China Killing Cats Like It Was Going Out of Style

ith the second confirmed case of SARS reported in the Guangdong province last week, the Chinese government has stepped up its campaign to wipe out all animals with the potential for carrying the virus, including the “four dangers�: cats, little yappy dogs, loud tropical birds and those goldfish with the gross big eyes. Despite accusations that this is just the Chinese government’s excuse to get rid of millions of annoying pets, officials insist the mass slaughter is necessary to ensure the public health.

The central focus of the crackdown has been cats, a delicacy in China and finer trailer parks around the United States and personal pet peeve of Chinese President Hu Jintao. Cats were targeted after rumors surfaced that China’s first SARS case of the season, a 32-year-old television producer from Guangzhou, may have contracted the virus after eating SARS-tainted cat meat. Though the producer later revealed that he had never eaten cats and must have contracted the virus elsewhere, Chinese officials insist that he probably accidentally ate a cat some time without knowing it, which can happen to anybody.

World Health Organization officials met with the Chinese president last week in hopes of stemming the slaughter, but such hopes were dashed when the meetings devolved into a hilarious Abbott and Costello routine of “Hu’s on first?� with the Chinese leader. While concerns remain that the Chinese slaughter of cats may destroy valuable evidence, if not aid in spreading the virus further to workers hit by cat shrapnel, progress is unlikely since WHO officials have been unable to breach the subject without inspiraing hilarious riffing about a second baseman named Noh Ba Di.

Early attempts at eradicating the cats through drowning, punching, and firing squad failed after Chinese workers grew bored with these pedestrian means of cat-killing. Later attempts at scaring all the cats in China to death with a special gigantic vacuum cleaner proved unsuccessful, though hilarious, and by the end of the week more creative and entertaining methods of cat eradication were being sought. On Thursday, over ten thousand cats were shot out of an air cannon at a large brick wall painted to look like a big dog.

By the weekend, the feline holocaust was proceeding on several fronts simultaneously, with a veritable midway of cat-killing attractions thrilling Chinese spectators all through the day and night. Popular attractions included the “Kick a Cat Off the Cliff� booth, the “Give a Cat the Gift of Flight� strength-testing event, the children’s favorite “Cat in a Hat Full of Cyanide� and a humorously themed Catapult. While successful, officials had to put an end to the gasoline-soaked cat-on-fire races due to problems arising from rampant gambling on the event.

Everyone got into the spirit by week’s end, with Guangzhou newspapers running front-page pictures of a smiling Mayor Zhang Guangning smashing a kitten with a giant wooden mallet. The Guangzhou airport was shut down briefly on Saturday was thousands of cats were scooped into running jet engines in a desperate attempt to meet the weekend deadline.

On Thursday, China’s second recent SARS case was declared after a 20-year-old waitress was isolated in a Guangzhou hospital. Though it is not clear whether the woman worked in a restaurant that served wild game, Chinese officials consider that detail to be inconsequential since she could have contracted the virus while camping, driving near nature, or watching the SARS-infected Disney animated film, Bambi.

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Few popular hand gestures have as varied a meaning around the globe as the ubiquitous "thumbs-up" gesture, a poorly-named motion since it rarely, except in the case of huge assholes, is performed with both thumbs. But while the dual thumbs-up means "I'm a cock" in nearly every corner of the globe, the single-thumbed variety can mean anything from "I've recovered from my head injury" to "I think this would fit up your ass." Knowing the differences in local translation can save one not only from social embarrassment, but massive anal trauma as well.

Most modern historians place the gesture's origin in Roman times, when coliseum crowds would determine a fallen gladiator's fate by giving either a thumbs-up ("Fuck 'em!") or a thumbs-down ("Kill the shit out of him!"). The gladiator would die either way, but people in those days liked to feel like they had some say in things, whether they actually did or not. The only way the gladiator could actually be spared would be if the Caesar gave the dreaded "He's kind of cute!" hand-waggle, in which case the gladiator's wounds would be treated and he'd be dressed in a muscle shirt for the pleasure of the Caesar.

Art historians and the strange souls who have dedicated their academic lives to the study of hand gestures often argue and get into bar brawls over the meaning of the Roman thumbs–up/down gestures, some believing that thumbs-down meant "swords down" and others arguing that it meant "you're a dick." Confusing the matter further are the various gladiatorial paintings from the era, which depict Caesars sparing injured gladiators via both the thumbs-up and the thumbs-down, and one rare instance of a Caesar giving the coliseum crowd the finger. Historians say this incident was triggered by the Caesar's chariot being dinged in the coliseum parking lot the day before. Most believe that a gladiator was commonly spared with the thumbs-down gesture, and the one outstanding painting indicating the opposite was the result of a lazy French painter who just couldn't paint the thumbs-down without it looking weird.

All of this is hardly relevant, however, since the thumbs-up had already been in use for centuries, dating back to prehistoric times, when those cavemen who were slight of build used the gesture instinctively in an attempt to hitch a ride on the backs of larger cavemen. Modern hitchhiking has changed little, though due to advances in transportation technology, modern man has less time to yell insults after being turned down for a ride.

During Medieval times, Europeans would seal transactions by licking thumbs and pressing them together, fist-to-fist, a tradition they learned from Oriental traders who were only fucking with them. Nevertheless, this bogus Oriental custom survived for hundred of years in Europe, until people began to realize it was greatly facilitating the spread of the plague, and nobody could come up with a way to make thumb condoms that didn't unpleasantly reduce sensation.

Eventually, the thumbs-up gesture came to be used by American pilots in WWII to communicate with the ground crew since they were covered in so much Darth Vader bullshit that their thumb was about the only body part that could still move. This was in stark contrast to WWI pilots, who didn't even wear helmets, and were only issued two pieces of safety equipment: a book on birds and a bible.

The WWII pilots would give the thumbs-up to the ground crew when they were ready to take off, meaning "Everything's cool." This is what the ground crew chumps thought anyway, the inside joke among the pilots was that the gesture actually meant "I stuck this thumb up your girlfriend's ass last night." Thankfully for inter-Air Force harmony, none of the ground crew guys ever found out about this or the "You're an a-s-s-hole/OK" dual-purpose hand gesture either.

The ground crew guys, however, were about the only ones not in on the joke, and as the gesture spread around the globe wherever the pilots traveled, coming to mean "Up your ass" all around the world. Thanks to the uptight 1950's, Americans never caught on to the double-meaning, and continued to use the gesture to mean "Super." One notable exception was actor Henry Winkler, whose father had been a WWII pilot and who used his inside knowledge to give a counterculture edge to his character of Fonzie on the 70's sitcom Happy Days. Whenever Fonzie would give someone the thumbs-up and sneer "Heeeey, sit on it!" Air Force pilots and stoners everywhere had a good laugh at the expense of mainstream America.

Today the gesture is as popular as ever among Americans and foreigners wanting to secretly insult Americans. Though in all likelihood having your thumb stuck up someone else's ass would be even more unpleasant for you than it was for them, the thumbs-up gesture goes down next to "Go fuck yourself!" in the annals of nonsensical insults that still pack a punch.

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The good news here in the commune offices is my court case has resulted in a nice out-of-court settlement. The bad news is… well, I'll get to the bad news in due course.

Frequent readers of my column, or actually anyone who read the last one, will remember that I was taking legal action against the author of the play based on my life, without my authorization, Ching! Ching! I Owe Fred Scarsdale A Lot of Money. My lawsuit was on the fasttrack toward a big fat payoff for the commune, and me in particular, when we found out the author of the play was none other than black sheep of the commune family Raoul Dunkin. Now, insiders and outsiders with insider contacts know that Raoul Dunkin was the first reporter hired when the commune made the jump from publishing on the back of pre-published pamphlets to the internet, where the overhead was considerably lower and the journalistic standards likewise lower. Which made it all the harder when he and his money-hungry blade backstabbed me and his brethren by running off to become a hot-to-trot M-TV veejay.

Apparently, M-TV and Dunkin were a poor match from the get-go and even the coveted 3-5 a.m. timeslot couldn't make him a star. He pink-slipped that job and ended up writing plays off-off-Broadway, specifically the Vlanch Community Theater in Vlanch, Pennsylvania. Which is where I saw the Fred Scarsdale bit. Cut to September of 2002, and a very pissed-off Red Bagel demanding compensation. Now we're talking settlement.

Dunkin always was bad at numbers. Would you believe over 30 people saw his play and he still ended up deep in debt? If over 30 people ever read an edition of the commune, I, Red Bagel, would be rolling in money like a pig in shit. Instead of rolling in shit like a pig in shit. Dunkin's big mistake, as far as I can tell, was paying all collaborators involved in real money instead of skeeball tickets and coupons. He also doesn't seem to have heard of government loans and frivolous lawsuits.

Needless to say, Dunkin could not pay the compensation I demanded, and in fact ran up even more bills thanks to hiring that pricey Bar association-approved "lawyer". Way to go, A-hole. All that money flushed down the drain and you still settled the case with yours truly, the lawyerless commune's fearless editor-in-chief.

All that said and done, as part of the settlement Dunkin is coming back to work for the commune for a while. You tell me who the real loser is! Bludney Plud? I suppose we can all agree on that.

So welcome, dear reader, to a bold new era for the commune. Well, not really. Welcome to an era that reeks of a bold old era. Dunkin is back with his passable news coverage, and yet I'm not firing Ramon Nootles, his replacement I took on staff when the extra coupons I saved allowed me to expand the workforce. At least not yet—he's the kind of reporter who seems to benefit from a healthy fear of the guillotine.

Nobody could be happier about Dunkin's return to the staff, at least I've decreed that nobody can be happier. Dunkin, to his credit, is putting up the appearance that he's not totally miserable, and that's appreciated.

By the way, we have no plans of removing the "Let's Promote Raoul Dunkin!" game as of yet. Let's just see where this is going for a while. The numbnuts does have a history of abandonment, and we may forgive, but we never forget.

º Last Column: I Want Compensation for the Play Based on My Life
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