The 49er's Kitten Lecture
Mike Young

A member of the San Francisco 49ers told the Eastside School auditorium to wear helmets. He would know! He didn't know what day it was. He'd left a pie tin of milk outside his motel room for the kittens who worked the fire escape. Like how we left Chex Mix on the river trail, right? Yeah, that gray one ate it. You sure? Not the cave guy? Who? The mural painter -- he lives in that cave now, I think. But morning found the 49er's tin swapped for a trailer hitch and a Big Gulp. Sad? He signed autographs and asked. As a member of the San Francisco Nineteen-Forty Niners, I know that defense is a zen-addled skullfuck of your opponent's mascot. Are the kittens sad? No one knew. Not Mrs. Castañeda, who drank microbrews and owned footstools. Not Josh, who caught a soccer ball in the cheek and cried in the library. Not the girls of K-Mart skirts. Not the boys of WCW pay-per-view. Not even a young MC Oroville, right? Am I right? Your kidhead already a roadtrip to rhyme: bird turd on the car door -- crr dur? We didn't know sad from 'sup?! We didn't want the new, plastic swings. We wanted to fist tetherballs. To claw a skirt off. Tie a torn undershirt around our arm and tap. We wanted our cousin to post bail. Just bring the fucking baby with you, man. We needed to shave for our cannery interview. We wanted a large-scale concession to cheaper hearts, low-tax hearts, second amendment hearts, fuck: a Chinese heart if it would just stay behind our tanktops. Whatever happened -- we want to know -- to that Niners guy who bitched us out on safety? MC Oroville, you live in the Bay Area: do kittens even ride bicycles? Listen, kids: if you want a kitten you'll need to buy a helmet. Some lotion. And one hot-ass air balloon. We won't see you off, but we'll put the game on mute and listen for the rise.