Vol. 1

All text ©2008, Henry's Sports Dish™

“Look Ian, she’s lying in my lap. She NEVER does that!” Yes, Carla, I was “resting” in your lap. Don’t get used to it. I’m not a lap cat. People are not beds. I stand on people. I walk across people. It's just that it was gonna be a long day of football, and you were in my seat.

I was most interested in the NFC championship, but I just had to watch the Chargers game beforehand. See, I love Ladainian Tomlinson. He has the best dimples in the NFL. And of course he’s a superb running back. But he also seems like a really nice kid. He loves his mama. He performs numerous acts of charity in the community. I think he might be Michael Vick’s (for lack of a better word) doppelganger. Ladainian is either really genuinely sweet, or he has a crackjack PR agent, unlike Vick, who doesn’t even have a stylist. If he did, he’d have nixed the facial hair and adopted at least a neutral expression on his way in and out of the courtroom. He looked really mean. He looked like a guy who not only kills dogs, but then hunts down their parents and grandparents and offs them too.

But I digress. The Chargers lost, predictably, to the superhuman Patriots (I hope it won't constitute a spoiler to inform you that Tom Brady is a robot). I had to keep watching, even after Ladainian was sidelined after only three plays. You never know, New England, cybernetically empowered as they are, could lose. And Paula Abdul could have a moment of lucidity. Keep hope alive, people!

Like lemmings, the Green Bay Packers followed San Diego over the the precipitous cliffs of Not-Going-to-the-Superbowl Mountain. But, as always, the Fox pregame show didn’t disappoint, thanks to the perennial asses pictured above. The Spice Boys kicked off the show by talking about the weather. To wit, it was -1 degrees F at Lambeau Field with a wind chill of 20 below.

"What happens in cold weather is things shrink," says Terry Bradshaw, giving a shoulder-butt to Curt Menefee. "He usually wears a 58 inch jacket but today he's wearing a 48."

Har, har.

Then Howie Long says:

"If you leave your dog outside for three hours in this kind of weather, they will lock you up for cruelty to animals."

(What a douchbag. Maybe if Howie had given counsel to Michael Vick years ago, things would have turned out differently for him: "Now Mike, if it’s Arctic cold outside, your dog can survive without shelter for two hours and 59 minutes, tops. Sixty seconds longer, and you’re up the river. Oh, and don’t strangle, shoot or drown them.")

Then Jimmy Johnson holds up a glass that he's just filled with water.

"Let's see how long it takes before it freezes!

(Oooooo. A magic trick. I'm rapt.)

The segment ends with everyone teasing Curt about his not wearing a hat.

Here's the way I think the championship-eve IM’ing played out on the Fox NFL Sunday's AOL Buddy List.

Howie:

OK guys, it’s going 2 B be cold 2morrow. Let’s B sure we don’t show up in the same hats.

And before anyone has a chance to type anything, he writes:

I call dibs on the trooper-trapper hat. No one else on the panel but me could rock one like Frances McDormand.

Then Jimmy screams:

I'M GONNA WEAR ONE OF THOSE CUTE HEADBAND-THINGIES THAT BILL BELICHICK ALWAYS WEARS.

Scrambling for traction, and to ensure that no one in the entire stadium will upstage him, Terry types:

I’m wearing a golf hat. On top of a doo-rag. Rock that, Howie.

To which Curt, left with a choice of a crocheted knit cap or wizard hat, replies:

Screw it. I’m going cranial-commando!

For the record, by the time they went to the first station break, Curt had his scarf wrapped around his jughead like a Russian peasant lady.

I think it’s about time the NFL had a fashion critic. I’d like to throw my fedora into the ring. I could be the sportsworld's equivalent of those chicks over at GoFugYourself.com.

By the way, guess who ended up with the knit cap?

Pam Oliver.

HGTV, hold onto your hats

The cheapsters in this household just received a quote from the general contractor on what it's going to cost to remodel the bathroom. In order to save some money, they've decided to subcontract the demo. This is who they've chosen. God help us.

American Gladiators are weaklings

They wouldn't stand a chance against Japanese treadmill racers. (I, on the other hand, could give them a run for their yen with my lightning-swift paws and hurdling prowess.) Witness their extraordinary feats at YouTube.

On the heels of the Japanese in stamina is this fierce rodent competitor.

For the refined, tea-drinking zombie

I can't believe the amount of mail I've received regarding my recent piece Zombies: Can they Distinguish Tea from Coffee? A most interesting letter came from Edwina in Prague. Here it is, along with my response:

Dear Henry:

My friend (name withheld to protect identity) is a zombie who is a bit of gourmand and a discriminating tea drinker. He is a purist, preferring to brew pots of looseleaf tea. However, as you may know, zombies are always on the go. He has a birthday coming up, and I'd love to find a useful and unique gift for him (he has EVERYTHING)—maybe something like a traveling tea pot? It appears that you are well-read on all the latest gadgets (though you don't seem impressed with any of them).


Dear Edwina:

This is uncanny. It so happens, I have some friends who own a company called Gamila, and they have invented a tea accessory that Name-Withheld-To-Protect-Identity will adore. He will not believe his dead, cold eyes! The Teastick (pictured above) is a product that enables the tea connoisseur to quickly and conveniently prepare single-cup servings of loose-leaf tea. I'm not a tea-drinker myself (I tried catnip tea once and it was ghastly), but I have seen the Teastick at work, and it is a truly clever device (unlike my lazy-Susan litter box and cocktail tray). So hop on over there and order one for Name-Withheld-To-Protect-Identity. You'll be glad you did.

*Disclaimer: I am not employed by Gamila, nor am I a third party who is positioned in any way for pecuniary gain.

Waterfront Property! Cheap! Snorkels Included!

Ian left his still-unpacked suitcase open this morning, and I was curling up for a nap inside it when I discovered a dog-eared copy of SkyMall. Man, delusions are expensive. If you don't believe me, just check out the $129 plastic "hidden litter box" with "Tuscany handfinish" (pictured). It doubles as an artificial plant holder, and was apparently lovingly crafted by Italian plastisans.

Exclaims the ad:

"Finally, a decorative litter box you don't have to hide! Simply turn the entrance to the wall and no one will know!"

They may feign ignorance, but I think visitors will be thinking—at best—that your plant has a ginormous case of root rot. At worst, they'll whisper: "Man, I think their cat took a #&!% in the peace lily."

I am contacting SkyMall to see if they have any interest in marketing my latest invention. It's a combination litter box/lazy Susan. Perfect for parties. You cat goes in the compartment underneath. When he exits, the motion sets the top a-twirl, keeping the cocktail olives and pearl onions within reach of all your guests.

I've got two words for you

Disapproving rabbits.

Zombies: Can they distinguish tea from coffee?

I had a wicked migraine this morning from all the thinking last night. So I decided to temporarily disengage my noggin from my torso. Here am I, headless and seeking respite. (Alright, I'm really just looking out the window.) With headache dispatched, it was time, yet again, for study. I returned to the contemplation of sentience and the escalation toward self-awareness and enlightenment. While surfing for published research on the subject, I stumbled across a paper entitled Are Zombies Logically Possible, And Why It Matters, penned by William Seager at the University of Toronto at Scarborough.

It turns out there is a considerable amount of scholarship on zombies within the context of the philosophy of mind and the science of consciousness. I was gobsmacked. The Web site MindPapers contains a bibliography with, count 'em, 18,357(!) citations on that and related topics.

Here's an excerpt from Seager's paper that will surely keep me awake tonight:

Consider this from the side of the zombie. Suppose a zombie is asked to think about or "internally compare" the tastes of coffee and tea. The zombie thinks for a while, and carefully sips some tea and coffee, then soliloquizes about this "difference" for awhile, doubtless saying many things that are true of the tastes of tea and coffee. But the zombie's remarks are grounded in utterly false beliefs simply because the requisite experiences are just missing. Of course, this kind of zombie would never seriously entertain the idea that it is a totally non-conscious being. It's epistemic situation is the same as mine and if I have no good reason to wonder whether I am a zombie then neither does it. But that doesn't eliminate the possibility that it is a zombie, any more than the fact that I have no good reason to believe that I am a brain in a vat shows that it is logically impossible that I am a brain in a vat.

Not to be outdone, William Robert Webster, in the journal Synthese 151:(2):297-310, countered with his article Human Zombies are Metaphysically Impossible. I have not read it yet. There is only so much a cat, even a self-aware one, can digest in one sitting.

I am left with this question: Is there a feline-approved dosage of Ambien?

Cats that look like Hitler

Today, I decided to surf the 'Net to see if I could find blogs written by other erudite cats like myself. What I found instead was a surfeit of inane Web sites, including one on which people post pictures of their "Kitlers." Most of them look more like Groucho Marx, Charlie Chaplin or Errol Flynn (I think the induction standards are way lax), but a few do sort of resemble the badly mustachioed psychopath. This is yet another example of how humans are having a laugh at our expense. Can these cats help it if they were born looking like der Fuhrer? Oh well, I guess it's better than being drowned at birth.

How I became self-aware

I'm not sure this is the appropriate title for this entry because I'm not positive how or why I became self-aware. I only know that I am. Before I began this post, I had been writing my previously promised "Why cats shouldn't be allowed to vote," which I ultimately abandoned. Because even as I wrote, judiciously crafting my argument, I found that I became uncertain of my position. As I increasingly struggled with myself, I began to realize: This goes beyond self-awareness. This is something more.

I have gone from foraging in a dumpster and sleeping under car hoods … to self-awareness … to philosophical reflection. How did this happen?

I was talking about it to The Madame (whom I have previously referred to as one of my "owners" and who is now, apparently, a contemporary). She recommended a book by Terry Pratchett called "The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents." It is about a group of swindlers consisting of a boy, a capitalist cat and a band of enlightened rats. The latter two had once been content to pilfer the culinary castoffs of the human species—their goal was simply to exist. The theory of their conversion to an advanced state is that they had begun feeding in the dustbins of an unseen magical university, whose refuse was enchanted (or tainted, depending on your perspective) with something I will liken to fairy dust (I prefer that to "wizard dust" but would like to assure you that yes, I know, fairies don't attend universities). I confess that before I was taken lovingly into this house, where I no longer have to make a bed in automotive machinery, I too subsisted on scraps. For lack of a better explanation, I am forced to consider that what happened to Maurice and the rats must have befallen me. Or at least something very near like it.

I don't think there are any unseen universities in this city, but how would I know? One can never be sure of one's proximity to the occult, be it a smattering of Tarot cards or a sprawling, invisible institution of preternatural instruction. To obtain some peace of mind and enable me to focus on what I'm newly capable of—rather than waste time looking a gift horse in the mouth—I'm adopting the aforementioned theory.

And now, dear readers, I must take my leave, as I am spent and require a nap.

An open letter to Playtex:

Please make smaller gloves.

What I think of Mrs. Teary Eyes, et. al

When I mentioned I was planning to write about the 2008 U.S. presidential candidates and their experience with animals, I was asked if it would be a "non-pawtisan" article. See what I have to put up with? I despise being lumped together with feline bloggers who make unforgivable puns and spell phonetically because they think it's endearing. This is a serious forum. But to answer the question, this is a nonpartisan piece.

• When the Clintons left the White House, their cat Socks got kicked to the curb. Fortunately, Bill's secretary was between Socks and the curb, and she took the cat home with her. I could give Hillary the benefit of the doubt and say she didn't approve of it. But we all know, if she didn't like it, snap, snap, snap, it wasn't gonna happen. For that reason, I don't think much of Mrs. Bill. I don't care that she currently has a dog. His days might be numbered.


• Dennis Kucinich, god love him, rescues puppies from the pound. At the moment, he has a couple of beagle mixes. No cats, but that's probably because he can't find one who'll put up with a beagle. So he would've had my vote, if I had a vote. (Look for my upcoming editorial on why I think cats shouldn't be allowed to vote.) And if he was still on the ballot.
  

• John McCain has the most pets of any candidate—22, if you believe what he's told the media. But I wonder ... does he have children? Is he pimping their pets to bolster his own reputation among animal-lovers? I've gotta say, if a 71-year-old man actually has, of his own volition, two dogs, two turtles, a cat, a ferret, three birds and 13 fish, then he either really loves animals or he's willing to go the distance to court the faunal vote. I, for one, will give him the benefit of the doubt. In addition, I give props to McCain because he recognizes what torture is and finds it abhorrent, which carries a lot of weight in the pet kingdom.

• Joe Biden. Now here's a piece of work. The guy has a cat. He is apparently so dedicated to his cat that it's the only pet he has. He's the only one on the slate who has a single feline, not combined with another pet OR another cat (Bill Richardson reports having two cats). Now you know, that has got to be one spoiled cat. Sure, he has to listen to the old blowhard talking to him incessantly about anything and everything, but sometimes it's nice for a cat to feel equal to the discourse. But Joe's out, and so is Bill R.

• Barack Obama doesn't have any pets, but he says he plans to give in to the solicitations of his kids and get a dog if he wins the White House. Hmmm. He appears to listen to his constituents. That's encouraging. But why doesn't he already have a pet? Did something happen to it? And if he did, why doesn't he have a replacement yet? Still, he's open to the idea. So I'm cautiously optimistic. After all, he claims to be the most changeful-ish of the self-anointed candidates of change. He might even change his mind and get a cat.

• Rudy Giuliani. Chilling. Not only does he have no pets, he doesn't even explain why. It must have something to do with 9/11. Or it could be because he has so many people traipsing in and out of his house that an animal would be crushed underfoot.

• This is interesting ... Chris Dodd (is he still alive?) claims that his family is allergic to pets. This is just a euphemism for "I hate animals."

• I don't give a whit about John Edwards, Mitt Romney and Mike Huckabee. They're all dog people ... blah, blah, blah ... and will soon be history anyway. I will say about Huckabee, however, that I wouldn't want to live with anyone who doesn't believe in evolution. I think it's important when a human gets all high and mighty about something, that I be able to remind him, with credibility, that he used to be an ape.

UPDATE: This just in ...
Sweet fancy Moses! Mitt Romney hates dogs! On June 27, 2007, The Boston Globe reported that before the Romney family's annual 12-hour family trek from Boston to Ontario in 1983, Mitt Romney put Seamus, the family's Irish setter, in a dog carrier and attached it to the station wagon's roof rack. Romney defended himself, saying he "built a windshield for the carrier, to make the ride more comfortable for the dog." What?!!!! Later, when the dog's waste began pouring down the windshield, Mitt pulled over and hosed down both the cage and the dog, then kept on trucking. My word, I'm glad this guy's campaign is tanked! I'm not making this up, folks. More about this story (and Hillary too) at http://mediamatters.org/items/200710220005.

People, I can't bear to look any deeper into this. Just hold your nose and vote.

I hate dealing with Customs anyway...

Ian has gone to London and wouldn't take me with him. He claims they don't allow cats there. I once heard that they don't allow rats in the Canadian province of Alberta. (Frankly, I don't know why anyone would want to visit a place that doesn't have rats.) Pity about London though. I think we could've helped out with that whole plague thing. Plus, I'd quite like to see Kew Gardens.

Technology Review: Best & Worst of 2007

The Speedstream DSL modem is the best electronic pillow around. Non-hypoallergenic, but the comfort is unsurpassed. Nice 45-degree angle supports the neck. Slotted vents keep ears warm and toasty. Quiet hum mimics white noise machine. Two paws up! BladeRunner Series MicroMosquito Radio-Controlled Indoor Helicopter. Two paws way down! The controls are difficult to operate without opposable thumbs. Major annoyance when others are playing with it. Another hearty paws down for the Radio Shack laser pointer. Makes red dots everywhere. Max chases them. Ha, ha. Very funny.