Your Comfort Human

comfortEvery news channel is showing crowded airports. ’Tis the season to wait in lines. The new addition this year is this ridiculous thing called “The Comfort Dog.” Yes, this partly because I’m a cat man and partly because anything other than a comfort panda is just plain silly. Are these tiny, wet-nosed, black-gummed, gooey-eyed face lickers supposed to distract us from the fact that we’re about to fly 500 MPH in an aluminum tube crammed with human sardines?

I suppose.

I asked my cat, Symon, if he wanted to give back to the community by volunteering to be an airport comfort cat.

“Oh, you’re a hoot.”

“No, seriously. I can throw a leash on you and take you to the Southwest terminal. Think of all the yoga pants you could shed upon.”

“Dude. I’m a fucking cat. Let’s read from this handy dandy cat manual. Hm. Page three, paragraph two: ‘Cats don’t do car rides. Cats don’t play fetch. And, most of all, cats don’t like crowds of smelly humans.’”

“So, that sounds like a no.”

“It’s a fuck no. You go do it. Go be a comfort human. Just leave an open can of tuna and your pride behind.”

Never liked him much, that Symon.

Then again, perhaps, comfort human isn’t inconceivable. Isn’t that the role clowns play? They dress silly and lighten the mood. Heck, I could do that without the wig, makeup, spotted outfit, and bike horn. I could just be wacky me and strike up pleasant conversations with tourists.

“Hi, there. I’m Phil, the comfort human. Let’s chat. Can I sit on your lap? It works better this way.”

“Ew. No. Down, boy!”

“Fine. Say, can I have one of those pretzel bites? I’m starving.”

“No.”

“All right. So, where you headed? Home for the holidays? Turkey time?”

“Seattle. Yes, meeting family.”

“Got any racist uncles?”

“Um, no.”

“How about slutty cousins?”

“No.”

“How boring. Here’s an idea. Blow off that boring tradition. Let’s find a local dive and overdose on bourbon and tater tots.”

“No. Bad human. Shoo.”

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