My Cat's Farts Can Kill Sasquatch

If there's one thing that can melt my stone-cold heart, it is the sight of my adorable, so-cute-I-could-die cat, Daphne.  She is an angel wrapped up in a soft furry ball of pure joy.  She is most precious when she lies supine, her tummy exposed in an unabashedly open invitation; it is as if she is says, "Please rub my tummy."  I cannot resist her when she does this.

She, in all her furry perfection, has but one flaw.

Her farts smell like death. 

Literally—they are the worst-smelling, most putrid thing ever to be produced by man or animal. You don't expect something so horrific and so deadly from something so sweet and innocent. The malodor is so bad, it renders the atmosphere incapable of sustaining organic life-forms. The smell can knock out a fully-grown woolly mammoth. I'm not joking. Do you think I'm joking? I'm not. I saw the cloud of gas form a fist and Bruce Lee it in the chest.

The devastation that forms around her when she lets one loose immediately creates a fallout perimeter proportional to the blast of the Tsar Bomba:

Even if you escape the danger zone, you're still not safe.  No, not by any means.  Heaven forbid she thinks you're going somewhere fun—the arcade, for instance—and blithely follows you, dragging the poisonous death-haze with her and dropping any and all persons unfortunate enough to be caught in the cloud's radius.

She'll plop down and say, "Going to the arcade? Bring me too! (After you rub my tummy!)"

You won't be able to reply, because you'll have asphyxiated.

So long, and thanks for reading.