Cute. Cuddly. Freakishly distorted. Four words to describe the ultimate in internet fads— the bonsai kitten. Mass e-mails circulated in our favorite internet groups, begging us to sign the petition. And who couldn’t help but heed the call? One look at www.bonsaikitten.com, which opens with the sound of a lone, cramped feline mewing longingly, and my eyes welled with tears. My friend Essie’s heart soared with laughter. Was I a fool, or was she just dead inside? The only way to find out if the bonsai kitten was real was to head straight for the source. I decided to sit down with one of the creators in a nearby Chinese opium den (a.k.a. the “supply closet” of the Red & Black Café) and got some facts.
It’s dark and smoky. I feel woozy as I descend into what can only be described as madness. A gamelan plays in the background as I sit on a pillow that feels as though it’s stuffed with chicken bones and human remains. A man shrouded in darkness calls to me.
Man: Sit down, please.
Me (confused): I already am. Wait, do you need me to move?
Man (raising his hand): Silence. You come with questions about the bonsai feline?
Me: Yes, I’m working with the University Press—
Man: Have you brought your peace offering?
(I hand him a grilled tomato pannini and a Limonata)
Man: You may proceed.
Me: I recently received a facebook message from this person who I totally have a crush on, but I didn’t think he knew I existed until I got this message about your bonsai kitten and—
Man: What does this have to do with me?
Me: Oh, sorry. My question is: Are the bonsai kittens real?!
(At this point, I lose control, and let out a piercing scream of agony. All the men in the opium den look up at me, startled)
Opium Addict: Hey lady, you’re ruining my buzz.
Me: I’m sorry. I just got a little flustered and… why?! WHY DO YOU PUT THE KITTENS IN BOTTLES?
Man: They’re just so darn cute. They sell like hotcakes with the European tourists, and take very little time to jazz together. Just pop the little thing in there and in a few weeks, it’s air tight.
Me: How could you be so cruel? What has a kitten ever done to you?
Man (hardening, he takes a long pause): Plenty. When I was a boy in Japan—
Me: Aren’t opium dens historically associated with China?
Man: I love opium, what can I say? Anyway, I was running in the fields near my home and there were all these cute kittens prancing around. I wanted to so desperately to catch one of them and keep it, so I chased it around my yard for hours. Finally, one of the little kittens scampered into my arms. I held it to my face, and tried to kiss it and he scratched me.
He leans into the light, revealing three long claw marks on the side of his face. Instantly, I recognize him.
Me: Mr. Miyagi?!
Man: Yes, it is I, Pat Morita, from the film classics The Karate Kid, The Karate Kid II, The Karate Kid III, The Next Karate Kid, Karate Kids Incorporated, and Karate Kids in the Hall.
Me: But you’ve been an inspiration to every nerdy white boy who has dared to dream! Why would you destroy the kittens?
Morita: They are ruthless killers. They disfigured me when all I wanted was… to be… their… friend.
(He begins sobbing, and rests his head in my lap. Reluctantly, I calm him.)
Me: There, there, Pat… actually, do you mind if I call you Miyagi?
He continues sobbing.
Me: I’ll take that as a yes. Miyagi, if you would just wax off the kitten abuse and wax on some Percaset, I think you’ll make tons of friends. You can’t blame all of kitten-kind for one bad bunch. Please, just shut down the website and stop manufacturing bottled kittens, and the world will be a better place.*
Morita: But I lost all my Karate Kid earnings on the nickel slot machines three years ago. The kittens are the only way to make ends meet.
Me: I don’t think that’s true, Miyagi. I bet you could get a great job as a high school gymnastics coach.
Morita: Really?
Me: Yep.
(He looks up at me through his teary eyes and we share an embrace more touching than the one between a hooker and her pimp on payday.)
With that, I scampered off to the nearest corner, took a couple hits of opium, and chilled out, while a tiny man played a shakuhachi (a Japanese flute) version of “The Thong Song.” When I finally stumbled out of there, it was dawn, and all I could think of was Pat Morita’s tender touch and soft, salty tears… and the knowledge that the bonsai kittens would be no more.
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